“All right.” I tap a card on the left.
“And you said you weren’t here to play games.” She flips over the card and I feel a tiny flush of magic in the air. The card is of a man in blue pants and a red shirt, a knife in his hand, blood on the blade. EL VALIENTE at the bottom. The Brave.
“Por qué le corres cobarde, trayendo tan buen pu?al,” she says.
“‘Why would you run, coward, you brought such a good knife,’” I say. Now I remember where I’ve seen the pictures on the walls. “These aren’t tarot cards. These are Lotería cards.”
“Move to the head of the class.”
“Aren’t you supposed to play bingo with these?” I say.
From what I can remember Lotería is a game where everyone gets a board with a set of images on it, and a caller pulls a card from the deck, announcing it with the card’s catch phrase, a short little nonsense saying. The first person to fill a row, column, or square on their card wins.
“What, you can’t do divination with playing cards or tea leaves?” she says.
“Point. So, what, that’s me? The guy with the knife?”
“I’d say it fits. Kind of looks like you. Angry, impulsive, easily distracted by shiny objects. And, hey, you do have a knife.”
She’s talking about Mictlantecuhtli’s god-killing obsidian blade. I almost murdered her with it the last time we met when she revealed herself as Santa Muerte’s avatar. I’m still not sure if that was a missed opportunity or not.
“Except the card says I’m running,” I say.
“What makes you think you’re not?”
I ignore the comment and point to another card. “Great. I picked a card. Let’s go.” I start to stand.
“What’s the hurry, lover?” she says. “Slow it down. Take your time. A lady doesn’t like to be rushed. It’s bad form. Pick another.”
“You said pick a card. A card.”
“And now I’m telling you to pick another one.”
I put my finger down onto one of the cards without looking. I feel that same tug of magic.
“Now that wasn’t so hard was it? These are the things that oppose you.”
“If that’s not a picture of you or Santa Muerte I’ll be awful surprised.”
Everybody who practices cartomancy has their own way of doing it. I’ve known diviners who can tell your life story from a single card, and others who’ll go through half a deck. It’s not so much a matter of talent as it is of style.
She flips a card, LA MUERTE. A skeleton with a scythe. “That’s—”
“Oh, look. I was right,” I say.
She glares at me until I pick another. She flips it over. LA CORONA. A red and gold crown. “El sombrero de los reyes.”
“The king’s hat,” I say. “Santa Muerte and Mictlantecuhtli. Tell me something I don’t already know.” I tap another and she flips it.
EL ALACRáN. The scorpion. “El que con la cola pica, le dan una paliza.”
“‘The one with the tail that bites, beat him’? The hell is that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs. “Could be anything. A warning? A command? Beat on the one who betrays you? Maybe it’s not even talking about you.”
“Oh, it’s talking about me,” I say. These days that’s my whole raison d’être.
She gives me a considering look. “Be that as it may,” she says, “these are the things that oppose you. Death, the Crown, the Scorpion. One card to go. Do you want to see how it all turns out?”
Death and the Crown I understand. Or at least I think I do. But the Scorpion? Betrayal? Triumphing over betrayal? Which betrayal? Whose? Christ knows there’s plenty to go around.
That’s the problem with divination. It’s a tiny view of a larger picture. Like trying to get the layout of a house by looking through the front door keyhole.
I touch another. “Hit me.”
Now I’m honestly curious. If I hadn’t felt the magic when she flipped the first card I’d call bullshit on this. But it’s there and that third card was unexpected. Why that image? Scorpions are betrayers. Hitting you by surprise with their poisonous tails. It’s in their natures. And a beating, not a killing.
She flips the final card.
EL CORAZóN. The picture is an anatomical heart, bright red. For a second it looks as though it’s actually pumping. “No me extra?es corazón, que regreso en el camión.”
“‘Don’t miss me love, I’m coming back on the . . . bus?’” I’m returning to something? Something’s returning to me? Love? I have a hard time believing that. And how the hell does it fit into any of this?
“Lotería isn’t exactly known for its stunning poetry, but it sounds promising,” Tabitha says. “There are all kinds of love, you know. Maybe it’s not all bad news.”
“A bus trip?”
“It’s a metaphor. Unless it’s not. You never know with these things.”
“Why are you doing this?” The room suddenly fills with the scent of cigar smoke and roses. I know that smell. I was wondering when this was going to happen.
“I’m trying to help you do what you agreed to do.” Tabitha’s voice shifts, goes hollow, her face goes gaunt, skin caving in to press against bone. Her eyes go as black as mine. “Husband.”