Mean Streets (22 page)

“Caretaker will have a list of the plots and tombs.” He was pretty savvy about graveyards, but I supposed that wasn’t unusual for the goth-inclined.

We pushed through the crowds to a large stone building with colonnades filled with niches on one side and open to a large courtyard on the other. The patio of the mausoleum was full of people walking or crawling on the paving stones to lay out pictures in mounds of colored sand: cavorting skeletons, Virgins of Guadalupe, flowers and crosses and skulls. Mickey called these “sand carpets.” We found one of the caretakers assisting a sand painter, laying out a border of small bricks to keep the moist, colored sand from dribbling into the walkways. We picked our way closer, careful not to disturb the developing sand carpets. Mickey called out to the caretaker as we got near.

The woman looked up from her bricks and said something I couldn’t follow. The caretaker was darker-skinned and had a more pronounced nose and cheekbones than Mickey—probably related to some local Indian group. Mickey replied in a language I knew wasn’t Spanish. The kneeling woman stood and began to talk very fast. Mickey pointed to the paper we’d gotten from the Registrar of Births and Deaths. The woman frowned and pointed off across the cemetery, making motions with her hands to indicate turns. Mickey nodded and seemed to be thanking her, then turned and tugged me back into the mausoleum’s colonnade.

“She says it’s out in the edge, near the back fence, but she thinks this is wrong. The grave’s been around a long time. You
sure
1996 is right?” he added with a touch of sneering doubt at my brainpower.

“Yup.”

Mickey shrugged so hard his eyes rolled. “All right. Let’s go look at it.”

We set out through the graveyard, trailed by the dog. Distracting myself from Mickey’s volatility, I tried to imagine the scruffy mongrel as a skeleton. I didn’t succeed, to my relief.

We found the grave under a pile of people who were busily scrubbing the headstone and stone fence clean of dirt with stiff-bristled brushes. As we watched the inscription came clear: Hector Purecete, died 1888. Not even close.

Mickey grunted and shot me a smug look. Oh, yeah . . . that showed me, all right.

He started to turn back, but before he could move away I waved to the oldest woman in the grave-cleaning group. She peered up at me and I tried to ask her if she knew of Maria-Luz’s Hector Purecete, but her English was nonexistent. Groaning in disgust, Mickey stepped in.

After a rapid exchange, he held her off with a gesture and glanced back at me, his face creased with curiosity. “This is Señora Acoa. She says this is the only Hector Purecete she knows about. But she says a man came asking the same question a few years back. Señora Acoa couldn’t help him, either. She says Hector, here, was a soldier. Sounds like a real
pendajo.
She’s his, like, great-, great-, great-niece. She doesn’t live here anymore and is going back to Coyoacán tomorrow, but she figured they should come and clean up Hector’s grave every year. She didn’t even know where he was buried until that guy showed up.”

“Does she remember the man’s name?” I asked, looking at the elderly woman who stood by her ancestor’s grave.

Mickey translated for me and this time he was dead serious.

The elderly Señora Acoa replied in a streak of words I couldn’t begin to follow, her voice wavering. Then she swayed, putting her hand to her chest. The energy around her shut down to a thin, white line that grew more and more translucent, then began to shift and rise away from her as a messy skein of gold and white light.

I started to jump between them, knowing that the old woman was dying right in front of us, overcome by heat and excitement, her mortality rising off her corporeal form. But Mickey kept talking, his tone going gentle and cajoling, as the gold strands at his fingertips waved and stroked at the old woman, calming her down, smoothing the rising knot of her soul back into its body, easing her back into herself. It was an eerie effect coming from such a determined jerk, and he didn’t know he was doing it. Finally the old woman plumped herself down on the edge of the grave with a huff of breath, and fanned herself with her hands until one of her staring family handed her a paper fan shaped like a grinning skull. She cooled herself, catching her breath and settling her life back into her oblivious body as my reluctant assistant returned his attention to me. Nothing in his demeanor showed he knew what had just happened, any more than her family did. He didn’t know he’d saved her life, or that he seemed to have some kind of power. He was just Mickey the jerk again.

“She wants to know why you want to know, but I told her you’re doing a family a favor. I think she said the other guy’s name was Jimenez. A lawyer maybe? She’s kinda confused. And a little loco—she thought she had seen this Jimenez guy just today.”

I gazed at the tired old woman who was still living in spite of everything. I blinked slowly, getting my thoughts back to the case. “Maybe she did. He died a few years ago in a plane crash,” I said. “And yes, he was a lawyer.” Hadn’t Banda said he knew nothing about Purecete? But his partner had been to this grave. . . .

Mickey’s eyes flashed wider. The word that dropped from his mouth was unknown to me, but it was inflected just like “Cool!” He had no idea what was really cool here.

I wondered if Señora Acoa had actually seen Jimenez; maybe her proximity to death had made it possible—this was the day for the violently dead to return, and I couldn’t imagine a death much more violent than his. “What else did she have to say?” I asked, trying not to stare too much at the old woman.

“Not much. She said Hector didn’t have any kids, so there’s only her and her family to look after his grave. She’s worn out, but she’s afraid her family will forget him after she dies. So she makes them come here every year so he doesn’t die the third death.”

“Excuse me. What’s the third death?”

The lecturing tone was back as he explained. “The first death is the death of the body. The second is when they put us in the ground. Then we can go to Mictlan—the Land of the Dead—and, y’know, live among the dead. But we can come back for the Día de los Muertos feast with our families, so long as they remember us. That’s the third death—being forgotten. That’s the real end, when we don’t come back ’cause there’s no one here for us. But we can be reborn once everyone forgets, so it’s not so bad. That’s the three deaths.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It’s tradition around here. I’m kind of into the death-magic thing. And my, like, great-uncle was supposed to be a black sorcerer or something. It’s cool.”

Typical goth fascination, though I suspected his went a little deeper and from a more personal angle, whether he understood that or not. To me, the life-magic “thing” he’d just done was a lot cooler.

We both looked at the family, who had returned to sprucing up the grave of Hector number one. We watched in silence a while. Then we turned away, letting them get on with their task as we headed back to the car with the ghostly dog in tow.

“You said Mexicans were not afraid of death,” I said. I didn’t want to ask him about what he’d done yet, that would only get us off our track, but I hadn’t forgotten it.

“We aren’t. But no one wants to be forgotten. That’s why we have all these parties in the graveyard. We bring the dead all the stuff they loved in life so they can party with us, and that way we remember them like they really were. Not like a body in a casket. Or some saint. It’s kind of funny: you’re keeping the third death away, but you didn’t even know Hector Purecete.”

“I’m not sure Maria-Luz did, either.”

“Who’s Maria-Luz?”

“She’s the woman who wanted a dog laid on Hector Purecete’s grave.”

We were nearly back to the cemetery gates, deep in the twining, boiling mess of the carnival and the confluence of the living and the dead. Mickey wheeled and stared at me. “Not that dog!” he asked, pointing right at the canine phantom panting at my heels.

Startled, I turned and looked for another, corporeal dog, just in case. But there was no animal near enough to be the one he meant. I pointed at the ghost. “This one?”

Mickey nodded. “Yeah.”

“Umm . . . this dog’s already dead.”

He peered at it and the ghost dog let its tongue loll out in a huge yawn. I could see right through its transparent, silver-mist skull to the ground below. Apparently Mickey could, too, because he jumped a little and then looked back to me.

“Fuck me! Where did it come from?”

“I’ll tell you in the car on the way to the next cemetery.”

We climbed back into the Chevy and again the dog refused to come in. We drove away, the dog vanishing into the misty Grey as we pulled out of the lot.

“How is it that you can see the dog?” I asked as he started the car.

“I just—I just can.” He looked a little uncomfortable and hunched his shoulders. “Why are you taking it to this guy’s grave?”

I told him about the dog statue—after all, there was no seal of secrecy or confidentiality on the bequest—how it had come to me and what had befallen it at customs. I told him about Maria-Luz Arbildo’s odd last request that the statue containing the dog’s spirit was to be placed on the grave for which we were searching on November first.

“Weird,” he said as we wound onto a narrow road. “Why did she wait so long to give him the dog? He’s been dead since 1996.”

“She didn’t seem to know where he was buried.”

Mickey shook his head. “Weird,” he repeated. “Hey, at least we’ve narrowed the search to just two graves. That Jimenez guy must have done the same thing . . . so why didn’t he put the dog on Hector’s grave?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Miss Arbildo was still alive then, so I assume she wanted to do it, but didn’t get around to it for some reason.” But if she had known which grave to put it on, wouldn’t she have given that information in the will? I guessed that Jimenez hadn’t told her. But why not?

Mickey scowled. “That’s messed up.” But he didn’t say any more and we reached the next panteon in silence. The dog greeted us at the gate to the cemetery of San Antonio and ran ahead, barking like a puppy chasing butterflies. Mickey watched it dash into the bustling crowds in the graveyard and shook his head.

“Maybe the dog knows where the grave is,” he suggested, “but it runs so fast. . . .”

“I’m not even going to try to follow it,” I said. “If the grave is here, maybe we’ll find the dog nearby when we get there.”

“Yeah, right.”

The courtyard of Panteon San Antonio was filled with people building elaborate table displays.

“Competition ofrendas,” Mickey explained. His sneer wasn’t quite as pronounced now. “Each group makes an offering in a traditional style and they compete to see whose is the most authentic, or whatever. Home ofrendas are more plain, they usually have more food and personal stuff. This is mostly for the tourists.” He pointed at one table where a pair of men were lashing tall, dusty green plants into a seven-foot-tall arch attached to the front legs. “That’s sugarcane—it’s traditional. Those guys are Purepeche Indians. See the little clay dog? That’s really old school.” He stared at me. “Hey . . . was your statue like that one?”

I glanced at the table and saw a small black figurine, much like the one I’d started off with. I walked closer and the men stopped work and stared at me. One of them said something I couldn’t translate.

“He says, ‘Can I help you?’” Mickey supplied.

“Ask him about the dog,” I replied, pointing to the small clay figure sitting on the table with a pile of other items waiting for its place. “Where did it come from? Are all the little dog statues the same?”

Mickey asked and translated his reply. “It’s from Mita—that’s a village near here. It’s a traditional design.”

“May I look at it?”

The man listened to Mickey, then shrugged and picked up the clay dog. He offered it to me with a half smile.

I smiled back and took the dog, turning it over and studying the rough shape and paint. It was the same shape, but the black glaze was very ordinary—I’d bet there was no blood or volcanic sand in this one’s finish. The lines around the legs were the same, but there was no lightning bolt on this one. The hole in its belly was unpatched, open, and had a fine lip where the glaze had tried to drip around the rim. I handed the dog back to the man, who grinned at me, showing gapped teeth stained by tobacco and coffee.

“Could you ask him if he ever met Maria-Luz or Hector Purecete?”

Both men frowned and shook their heads, apparently telling Mickey they’d never heard of either. We thanked them and headed off to find the caretaker and look for grave number two.

“That statue is almost identical to the one I had that broke,” I said as we walked away. “But mine had a white lightning bolt on the side.”

“A glyph to keep the spirit inside the dog. Someone worked magic on it.”

“I guessed that, but how do you know?”

Mickey shrugged. “Like I said, magic is kind of interesting. . . .”

Mickey seemed to have been studying more than he admitted. I decided to fish a bit. “I was thinking that the bit of hair that fell out was part of the magic, too.”

Mickey shot a startled glance at me. “Hair? There was hair inside the dog?”

“Yeah, a little bundle of five or six strands tied with red thread. It looked like human hair, not animal.”

“Tied with red thread? Inside the dog? With the lightning bolt?” He looked both excited and scared. “That’s witchcraft.”

I frowned at him. The only witch I knew was good, but Mickey was plainly not acquainted with the same sort of witch—and like a lot of young morons, he seemed to think it was kind of sexy.

“It’s death magic,” he explained. “The dark-side stuff.”

“I thought you guys weren’t into that death-worship thing.”

“Not normal death, the cycle-of-life stuff. Death-cult stuff. It’s black magic from the colonial days—half native magic, half Christian mysticism stuff. It’s all about
Santísima Muerte
—Most Holy Death, the reaper of souls, Death triumphant over Man.” Frightened reverence resounded in his tone and set his aura sparking red and gold. “Your Maria-Luz used black magic to hold the dog’s spirit inside the statue. Trust me: I know this shit.”