Free Effigy by Theresa Danley

for a long time. He was firmly aware of his limitations, which was why he blamed a brief dose of insanity for driving him through the long, sleepless night. Now he was paying for it as he shielded his swollen eyes against the sun’s glare. He needed some rest.
    The sliding glass doors clattered open behind him, sounding faintly distant in his aging ears. “Your ride should be here any minute, Mr. Gaspar.”
    Shaman Gaspar recognized the voice. He shuffled around to find his pilot, Jim Martinez, standing behind him.
    “You didn’t call one of those damned bugs, did you? Last time they cleaned me out of twenty-three dollars and a watch.”
    He’d learned long ago not to carry large amounts of cash into Mexico City , and the watch he lost was cheap. But it was the aggravation of the theft that bothered him most. Now, with valuable cargo in that wooden crate on the bench, he couldn’t risk any unnecessary chances.
    “I managed every detail,” Jim said. “Took me a dozen phone calls to get it too.”
    “I’ll be sure the owner’s fully compensated.”
    The pilot turned back to the terminal with a look of uncertainty. Gaspar could almost read his thoughts—a sudden, last minute trip, mysterious cargo but no luggage, a pickup. This wasn’t Gaspar’s style and Jim had made his inconvenienced displeasure obvious from the moment Gaspar demanded a flight. The protests ranged anywhere from needing longer notice to clear flight plans and customs, to a defiant, “where do you expect me to find a pickup in Mexico ?” all to which Gaspar acknowledged with a simple, “I’m ready when you are,” and “oh, by the way, I need a big   pickup.”
    Gaspar made sure his pilot was well paid for his trouble. It would make for an expensive trip, but the New Age fund could cover where his meager life’s savings fell short. The additional expenses would be worth all the trouble and Gaspar was already receiving dividends. Not only did Jim promptly make the flight into Mexico , he smoothly convinced the customs officials to ignore the crate in Gaspar’s lap.
    Jim disappeared into the terminal and Gaspar finally eased himself onto the bench. He took up the crate, and although it was heavy and awkward, he cradled it in his lap once more. The closeness and security of it there felt comforting, even though it had nearly put Gaspar’s legs to sleep by the time a boxy, old pickup peeled off from the distant flow of traffic.
    As the Ramcharger drew closer, he took in its rugged details: the faded paint two-toned with dirt and primer, the single mud flap flopping beneath a rusted fender, a rock chip scar with a tentacle that spread across the entire length of the windshield. But most importantly, the pickup had a grill guard, dented but sturdy.
    Gaspar relaxed. Jim had yet to let him down. Now, he looked forward to a good, heavy flauta to fill his growling stomach. And then, he’d sleep the heat of the day away in that big comfortable bed awaiting him at the Agave Azul.
    Night would return soon enough.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Zedilla
     
    The morning was as bright as he’d ever seen when Diego stopped at the coffee stall a few blocks down from headquarters. The air was warm and there was no wind. The day was perfectly primed for a siesta afternoon, but Diego already knew that wasn’t going to happen, not when he had another day of mind-numbing interrogations to look forward to.
    Diego was tired. His shoulders felt as heavy as his eyelids and there was a soreness in his upper arms. He cursed himself. He’d become soft since those days with the PJF, so soft that he was feeling the effects of only one night in the farmhouse. In his prime he would have worked a suspect over through the night and then some and still have the energy to laugh it off over a bottle of Mescal. He wondered how worse he’d feel this morning if his suspect hadn’t been a New Age weakling, and the idea that he himself had become weak was aggravating.
    The