Wrong City (14 page)

“I met my
girlfriend the day after that party,” Vish said. “And she broke up with me right
after I saw Sparky again.”

“I know. You
already mentioned that,” Poppy said. “You’re not very good at coming to the
point, are you? You keep dancing around the subject, hoping I’ll give you a
different answer the next time you bring it up, but not wanting to ask any
uncomfortable questions outright. I like you, Vish, but having a conversation
with you is exhausting.”

He wanted to
explain that she had misread him, that he didn’t know what uncomfortable
questions to ask—something along the lines of “Did Troy only date me because of
Sparky?” was close, but not quite right—but it didn’t seem likely to help his
case. “Did he ever find out who destroyed his car?”

“Of course he
did,” Poppy said. “Someone lost a role in a film and thought it was Sparky’s
fault. Which it may or may not have been—probably was, in fact—but you have to
admit, that was a dumb way to deal with rejection.”

“Did Sparky do
anything about it?” Vish asked.

Poppy raised an
eyebrow. “You really want to know?”

“He didn’t…
hurt whoever it was, did he?”

Poppy laughed.
It seemed genuine, and Vish felt a rush of relief. “Sparky doesn’t hurt people.
I mean, the responsible party is probably never going to eat lunch in this town
again, to invoke an old chestnut, but nobody got hurt, Vish. Not in any way
that matters.”

They finished
their drinks. The waiter hovered nearby, but Poppy shook her head before he
could ask if they wanted another. When the waiter brought the tab, Poppy laid a
hand on Vish’s wrist before he could pick it up.

“I’ll put it on
my expense report. We’ll bill it to Sparky,” she said.

“Thank you,”
Vish said.

“Anytime.”

Vish hesitated.
“Will you tell Sparky I want to speak with him?”

Poppy looked at
him, her expression filled with a strange mixture of sympathy and amusement.
“I’m pretty sure he already knows.”

“T
here’s something living under the
building,” Mariposa said.

Vish squatted
beside her and squinted into the darkness of the crumbled corner. “I don’t see
anything,” he said. “Is it what you thought you saw before?”

“It’s still
there. It’s just a shadow, nothing else. But it moves.” She placed a plastic
bowl beside the orange safety cone marking the hole. The bowl was filled with
what looked like mineral oil and a handful of leaves.

“What’s that
for?” Vish asked.

Mariposa
shrugged. She seemed embarrassed. “Something I learned about from a girl at my
job. She said it’d protect us.”

He leaned down
and examined the contents of the bowl. It smelled good, citrussy and
astringent, reminiscent of Troy’s perfume. “Do you mean like… magic?”

She scowled and
shook her head. “It’s not magic. And I’m not really doing it right. I’m
supposed to use this little cauldron thing, but it was too expensive, even with
my employee discount, so I figured the bowl would work okay. If there’s
something bad in the hole, this should keep it in there.”

He stared at
her for a moment. “Where do you work?” he asked.

“Luisa
Botanica? It’s near downtown, on Union,” she said. “You know what a botanica
is?”

“A plant
store?”

She rolled her
eyes. “Santeria supplies. Charms and candles and stuff. You know what Santeria
is, right?”

“Sure. I mean,
I don’t know much about it, but I know what it is.” Vish squinted into the
hole. Whatever Mariposa was talking about, whatever she thought she saw, he
couldn’t see anything but darkness. “So you’re into that kind of thing?”

“No. I don’t
know. I mean, it’s just my job. But it’s good to keep an open mind, you know?”
She shrugged. “I figure it might help. Couldn’t hurt, right?”

“Probably not,”
he said. He looked at the bowl. Santeria. Huh.

She threw him a
sidelong glance. “I have to go to work now,” she said. “If you want to see the
place, you could come with me.”

He considered.
He had no plans, and it sounded like it could be interesting. “All right,” he
said.

She grinned at
him. “Cool. Don’t tell my mom, though. No boys in the car, right?”

Mariposa drove
too fast, zipping down the freeway, weaving in and out of traffic. All the
windows were down, and the radio blasted some relentlessly upbeat pop song.
Vish was much too old for this kind of thing, but it was fun to lean back in
the seat and watch the downtown skyline drawing closer. He liked downtown Los
Angeles, the skimpy cluster of skyscrapers exploding up from the surrounding
blocks of smaller historic buildings. Nice to have an excuse to visit.

Luisa Botanica
took up the ground floor of a run-down building in a neighborhood that had seen
better days. It wasn’t any rattier than Venice, really, though it was a lot
more crowded. Lots of activity, plenty of people on the street. Central
American restaurants, discount stores with their signs in Spanish, doughnut
shops, street vendors presiding over folding tables loaded with tshirts and
leather billfolds.

Inside, the
botanica looked much like an ordinary drugstore. Fluorescent lights, dull white
walls, peeling linoleum floors, rows of cheap metal shelves laden with goods.
The merchandise, though, was decidedly different: Vish looked at racks of
scented oils, at clay pots, at hammered metal crowns, at carved wooden figurines
of voodoo deities. Religious texts in Spanish and English, seashells and
bangles and beads and bottles. One entire aisle was devoted to candles,
colorful ones housed in tall glass jars painted with vivid images of saints.

Mariposa nudged
him in the side. “What do you think?”

“It’s huge.”
Vish looked around. “I didn’t know this sort of thing existed here, at least
not on this scale.”

“They’re all
over the city,” Mariposa said. “You see them all the time if you’re looking for
them.”

She beckoned
him over to a shelf. “Look at this. Love charms. If you want to get your
girlfriend back, you could use one of these.”

Vish looked at
a collection of small drawstring pouches, each one claiming to contain a spell
to rekindle lost romance. Impossible to imagine winning Troy back this easily.
Then again, she’d fallen for him almost at first sight, and when she left him,
she’d acted like a spell had been broken…

He shook his
head. Stupid to even indulge that kind of thinking.

“Who’s your
friend, Mariposa?” Vish turned to see a middle-aged woman glaring at him. Her
expression was openly disapproving.

She looked
elegant, yet severe. She wore a burgundy suit with a double row of gold buttons
down the front. Dark hair anchored back into a tight chignon, gold-framed
eyeglasses, chunky gold earrings shaped like rope knots. Her black stiletto
pumps gave her a few inches on Vish.

“Hey, Isabella.
This is my neighbor, Vish. I was just showing him the store. Isabella owns this
place,” Mariposa explained to him.

“I own the
building,” Isabella said. “Someone else owns the store and rents this space
from me.” When she looked at Vish, she didn’t seem pleased with what she saw.
“Vish, was it?”

“Yes, ma’am.
Nice to meet you.” He extended a hand. Isabella shook it. Firm grip. Her eyes
never left his face.

“I wonder if I
might borrow you for a moment, Vish. I’m rearranging some furniture in my
office, and I could use an extra pair of strong hands.”

“Of course. No
problem.”

“I need to
punch in. You can get home from here okay, right?” Mariposa asked Vish.
“Because otherwise I can drive you back on my lunch break, but I don’t know if
you’re still going to be around then.”

“I’ll take the
bus. Don’t worry about it,” Vish said.

Mariposa threw
him a quick goodbye wave and headed for the counter by the front door. Vish
followed Isabella out the emergency exit in back, which led into a short
hallway. A nice old building, really, with small black-and-white tiles forming
intricate geometric patterns on the floor and bronze pendant lamps shaped like
fans drooping from the ceiling.

Isabella
stopped in front of an office door. Gilt letters were painted on the frosted
window: Isabella Madre, with a couple sentences of Spanish-language text
beneath it. Vish managed to decipher a single word.
Notario
. “You’re a
lawyer?”

She nodded
once, curtly, and unlocked the door. It opened into a waiting room that was
only slightly roomier than an airplane lavatory. One folding chair, a wire
display rack of brochures in Spanish, a potted palm wedged beside the door.
Just beyond it was her private office. It was similarly tiny, with room for her
desk, two client chairs, and a skinny metal filing cabinet. She had a framed
diploma from Stanford Law and a calendar from the American Bar Association
hanging on her wall.

Vish looked
around. “What did you need me to move?” he asked.

“Nothing. I
lied. Sit down, I want to talk to you.” She closed the door and settled behind
her desk, then pointed at one of the client chairs. Surprised, Vish obeyed.

“You’re
Mariposa’s neighbor.” It wasn’t a question, but Vish found himself nodding.

“She lives in
the apartment right next to mine,” he said.

She stared at
him over the rims of her glasses and said nothing. She’d be a demon in the
courtroom, reducing witnesses to wrecked piles of nerves with little more than
stern glares and well-timed silences. “You’re much too old for her.”

Vish gaped at
her for a moment. “Oh,” he said at last. “Oh. No. It’s not like that. I’m just
her neighbor. That’s it.”

Another hard
stare. Vish wanted to fill the silence with more denials, but there was nothing
more to be said—he
didn’t
have improper designs on Mariposa, there was
nothing to suggest he did, and it wasn’t his problem if Isabella had
misinterpreted the situation. Even still, he felt guilty and furtive, like he
was trying to withhold secrets that she’d winnow out of him through icy stares
and razor-sharp questions.

Isabella sat
back in her chair. “She looked at you like she thinks you’re more than a
neighbor.”

“I have no idea
why she would,” Vish said. “There’s nothing between us.”

“Then why are
you hanging around her workplace?” she asked.

Well, good
question. “I’d never heard of botanicas before Mariposa mentioned this place. I
was curious.” It was clear from her expression this wasn’t enough of an answer,
so Vish kept going. “She thinks something is living in the ground under our
apartment complex, so she did… I don’t know what you’d call it. I guess it’s
some kind of protection spell or something, though she says it’s not magic.”

Isabella nodded
slowly. “And you? Do you think your building needs protection?”

“No, but…” Vish
inhaled, shook his head. “No. I don’t.”

“But you need
protection, don’t you?” Isabella pointed a burgundy nail at the fading bruise
on his forehead. “It looks like you found some trouble recently.”

“I was mugged,”
he said.

“Uh-huh.”
Another long silence, and then she spoke: “I think you came here because you’re
searching for some help. Trouble has found you, and you don’t understand why.
Am I close?”

Vish didn’t
answer. He rose from his chair. “I’m sorry. I should get going.”

“Just a
moment.” It was a command. “Wouldn’t you like to know why?”

“I don’t
understand what you’re talking about,” Vish said.

“There’s a mark
on you,” Isabella said. She shook her head. “That’s not accurate, but it’s a
simple way to explain it. Someone marked you as someone of importance, and it’s
attracting the wrong people. I like Mariposa. She’s a smart girl and a good
kid. If she’s hanging around you, she’s in danger.”

“A mark?”

“It’s nothing
visible. Nothing, really, that I can describe, either. It simply exists.” She
thought for a moment. “I sensed it as soon as you walked into my building. My
eyes hurt a little just from looking at you, like the beginnings of a migraine
headache.” She smiled for the first time. “It’s making me snappish. That’s not
your fault. I apologize.”

“I’m not
following this,” Vish said.

“It’s
confusing, I know.” Her expression softened. “I imagine this is already more of
an explanation than Sparky has bothered to provide.”

Vish stared at
her. “Sparky?”

“You’ve been
spending time with Sparky Mother. You have his mark on you, and it’s getting
you into trouble.” She raised her eyebrows over the rims of her glasses. “You
don’t have to confirm or deny that. I don’t need details.”

“I’ve met
Sparky Mother twice, very briefly. He didn’t mark me.”

The icy stare
bored into him once more. “He gave you his phone number, didn’t he? And you
called him. And when you did, a connection was established between you. You
became
important
.” She almost seemed to be speaking to herself. “Someone
else knew about that call, someone who wants what Sparky has.”

“And what’s
that?”

“Hollywood.”
She smiled. “Isn’t that what most people in this town want? Glamour and power
and fame? Sparky’s the key to all that.” A shrug. “It often comes with a cost,
of course. I imagine you’ve found that out for yourself already.”

“How do you
know all this?”

“Because
Mariposa thinks something is living under your building.” She glanced at him
over the rims of her glasses. “Something crawled up from the earth and found
you when you dialed Sparky’s number. The ground shook, and everything changed.”

It was weirdly
hypnotic, listening to her talk. Nothing she said made much sense, and yet…

“How do you
know Sparky?” he asked.

“We’re very old
friends.” A smile, so cold it took his breath away.

“Can you tell
me who he is?”

“No. I don’t
mean I won’t. I mean quite literally I can’t. I don’t have the words to
describe who or what he is. I’m not sure Sparky himself could tell you.”

“You’re talking
about something supernatural, aren’t you?” he asked. He didn’t recognize his
voice, which sounded odd and distant.

She didn’t
answer. She picked up a small notepad and scribbled something on it. She tore
off the sheet and handed it to Vish. A few words in Spanish that meant nothing
to him. “Give that to Mariposa and tell her I said to get it for you.”

“What is it?”
he asked.

“Protection.
Something to hide the mark.” She considered. “Did you ever have warts as a
child?”

A confusing
shift of topic. “Ah… once. On my knee,” he said.

“How’d you
treat it?” she asked.

“My mother was
a doctor. She put some purple stuff on it and covered it with a bandage. After
a couple of weeks it went away.”

“Purple dye,”
Isabella said, nodding. “Iodine, probably, though what it really was doesn’t
matter. Simple food coloring would’ve worked just as well. Many parents did
that, doctors or not. I’m sure some still do. Warts are a weak infection, and
it often takes very little to make them go away. If you believe the dye is
medicine that will make the wart disappear, it probably will.”

Vish was about
to respond, but the sound of the outer door to the hall closing startled him.
Isabella glanced at her watch and frowned. “That’s my next appointment. Give
that to Mariposa. She’ll know what to do.”

She rose from
her chair and moved toward the door. Relief that this strange and awkward
encounter was over trumped Vish’s desire to learn more about Isabella’s
connection to Sparky. He followed her out of her office.

A young couple,
probably husband and wife, hovered anxiously in the tiny waiting area. Isabella
shook their hands and spoke a few crisp words to them in Spanish, then led them
into her office. She glanced back at Vish once, nodded at him, and closed the
door.