Ellen Datlow - Tails of Wonder and Imagination

“I’m hoping that won’t be necessary. You wouldn’t want him for an enemy.”

“Some people say you’re judged by your enemies.”

“Then you would be considered a powerful man, too,” she says.

“So the get-up you had on was like a costume.”

She nods, but even in the shadows I can see the bitter look that comes into her eyes.

“I have many ‘costumes’ such as that,” she says. “My boyfriend insists I wear them in order to appear attractive. He likes it that men would desire me, but could not have me.”

“Boy, what planet is he from?” I say. “You could wear a burlap sack and you’d still be drop-dead gorgeous.”

“You did not like the dress?”

I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a guy. Of course I liked it. I’m just saying you don’t need it.”

“You are very sweet.”

Again with the making nice. Funny thing is, I don’t want to argue it with her anymore. I find I like the idea that someone’d say these kinds of things to me. But I don’t pretend there’s a hope in hell that it’ll ever go past this. Instead I focus on the holes in her story. There are things she isn’t telling me and I say as much, but while she can’t help but look a little guilty, she doesn’t share them either.

“Look,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter what they are. I just need to know, are they going to get in the way of our getting the job done?”

“I don’t think so.”

I wait a moment but she’s still playing those cards pretty much as close to her vest as she can. I wonder how many of them are wild.

“Okay,” I say. “So we’ll just do it. But we need to make a slight detour first. Do you think your cat can hold out for another hour or so?”

She nods.

She doesn’t ask any questions when I pull up behind a plant nursery over on East Kelly Street. I jimmy the lock on the back door like it’s not even there—hey, it’s what I do; or at least used to do—and slip inside. It takes me a moment to track down what I’m looking for, using the beam of a cheap key-ring flashlight to read labels. Finally, I find the shelf I need.

I cut a hole in a small bag of diatomaceous earth and carefully pour a bit of it into each of my jacket’s pockets. When I replace the bag, I leave a five-spot on the shelf beside it as payment. See, I’m learning. Guys back in prison would be laughing their asses off if they ever heard about this, but I don’t care. I may still bust into some guy’s house to help his ex-girlfriend steal back her cat, but I’m done with taking what I haven’t earned.

“You figure he’s home?” I ask when we pull back up outside the house on Marett.

She nods. “He would not leave her alone—not so soon after stealing her from me.”

“You know where his bedroom is?”

“At the back of the house, on the second floor. He is a light sleeper.”

Of course he would be.

“And your cat,” I say. “Would she have the run of the house, or would he keep her in a cage?”

“He would have… other methods of keeping her docile.”

“The magic eyes business.”

“His power is not a joking matter,” she says.

“I’m taking it seriously,” I tell her.

Though I’m drawing the line at magic. Thing is, I know guys who can do things with their eyes. You see it in prison all the time—whole conversations taking place without a word being exchanged. It’s all in the eyes. Some guys are like a snake, mesmerizing its prey. The eyes lock onto you and before you know what’s going on, he’s stuck a shiv in your gut and you’re down on the floor, trying to keep your life from leaking out of you, your own blood pouring over your hands.

But I’m pretty good with the thousand-yard stare myself.

I get out of the car and we head for the side door in the carport. I’d have had Luisa stay behind in the cab, except I figure her cat’s going to be a lot more docile if she’s there to carry it back out again.

I give the door a visual check for an alarm. There’s nothing obvious, but that doesn’t mean anything, so I ask Luisa about it.

“A man such as he does not need a security system,” she tells me.

“The magic thing again.”

When she nods, I shrug and take a couple of pairs of surgical gloves out of my back pocket. I hand her one pair and put the other on, then get out my picks.

This door takes a little longer than the one behind the nursery did. For a guy who’s got all these magic chops, he’s still sprung for a decent lock. That makes me feel a little better. I’m not saying that Luisa’s gullible or anything, but with guys like this—doesn’t matter what scam they’re running, magic mumbo-jumbo’s not a whole lot different from the threat of a beating—it’s the fear factor that keeps people in line. All you need is for your victim to believe that you can do what you say you’ll do if they don’t toe the line. You don’t actually need magic.

The lock gives up with a soft click. I put my picks away and take out a small can of W-30, spraying each of the hinges before I let the door swing open. Then I lean close to Luisa, my mouth almost touching her ear.

“Where should we start looking?” I say.

My voice is so soft you wouldn’t hear me a few steps away. She replies as quietly, her breath warm against my ear. This close to her I realize that a woman like her smells just as good as she looks. That’s something I just never had the opportunity to learn before.

“The basement,” Luisa says. “If she is not hiding from him there, then he will have her in his bedroom with him. There is a door leading downstairs, just past that cupboard.”

I nod and start for the door she pointed to, my sneakers silent on the tiled floor. Luisa whispers along behind me. I do the hinges on this door, too, and I’m cautious on the steps going down, putting my feet close to the sides of the risers where they’re less liable to wake a creak.

There was a light switch at the top of the stairs. Once I get to the bottom, I stand silent, listening. There’s nothing. I feel along the wall and come across the other switch I was expecting to find.

“Close your eyes,” I tell Luisa.

I do the same thing and flick the switch. There’s a blast of light behind my closed lids. I crack them slightly and take a quick look around. The basement is furnished, casually, like an upscale rec room. There’s an entertainment center against one wall, a wet bar against another. Nice couch set up in front of the TV. I count three doors, all of them slightly ajar. I’m not sure what they lead to. Furnace room, laundry room, workshop. Who knows?

By the time I’m finished looking around my eyes have adjusted to the light. The one thing I don’t see is a cat.

“You want to try calling her?” I ask.

Luisa shakes her head. “I can feel her. She is hiding in there.” She points to one of the mystery doors. “In the storage room.”

I let her go ahead of me, following after. Better the cat see her first than my ugly mug.

We’re halfway across the room when someone speaks from behind us.

a man’s voice says, speaking in Spanish.

I turn slowly, not letting on that I know what he’s said. I picked up a lot of Spanish on the street, more in jail. So I just look surprised, which isn’t a stretch. I can’t believe I didn’t feel him approach. When I’m creeping a joint I carry a sixth sense inside me that stretches out throughout the place, letting me know when there’s a change in the air.

Hell, I should at least have heard him on the stairs.

“I have brought you nothing,” Luisa says, speaking English for my benefit, I guess.

“Please. I ask only for our freedom.”

I have to admit he’s a handsome devil. Same dark hair and complexion as Luisa, but there’s no warmth in his eyes.