“Ah, Peaches. You’re better off. I’ve seen the way this story ends, again and again. It never changes.”
Evan reached behind her and unhooked her necklace. The chain ended at a dime-size silver disc, engraved with the electric bolt logo of the San Diego Chargers. Despite his utter disdain for football and the people who watched it, the trinket had become a cherished piece of old-Earth memorabilia. Worth the trip every time.
With a creaky groan, Evan clambered to his feet and clasped the charm around his neck.
“I’d stick around for the wake, darlin’, but I’ve got a meeting with my old platoon commander and he’s a real bear about punctuality. Sorry to say your whole life was pointless, and your death even more so. But what can you do? That’s just the way the peach crumbles.”
He walked away whistling, quietly resolving to be nicer to Natalie next time. In the grand scheme, she never did him wrong. She was the only Silver he could say that about.
—
While the cab soared to its next destination, Evan dumped the contents of his knapsack onto the seat. He stashed the drinking cup between his thighs, then poured himself a cocktail of rubbing alcohol and orange juice.
The noise of glooping liquids caused the cabbie to peer through the mirror. Evan smirked at him.
“Ease it, flyman. I won’t spill a drop.”
He stirred the concoction with his new hunting knife, then plunged his fist into the cup. The moment his silver bracelet became submerged, the liquid churned with hissing bubbles.
Soon the taxi landed in a run-down patch of the Gaslamp Quarter. Evan tossed another pair of twenties to the driver, then made his way down a dingy alley. As he crossed into the dark shadow of an elevated highway, he could hear a man’s heavy breaths.
Evan bloomed a devilish grin. “Hello, hello, hello? Is there anybody in there?”
He stepped on a circle of concrete that was darker than the rest—a patch of the old San Diego, fused into the new. The upper half of a guitar case, complete with upper half of guitar, lay nearby. It had been sliced in a smooth curve. As always, the Great Cuban Leader hadn’t ventured far from his landing spot.
“Just nod if you can hear me,” Evan teased. “Is there anyone home?”
In the darkest corner of the alley, between two metal trash cans, a thirty-year-old man huddled against the wall. Black-haired, olive-skinned, and powerfully built, he wore a silk blue button-down over jeans. Even in his rattled state, the man was disgustingly handsome. Evan had lost count of the number of women who’d made complete fools of themselves to get his attention. Unlike Nico and Natalie, people he’d only encountered a few minutes at a time, Evan had years of experience with Ernesto “Jury” Curado. There were few folks on Earth he knew better, and few he hated more.
Evan watched with great amusement as Jury pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to will the universe back into order.
“?Qué bola, asere? Welcome to beautiful downtown Other San Diego. Don’t forget to try our Other Krullers. They’re out of this world.”
“Shut up,” Jury said.
“Hey. Ouch. Hostility. What seems to be the problem, officer? Are we having a bad trip?”
Jury rose to his full six-foot-two height, grumbling at Evan through a sleek Cuban accent.
“Look, I don’t know if you’re a hallucination or a street nut. All I know is that someone drugged me and I’m freaking out. So go away.”
Two years ago, upon receiving a Certificate of Commendation for exceptional performance, Officer Jury Curado had been called a “man of absolute conviction” by the Deputy Commissioner of the California Highway Patrol.
Yesterday morning, his twin sister had a different way of phrasing it.
“You’re a stubborn ass!” she screamed, from behind her locked bedroom door.
Ofelia Curado knew better than anyone that when Jury got an idea in his head, there was no force in the heavens that could get it out. When they were fourteen, he was convinced that leaving Cuba was the only way to save Ofelia from their monstrous father. He was right. In Miami, he was convinced it would be better to fight for citizenship than to buy fake papers. He was right. He was right about better opportunities in California. He was right about his sister’s hideous boyfriends. He was right about her drug problems and her eating disorder. He was right. He was right. He was right.
“I can’t take it anymore!” she yelled. “You make my life a living hell! Just leave me alone!”