I know the local police patrol the lot at night. Walmart is open twenty-four-seven and often attracts a more colorful crowd after normal shopping hours. As I pick up the second pistol from the passenger seat and tuck it into a sling Jane has rigged under the dash, I catch my reflection in the dark window of the door. Jane’s streetwise eyes and over-the-edge makeup have me spreading her lips in a smile. Still, I wonder if the hooker’s look is something I should tone down with a pair of jeans and tee shirt from Walmart. Walking around in leather, and a skirt that shows a good half inch of butt cheeks every time I move, is great advertising for Jane’s street corner, but here it’s begging for the wrong kind of attention.
Jane’s car is useless to me Down Under, so I toss the keys on the driver’s seat and lock the car with a button on the door. I strut across the pretty much vacant lot toward Walmart, boots announcing my vulnerability. Thirty minutes later, I’m quietly jogging toward North Orange Blossom Trail, miles away from Jane’s corner, in a pair of pink tennis shoes. A snug little camouflage tee with a picture of an old man, all long straggly hair and beard, is silkscreened across my chest and riding high over a pair of low-rider Levi’s, S&W slipped behind a wide leather belt. With Jane’s street clothes inside two plastic bags, one in each hand, I trot past Jane’s car tucked into the shadows of the parking lot, and continue across the six lane on my way to a sewer entrance behind a strip-mall on the other side of the highway.
Human transportation is a must to get around slightly rural Lake County above ground. But below ground, it’s a breeze, because I can drop into a sewer through a storm drain, and once there, use a red token wish to transport myself—even wearing Jane—to any location Down Under. Then I just look for another drain or runoff exit and climb, swim, or crawl out. Tokens are bought, or won, or traded for favors in places like Purgatory. The red ones carry twenty, state-wide transport wishes.
Out-of-state tokens are blue and have only ten transport wishes. Tokens for trips to other countries are green and have only five round trip wishes. Heaven or Hell transport wishes are quite rare, expensive, and purchased through a system kind of like humans purchase passports. The requester is required to appear before a panel of otherworld creatures and, if accepted, they are branded—a tracker tattoo that allows summoning back to the council instantaneously. The Hell card is black, and Heaven’s is white. They take months to contract and only contain one round trip wish per token.
I jog around the back corner of Publix supermarket and head for the sewer entrance in a housing development behind the strip-mall. Before I can get past a large green dumpster and about twenty wooden pallets, two guys step out of the shadows and confront me.
“?Qué es en las bolsas, chica?” one asks and steps closer.
Light from a caged bulb over the loading dock bounces a flash off metal in the hand of the heavyset dark-skinned man as he slides it into his pocket. The hoodie he’s wearing shadows his face, but I can see white teeth behind a snarl.
The second guy isn’t quite as bulky. He’s skinnier and taller.
“The bags, chica?” He translates and points at my plastic bags.
I drop them and I take two steps backward.
“Mejor jugar bonito, puta,” the tall guy says.
“Quieres que me corten, chica? “ the other says, and they both laugh.
The way they’re eyeballing Jane’s tight tee, I figure something in those strings of dialogue pointed to a blatant and totally inappropriate misuse of our acquaintance. When both men lean down to pick up the bags, I slide my right hand along the back of my jeans. I do not like killing humans, and it is especially forbidden by my elders when I’m dressed in one.
“’Ey, youse guys, look. Ya, see me? I’m a bitch. Yeah, that’s right, an’ I’m bigger than you,” Jane snaps and definitely influences me to flash a face full of smartass attitude. Each human host is different and often their personalities bleed into mine. This one seems to be taking over. “Meet Smith.” We fan the pistol in front of their faces, then raise the middle finger on Jane’s left hand. “And this here’s Wesson.”
High on my first big adrenalin rush, I say, “Ain’t nobody takin’ nothin’ we paid for on our knees, got it?” I feel like I’m part of a team now.
Jane and I point the barrel of the gun up to my finger and back at them. Jane sounds all Brooklyn street or Manhattan Jewish to my doppelganger. Whatever, it works. Both guys freeze, hands extended toward the bags but not quite there yet.
“You’re gonna wanna stand up and move back a few steps,” I gleefully let Jane say, still waving Smith; Wesson—my middle fuck you finger—lays proudly among its brethren and down by my side. “’Ey, an’ you! Chubby! Don’t even think about it!”
Big guy’s hand freezes halfway out of the pocket on his hoodie.
“Now, go away from here—far away.”
They don’t move.
“Fast,” I yell loud enough to wake the dead, no pun intended. I know a few dead people up close and personal. “Before I start screamin’ rape, and Smith over hea’ ’as to come to my rescue, got it?” Jane’s street voice rings loud and clear.
The tall thin guy says, “?La perra estúpida. Quieres morir?”
Chubby guy cups his jewels and gives them a shake. “Fuck you, chica!”
They both hold their hands up and slowly move backward.
Big boy snarls. He slides back his hood, and the rest of his face doesn’t look like he enjoys being pushed around by a chick.