Why would the avatar of Santa Muerte be telling two-bit fortunes in a shithole barrio in Mexico City? What does she want from this girl?
A few minutes go by as Tabitha lays down each card and says a few words I can’t make out. The girl begins crying and Tabitha puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. When con artists give you bad news it’s tinged with hope, a solution. It’s that hope that keeps the mark coming back. Maybe she’s just really good, but this doesn’t feel like that. I’m thinking Tabitha’s telling this girl something she doesn’t really want to hear.
I have a thought I don’t want. What if Tabitha doesn’t want anything from this girl? I push it aside as unproductive. I’m not here to analyze her motives.
After a bit the girl stands to leave and starts to hand Tabitha a wad of pesos with shaking hands. Tabitha takes the girl’s hand in her own, leans in and whispers something to her.
There it is. The catch. The girl doesn’t brighten, but the shaking stops. She tries to hand the money to Tabitha again, but she won’t take it. Finally, she nods, puts the cash back in her pocket and leaves.
I step further back into the shadows and push out a little I’m-not-here magic. It won’t keep the girl from seeing me, it’s not as powerful as the Sharpie magic, but she won’t really notice me or care that I’m here. She shuffles out of the building, drying her tears on her arm, disappearing into the chaos of Tepito.
“Eric,” Tabitha says when the girl is gone. “It’s good to see you.”
“Tabitha. Or do I call you Santa Muerte? You should try some of that half-face calavera makeup. I think it’d suit you.”
I want the words to bite, but they just come out flat. It’s weird seeing her. I’ve been hunting her down for months and now, after all this time, here she is.
I thought I’d be furious, angry. Told myself I’d have to keep control. She’s important for right now. If I kill her, and I’m going to kill her, it can’t be until I have what I need from her.
But all I feel is sad. Used up.
“That’s still a few weeks off,” she says. “You can call me Tabitha.”
She waves at the chair opposite her. “Have a seat. Want your fortune told? Find out what your future’s like?”
“I already know it.”
“Do you now?”
“It ends badly.”
She picks up her cards, shuffles them. “Everyone’s ends badly, Eric. But let’s take a look, maybe see how you get there. Really, have a seat. I won’t bite.” She shows me a wicked grin. “Unless you want me to.”
“What’d you tell the girl? She seemed pretty upset.” I slide into the chair. I can feel the weight of the unconnected handcuff in my coat pocket. I have no idea if this plan will work, but if it’s going to, it depends on me getting close to Tabitha. She doesn’t seem to have a problem with me doing that.
“The truth, of course,” she says. “Her father’s dying. Cancer. He’ll be gone in a day or two. But I gave her hope.”
“Telling her he wouldn’t suffer? That you could save him? What’s Santa Muerte looking for from her?”
“She’s not looking for anything,” she says. “He’s got pancreatic cancer. Believe me, he’s suffering. No, I told her that his death isn’t the end. It’s just a change. You know this better than most.”
“I also know that sometimes it is the end.”
“Sure. If you arrange it that way. You’d know that better than most, too.” She shrugs, continuing to shuffle her cards. “It’s cancer, Eric. Nobody’s feeding him to ghosts. Nobody’s destroying his soul. Normal, everyday death. The kind that happens to most people. His soul will go wherever it’s supposed to go.”
It’s weird seeing Tabitha like this. She’s either played cold, cryptic death avatar, or friendly confidante and lover. Before I knew she was the avatar of Santa Muerte she acted confused. Magic was a new thing to her and she didn’t understand what it was, or how it worked. Sad, lost, little Tabitha. And I ate it the fuck up. It was all bullshit. She knew the whole time, and I bought into the act.
But her vibe is different now. Calmer. More centered. I had wondered which of those two roles was the real her. Now I know it’s neither of them.
I’m not sure what it says about me that I never caught on.
She fans the cards out face down in front of her. “But let’s talk about your future. Pick a card.”
“I’m not here to play games,” I say. “I’m here to take you with me.”
“Oh, my,” she says, her hand to her chest, eyes going wide in mock surprise. “An invitation from a man! Whatever will I do? I may swoon! Or is this a kidnapping? I can do kidnapping. Do I have to ride in the trunk? Fine. I’ll come with you. But first, pick a card.”
This isn’t what I was expecting, and I don’t trust it. “You’re making this way too easy,” I say.
“If you like I can make a scene when we leave. Have you throw me over your shoulder, kick my feet? Squeal like a Disney princess?” Her voice goes flat. “Help. Help. No? Not convincing?”
“What’s the catch?”
“The catch is that you. Pick. A. Card.”