Secondhand Spirits (25 page)

“I think I feel a little like that.”

“Better than you deserve?” His eyes shifted over to me. “I doubt that.”

I turned to look out the window, feeling a rare blush stain my cheeks. Max reached forward and turned on the radio, trying a few stations before settling on an old ies channel playing a love song. The strains of “When a Man Loves a Woman” filled the cab, and Max hummed along under his breath. Cute. The man liked sappy old ies music.

When he pulled the truck onto Valencia we rolled along slowly until I spotted the address across the broad boulevard.

“There it is.”

“Looks like a dive,” grumbled Max as he parallel-parked in a space about a block down.

“It's just a regular old voodoo shop.”

“Uh-huh. I don't use ‘regular' and ‘voodoo' in the same sentence.”

“Stop being such a curmudgeon. You wanted to come, remember? Maybe you should go get yourself something to drink while I talk to LaMansec.”

“Nah, I'll stick with you,” Max responded, as though he were doing me a favor. He held my arm protectively as we crossed the wide, busy street.When we approached the cobalt blue door of the shop, he looked down at me and added: “But morbid fascination can only take a man so far. If there are any virgin sacrifices, I'm telling.”

Chapter 15

Detalier's looked like a typical store from the front display window, which showed keepsakes similar to the things one finds in a lot of shops in the Haight: carved statuettes, embroidered runners, inlaid pipes. Inside, Max had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the carved gourds and brightly painted wooden animals that hung from the ceiling. Two teenage girls were giggling over a hand-sewn hex doll, and a Japanese couple lingered near the black candles. Shallow shelves presented various body parts made of wax, which seemed a little gruesome until I realized that they were no stranger than the small metal
milagros
sold in
botánicas
. Skulls, bones, and wax-sealed bottles filled with various concoctions crowded a turquoise bookshelf. In one corner was an incongruous display of Che Guevara paraphernalia, along with a selection of cigars. Most disturbing was a statue of a large, horned, goatlike creature with a human body, sporting a pentagram carved on his forehead.

The pretty young woman sitting behind the register wore colorful swaths of batik and African mud-cloth prints, her long dreadlocks tied up in a brightly patterned scarf. She had traditional tattooing on her face: blue-black dots in a spiral on her cheeks and across her smooth forehead.

She smiled at us in welcome. Without being called, a man came out from the back of the store, ducking through a brightly beaded curtain that clacked loudly behind him. He was heavy but not fat, of average height but with a football player's physique. His eyes were wide-set and startling, his skin so dark it gleamed. From his air of authority I assumed he was the shop owner I was looking for: Hervé LaMansec.

“I'm Lily Ivory,” I said. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

We locked eyes for a long moment. He gestured toward Max with his chin, and spoke in a sonorous, deeply inflected voice.

“Who he?”

“A friend.”

“No friend to us, I think.”

“He'll be fine. Just a bit skeptical.”

He nodded and grunted. “What you want?”

By now we had attracted the attention of the other shoppers.

“Could we talk in private?” I asked.

He held my eyes a moment more before nodding. “You alone. He stays here.”

Max opened his mouth to protest, but I had anticipated him.

“Max, please.” I held his gaze briefly. Then he and LaMansec shared a manly moment of trying to stare each other down before Max finally shrugged and took a seat in a colorful painted wooden chair next to the reception counter.

LaMansec led the way through the beaded curtain, down a short, narrow, unadorned hall, and into his private office.

The interior decor surprised me: I might as well have been visiting my local DMV. A large, standard-issue gray metal desk was topped by a desktop computer; the walls were lined with shelves containing reference books, stacks of papers, and dozens of files. Atop a beige metal file cabinet sat a small television tuned in to
The Oprah Winfrey Show
. LaMansec picked up a remote and switched it off, then waved me toward a folding chair.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said in an uninflected voice.

“What happened to your accent?” I asked.

“It's strictly for the tourists.” He shrugged one brawny shoulder. “They feel cheated if they know they're speaking to a guy born and raised in L.A. Tea?”

“Please.” I nodded.

He poured hot water from an electric kettle into two blue-glazed mugs, added bags of mint leaves, and stirred in a dollop of amber honey. Handing one to me, he took a seat behind his desk and fixed me with his intense gaze.

“I heard a powerful witch had come to town. It's a pleasure.”

“You heard about me? From whom?”

“Let's just say your reputation precedes you.”

Reputation? I had a reputation?

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about children disappearing from the Bayview-Hunters Point neighborhood.”

The pleasant smile dropped from his face. “Another one?”

“Just the other day.”

He shook his head and ran his hand across his forehead in a weary gesture.

“Is it
La Llorona
?” I asked.

“That's their name for her.”

“And you're powerless against her?”

A flash of anger passed over his face. “Powerless? Not at all. I've given them salts and talismans, along with the basic advice to keep their children by their sides at all times, especially at night. But I'm not a miracle worker. For most of these people, vodou is not part of their belief system. And as you well know—”

“If you don't believe, it won't work.”

“Precisely.”

“Have you ever had direct contact with the demon?”

He shook his head. “No. She won't be summoned.”

“How hard have you tried?”

He gazed at me for a long moment.

“Not hard. To tell you the truth, she is an evil I'd rather not deal with. I try to help when people come to me, but I can only do so much. This is my living. I have paying clients—true believers—to worry about.”

“I understand,” I said, and I did. This sort of thing could consume a person; those of us born with supernatural abilities came to appreciate that early. This was especially the case for those who used their powers to make a living instead of, say, selling vintage clothes. But all of us had to become adept at what Oprah would call “drawing boundaries.”

“If they don't believe in vodou, why do they come to you? Why not turn to their own
curanderos
?”

“Early on they decided their own magic was limited. I'm not sure why. I inherited this practice from my mentor, and she had been working with them for years already.”

“Could I show you some photos I took of a personal altar? I think it might be vodou.”

“Of course.”

I brought the envelope of photos out of my backpack. They weren't the best pictures in the world, in part because there were so many halo effects and orbs that it was hard to see everything on the altar. But they gave the general idea.

Hervé looked at the photos carefully, spreading them out on the desk before him. His dark eyes then shifted back up to meet mine. “Where did you say you took these photos?”

“I'd rather not say. Why?”

“That looks like a Hand of Glory.” He pointed to the strange candleholder that I had taken with me. “Do you have any idea what that is?”

I shook my head.

“A genuine Hand of Glory is the dried and pickled hand—usually the left—of a hanged man. When a particular kind of magic candle is made and set within the Hand of Glory, like it is here in the picture”—he showed it to me—“it gives light only to the holder, and can unlock any door it comes across. Including spiritual doors.”

Our eyes met for a long moment. “So this would be beyond the average personal altar.”

“I should say so, yes. And the blackened bones . . . it is hard to tell, but they may well be black-cat bones.”

“As in actual cat bones?” I felt a little green around the gills.

“I won't tell you how they obtain them.”

“I do appreciate that. I'm afraid to ask, but they do what, exactly?”

“They can impart invisibility when held in the mouth of a practitioner.”

“Invisibility?”

He nodded. “This altar must belong to a practitioner.”

Sweet little Frances Potts, a voodoo practitioner? “Can you tell whether the practitioner would be acting for good or for ill?”

“Much of my practice can be used for both purposes, just as in the craft you practice.” LaMansec hesitated for a beat. “But from the presence of the Hand of Glory and the black-cat bones, I would assume this person is working for evil.”

“One more thing,” I said as I put the photos back in my backpack. “I want to summon
La Llorona
.”

“To what end?”

I unfolded the missing-child flyer and set it on the desk before him.

“I want this child's soul back.”

“What about the others? Will you ask for them all back?”

This is the problem with such things. You open up a can of paranormal worms. But the sad truth is that, over time, the children cannot return. They are no longer the same after too much time in another dimension. It might already be too late even for Jessica.

“I should have been able to protect her. I should have sensed that she was in danger.”

“Is this about the child, or about you?”

I ignored that. I wasn't sure. “Is there anyone who can help me?”

Sigh. “You need to speak to my teacher, Mother Decotier.”

“Where can I find her?”

“She moved on to the next dimension almost ten years ago.”

I shook my head. “I'm not a necromancer.”

“You can't call spirits?”

“Not in so many words. I mean, I attract demons and spirits like flies to honey, but I'm not a medium: I know when souls of the departed are near, but I can't understand what they say.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really.”

“I can't read cards or tea leaves or palms, either.”

Hervé was grinning by now. “But you
are
a witch, are you not?”

“I feel vibrations in old things, and can sometimes feel, or even smell, the auras of people and objects. But the only truly ‘witchy' thing I'm really good at is brewing.”

“You don't see much of that these days.”

He was right; brewing as an art has largely lost favor amongst modern witches. Though many were clever at mixing herbs, teas, or poultices, few actually used the old-fashioned cauldron, which relied upon the magic of the fire, the process of boiling, and the transformation from liquid to steam to condense and focus one's intentions.

“I blame Shakespeare,” I said.

“How so?”

“Remember the witches in
Macbeth
? Not a very flattering portrayal.” He smiled, but I was serious. Things just haven't been the same since those infamous witches mixed ghastly ingredients and chanted, “Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn, and cauldron bubble.”

“In any case,” Hervé said, “there's no need for necromancy. Presuming Mother is willing to speak with you, she will find a way. Do you know the small park dedicated to Mary Ellen Pleasant?”

“Who?”

“Pleasant has been called the mother of civil rights here in San Francisco. She was a remarkable woman, an entrepreneur born as a slave, who went on to use her personal fortune to help fund the abolitionist movement. Following the Civil War she fought several high-profile court battles in San Francisco over crimes such as riding the streetcar while black. She won.”

“I'm embarrassed to say I've never heard of her.”

“Few have. When they couldn't destroy her any other way, rumors started to fly that she was a voodoo queen, and a prostitute. The slander accomplished what nothing else had—she lost everything. Still, without her legacy San Francisco would be a very different city today. She was a very powerful soul.” He wrote on a notepad. “At 1661 Octavia Street there is a plaque in her honor. She used to live in a grand mansion there, and planted the eucalyptus trees that remain. Now Mother Decotier haunts the place from time to time in a sort of personal tribute. She likes to scare the tourists and remind them of who Pleasant was. Presuming she agrees to talk with you, she'll require payment.”

“I understand. But just so we're clear, I won't sacrifice life.”

He threw back his head and laughed, a full-throated guffaw. For the first time in his presence, I felt a tingle of trepidation. His laugh was formidable, almost alarming.

“A witch with standards. I love it. Tell you what, Lily the witch. I will arrange a meeting, and inquire as to the payment—short of taking life.” He laughed again. “I will do it as a . . . professional courtesy.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“No.” I was a teensy bit phobic about portable electronic devices. They scrambled my sense of vibrations. “But here's my card with my home number.”

“You have e-mail?” he asked.

“Yes, but I don't check it very often.” I took back the card and wrote the address below my phone number.