Free Dead Things by Stephen Blackmoore

then I draw a rectangle in the wall with a handful of symbols I’ve memorized but never learned the meaning of. When I draw the spell inside the rectangle I know the cursive’s as crude as an epileptic third grader’s, but it’s the intent that matters.
    I finish the last character and the chalk lines blaze into light. There’s my door. I knock on it, hope I’m not intruding, not that that’s ever stopped me before. Shove it open.
    The chalk lines glow brighter beneath my hands. There’s a hiss of escaping air and the wall slides in to a space that isn’t really there. When it gets in about six inches it stops, slides to one side. I step through.
    And I’m immediately assaulted with music.
    The room I’m in is a 1940’s jazz club. Smoky, dim. A smoking hot Asian woman in a green dress so tight it looks painted on sings “Stormy Weather” to a full house. A large black man in a bow tie and an apron stands behind the bar, cleaning shot glasses, looking at me.
    “As I live and breathe,” he says as I step up to the bar. His voice is deep, melodic.
    “You don’t do either one,” I say, stepping up to the bar and sliding onto a stool.
    “Anybody ever tell you you’re too literal?” he says.
    “Yeah,” I say. “You. It’s good to see you, Darius.”
    “And good to see you, too. I was wondering if you’d ever come back. I heard about your sister.”
    I notice he doesn’t give me condolences, say he’s sorry. Darius is never sorry. He has his own agenda. Does things for his own amusement. Can’t blame him. He’s got to be bored. He’s been stuck in here for a very long time. Gods willing, no one will find his bottle and he’ll be stuck even longer.
    “I like what you’ve done with the place.”
    “Yeah, I thought I’d go back a couple years. The punk scene was getting stale.”
    When I first met him he was trying to recreate CBGB in New York. Somebody told him about it in ’74 and he was intrigued, but didn’t really know what it looked like and he couldn’t go there. I headed out that way for a week and came back with a ton of pictures and recordings. I never asked for anything in return and I’ve always paid for whatever he’s given me. So he still owes me.
    He looks me up and down. “You’ve gotten bigger,” he says. “A lot bigger.”
    “Same size I’ve always been,” I say, not sure what he’s talking about.
    He laughs. “Okay. Have it your way. What can I get ya?”
    I dig out a twenty and lay it on the bar. “The usual, barkeep,” I say.
    He pours a dozen colored liquids into a shaker. I have no idea what they are. But as long as I have a hold over him I can trust him. More or less.
    “I know you didn’t just pop in here to say hello,” he says.
    “You cut me to the quick, sir,” I say. “Yeah, I need some information on somebody you might have run into a while back.”
    “I’ve run into a lot of people.”
    “Santa Muerte.”
    “No shit?”
    “No shit.”
    “Huh. Man, I haven’t talked to her in a long time. She’s done pretty well for herself, you know. Used to be Aztec.”
    “Mictecacihuatl,” I say.
    “Yeah, what you said. Man, I can never pronounce that Aztec shit. Used to just call her Miki. Guardian of the dead, but I guess you already know that.”
    “That, yeah. But I don’t know her .”
    “Short version or long version?”
    “What’s the price?”
    “Short version’s on the house.”
    “Let’s start with short and see where we go from there.”
    “Okay. Short version is she is one batshit crazy bitch.”
    He pours my drink into a martini glass and hands it to me. I take a couple of sips. One second it tastes like a Tootsie Roll. Another it tastes like an Islay single malt.
    “Excellent as usual. So, what’s the long version gonna cost me?”
    “I got a pest problem.” He points over to a table where a man in a rumpled suit is being generally obnoxious to a cigarette girl. He’s pretty hammered.
    And dead.
    “You’re kidding me,”