Free Crache by Mark Budz Page A

ceiling. The windows, paned with photovoltaic cellulose, are black as the night and reflect the sad-ass squalor of the place, including himself.
    A few steps into the room, Oscar locks the door behind him. Dead bolts click into place.
    He’s greeted by a man in his late forties—João, the uncle-in-law of Lejandra, the sick woman. He sports a big mustache, has watermelon seeds for eyes, and is wearing a loose sprayon tank top over the tattunes on his pectorals and biceps. One is a topless woman whose breasts rattle
ka-chooka chooka
when she shakes them. Another depicts a heart that drips blood. The blood trickles down his side before getting reabsorbed into his skin. He’s got scars, too. Thick keloid welts that look like permanent leeches. He’s been roughed up, and not by another
bracero
. The welts are the scarlet letter of a BEAN interrogation.
    Great. Not only has he been hulled by the gangstas, he’s going to turn up on a BEAN list of suspicious persons. Assuming he doesn’t get hulled permanently at the end of the evening.
    “Thanks for coming.” João offers a gruff, callused hand, each finger tattuned so it resembles a snake. “I’m glad you could make it.”
    “Sure. No problem.” L. Mariachi does his best to ignore the writhing Medusa hiss of serpents and return the squeeze. Then he quickly excuses himself and heads into the bathroom.
    The closet-size stall is windowless. There’s no way out. Not even a fan vent he can use to call for help.
    “You were lucky,” Num Nut tells him as he’s relieving himself. “It’s a good thing they showed up when they did.”
    “Yeah, right. No telling what horrible shit would have happened if they’d left me alone.”
    “For one, you could be hungover. Wallowing in self-pity.”
    L. Mariachi offlines the IA. He doesn’t want to listen to it berate him, especially if he actually has to try to play. He tucks himself in, then shambles back out to the front room.
    João’s wife, the sick woman’s aunt, is waiting there for him. She doesn’t look happy to see him, introduces herself as Isabelle. She’s in her midforties; has raven black hair tied back in a ropy braid, is rocking fresh sprayon jeans, a pretty but modest floral-print blouse, and cheap company-store wraparounds made out of pink-tinted cellophane.
    “I hope you know what you’re doing.” She stands with her arms folded across her chest.
    L. Mariachi glances around, notices the faint, chalky outline of an equilateral triangle scratched on the floor. At each corner he can just make out the shiny residue of low-grade glycerin wax. His gaze travels to the windows and hallway. Sure enough, the windowsills and doorframe have each been marked with an equi-armed cross.
    “The
bruja
was here already?” he says, trying not to sound too optimistic. Maybe he’s off the hook—won’t have to play for the witch after all.
    “That’s from last night,” Oscar says. “The spell didn’t work.”
    His sense of reprieve falters. So she’s coming back again tonight—moving on to the next stage of treatment.
    “She’s on her way now,” Isabelle tells them. “I just got a message from her. She’ll be here soon.”
    “You want to meet Lejandra?” João says.
    “We already told her you were coming to play,” Oscar says, working hard to play up L. Mariachi’s celebrity status as a musician, stroke his ego. “The
bruja
asked for you specifically.”
    “She did?” A washed-up
rockero
like him?
    “Come on.” Balta tugs at L. Mariachi’s sleeve.
    “Maybe we should wait for
la bruja
,” L. Mariachi says, hedging. There’s still a chance she won’t show.
    “We need to wake Lejandra up anyway,” Isabelle says. “For the
limpia
. It would make it easier if you’re there.”
    No way he’s getting out of this even if the
bruja
doesn’t show. They aren’t taking no for an answer. So he lets himself be led down the hallway to a bedroom in back. The room’s only window is curtained with