Frank flipped to another entry. Xango was the god to call upon for help with black magic. He had to be propitiated with large offerings, and was especially fond of crabs. A red rooster should be used for sacrifices to Xango, and though he was fair, and often called upon to settle judgments and disputes, he had a fierce temper, often burning those who offended him.
Lincoln Roosevelt torched in a St. Louis flophouse. Billy Daniels burned while he slept. Gough's pimp immolated in his hooptie. Tito Carrillo rolled up and lit like a blunt.
Frank snapped the book shut. Was the Mother appeasing her god and eliminating competitors at the same time? Why hadn't she burned Danny too? Or the Colombians? Because she's smart enough to change her MO, Frank answered herself.
She jumped when Marguerite opened the door. Shelving the book, Frank asked, "All done?"
Marguerite approached without a sound, as if she were trying to catch a spooked animal.
"I'm done with him," she emphasized. She crossed her arms and they disappeared under the overhang of her breasts.
"How much contact do you have with Mother Love?"
Darcy started to come in the front door, but Marguerite held up a hand.
"Leave us alone," she said without looking at him. Darcy retreated. Frank was tempted to join him. Holding Marguerite's gaze was like holding a live coal and Frank almost stepped back. She didn't. Besides making her look silly, she realized, it wouldn't do any good. She could be standing across the room and Marguerite James would be just as formidable.
"We're investigating her nephew's murder. He worked for her. She was one of the last people to see him. I've talked to her."
"Just about the investigation?"
Frank hesitated.
"Other stuff. She explained santeria to me. Said she was a healer. Could see things. She warned me about a dog." Frank held up her bandaged hand and gave Marguerite her most winning grin. "I didn't listen."
"That's all? No other contact?"
"No offense, Mrs. James, but why am I getting the third degree? Hernandez is your client, not me."
As if Frank hadn't spoken, Marguerite pressed, "Did she ever touch you, or offer you food or a drink?"
Frank shook her head, then remembered her visit to the church.
"She put her hand on my arm for a second."
"Did you notice an itching or burning afterward?"
Frank had a crude answer, but asked instead, "Is Hernandez ready?"
Marguerite's head tilted to the side, the physicist analyzing data.
"I gathered from the tone of our telephone conversation that you don't have much use for my religion. I don't care about that. I'm not a proselytizer. But like Mother Love I can see things, Lieutenant. And I can see her hand all over you. It's like you're walking in a black cloud and you don't even know it. I can help if you like. Maybe. I've heard much about her. Her hand is very strong."
Frank smiled, "I appreciate your concern, but I think I can handle her. Are you done with Hernandez?"
Marguerite also smiled, but where Frank's smile had bordered on condescension, Marguerite's was wise, the secrets in her eyes hidden in plain view. Frank felt oddly contrite.
"I'll get him," the priestess offered.
Marguerite led a much calmer Hernandez to the front door. She and Darcy exchanged terse custody plans for the following weekend, then Frank paid her fifty dollars cash. Per their telephone conversation, Frank was to pay whatever she felt the service was worth. Frank had consulted with Darcy who'd explained mambos traditionally didn't charge for their work, accepting donations instead. Marguerite took the money without looking at it. She started to close the door.
"Wait," she said, ducking inside. When she came back, she handed Frank her university business card. Her home phone was written on it.
"If you change your mind, call me. Anytime."
28
Hours ago the neighbors had flipped "Closed" signs and pulled iron gates across their doors. The halogens over head were all shot out and Saint Barbara's Spiritual Church of the Seven Powers crouched in the dark. Above it, a thin rind of moon curled against newly blackened sky. It was beautiful. Frank thought about forgetting this. Just showing up at Gail's and locking the door and holding her all night.
Voices spilled from across the street. Frank looked at the moon once more then followed a vague crack of light at the side of the church. She listened at the door, recognizing the Mother's sultry timbre.
"Who got Spirit wid' 'em?" she implored, and Frank stepped inside.
The church was dim with incense smoke and dull yellow lights. The Mother clapped next to the pulpit, exhorting the small congregation. Frank sat in a vacant pew, meeting the eyes she felt all over her. But even a lifetime on the streets couldn't prepare Frank for what she saw in the Mother's eyes. It hit her like a blow to the head, a flare of hatred, so pure and undisguised it was breathtaking. A perfect black-hole of hate.
Frank's bladder swelled. Bullets nor knives or angel-dusted behemoths had ever scared Frank as much as the tiny woman in front of her. No one could hate that much and not kill. Or worse.
Tommy Trujillo bounced into her head. He'd beaten her up on her way home from school one day. She was in third grade, he was in fifth. He wanted her Batman lunch box. He took it after bashing her ear bloody. When she told her father what had happened, he'd slapped her. Frank had been stunned.
"Do you know why I hit you?"
She'd backed away from him. He'd followed, slapping her again. It was a light slap, its unexpectedness more frightening than its sting. He slapped her again. And again, until Frank was furious. Until she slapped back. Then he'd grinned and pulled her to him. Kissed her tears.
"You know why I did that? To make you mad. You know why I wanted to make you mad?"
When Frank shook her head he'd said, "Because mad is better than afraid. Anger you can use. You can fight with it. But fear'll just eat you up. You may as well lie down and die if you're afraid. I'm not always gonna be there to protect you. Your mom neither. You gotta learn to protect yourself. Next time somebody wants to fight you, get mad at 'em. Remember me slapping you, okay?"
The old memory came like a benediction, allowing Frank to rein her fear. She forced a cool smile. To her surprise the Mother bent double, erupting in laughter. She clapped gleefully and capered in circles. Her eyes flashed at Frank, hands cracking like a bullwhip.
"Who's got the Spirit here?"
She cocked an ear at the assembly. Frank looked around, hiding her shaking hands in her pockets. Maybe twenty-five, thirty people were scattered among the pews. About a third were black, the rest Latino. Roughly the same ratio of men to women. They all appeared expectant.
A hand shot up and a woman claimed, "I got the Spirit, amen!"
"She say she got the Spirit! Ache!" the Mother clapped, her s's tangling in their hurry.
"Who else got the Spirit now?" she demanded.
"I do! Praise be, I do!" a voice called out.
The clapping increased. Against the walls, toward the front of the church, Frank counted eight men sitting around an array of drums—round ones, cone-shaped, hour-glassed, congas. They sipped from glasses, nodding at the Mother. Frank watched one poke around in his nose then inspect his finger with great care. They were older men with more lines between them than a Rand McNally atlas. Blue incense drifted over their heads.
"Who else is filled with Spirit?" Mother Love howled.
Souls cried they had the Spirit. The Mother's hands moved faster. Her flock followed the tempo, clapping, rocking, nodding in time. The Mother bellowed her queries in the same meter, but faster now. Testimonies rang out like rifle shots. The Mother praised each one, chanting a rhythmic sing-song.