Free Idolon by Mark Budz

in a thick cascade across her face.
    "If that's what you want." He set the menu down and slid the chair back, scraping loudly on the floor tile.
    She jerked her head, tossing the hair back. "You don't know a goddamned thing," she said.
    He eased back into the chair. "About what?"
    " Anything."
    Meaning her. Things had never gone the way he wanted between them. For some reason, they always ended up at odds. It had been that way for as long as he could remember, cousins that had almost, but never quite, kissed. "Lagrante didn't say shit. You wanna keep it that way, no problem."
    "You're just jealous."
    "Maybe," he conceded. Except that there was no maybe about it. ..
    She let out a breath and, deflated, looked sudddenly drawn and pale, perhaps even a little sick.
    "You seem tired," he said, his voice softening.
    "I'm fine," she snapped. But some of the rancor had bled from her. "I've been busy, that's all." She rested her head in her hands.
    He fought the urge to reach out and touch her on one slender wrist. He might have been able to at one time, years ago. Not anymore. They'd settled into different orbits, any attraction between them more a perturbation of memory than anything else.
    "Any word on Concetta?" She was peering at him from between her long, delicate fingers.
    Pelayo shook his head, glad that she'd been the one to bring it up. "Not yet. Still waiting."
    Marta made a face but seemed resigned. Not only had she expected this, Pelayo realized, she'd come to accept it.
    Was that why Marta hadn't come to him? Because her sister had ... and had never come back? How much did Marta know?
    "I'm not the one who's in trouble," Marta said.
    "I'm just trying to help somebody out, is all."
    "That sounds like Concetta. Not you."
    "I don't think so.".
    "I do."
    "It's not like that." She pulled her hair back from her face and held it tight against the top of her head with both hands. "This is different."
    We're different, she seemed to be saying ... distancing herself from her sister.
    "Help out how?" he asked. "New ware? Philm? DiNA?"
    Marta smoothed her hands back, down to the base of her neck, and clasped them together. "Reemoval."
    "Full strip?"
    "Yeah. The 'skin's degrading. I don't know how long. A few days, week at the most before the neurotoxins kick in."
    Pelayo shook his head. "That's not what Lagrante does."
    "I know. But I thought he might be able to hook me up."
    "And?"
    She lowered her hands to the glass on the table.
    "He said he'd get back to me."
    "Sounds familiar. How much is he charging?"
    "He didn't say."
    "In other words, expensive. I hope your friend's rich."
    Marta stiffened. "She's not my friend."
    A woman, then, not a man. "If she doesn't have any money, what do you or she have that a rip artist might be interested in as payment?"
    Marta blinked. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
    "You don't think Lagrante's above asking for payment in trade?" It was unfair, a low blow, but he wanted to shock her, help her understand exactly what she was getting into and what kind of people she was dealing with.
    Marta's cheeks flushed. "Not everyone's a — " She bit her lip.
    "Go ahead" — His fingers curled inward, digging into moist palms — "say it."
    He knew what she was thinking. Slut. Whore. Instead, she said, "You're pathetic," and got up, oving the chair back so hard it toppled over, clattering against the table behind her.
    The thudding beat covered most of the ruckus. But a few people turned, drawn to the commotion . "At least I know who I am," she said. "What I want, who I want to be. Which is more than you can say."
    Pelayo could feel eyes on them, curious to see how the telenovela would play out.
    It didn't. He wouldn't let it. He remained in his seat, omerta , until she turned and stomped out.
    So much for trying to scare some sense into her, prevent her from following in her sister's footsteps.
    Pelayo stared down at his fists, clenched white-knuckle tight on the table, emptied of everything,