Free Bruja Brouhaha by Rochelle Staab Page A

Most were innovative and fun, but a few were downright scary. When we crossed the street, I turned the corner with hesitation, but customers were lined up outside Lupita’s Taco Truck like it was free food day. We ordered and ate on a bus bench, balancing plates on our laps while afternoon traffic crawled by. My doubts were erased with the first bite of my carne asada, heaped with grilled steak in a jalapeño and tequila flavored marinade, topped with avocado, tomatoes, panela cheese, and fresh cilantro. Hot sauce heaven.
    “If José Saldivar was dealing drugs, maybe he was into Santa Muerte. Oscar might have known him.” I popped a radish in my mouth.
    “Saldivar was in a gang from Boyle Heights. I doubt he shopped in a rival neighborhood.”
    “But Saldivar was shot in rival territory. Maybe Oscar heard something on the street from the local gangs,” I said.
    “The street isn’t talking. You heard Dave and Bailey. Gang members would rather go to jail than snitch and face retaliation. Paco and Saldivar were shot on a city street without witnesses? Teresa Suarez didn’t recognize the shooters or remember anything she saw? No one stopped or came forward?” Nick sneered. “Without witnesses the case will go cold. Paco and the kid deserve better.”
    “If Oscar knew something, would he tell you?”
    Nick took the last bite of his carne asada, crunched the paper plate into a paper bag, then smiled. “Maybe. He’s arrogant. He likes to show off. He might confide in me. For a price.”
    I stood up. “Then we should go back.”
    “He won’t talk in front of you. I’ll come back alone and catch him off-guard.” Nick tossed our garbage in a trash can and took my hand. “Ready for that cookie?”
    We crossed Alvarado to a
panaderia
, following the nutty scent of baked goods inside to a row of glass cases filled with fresh
conchitas
,
empanadas
, and sugared
galettas
. I bought a dozen Mexican wedding cakes, a favorite of Lucia’s, and ate one while Nick paid. We made our way up the block at a quick pace. Trotting in heels through a crowd kept me from dipping in the bag for a second cookie. When we rounded the corner onto 7th, the sidewalk traffic thinned to a trickle.
    “I see lights on inside,” Nick said as we neared Botanica Rojas. “Lucia opened the shop.”
    “I’m glad. Going back to work is a positive step for her.”
    Flower bouquets on Paco’s sidewalk memorial withered under the sun. A handwritten sign, there since Sunday, asked for witnesses to call the police. Another sign read simply:
I love you, Paco.
    A new sign, scrawled in Spanish, stopped me.
    Arden en infierno con tu diablo marido, bruja.
Burn in hell with your devil husband, witch.
    Nick yanked the placard from the grouping and ripped it into pieces. “Idiots.”

Chapter Nine
    S tatues of the Virgin Mary, St. Christopher, and assorted saints, plus plaster angels and wooden crucifixes, filled the front window of Botanica Rojas. Nick and I went inside and were enveloped by a haunting
ranchera
. The sadness in the singer’s voice, crooning for her lover’s return, made me ache for the familiar sounds of Paco’s chatter and Lucia’s light laughter.
    Nick called down the aisle. “Lucia? Cruz?”
    We walked along the rows of candles and religious icons displayed on shelves lining the turquoise walls. Assortments of labeled oils and herbs stood in the glass cases that bordered both sides of the shop. “Attract Love,” “Go Away Evil,” “Drops of Luck,” “Come to Me,” “Forget Me Not,” “Uncrossing,” and Lucia’s custom potions. Promises. I used to tease Lucia and Paco about trying to drive my profession out of business.
    “Back here.” Cruz waved over the antennae of the old TV on the back counter. “Lucia is in the storeroom, packing herbs.”
    The music stopped. Lucia’s voice came from the back. “Who’s there? Who is it, Cruz?”
    “It’s me. Nick. Are you decent?” Nick pulled the red curtains apart and