Disclaimer: Some of you may remember me...some may not. If you've gotten this far into this tale, I would hope you would at least remember my name. I'm Mariana, and I'm here, briefly...to tell you that Morrig owns these characters. They are hers, although they may make you think of two other beautiful women. Take heed, imitating the deeds of the people in this story is highly discouraged. They're just not safe. As a matter of fact...they are downright lethal. If you are under eighteen, please go watch an episode of your favorite TV program, as I'm pretty sure the contents within these pages could be considered corruption of a minor. At least, I would think so. The language is...filthy. The violence...well, it's violence. Sex? Yes, and it's not all women on women, though there is enough of that as well. This story...may be too harsh for some sensitive souls, but if you have enough courage or resolve, and you have read Absolution and Penitencia...come, venture into the world we've built...and hear our-

By: Morrig

Everyone has that dream where they step off a curb but never reach the ground. It usually ends with a jolt and the dreamer awakes. For Magali, the ground never came and, although the jolt did, she couldn't wake from the nightmare. Along the borders of her sleep, the waves of pain loomed at a distance for awhile, teasing, before they swept over and tortured her once more.

Eddie's voice echoed in her head telling of Casey's sacrifice, and the deal to go with Julia in exchange for her life. Her hands vibrated with the feel of the steering wheel speeding along the highway, a chase through New York traffic. Have to reach her, before she goes...before...a spasm ripped through her and she dug her nails into her palm. The thought vanished. Her sight wavered, the traffic around her blurred, her shoulders ached with the force she used to try to turn the wheel in her hands. She could hear the roaring engine of the Jeep as she swerved to avoid the slower moving vehicles, in and out, almost there...when she'd felt the lurch, the sway-a malfunction in her typically faultless vehicle-as she lost control and...Madre! The accident that had destroyed her Jeep, left her gasping to breathe, almost killed her. She screamed, her gut twisting with lightning. Magali felt a brief sting, then a rush of warmth and the images faded as she dropped deeper into the darkness. How the fuck am I alive, why am I? Or am I?

Hours later, her mind again struggled toward consciousness, toward knowing. The pain and distress were almost unbearable. It would be easier to surrender...die already. She was tempted to just let everything go. She hovered on the border of indecision, stones from the edge of the abyss gave way under her feet. Waking? Or blessed relief? But there was something... Something I have to do... Her life depended on it. Mi vida... She grasped at an elusive thought and captured it with a feeling of triumph, became an observer of the events that filled her head. She could tell she was hurt bad and needed to get to a hospital. Her eyes flickered beneath the closed lids as, even now, her body flinched from the remembered pain and the desperation. No. Can't do that. Broke my parole...I'll be arrested. And then, Callie was there. Callie...It's Callie's fault I'm breathin'. There was something funny about that-putting her life into the hands of her assassin, who had taken her to the loft; but her constricting abdomen and the rising bile in her throat killed her laughter. That day, Callie used her scalpel for something other than taking a life. Fuck, who knew she could do that? The searing touch of the knife pierced her then faded into nothing. Consciousness loomed closer as her recall became more clear, more focused. Insects crawled over her bare skin. Callie, she shot me up full of dope...the bleeding, it slowed, she...Almost awake, a small rueful smile curled Magali's lip. Casey isn't going to like that. I promised... With that trigger, everything began unfolding before her as if she were the audience, watching a slow-motion film. Fuck! It was Casey...Casey hit me...And when I finally came to...have to make Julia pay...Her restless body twitched with her need-her need for action, and her need for the drug. Never made it to the airport...The Jeep...The crash... The flames licking from out of the black smoke that had done away with more than the heap of twisted metal that had been her vehicle; they had also eliminated her only chance of getting to Casey before she left for L.A. with Julia. They had set the circumstances for her breaking parole; and they had prompted Callie to learn a new skill, to do what she had to in order to save her life and now...I'm addicted. Full awareness rushed back into Magali with that realization, and the bits and pieces coalesced into painful clarity. Got to get to Casey! She struggled, futilely, to rise, but for once her body would not respond to even her strong will and she subsided. Feeling a weight on the mattress beside her, Magli's eyes opened briefly to see Callie next to her; then she felt the bite, and slipped into oblivion.

It was purgatory-- between heaven and hell-- though her position in it was definitely closer to damnation, and salvation was too far away for her to even catch a glimpse of it. For the moment, surviving the wrath of her own body was all consuming. Her anchor was, once again, the image of her Saint's smile.

The addiction was physical not mental, and she was lucky for that. Once her body learned to live without the murk that was heroin coursing through her veins, she would recover. Some didn't come out of withdrawal alive. She had long since ceased her straining against the bonds Callie had placed on her to keep her from running in a blind fury towards relief. Her body too weak to continue, she let the pain cover her, and swam in it until it melted away.

In the hopes of diminishing the icy grip that firmly held Magali, Callie had turned off the central air of her loft and left only the ceiling fans spinning. She knew it was futile, that the heat of the summer would burn more than soothe the woman, but it was the only thing she could think to do. She had felt helpless for far too long during the course of the sickness.

Callie hadn't slept in over two days, even the headphones covering her ears, blasting Korn, couldn't prevent her from thinking of what was happening in her bedroom. Lying on the leather sofa and covering her head with a pillow simply muffled the screams into gut wrenching cries of lament, and she was grateful at their cessation. Only occasional slams and the metallic rattling of chains filtered down from the platform room now.

The silence was eerie, and heralded Magali's return from the land of the dead. She pushed one padded earphone back and listened for any changes, there were none. For the past few hours Magali had done nothing but shiver. Callie had chanced a peek or two in from the edge of the steps. She hadn't dared look often; the sight of her object of worship struggling over bloodstained and sweat-soaked sheets was wrenching.

What had perturbed Callie the most was the way that Magali had screamed out for Casey, not the drug, but Casey, as if the name alone could save her from the realm of demons through which she waded. When it was over, there would be stitches to replace, bandages to re-do, and a soul-what was left of it, if any-to mend. It would be Callie that tended to these tasks during this most vulnerable chapter of Bajo Zero's life. If anyone had the desire to, and there were plenty who did, it would have been easy to kill the usually invincible woman in her current state. As it was, Callie was her only safeguard against the predators that waited for her to weaken, but she could do nothing to shelter Magali from herself.

Lying curled on her side, she shivered as if in extreme cold, though drenched in the sweat and tears wrought from her agony. It was almost over; she knew that with the shakes her body would finally collapse, and she would wake without the need, and without Casey.

"Callie," Magali's hoarse voice screamed down to her. The sudden bellow gave her a start, and Callie nervously tugged down the tank top that had managed to creep up to just under her breasts. Her skin was damp and it stuck to the leather of the sofa as she quickly stood, causing her to wince at the sticky pull, dropping the CD player to the ground. At the top of the stairs, she caught her first full view of Magali in hours. Disheveled and with the strain of suffering on her face, Callie still found her to be beautiful, magnificent even in misery. Barefoot, she padded to the side of the low captain's bed and knelt on the floor, stroking back thick, dark locks that clung to Magali's face.

"What is it, Mami," Callie questioned in a tender whisper, adding on a term of endearment customarily spoken between lovers.

"Get these things off me," Magali croaked back, feebly pulling on the chains tethering her to the bed. Their length had been enough to let her flail and struggle, often forcing her body to contort into uncomfortable positions, but not to reach the buckles of the straps and undo them.

As she undid the restraints, Callie's eyes grew wide. "God damn, Zee." Callie noted with exasperation that the eyebolts that had held the chains had nearly been pulled out, splitting the wood of the bed's frame. "You owe me a new fuckin' bed."

Without looking at the smaller woman by her side, Magali's words carried a grateful undertone. "Thanks." It wasn't an expression of thankfulness for removing the bonds that had secured her, but for having them put on.

Callie nodded; she understood. "Want a smoke?" she asked as she rose, pulling away the chains and letting them crash to the floor. "I have a pack downstairs. I'll be right back."

After the younger woman left, Magali tested her limbs. Her joints were sore, and her throat ached. The sharp pangs from her side wound were merely a dull throbbing in comparison to what she had endured. She inhaled the hot air and bit down on her lip. Everything hurt, but it was life, and she had survived her run through hell. A small breeze separated the sheer curtains of the bedroom window, bringing with it the smells of the street outside. Callie returned, two cigarettes hanging from her mouth as she lit them both and handed one to the dark woman.

Magali braced herself and pushed her trunk up to lean her back against the wall. "How long?" she asked, taking a pull from the cigarette and throwing her head back.

"Altogether, two and a half weeks."

"Fuck." Magali drew her knees up and rested her arms on them, bowing her head, the pains from her broken rib teasing her.

"Yo, you've been through worse, right? It wasn't so bad." That statement drew a chortle out of the dark woman, and Callie took a risk to further lighten the atmosphere. "I'll tell you what, though...you haven't smelled so bad...ever. By the time you wash off, you're gonna owe me a new bathtub, too...Ah, you can afford it. Let me fill it up some. You can't soak, though, not with those stitches in you still, but you can get clean. Alright?"

"Yeah," she mumbled from her lap.

"Need help?"

Magali raised her head and arched an eyebrow. "No."

Callie shrugged and left for the bathroom attached to the bedroom. Magali heard the water run, and caught the mischievous look from Callie as she returned.

"All yours."

The bathroom was a smaller platform raised from the bedroom floor by a step and separated from the rest of the room by a frosted wall of block-cut glass. Magali was pleased to find that "the tub" was really a small Jacuzzi-- large enough for two, or for her to stretch out in. Unfortunately, Callie was right, wetting the stitches would delay her healing. With all the abuse of her body apparent, she moved carefully onto the bowled step of the tub and cautiously sat. The water reached to her waist, its warmth welcome even in the heat of the summer. She ran her hand over the surface, letting the liquid form waves over her fingers. So much had gone wrong within the past few months, and she wished she could wash it all away, everything but her Saint. Two and a half weeks, she could be anywhere by now...with Julia. She kept me from killing that bitch. Why? I should have been watching my back...Fuck that was careless. But she left with her...to save me. Julia was gonna kill me, and she stopped her. What the fuck were you saving, Casey? Magali dunked her head into the water, wincing, as she had to bend her body to do it. By the time she finished rinsing off the soap, there were definite food smells wafting up to her from the lower level of the loft. From a hook on the wall she grabbed a white, terry cloth robe. It was a bit snug around her shoulders, and its length reached only to mid-thigh on her, but it would do. Her clothes had been irreparably damaged. As usual.

She had difficulty walking down the steps, her legs shaky after spending so much time on her back. The loft had once been a warehouse, and unpainted, blue steel beams rose from floor to ceiling. Magali found Callie in the kitchen stirring the contents of a large steaming pot. The kitchen was a rather large space tucked into the back of the loft, with brick walls, a polished wood floor and a wooden island. Scraps of various Caribbean tubers littered the counter's surface. One of the room's walls was no more than a barn door that opened up into a backyard, where an enclosed garden of green vines and brightly colored flowers surrounded a bricked deck. A small stereo system in a niche of the wall played Tito Puente's greatest hits, and Callie danced to the magical rhythm of the drum's solo. She turned as Magali approached and jumped back in surprise. Her hair was the light honey-brown it would turn under the summer's sun, and she still wore her tank top with a very short pair of cut off jeans underneath. Still barefoot, a delicate golden chain hung around her ankle with a tiny medallion of La Caridad.

"Puñeta, you scared the hell out of me, Zee."

"Puñeta? It doesn't look like you're jerking off. Que haces?" Magali smirked. In all her dealings with the woman, she had never seen this particular side of her. The assassin was nowhere to be seen.

"Que hago? No, Mami, what are you doing? You're supposed to be upstairs. Tssk, Ave Maria, I would have brought you up a bowl; I know you gotta be starvin'," she exaggerated and picked up a dishtowel and dried her hands.

Magali glanced down at her belly; she was pitifully empty. The struggle had left her with a rather urgent need for food, though she didn't think she could stomach any. "I don't think I'll be able to keep it down, Callie."

"You're kiddin', right? It's a sancocho, Zee. Just some yuca, malanga, platano, batata, papa, eñame...some roots and shit. Anybody can keep this stuff down."

"Sancocho, huh? I haven't had that in years." Shit, since before moms died. "I guess I can try to put that in me. It's just a soup anyway."

"Trust me. Why don't you go sit down outside? Man, you could use some sun on you," she said, taking a hold of Magali's hand and leading her out through the garden door. "Go on, take a seat. Te traigo un plato aca afuera, okay? I'll be right back wit' it."

"Just one plato, Callie! And a small plato. Don't try to bring me one of those 'you're too skinny' plates." Her voice was too hoarse to yell effectively. Somehow, even if she could, she didn't think her protest would register with her assassin anyway.

The bowl was huge, and even pushing aside the chunks of tubers in the thick broth did nothing to reveal its bottom. Callie sat across from her with her own much smaller bowl, and a cold Heineken in her hand. She had brought Magali a tall glass of ice water, which she had had to refill twice before the woman would begin eating. Still, Magali did little more than spoon out the broth.

"Where's the meat? Isn't this supposed to have, like, pork or somethin' in it?"

"I made it without meat, Zee. You'd puke that shit all over the place if I had."

"I need meat," Magali said, nearly pouting.

"You need rest. Finish the sancocho." Callie took a swallow of the bitter beer, enjoying the cool feel of the bottle and her badgering of the lethal woman.

"You sound like a..." Wife.

"What?"

"Nothin'." Magali muttered, putting a full spoon in her mouth.

************************************************************

With the A/C back on, snuggled and naked under a quilted blanket, Magali slept soundly. The cool scent of clean sheets was comforting, and the aspirin Callie had given her eased some of the tenderness of her injuries. She could have slept for days with the sounds and smells of a home long lost cradling her-- spicy scents of Caribbean condiments and roasted meats, the slow sad tune of a saxophone dancing with percussion. In the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, she could almost feel the place, way back before she was ever Bajo Zero, before the violence and the wrath consumed her into the smoking ashes of what she had become. The sudden noise of a struggle broke the tranquility and, groggily, she forced her eyes to open, her hand slipping under the pillow beneath her head for the weapon hidden there. Two sets of footsteps sounded on the staircase, ringing in her ears. Slowly her vision focused on the sight of her bare forearm near her face, and she scowled at the red marks and long blue streak left by her "medication". Its telltale markings would take some time to disappear.

"Look at what I caught. This motherfucker says he knows you, Zee," Callie growled, an assault rifle pointed at the back of a tall form Magali recognized immediately.

"Daly..." she snarled, hefting her own gun to point at the subdued enforcer. "It's about time you fuckin' showed up. Took you longer than I thought."

"You look great, Zee. I see you've been taking care of yourself," he remarked with a sarcastic note, eyeing the track marks on her arm.

"Stop, please, you'll make me blush with all those compliments," she retorted, narrowing her eyes. "You gonna try to take me in?"

A look from Magali to Callie, and the smaller woman was poking him in the back with the tip of the rifle's barrel, forcing him to take a step forward. It had taken him days to figure out where the woman had gone, and then even longer to verify her whereabouts. The loft was vulnerable on only one side, over the garden wall, and even then it was a risk because of its openness. He had chanced it when he thought he would not be seen, but Callie's keen senses and stashes of weapons had prevented his furtive entrance. I need to run a few training exercises, I'm getting slow, he thought when Callie took him by surprise. He wished he could be tender with the dangerous woman. She looked to him like death warmed over, and it was clear to him that she was in no shape for a fight. Had he wanted to take her in, he had the chance.

"That's not what I'm here for, Zee," he said without any mirth.

"Then what the fuck do you want now?"

"There's a parole officer keeping an eye on your place. I wouldn't go near there if I were you."

"You want me to believe you came to warn me?"

"Yes. That...and...you need to establish communication with Winslow. You're out of the loop right now. If he starts to think you've backed down...we could lose him."

"You sonofabitch. You set that whole thing up, didn't you?" she barked rising from the bed.

Daly gulped at the sight of her naked form, battered yet sleek in its form. "Does it matter," he asked, diverting his eyes away from her.

"No, I guess it really doesn't, whether you did or didn't. What's done is done...Isn't that the way it goes? But you made a big mistake, Daly, when you put Casey in this shit."

Callie twitched nervously, taking in the hostile scene with a hunger for action. "Let me kill him, Zee. I've got some of that acid shit, eat his fuckin' body up when I'm done."

"No. Leave us. This sonofabitch is gonna do something for me...Go on, break out," she ordered pointing to the stairs with the gun in her hand.

Magali waited through Callie's hesitation, the desire to kill crystal in the woman's eyes. She didn't appreciate her sanctum's violation. Pouting, as if her favorite toy had been stolen away, Callie turned and stomped down the stairs.

"What can I do for you, Bajo Zero?" Daly queried, a bit more at ease without the impulsive assassin's presence.

"You are going to make that parole violation disappear."

"What? I can't do that!"

"If you don't, how do you expect me to keep turning up the dirt?" she asked coolly.

He met her with silence, digging his hands into his pockets.

"Come on, Daly. I know you can get this done." She stepped inches away from him, nailing him with her eyes, the gun hanging from her hand. "You better do something, because I swear, I will not be going back in to do another six months. They'll have to kill me first, and you can be damn sure I'll be taking some to the devil with me as tribute."

"It might take a little while, Zee. That's not exactly a department I work with often."

"When?" she asked determinedly. Time was beginning to take on a new meaning for her. A premonition that she had precious little of it left and that she had wasted too much, haunted her, leaving the urgency to salvage every priceless waking moment.

"I'm not sure. It could be a few weeks, maybe a month or--"

"Do it."

"I can't guarantee anything."

"Neither can I. When it's done...send me an email." Magali stepped back, crossing her arms at her chest, the gun resting against her forearm. "You're dismissed, Daly. Callie, get this sonofabitch out of my sight."

Noiselessly, Callie emerged from her hiding place on a lower step of the staircase, the assault rifle still in her hands she pointed with it for him to follow. Grudgingly he took his leave, shooting Magali a secret look just in time to see her step falter a fraction of an inch. He was tempted to give her a hand.

The energy it had taken to become the menacing figure of Bajo Zero bled her of her strength, and Magali sank back onto the soft surface of the bed's mattress. Pulling the corner of the sheet to cover her pelvis and, hanging her hands between her legs, she contemplated her fingers, the raised veins in her wrists, the marks along her forearm, the dark weapon she held. Over a decade spent in the shadows, running, looking over her shoulder, laying waste to all and everything that crossed her path, gave her a manner of existence and an instinct for survival that was barbaric and ruthless in nature. Yet when death came knocking, she had fought it with tooth and nail, all for a smile and a love she deemed herself undeserving of.

"What ya thinking about?"

Snapped away from her thoughts by Callie's mildly concerned voice, she stuffed the weapon she was holding back under the pillow and shook her head. "Nothin'"

Callie nodded once and pursed her lips in disbelief; experience told her Zero was most dangerous when she was silent. "Eddie just pulled up. He needs to talk to you about somethin'."

"Send him up then."

"Ummm...you're type naked, Zee. He could have a heart attack," she chuckled lightly.

Magali took in her form. She was a sight, and it dawned on her that she hadn't thought of her nakedness when she had negotiated with Daly. The numbness was growing. Without Casey's presence, what little of her humanity there was left, was diminishing.

"Have anything that'll fit me?"

"Are you kiddin'? Naw, but I did get you something the other day when I went out for food. It's in the closet, I'll wait downstairs."

It amazed her that the young woman could pick out her size with the ease of a professional tailor. The loose fitting khakis were the perfect length; the pair of boots conformed flawlessly to her feet and the pack of fresh A-shirts were just the right size, snug yet supple; the Hawaiian shirt soft against her skin; she didn't bother to button it. With her mind on her Saint and the imminent troubles of life as a fugitive, the screaming protest of her body against any movement was a mere whisper. She washed her face at the bathroom sink, pushed back her hair with wet hands, and took one last look into her own dead eyes. Her demons lurked just under the ice blue coloring of slave trading ancestors, who raped and conquered for a share of wealth not given to those born second; not much had changed in the last few hundred years.

Eddie was playing a video game on the immense screen of Callie's entertainment system. The gleam from his freshly shaven head was almost comical with its red glow from hours in the sun. His goatee and mustache were trimmed into thin delicate lines around his mouth and chin; Mariana took great care of him. He growled when a zombie emerged unexpectedly from behind a column and began eating the brains of his character. "End of game flashed" in dripping blood letters across the screen. On the coffee table next to Eddie's riding helmet were her holster and gun, and the antler-handled knife she carried in her boot. They spelled disaster.

"What's up, Eddie?" she asked, her eyes darting to the weapons on the table.

He looked away from the TV, the grimace on his face becoming a gentle smile at his sighting of Magali. "I thought you would want these," he replied, pointing at the tools of her trade. "I had Nelson sneak into your place and get them." He shrugged. "Just came to ask your permission to take your nurse here on a ride."

Callie sat on an arm of the sofa, her arms crossed. "Think you can take care of yourself for a little while, Zee?" she asked with a smirk. The multi-colored leather of her riding pants crunched as she moved.

"You're a real comedian, Callie. Don't quit your day job, alright? There's work?"

Eddie nodded. "Nothing we can't take care of, Zee. Little snot nose motherfucker downtown thinks his balls grew. Word I got was he was makin' moves to take over a block. He keeps tellin' people you're dead."

Magali's eyes closed briefly as she gave a short nod of understanding, her lips tightening into a sneer. "He's mine." She had been dead.

"Naw, Zee, I tol' you. We can take care of it, man." Eddie stood to take hold of her arm, conscious that her wounds were more painful and more debilitating than she would ever admit.

She pulled away from him, pulling off her shirt and grabbing the holster that waited for her hands. "Don't play daddy with me, Eddie. I've been grown for a long time. If I don't show my face, this shit is gonna keep happening."

"What about the cops, Zee?"

"They gotta catch me first," she said, smiling wickedly at Callie's parked Ninja.

Sunlight streamed in as, clanking and grinding, the garage door of the loft opened and let out two screeching sports bikes. Their bright colors distracted from the inherent darkness of the killers that rode them, their faces hidden behind the smoky shields of their full-face helmets. Callie was settled in behind Magali, her arms secure around the tall woman's waist, careful to use only the amount of pressure needed to not fall off. Against her belly she could feel the bony handle of the sheathed knife Magali wore at the small of her back; the boots she wore hadn't been high-cut enough to hold it. They crossed the Williamsburg Bridge, a pile of cobblestone and steel that connected Brooklyn to Manhattan's Alphabet City, a neighborhood that bordered Chinatown and acted as a buffer for Wu's activities. For generations it had been the first stop of immigrants entering New York City, flashing through time as a ghetto for the Irish, Germans, Italians, and finally Puerto Ricans. Unlike the rest of the island, its streets weren't named, they bore titles of letters and numbers only, hence its moniker "Alphabet City".

Summer intensified the vile smells of the street, leeching the ammonia of urine and the rot of sewage from the concrete, the heat appearing as waves off the asphalt, cars, and bricks of tenement buildings five stories high. Rats scurried and competed for garbage scraps, hydrants washed the streets with rivers of cool water, carrying debris; in the distance, sirens screamed and faded. To get out of the stifling heat and stale air of their apartments, the populace filled the sidewalk with plastic beach chairs and card tables topped with dominoes. Small children rode their cheap bicycles along the sidewalks, plastic tires streaking the concrete black.

They called him Lager because his mother would fill his baby bottle with beer to keep him quiet while she peddled her body. A thick gold chain hung from his neck and laid a crucifix heavily against his bare caramel stomach. The black Do-rag he wore shielded his shaved head from the gleaming sun, and his baggy jeans rode lightly just above his pubic area, the muscles of his waist sharp and defined. His claim to beauty was the hazel eyes with which he had been blessed; and they never stopped moving. Magali caught the dark handle of his gun protruding from his waist as she brought the bike to a stop half a block away. Eddie rode past her and parked before the stoop where Lager was casually lounging, a troop of younger boys around him. Instantly, Lager's attention was focused on him, his stance unchanging. Eddie strolled to him, a smile on his lips when he heard the lyrics playing from a boom box sitting on a step. "If you love the money then prepare to die for it, you can lay in the flames or hug the sky for it."

"What up, Lag?" Eddie droned, stepping close to him.

"Chillin', bro'. You comin' for a piece of me?" he sneered.

Eddie widened his smile, the boys that Lager had been standing with cringing away as he did. "Naw, bro'. Not me," he spat, tilting his chin. "Her."

Lager heard the snap of the gun behind him, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Innocents went running for cover.

"You ain't learn to bite before you bark, huh, hijo de puta?" Magali's voice was close to his ear, and the curse stung more than she knew: he was the son of a whore. "Face me, motherfucker."

Magali took a step back as the young man turned, keeping the gun she held close to his temple. "Heh, not too comfortable with the heat at your dome? I heard you wanna be me, you little shit. I'm a show you what it's like...It's crazy simple. Get your piece."

Shaking, Lager palmed the handle of his weapon and pulled it from his waist. His eyes-- as always-searching, a trickle of sweat falling past his lips. Magali grabbed onto his wrist, pulling his hand up towards her face and pressing the end of his gun against her own temple.

Eddie stood his ground, quickly reaching into his pocket and producing a wad of money. He held it out for all to see.

"Who shoots first?" she hissed into his face, terror flashing in his eyes. "That wad of green, goes to anyone with the balls to kill you." she announced to the crowd.

Lager's lips curled into a sneer, a brief second of deliberation that ended with six inches of steel twisting its way into his guts. Magali cut into his abdomen with a deft hand practiced in death.

A warm gush of thick red wound through her fingers, dripping off her wrist, and she shrugged. "Two hands. Game over...I win."

Lager slumped to the ground, falling first to his knees before he slid onto his side lifelessly. Another life ended with the force of her hands lay at her feet, taken without remorse or feeling, the void in her growing larger without the presence of her Saint to bring her out of the darkness. Magali wiped her blade off on his jeans and stared at the onlookers. "Anyone else think they can fill my shoes?" Blank looks greeted her question, a mix of awe and fear that she knew well. In the background the discordant sounds of sirens and traffic parting cut through her challenge. It was her cue to leave, and Callie patted her back.

They were gone before the first yellow flashes of light fought the brightness of the sun, riding through the streets with the rush of adrenaline in their veins. Through the cluttered, steady traffic they swerved, edging close to the flawless paintjobs of luxury sedans, and the rusty, exposed bumpers of old, vehicles-city veterans. Sirens approached and waned, blood pumped savagely with the exigency for survival that urges on the hunted. They turned onto the highway, speeding down its lanes, revving engines that purred with the delight of speed. A closed ramp led down to a deserted park along the river's bank; there the newly built cardboard village of the destitute hid them away. They killed the engines, and those without names fled their presence. Breathless minutes later, sirens passed, leaving them unseen and with a slight reprieve.

Magali pulled the helmet off. Once Callie swung herself off the back seat, she leaned the bike onto its kickstand. Breathing in the slightly salty air of the polluted, dark roiling waters of the river, she padded to its edge. Across the murky waters towered the sheer cliffs of New Jersey. She glanced at her hands; coagulated, black blood dried under her fingernails and stained her hands. She plunged them into the winter-cooled water and scrubbed at them with disdain. A dark stain marred the front of her shirt, and she ripped it off, throwing it into the water where it was carried off by the strong currents. The blue of the sky could do nothing to reflect off the black surface, and she knew that somewhere under the celestial canopy was Casey. Without her, she was lost; the evidence of it was floating away in a crimson tinged swirl.

"What now, Zee?" Eddie asked behind her.

"Now?" she said narrowing her eyes, gazing at the expanse of water before her. "I disappear. When things cool down, I'll be back. If you need me...email me. You and Callie take care of everything."

"And where are you gonna go?" Callie asked, kneeling by her side.

"It's better if you don't know." She continued to rinse her hands, then dried them on her pants.

"You're goin' after her...aren't you?" Callie spat.

"After who, Callie?" she questioned, standing, meeting Callie face to face.

"The blonde. What the fuck's she gonna do for you, huh?"

Magali silenced her with a look, cutting short a conversation that may otherwise have ended with more violence. "I have to get a few things, then...you're dropping me off, and that's the end of it, understand?" Callie turned from her and donned her helmet. "Eddie, it's all in your hands. I'm sorry I have to do this to you again, bro'."

Eddie smiled. "Anything for you, Zee. Don't worry about it, and...tell her I said 'what's up?" he finished with a wink.

Callie dropped her off at Broadway and 231^st under an elevated subway track. She had pocketed the roll of money she had offered for Lager's head, and now walked the avenue on a short shopping spree, spending a quarter of it and stopping at a drugstore, a clothing shop, a liquor store, and an optical before hailing a gypsy cab.

The Van Cortland Motel, at the tip of the border between Manhattan and the Bronx, was a haven for the anonymous. Its rooms could be rented by the day or by the hour, and rarely were its sheets changed, but there were fresh towels in the bathroom. Magali let the cool stream of water from the shower course down her body. The stitches in her side had begun to itch with the ferocity of healing, and the soreness in her ribs had been overridden by the flush of the day's activity. Rough tufts of carpet scraped at the soles of her feet as she walked across the room and towards the bed. She had spilled the results of her shopping on the mattress: a hair trimmer, a container of bleach, a freshly rolled ace bandage for her ribs, a comb, deodorant, shampoo, three T-shirts, jeans, and a new pair of riding boots-the ones she had worn were stained red.

She pried open the box containing the trimmer and tied the towel around her waist. Over the bathroom sink, she plugged in the trimmer, and took a long look in the mirror. Long dark strands fell to her shoulders and tickled her bare back. Magali pushed it away from her face and flicked the power switch on the trimmer to "on". It hummed in her hand as she took the first swipe through the thick locks; they fell to the floor, pooling around her feet. Half an hour later, she was sitting on the floor in front of the abused TV set of the room. White, sticky goo plastered the inches long spikes that were left. The pungent smell of the concoction made her eyes tear, and she took it as a sign that it was time to wash it all out. Suds lined the tub, and after four washings, the smell was finally gone. In the mirror, she took in her new appearance. Gone were the long dark tresses, replaced by a short blonde Caesar that sharpened her features and gave her naturally bronzed skin a darker hue. Opening the dual compartment contact case she poked out a dark brown contact. The counterfeit duskiness turned the piercing, endless blue orbs mysterious and forbidding, effectively hiding her trademark eyes. She smiled; someone describing her would be giving a depiction of anyone in a generation of thousands. Contrary to popular belief, it was easier to hide in plain sight.

Dressed, she pulled the thick curtain covering the window aside, and peered through the crack she created. Night had invaded, massacring the day's heat with a sweep of its feathered hand. She kept an eye out for anyone lounging around the parking lot or a stranger that seemed to be out of place, but aside from those stealing into rented rooms for an hour of debauchery, there was no one. She lit a cigarette and took a swig from a square bottle of tequila, remembering the song lyrics of Bon Jovi belting out "sometimes you tell a day by the bottle that you drink." It had definitely been a blue agave day.

Callie had been right, she was going after Casey, but she had no idea where the woman was, other than the city of Los Angeles. She had been there only once and knew it was too large a place for her to guess her Saint's location. Immediately she could think of three men who would know exactly where Casey was. The first of them had to be kept in the dark, the second would ask for something in return, but the third- he was fair game; and he owed her.

***************************************************************

Antonio always had trouble falling asleep. Even as a child his mind tended to wander in all directions just as he was trying to relax. He envied his sister for her uncanny knack of sleeping at the drop of a dime, no matter how tortured her sleep was afterwards. Luckily his new position with Christopher Winslow left him completely exhausted at the end of the day and, even had he wanted to, he was hard pressed to stay awake. Although he could afford not to, he preferred to stay at his father's house, and gratefully he settled onto the firmness of his bed, secure that he was well guarded. When a pillow suddenly came down on his face, smothering him, it was more shock than fear that caused him to fight. Strong hands battled him, keeping him pinned as he struggled for air.

"Say one word out of turn, Efrain, and I'll slit your throat." He heard his sister's unmistakable growl and nodded in agreement as best he could. She was standing in the shadows, making it so he could only see the outline of her silhouette. The gun in her hand was obvious.

"If I'd of known you were coming, Zee-"

"You'd have prepared an army?"

"Funny. So what brings you out from that rock you crawled under?" he dared as he sat up.

"Two things. One, you let your boss know that we're still on. I'm under some heat right now, but it'll cool off."

"Okay. And the second?"

"You know where Julia Winslow went...You're going to tell me, and then forget that you did," she threatened none too subtly.

"Why should I?"

"Efrain, no one knows I'm here, and I'm in a bad mood. How about makin' this easy, and you just tell me, then I'll be on my way; or, you can keep making stupid, snide remarks and..."

He heard the snap of the gun's chamber and stiffened. "Alright, alright. She moved to Pacific Palisades. That's all I can tell you off the top of my head. I don' t know the address by heart," he pleaded, holding his hand up as a weak shield.

"Good enough. Tomorrow night I'll call you...here. You make sure you know it all, or that insomnia of yours could get much, much worse."

Then she was gone, as she had promised, leaving nothing but the scent of his own fear to keep him company through another sleepless night.

*********************************************************

It was surprisingly cool in the garage where she stored her bike, a sleek, black Harley Davidson Night Train. She hadn't laid eyes on it since Christmas Eve, the night she and Casey had played Santa Claus to the children of the ghetto she owned. Like the Jeep, it was registered under a false name, and the extra money she'd shelled out kept its location a secret, as well as its body clean and dutifully waxed periodically. Her helmet was locked onto the front wheel with a combination U-lock, and the saddlebags, except for tools, were empty. She put her gun, and the two other T-shirts she had bought, along with an army blanket and towel she purchased last minute, into them. For the time being, it would be all she owned, along with the four hundred dollars she had commandeered from Eddie. Effortlessly she slid the key into the ignition and sat on her toy, realizing that it would be the chrome and steel horse that carried her across the country to her Saint. She would ride at night until the original thirteen colonies were far behind her, then turn ever westward into the setting sun, in search of her light.

With a powerful roar, the bike sprang to life, its growling breath echoing off the walls. The George Washington Bridge was just a few blocks away, and it would be her road out of the city and into destiny. The bike was heavier than she remembered, but she was confident that would change. Disconnecting the in-helmet speaker system and throwing the wires into a saddlebag, she pulled on the helmet. A quick flick brought down the shield. Its cushions pressed against her jaw and forehead, a security large amounts of money provided.

Luminescent, overhead lights cast a pale gleam on the black tarred surface. Harsh and cloaked in darkness, the mass of New Jersey stood as a wall at the end of the bridge. The material of her T-shirt fluttered in the wind as she crossed the divide, cooling her skin with the crisp river air. Her rosary thumped against her chest with the force of the wind. Behind her, towered millions of lighted squares, windows where someone relaxed before a TV set, worked on a computer, kissed a loved one goodnight, or ate dinner alone. A green, rectangular sign read, "Welcome to New Jersey." Its simple words eased some of the tension in her shoulders, and she exhaled, realizing that she had been holding her breath.

There was a certain degree of freedom given to a rider by the hum of an engine and the blurred pavement under the tires. Not for the first time, she was tempted never to return; it was a phenomenon that occurred whenever she left the streets and fumes that nurtured her. To abandon the streets that loved and raised her with their cruelty and blunt truths, scarring her skin, molding her spirit, freezing her heart, making her supreme ruler of an empire that thrived on blood and guts. She cursed it all for manufacturing what she was, understanding that it was an inseparable part of her being, knowing she would miss it in a few day's time. The grime and grit flowed through her veins; the pulse of the city was her own; its decay, her breath, birthplace and grave all at once. Every day in its arms threw her deeper into the abyss, to wallow in shadows that stole time away from her, forced survival the way a doomed beast fought for its life. It was an existence of hate, pain and anger without the raw sensations of unknown emotions found in a pair of emerald eyes, and gentle hands that held her for no other reason than that they wanted to.

She passed the brightly-lit tollbooths collecting the fare for crossing over into the City, and turned onto the New Jersey Turnpike headed south. A few miles later she was on I-80 headed west, mentally genuflecting into the night, out of habit.

**************************************************************

Somewhere a garden fountain trickled noisily. If she closed her eyes she could imagine hearing the whirling of the waters below the steep, rocky incline that led down to the river, sense the light touches of the streaming curtain touching her shoulders as she stood on the bedroom's balcony. Magali would be sound asleep, naked and draped with the soft sheen of her sweat, legs tangled in featherweight linens. She inhaled deeply, imagining the sweet odor of their lovemaking on her skin, the sounds of her breathing, the coiled energy of her body, the scars that told her story.

A firm hand softly rested on her shoulder with a gentle squeeze. Fingers she recognized not as her lover's, but as her captor's. A warm breeze blew, caressing her through the folds of the silk robe and camisole she wore, her legs exposed to mid-thigh. She wore no jewelry save for the leather collar at her neck with its heavy O-ring resting at the dip between her collarbones. Casey opened her eyes and banished the fantasy she had fabricated in her mind, gazing out onto the dropping walls of the canyons sheltering luxurious estates and residences. She stood on the marbled veranda that surrounded the house on three sides and overlooked the garden and pool enclosed by security, brick walls. Ionic columns cast curved shadows over the floor. In the darkness she could make out the shapes of tall palm trees, and wished for them to be pines. In the background a piano played, along with the mournful tone of Tori Amos singing. "I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets. Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets. I've been raising up my hands, drive another nail in. Just what God needs...one more victim. Why do we...crucify ourselves, every day, I crucify myself, nothing I do is good enough for you..."

Julia's arm encircled her waist from behind, and her chin rested on Casey's shoulder. A hand caressed one of her bare thighs, and she could detect the aroma of Julia's diversions heavy on her skin, the scent of gin mixed with latex and lavender oil. The lassitude of the taller woman's body told her she was too exhausted to need any further entertaining.

"Come to bed," Julia whispered into her ear. "I'm tired," she sighed and walked away, her bare feet padding across the polished wood floor.

Casey inhaled the Santa Ana gust crossing the California dust and followed quietly, stripping off the robe as she did so and laying it at the foot of the Sneem Range, hand-made, Celtic bed. Its head and foot boards were of barred steel, a gold bar curved atop each, extending from brass knobbed post to post. Although it was king sized, Julia never failed to touch her while she slept, and as soon as Casey was tucked under the sheets, she threw an arm across her belly. Casey made no move to be tender; she had no desire for it, nor had she been commanded. The hand draped over her waist sported a thin bandage covering the small wound made by the micro-surgery Julia had undergone to fix her damaged wrist. The ligaments had been torn by the force of Magali's anger; money definitely expedited recovery.

Casey turned on her side when Julia's breathing grew deep and rhythmic, and hugged the pillow under her head. She had left the balcony door open to stare out into the night. Lazy hours left her listless. Her days were spent in hours by the pool, while Julia worked. Sometimes she was summoned away from her boredom to participate in the decadent scenarios Julia performed. In a week she would start her classes at UCLA medical school, then she would have something to do other than amuse the sadistic empress. Shortly after their arrival, Julia had made a few phone calls and had her admitted to the prestigious school. The house was a veritable parade ground for influential men and women.

A lone star peeked through the pollution of the Los Angeles sky, twinkling in the unusually clear air. The night was silent, and she missed the sirens and honking horns of New York. Most of all, she longed for the sense of purpose that came from speeding in her ambulance towards a crisis, the gnawing worry in her gut that a life depended on her every move-- and the feel of her Black Velvet. She thought Magali would have come after her, would have made some sort of attempt to at least get a message through. Weeks of anxious waiting had come and gone without a sign from the dark woman, and she wondered whether there would ever be one.

Did they tell her the truth? Was she angry? Did she understand why I stopped her? Does she even know? Maybe she gave up on me...She's not the type to. Where the hell are you, Gali? I can get out of here...I can...do nothing. Not with Julia monitoring every cent I spend, every move I make. And where would I go? Back to Gali? She could hate me; she could think I sided with Julia; she could think so many things. Damn it, I should conform already; every time I try to get out of this shit, I just end up right back where I started. If I could just accept that this is my life, then maybe I wouldn't be so damned miserable all the time. Stop thinking about her, she's not coming-- she's too busy killing people and making money. That's what matters to her: her damn stubborn pride, her drugs, her money, her power...No different from Julia, so different from Julia. Please be thinking of me, Baby. Christ, why do I do this every night? she chided herself, closing her eyes and searching for sleep.

When Julia's roaming hands woke her, the room was frigid with the conditioned air blasting through the vents. The woman was a creature of habit, and every morning brought a scheduled orgasm to allow her to work without the bothersome annoyance of arousal. If she wasn't there, Casey was sure that Julia would have done the honors to herself. It was of little consequence that Casey's passivity in the ordeal wasn't submission but rather silent protest, Julia would climb over her and demand. Apparently the taller blonde was in no mood for delay, and pulled Casey's camisole up to her shoulders to reveal her tanned torso. Forcefully, Julia grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head, holding them in place with one hand while she used the other to roughly grasp her breasts and pinch her nipples. Casey gave way with an involuntary cry, and Julia straddled her thigh pushing her wetness onto the silky skin. Casey turned her face away, revealing her neck, which was immediately and painfully devoured. It was over quickly; Julia's moans grew intense, louder and then ceased in quick breaths. When Julia rose away from her, she didn't move, staying in the same position until Julia silently left the room and entered the master bathroom. After the door slammed, Casey curled on her side, biting her lip.

Julia ran the water in the upright shower booth adjacent to the old fashioned tub, and pulled a fresh towel out of the linen closet. She turned the gold trimmed handles of the sink's faucet and stared at the stream of water gushing out. Turning it back off she pounded her fist onto the marble surface around the water-filled bowl; Casey was becoming intolerable. The shock sent a tingle up to her elbow from her still healing wrist, and she scowled at it. Another reminder, as if Casey's day-long pining over the hood weren't enough. On a long, slender, alabaster pedestal sat a white princess phone, put there for convenience, and Julia stomped towards it in bare feet. She rapidly dialed a number she could have spun blindfolded. A sleepy male voice answered.

"Christopher," she crooned sweetly.

"Julia, good morning. Is that love in your voice, beautiful, or did you get my message?"

"Your message, Chris. I'm wondering what on earth you could have that would convince me to lend you the Senator's ear?"

"A tape."

"A tape? Christopher don't you have enough pictures of me to line your closet walls? Really, have you grown that lonely?" she asked, testing the water of the shower.

"It's some news footage that never aired, Julia, and I think it would be most helpful to you in your...newest dalliance."

"And what 'dalliance' would that be?"

"Come, come, love, I'm not dumb. Casey. You have her with you, I know."

"Heh. If you want to give me anything of value when it comes to my stubborn little blonde, then I suggest you bring me the head of that goon of yours," she spat, scowling and then straightening into her reserved self.

"If I'm right, you would be referring to Magali Guerrero, correct?" Her silence answered him. "This tape I have...may be a suitable substitute," he sing-songed.

"Really? She wouldn't be hanging off a cord, mutilated, would she?" Julia asked with the tone used to order an appetizer.

"Umm, no."

"Then what is it?"

"Her Jeep...in flames. I could have...just the right voice over put on it if you like. Now, when did you say the Senator would be calling?"

"Christopher? Do you practice at being such a conniving bitch?"

"Darling, careful now. Remember, we are what we eat."

Julia frowned; she had no taste for a duel of wits with Christopher so early in the morning. "Send me the tape, and you'll get your call. Toodles."

"Good morning, sunshine," she said, hanging up the phone and greeting an indifferent Casey, who grunted and grabbed a robe from a hook behind the door. Her slender form barely concealed under the string bikini she wore, Julia relished every inch of the sight when she turned and walked out of the room. "Enjoy the sun," she called after her, receiving no answer but the closing of the bedroom door.

Casey dipped her foot in the water at the edge of the Roman tiled pool as she walked along its side. It was cooling compared to the dry, hot air touching her. She untied her robe and pulled it off her shoulders, throwing it across the warm wood of her favorite lounge chair. Concha, the cook and first servant to be in the house each morning, would bring her out a plate of freshly squared pieces of fruit-- perhaps a quarter of a honeydew melon-- toast and coffee, beautifully placed on a silver tray. The sun would hang over the white gazebo's roof, then trace its customary path across the sky, bathing her with its rays and heat. Julia would yell at the chauffeur for being late, though he wouldn't be, and the immense Ford F350 with a cargo of servants in its covered bed would appear. One by one, men in dirty jeans and long sleeved plaid shirts, wearing baseball caps or straw hats, would go to work about the residence's garden. Some would return for weeks to trim and mow, dig and build, before disappearing off to another job or field to pick fruit. They were nameless, silent and smelled of hard work and earth. Casey tried not to look at them too closely; it only angered her to know that they too were being exploited for their physical capabilities. The sounds of their shoulder-hung machines disturbed the air, and Concha played classical music over the speaker system to keep their toil from spoiling the young mistress's peace. As she predicted, the day began, and with her plate of melon pieces, strawberries, orange slices and grapes, Casey imagined the warmth of the sun was her Black Velvet's stroke.

*****************************************************************

If she rode any longer, she would collapse over the tank of the bike. The day's sun had beaten down on her until she pulled off the road and cut off the sleeves of her T-shirt with the knife hidden in her boot. Sweat ran down her neck from her full-faced helmet, dampening her back. It was unwise for her to ride the major highways during the day, and although the back roads took their toll in time, they afforded her some anonymity. She followed the road, keeping her eyes on the dotted white line, trying hard not to count the blurred slashes as they passed under her. Her stomach grumbled for attention, something cold, liquid perhaps. Along the way, she passed signs with directional arrows pointing out the route to some town or another. One in particular caught her attention, Sigourney; she always did like her in Aliens.

The two-lane highway led straight into town. A few small, lonely streets branched off in different directions. They weren't the neatly patterned avenues of New York City, but she could at least identify the center of town by the small square of park and the presence of businesses surrounding it. Evening cloaked the village square with its inert stillness, and a neon sign flashed pink from a dark rectangular window, announcing the sale of Busch beer. The pub's open door let out the sounds of breaking glass and voices shouting; a man flew out and landed on his side with a grunt before picking himself up and staggering away. It seemed like her kind of place. Parked out front were two Harley Davidsons, and she slid in next to them, killing the engine and pulling off her helmet.

Inside, the lights were turned down low except for the blinding spot of white over the faded green pool table top. John Mellancamp played on the jukebox. She could make out figures sitting in the dark, their backs against the wall, and took up one of the many empty stools by the bar, grateful for the mirror that allowed a view of what was behind her. Bald and frail, the bartender eyed her while wiping down a large mug with a dirty dishtowel. She folded her hands on the counter top, and patiently waited for him to make his assessment of her. The counter was sticky.

"Whadda yer having?" he called out to her from his perch.

"Beer, whatever you got on tap. Any food here?"

He nodded, filling the same mug he had been cleaning and sliding it along the counter with a quick hand. "Burgers, fries...that's about it."

"Fries then," she replied, catching the offered mug and after draining it, slid it back down the counter to him. "Fill it back up."

"I'm supposing you have the money for it?"

She flicked a twenty-dollar bill towards him as her response, caught the second mug of beer he flung, and watched him walk away with her money towards what she assumed would be the kitchen. A commotion behind her caused her fists to clench, and she stole a look in the mirror. Leaning over a slender redhead, the man seemed to be an animated bear, pressing onto her and forcing her back onto the surface of the table. She was trying to claw away from him, pushing and punching at his chest with her small hands. Magali shrugged to herself: a hero she wasn't, but the man was annoying. His increasing demands for the redhead to surrender to his affections were becoming more than forceful. Magali wiped the sweat from the mug and took another swallow of the watered down golden fluid.

In a lucky move, the redhead squirmed out from under the bear and ran towards the bar as his chest crashed onto the edge of the pool table. He was after her before she got too far, heaving his immense bulk at her and toppling the stool next to Magali. The man's elbow nudged her as he fought to gain control over his squirming, protesting prey. She finished her beer, then tapped him on the shoulder. Turning, he scowled disdainfully at her smirk, his breath reeking of beer and cigarettes. When the empty mug came into contact with his face, it shattered, leaving only the smooth handle of it in her hand. The redhead seemed grateful. From the shadows, another equally large man approached, his sleeveless denim shirt exposing his muscled arms. Magali reached for her knife. Stabbing it into the wood of the bar counter, she crossed her arms at her chest and cocked her head.

"That guy you just clobbered is married to my cousin," he stated flatly in his deep, growling voice, pointing at the unconscious, bleeding bear.

"And?" she spat in challenge.

"And...he's an asshole. Good work."

Magali chortled and sat back down on the stool, turning her back on him, but fixing him with her eyes in the mirror, the knife still embedded in the bar's wood. The redhead swung over the counter and poured a fresh mug, placing it in front of her with a smile; she noticed with a frown the extra cleavage she was being purposely shown as the woman leaned over the counter.

"Thanks," the redhead said through her smile. "I'm Amy, that ox behind you is Carl."

"Zee."

"Zee, huh? You staying in town?"

"Depends."

"I wouldn't if I were you," the man behind her interjected hastily.

"Why not?" she asked, turning on her stool and facing him.

"Asshole there's the sheriff's son."

Magali looked down on the colossal man out cold on the floor, and cursed under her breath. "Guess not then."

"I know a place you can stay, though," he said, smiling and winking at Amy.

Magali never did get her fries, and her gut let her know it. When she opened her eyes, the first sight that greeted her were the stacked bottles emptied of beer, horizontal in her vision. A weight on her stomach told her she was not alone, and when she stuck her hands under the flimsy sheet that covered her, she found bare warm flesh. She remembered riding out into the night with Amy's arms wrapped around her waist, past farmlands and down dirt roads; Carl's bike carried a lone rider. They had arrived at what she recalled being Carl's trailer, nestled somewhere in the middle of nowhere. His wife had yelled at him, and then brought him out a bottle of Jack Daniels and a few six packs of beer. Magali could recollect sharing it all with the rowdy strangers and then passing a joint, but the rest was a fog. How she had ended up asleep on the trailer floor, with beer bottles and sofa cushions strewn about and, what was more, a naked Amy asleep on her, was a mystery.

"Up, get up, sharpshooter. Sheriff's coming!" It was Carl's voice raised in alarm, aggravating what promised to be a doozy of a hangover.

"What the-?" Amy complained, as Magali jumped to her feet.

"There's a road behind the trailer. You can get out of here, and they won't know better. Hurry, they're still a ways down the road!"

She scrambled for her boots and knife, the only things of hers she immediately recognized, and hoped the rest of her belongings were still with her bike. For all she knew, the entire evening and morning could have been set up. Once out the door, she could see the dust rising as the police car, still a dot on the horizon, made its way down the dirt road. As far as she could tell, her saddlebags had not been opened. Even if they had robbed her blind, she had no time to seek reparations; if it had all been a con, they didn't really know the can of worms they were opening, and Magali was in no rush to enlighten them, either.

"My helmet? Shit, where's my helmet?"

"Take mine! I'll find yours later!" Carl yelled from inside the trailer.

Magali flipped the German style helmet on and, without buckling the strap under her chin, brought the bike to life. Seconds later she was flying down the back road, leaving the trailer and its inhabitants to become one more mishap in a long line of errors.

Eddie could sense it rustling in the subtle breeze, lurking in the false peace of normalcy-trouble. It bided its time in the stagnant air heavy with the season's heat, trapped between the tall buildings and concrete sidewalks. The neighborhood was a dormant ember waiting for the right wind to fan it to a blaze. If he listened carefully, he could hear the anguish of the future in the echoing voices of the past.

A black, plastic shopping bag rolled down the gutter, seemingly some sort of techno creature bent on finding cover from the sweltering sun. Business was steady; there was never a lack of customers-- fresh ones replaced those that eventually melted away. He made a mantra of Magali's words as he watched them pay for their own ruin in small dosages neatly packaged in tiny bags. "They come to you, not the other way around. It's none of our business what they do wit' it. We got it, they buy it. You think Bacardi gives a shit?" Her fifteen-year-old's reasoning had quelled his guilt when he was too young to consider his customers as children. Then, they hadn't cared much about his age: he'd been fourteen, selling drugs to so-called adults.

A moving mountain of white blocked the sun, casting a merciful, temporary shade. Eddie watched it creeping slowly across the sky, its billowing companions making shapes on an endless canvas of blue. He wondered what clouds were made of, and whether they would feel as soft as they looked. If he could muster the courage, he could ask his son, Enrique. Thankfully the boy was spending his days at a private day camp, enjoying the summer as only boys could. Eddie didn't mind the frogs, sticks or collection of rocks that appeared from time to time, and though Mariana complained, he knew she was content in knowing their son was still a child. Too often, childhood was lost early, spilt over the asphalt as a sacrifice to survival. Occasionally, that fleeting time came to whisper in his ear. This was one such time, and Eddie jumped off the stoop where he had been sitting to join in the stickball game currently under heated debate.

"Stop arguin' about the score, motherfuckers. I'm taking a turn at bat," he belted, stepping out into the street and picking up the discarded broomstick.

A few of the men groaned, then slumped their shoulders in resignation and returned to their positions along the street and between parked cars. Eddie took his stance, waiting for the small blue ball they were using to play with to be pitched. The pitcher, stripped to the waist, grinned, wondering whether he would get hit or shot if he pegged Eddie with the ball. He was a large enough target. With the wind up, Eddie held his breath-- it would be embarrassing if he missed, and he wouldn't hear the end of it for days. Small and blurred, the rubber ball came flying at him, and he had just enough time to move back out of its way and swing. The pitcher's intentions were efficiently thwarted when Eddie felt the satisfying contact. He'd just made it to the piece of cardboard marking first base when the call came down the street, "Car comin'!" To his dismay, he recognized it as his own.

Mariana pulled up next to him with a mixed scowl and smile. "You haven't been home in two days, Eduardo. Why is that?"

He stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. The laughter from his playmates drew his attention momentarily, and he spat at them, then gave Mariana a sheepish look. "I had stuff to do."

"Like play stickball?" she teased with a grin, unable to help herself; he was cute when he was boyish.

"Naw," he responded, biting the inside of his cheek and sucking his teeth. "Like that." He jerked his head to direct Mariana's attention to the hunter green BMW convertible gliding down the street.

"Zee's brother," she said, pushing the dark shades she wore down the bridge of her nose.

"Yeah. Sonofabitch calls me a little while ago and says he talked to Zee, and he needs to see me. I got a bad feelin' about this, Mami."

"He's enough to give anyone bad feelings," she whispered, leaning back in her seat as Antoñio strolled from his car to hers.

He was as tall as his sister, and though his confidence was forced, he walked with the same long hard stride. The man always wore a suit, but even dressed casually, there was the air of pompousness about him, instilled by years of private schools. He took little notice of the game he was interrupting as he crossed the street, mindful that the Guerrero blood flowing in his veins was what kept him whole and alive. He smiled his deep discerning grin when he spotted Mariana, and gave her a short nod in greeting while leaning back on her hood. Eddie spat on the ground.

"What's up, bro'?" Antonio asked, disregarding Eddie's apparent hostility.

"I'm not your brother."

"You used to be, remember? When we would play...right here on this street. What happened, Eddie?" he asked, looking almost wistful.

"Cut out the sentimental crap, Efrain. Zee has more feeling in her little finger than you have in your whole fuckin' body."

"Zee," he snorted. "Yeah, enough to kill her own blood."

Abruptly throwing his larger body on Antoñio and grabbing him by the collar, Eddie's temper showed more in the sudden redness of his ears than on his face.

"I'm sick of you always pulling that shit, Efrain. Why didn't you do anything, huh? Fuckin' coward," he spat, allowing the anger in his gut release. "You're the one who ran from him, you're the one who led him up to that roof, and you're the one who got him started on that shit in the first place." Eddie sneered at Antonio's wide-eyed look, his attempt to speak, his failing to find the words or the courage he needed. "That's right, bitch. I know. You liked getting high behind your sister's back. All your little rich friends thought you were so cool, and you thought it was just so fuckin' funny to get Jorge fucked up out of his mind, right? I used to watch you, mal agradecio, selfish bastard. When you used to go out and spend money, Zee's money, on all your girlfriends. Buying them shit, having a good time; then you'd come home and talk shit about Zee. While she stayed out in the street, getting hurt, goin' without sleep, fighting so you could have that life. We swim in shit, and you bounce on diamonds! And you have the balls to lay the whole thing on her? When she was servin' time, where were you? At your prom, graduating, driving a new car. How'd you get all that? You ever take a long look into your sister's eyes, cabron?" Eddie nodded when Antoñio looked away. "Yeah, that's how...Magali died on these streets so you could live, so we could all live, so our children could have what you have-"

Mariana, who had silently been watching the scenario unfold from inside the car, covered her face. She had heard it all before, but only in bits and pieces, never strung together in the heartfelt words her husband was innocently spitting out in a moment's fury. Both he and Magali were tight lipped about almost everything. Mariana was privy only to the major mishaps and events that plagued their lives, often picking up what was emotionally left of Eddie and coddling him into sanity afterwards. The last she had heard was of Magali's recent fugitive status, which was out of the ordinary; the woman usually paid for whatever she had done, and although she hardly ever did time for anything, she had never shied away from capture. She had enough money to bribe her way out of things. Mariana could see Eddie's speech had had its desired effect-- on Antoñio, and on her as well.

Antoñio pulled Eddie's hands away from him, scowling as he did. "Who's being sentimental now, Eddie? I didn't come here to get a lecture out of you. I came here on business."

Eddie backed away from him in disgust. "You trying to put your neck in a noose? There's no 'business' between us, Efrain. Go back to your clean office, or wherever you were, and leave the real world to real hustlers."

"You don't understand. I'm here representing someone who has...an investment and a deal with Zee. I'm sure she told you before she left."

She hadn't, but he had no way to be sure Antoñio was lying, and Eddie knew enough of what Magali dealt with to be expecting a suit to appear. He just hadn't thought it would be her brother. "Come inside, we'll talk."

"No need," Antoñio replied, pulling out a small notebook and pen from his pants pocket. He scribbled something on a sheet, ripped it out and handed it to Eddie. "This number, two days."

Eddie stared at the small piece of paper in his large hand. It was more than just a couple of zeros, '750,000'. "Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what this means?"

"I really don't care. I'm just the messenger, and believe me...you wouldn't like where it came from," he said, stalking away.

Eddie crumpled the paper and threw it into a grated sewer opening then, leaning his head in through the open car window, kissed his wife. "I have to go, Mami. I'll call later, alright?" He didn't wait for her response. Trotting into the shaded lobby of a building, he was gone.

She was taking the car out of park when he appeared at her window, his scavenger-grin wide and perfect. "I'm sorry, Mari. I forgot to ask. How are the kids doing?"

"Sonofabitch, you used it against her, didn't you? That's why she took off. You've got something up your sleeve, I know you, Antoñio. I heard what you said to Eddie, you parasite. I can't believe I ever trusted you," she hissed.

"You should be more careful with your pillow-talk, Baby. Is he still afraid to fuck you the way you like it? Or, am I the only one you've given your ass to?" he teased, winking at her.

Mariana stepped on the gas and revved the engine in warning, glowering at Antoñio as she did. "You're an asshole. Get away from my car, before I do something stupid."

"Give my niece a kiss," he grinned, stepping back, then watched the car speed away, the lump in his throat vanishing at his own discharge of guilt back onto Mariana. Life was easier when you pointed fingers at others.

Mariana had seen Magali only on the rare occasions when Eddie brought her around the neighborhood, specifically-- the long stretch of concrete where the young woman was queen. She remembered her somber look that sparked with peril and warning, the posture that spoke of constant vigilance, but mostly, it was the adrenaline that rushed through her when Magali sneered that burned through her memory-- an inferno ever at the ready. From what had been her safe existence, she suddenly found herself in a world that flirted with the borders of instability. It had been what had attracted her to Eddie in the first place-- the excitement of living on the edge, the unpredictability of it all. Her love for Eddie was just that, he was a piece of her soul; but Magali was an animal of pure lust. And it had been a lust that crept through her whenever she had seen the young woman caress her Asian girlfriend. There had been urgency in that touch that was palpable, a searching hunger without contentment that drew Mariana like a moth to a flame. Her crush only deepened when the young woman was thrown into prison, and Mariana was left with her imagination and how it molded Magali into her fantasy, while Eddie tended to a business that knew no time limits or work hours.

With Magali's release from captivity, Mariana had thought Eddie would be able to spend more time with her and their family. As it turned out, his 'free' time dwindled to next to nothing, and she saw less of him. At nineteen, the mother of a four-year-old, she may as well have been a single parent. One hot night she decided to seek him out, and it was then that she had her first look at the woman that was Bajo Zero. Her physique had become a solid frame of muscle and bone, and although she carried herself with the same dignity, there was something missing. Magali radiated the deadly cold of the soulless, and it froze Mariana to the core; her infatuation turned to fear. Not once in all her life had she been attracted to a woman, and never again since then. Unthinkingly she blurted out her frustration and, magically, Eddie found time to be with her more often; Mariana suspected it was at Bajo Zero's insistence.

Years later, when she and Antoñio brushed shoulders at an academic gathering, she saw in him his potential to be what she had thought Bajo Zero had been. If nothing else, he was flesh of her flesh, and she sated her craving for Magali through him. She had never forgiven herself for it. Thinking him her social and cerebral equal, she shared with him what she could not share with her husband-- the atmosphere of the young intellectual. Antoñio read and understood Kafka. Reality came crashing through when Eddie survived yet another attempt on his life, and Antoñio, sensitive soul that he was, offered his condolences for the failure of the assassin.

Mariana turned up the radio, hoping to drown out the whispers of regret and the ache that arose from her culpability. Enrique would be getting home soon, and Alejandra waited for her at the babysitter's. Her children, as always would be her comfort. Eddie apparently had his hands full.

*************************************************************

"I still don't get it. What's the big deal, and why I got to help you wit' it? You and Zee take care of this shit; just tell me who I need to shoot," she said, flipping her honey-colored hair and throwing herself against the back of the old sofa.

Eddie was sitting at the long table surrounded by black and white notebooks and sheets of paper, the furrow in his brow showing his concern. He had all the trafficking transferred to another apartment so he could work in peace, and had then called Callie for help. She, however, wasn't providing any.

"God damn it, Callie. It's fuckin' simple; you're just being lazy. I'll explain it again," he said, stretching and standing up from the creaking wooden chair he had taken residence on. He unfolded a map of the city and laid it on the floor next to the open outline of the country, and pointed at all the red dots decorating the five boroughs.

"Alright, here we go...again. See all those dots?" he asked, and waited for Callie to respond with a nod of her head while she chewed on a fingernail. "Those are all the spots we own." He explained about the distribution centers in language she would understand. "Each one has about forty people working at it. Dealers that do the selling, runners that take the shit back and forth, baggers that mix and package the stuff, guards that watch from the roofs, and accountants that add it all up. They each get paid five hundred a week. Got it so far?" She nodded.

"Each spot has an Angel that looks over the whole operation, pays off the local rookies, pays the workers, makes sure everything gets done. He or she gets fifteen hundred a week. The spots are divided into neighborhoods. See?" he asked pointing at the black lines that crisscrossed the boroughs. Again she nodded.

"Each neighborhood has a King or Queen that supervises the Angels in their territory. Manhattan has four Kings and two Queens; the Bronx has two Kings and one Queen. Now, Brooklyn has no Angels, just four Kings who look over a spot each 'til we expand, then they get neighborhoods. Each King or Queen gets a grand for every Angel. Look, Junito has three Angels, so he gets three grand a week; Carmen, in Washington Heights, gets four." He gave her a quick glance to make sure she was paying attention.

"All the Kings and Queens of a borough report to a Bishop, New York City has two Bishops, and they get three grand per King or Queen in their borough. Carlito in the Bronx gets nine grand a week. All the Bishops report to the Cardinal, who gets forty-five hundred a week for every Bishop."

"That's you," she interjected, concentrating on the map and her fingers. "Fuck, you get paid!"

"Right, I have the city. And the Brooklyn Kings report directly to me, for now. One day, one of them will be a Bishop." He shook his head; she was going to miss the point again. "Now, look at this other map. We have fourteen Cardinals in ten states down the East Coast. They make up the council, who answer to-"

"Zee!" she shouted happily.

"Yeah...good, Callie. She's the Empress," he emphasized.

"Where'd you guys come up wit' all the names?"

"Zee was in a chess playing mode when we did this, and...fuck, Callie, don't get off the subject," he bellowed, slapping his thigh.

"Fine. Damn. It was just a question," she whined.

"For every step up, the positions pretty much do what the Angels do, but much bigger. Like, I supervise supplies, payoffs, and payments for the city. Bishops do it for their boroughs and so on and so on. Ready for the numbers?" Callie gave him a frown, but he continued; it was where he needed her help. "Each spot makes eighty thousand a week and spends thirty thousand of that on fresh supplies. Each week, the entire city makes a profit of one million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"Whoa."

"Yeah, well it doesn't stick around long. We pay our people a cool million a week, which leaves Zee with a million a month for herself. She pays three hundred and seventy five thousand dollars in local pay offs, and five hundred thousand to Moreno."

"Moreno?"

"Yeah, he's the one who keeps all the big shit from coming down. That leaves her with one million, seven hundred thousand dollars a month, from all fourteen cities."

"So?" Callie shrugged.

"Antoñio wants seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars in two days."

"Well, we got that," she replied matter-of-factly.

No we don't, 'cause Zee pays one million, five hundred thousand dollars a month out in rents, utilities, for families of people who died and for weapons! Forget about cars and motorcycles to transport all the shit, and armor for the guards, lawyers, bail-"

"Shit, take it easy. There has to be a way. Zee always comes up with extra cash, how she do it?"

"You think if I knew that I'd be sitting here with you going over this for the one hundredth fuckin' time?" He really wanted to choke her.

"I thought she tol' you everything?" she challenged, narrowing her eyes.

"Callie, she only tells me what I 'need' to know. Just like everyone else."

"But you're not like everyone else to her, and you know it."

"She thinks it keeps me safer. From what, I have no idea."

He stretched, at least she understood that they were in a bind, and moved back over to the table. There, numbers and figures, lists of pseudonyms and places stretched out for an eternity of paper. He had gone to the extent of fishing out records from years past, but they told him nothing. All the numbers were the same, year in and year out. He wasn't even sure how she afforded to spend all the money she did, and continued to search in vain for that mysterious wellspring of cash Magali seemed to always have. Not once could he remember a time when the cash wasn't available at a moment's notice. He was beginning to believe that she had some hidden around, if only he could find it.

Hours wasted away into the digits and Callie's complaints. The calculator screen was fuzzy, and the place reeked of cigarette smoke. He wanted nothing more than to retreat into the safe haven of his family's arms, his children's laughter, his wife's kisses. As much as he tried to come up with a reasonable answer to the problem at hand, he knew it would come down to a sacrifice, and a river of blood. He was looking at a catastrophe that would occur no matter which way he turned, and the choice was his to make-- who would suffer this round?

"Callie?"

She had just managed to close her eyes for a few minutes when he called her, and she rolled over onto her side to look at him. "What?"

"Give me the phone, I'm callin' the Bishops."

"You found the money?"

"Somethin' like that," he replied flatly.

Two calls-- one to the Bishops to stop all payments to the local cops, and the other to Wu for extra firearms and ammunition. He was starting a war, a small one compared to what could happen if he cut the payments to Moreno, with fewer casualties than if he cut the pay of the workers. When the deed was done, Callie's final statement tolled the death knell.

"I'm gonna have a lot of work," she spoke under her breath with a smirk.

*********************************************************

She spit in her hand and wiped the dust off the right mirror of the bike. The sun was just starting to set behind the reddish cliffs, and it glinted at her eyes from the shiny spot she had wiped clean. The gates were closed, but even if they had been wide open, she was unsure of what she would do. White walls of stone surrounded the place; only the black elaborate gate at the front welcomed any visitors, and Magali doubted she would be one of those politely allowed entry. From where she sat by the side of the road, ironically named Via de la Paz, she could see the tall, white walls of the residence, the veranda that surrounded its second level on three sides, and the beautifully arched windows sparkling in the dying light. Somewhere among its many rooms walked her Saint, exhaling air that became part of the breeze stroking her skin. At least the house matched the address Antoñio had given her the previous morning. The path of peace, and Magali wanted nothing less than a war.

Magali peeled back the wrapper of the Snickers bar she was having for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Among the many things she had discovered after leaving Iowa was the glaring absence of money in her pocket. She was down to fifty bucks and, although she could have a load of money in the blink of an eye, the new information highway made it impossible for her to have any of it sent to her safely. The transfer, she was betting, would set off alarms in every state, until it slowly tracked her and her location like a bright beacon in fog. The least annoying of her new finds was her latest decoration. Some time during that night in Sigourney, she had acquired a bright silver loop through her right eyebrow; it stung when she rode.

A strolling figure appeared around the corner of the veranda, her light blue summer dress flowing in the light wind. Tresses red in the golden light fell on tanned shoulders, slender and elegant. Even before she squinted her eyes and forced them to focus, Magali knew in her heart who it was. The walk and stance were musical notes sung in her dreams; the gestures of the hand were the pulse in her bloodstream; the manner in which the woman tilted her head in contemplation, her balm. Seconds passed before Magali realized she had been holding her breath, watching with unblinking eyes the shape and form of the woman-- near enough to call, yet an unfathomable distance away.

She dug her nails into her palm; they left imprints on her skin, but she wouldn't feel them. Magali's attentions were narrowed down to the beloved shape, the wish to feel her near and be with her-mind, body and soul.

Another end to another day, and Casey breathed in the dry heated air scented with chlorine freshly poured into the blue waters of the pool. She enjoyed walking out onto the veranda at sunset, it was around the time when all the servants left, and if Julia was away working, she could be alone for sometime. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. Julia had returned early from wherever she had gone, and the servants had been delayed in their chores tending to her. She had come in with a flourish of activity and unusual glee, announcing to all who could hear her that she was taking Casey out to dine. With the water of the shower running and the steam floating out into the bedroom, Casey had waited patiently for her but, getting bored, had decided to take her customary stroll and enjoy the low lying colors of the sun. Except for the interruption of a package delivery for Julia that she had signed for, the daylight hours had been peaceful. She had planned to give her the parcel when she returned, but Julia had headed straight for the shower, and Casey saw no urgency in giving it to her, certain it was simply another tool of the trade.

"Casey, are you ready?" Julia's voice came from the bedroom.

She didn't answer, simply walking back the way she had come, back into the bedroom, back into Julia's presence.

"A package came for you today," Casey supplied, adjusting the collar around her neck to hang comfortably.

"Did it?"

Casey nodded. "Would you like it?"

"Yes, I'll...take a look before we go."

Casey had left it in plain sight, but as always, Julia paid little heed to her surroundings, leaving Casey to procure it for her. It was a small box--Casey hadn't noticed its size before--wrapped in plain brown paper. She handed it to the taller woman and, sitting on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs, to wait once again. Julia took a look at the label and frowned while tearing the paper off.

"It's from Christopher. I wonder what that insensate clod is up to now," she muttered.

Inside the box was a small videotape, wrapped in bubble wrap and marked with a thin label lettered 'NBC Nightly.' Julia opened the cabinet where the bedroom TV was discreetly tucked away and popped the tape into the VCR, backing away from it with the remote in her hand. She positioned herself to have the joy of watching the film and seeing Casey's reaction to it. If Christopher had done as he had promised, it would be satisfying to say the least.

The screen went blue while a counter at the bottom counted off a sequence of numbers. Abruptly the view was filled with black smoke and angry flames, the picture panning out to show the wreck of a Jeep as a detached male voice narrated the goings on.

"Early today, along the Harlem River Drive, traffic was disrupted when the vehicle you see here collided with the concrete median separating the lanes of the highway, overturning and bursting into flames."

Casey felt the blood leave her face, her breathing halting and fists clenching as she recognized the Jeep.

"Authorities have divulged the identity of the driver as a Ms. Magali Guerrero..."

"...Reputed gangster and drug lord, who had recently been released after serving time on a minor charge at Bedford Hills Correctional facility."

"Traffic was at a standstill for nearly two hours after the wreckage, which left no survivors...police are investigating the scene..."

The screen went blue again as Julia shut off the "play" on the VCR. Casey was silent, eerily noiseless and paled. Her jaw was set, her features tightened, the emerald of her eyes blurred by unshed tears. Suddenly on her feet Casey dashed for the open glass doors leading out to the veranda. She needed to see the light, the last blue of the sky that mirrored her Black Velvet's eyes. It was gone: the light, the color. The infinite blue that brought Magali to her had escaped to keep her Black Velvet's soul company. She ran towards where it had been. The veranda wall stopping her flight, she bowed her head. Julia was right behind her, embracing her from behind, drawing her close and whispering inaudible words. Casey turned and struggled against the hold, but Julia wouldn't surrender, instead her restraint became stronger, steely and all encompassing as a lioness would shield her young. Casey sank into it, losing sense of herself and time as the clawing pain ripped through her. She heard the gate open and the laborer filled truck rumbling out past the gate and onto the road. A motorcycle roared by, and Casey gave in to the black that crept in on her.

Magali swung a leg over the saddle of the bike, struck at the kickstand and angrily flung the candy bar she was eating to the ground. Instinctively, her hand went to the spot where she kept her gun, but it wasn't there, she had purposely kept it in one of the saddlebags. The wind against her T-shirt would have produced an interesting bulge for any highway trooper to see. Clamping down hard enough to make her jaw ache, her fists clenched as she stomped the few steps between her bike and the gate. She touched the metal of it and pulled, the feel of the bars calling back the cold steel that had separated her from her Saint. One enraged step onto the estate would call down the minions of a burlesque justice too happy to incarcerate her again. Magali squeezed the bars in fury, the metal cutting into the palms of her hands, then swallowed it down. "Relax. Take a deep breath," Magali warned herself, trudging back to the bike and kicking the rear tire. Jumping to conclusions is what started this whole shit in the first place. Trust your instincts not your eyes. Man, isn't that what Mei always said? I can't tell from this distance what's going on, at least, not what's really going on. Fuck, but I want to rush in there and break that skinny, little neck of her; just throw Casey over my shoulder and run like hell. What's that going to solve? I could be wrong...she could...damn, there I go again. Why? Yeah, I know the answer, I've always known, and yet I still react to it. Betrayal...It's what I expect, at every turn-- that knife, that put down, that instance when someone or something reminds me of what and who I am. Have to do this right, Zee, or you could lose her forever. Has to be a way I can...What's this?

The gate swung open silently on its hidden hinges as a dark blue truck stopped behind it. The driver, in jeans and a white dress shirt, stepped out to open the back door for a thin, sun-darkened man in a straw hat. Grubby hands reached out from the covered bed of the truck to help him up, and then all disappeared into the darkness of the vehicle, shut in. Familiar with the feel of it, Magali mentally identified the scenario for what it was-human contraband. She smirked and fastened the chinstrap of the helmet, a tentative plan forming as she gunned the bike and followed the truck down the 'Path of Peace.'

Burnt orange speckles of light dotted the road, while a storm raged and tossed within her. Anger battled the calm of reason, instinctual desire wrestled foresight; despair and hope tangled and overlapped, tinged with fear, colored with experiential trauma, shaking decision and enforcing resolve-her private roller coaster. She rode its brilliant beams, sweeping curves and breathtaking falls, blindly following the truck with white knuckles gripping handlebars, careful only to maintain a discreet distance. It occurred to her that Sunset Boulevard was Los Angeles' equivalent to Broadway-- crooked, corrupted, and diversified. Eventually its name changed to Cesar Chavez Avenue, and the universal smells and sounds of street life and struggle crowded around her in a familial embrace.

She nearly missed where the truck turned, stopping under a web of suspended concrete resembling a highway pretzel. One by one, the men who had secretly ridden, stored like wares headed for market, jumped out of the truck and gathered to watch their pack-mule ride away. Parking the bike under the rough graffiti decorated walls that were the foundation of the elevated highway, Magali observed their walk. Their steps screamed of exhaustion, bodies weary with work and worry. She listened as one man wished the rest a goodnight, and another replied with " a las seis." Six in the morning, thanks bro', I'll be here, she thought. Her stomach grumbled in complaint. Without the faintest idea as to where she was, Magali decided it would be best to find a place to sleep and get some food in her. Somehow, the area felt like home, and with any luck she would find the perfect dark corner to slink into.

Casey wasn't hungry, and the rich smells of the food elegantly placed before her were causing the nauseous feeling with which she had been stricken to heighten. Julia had insisted they stick to their plans, explaining that "perhaps it will make you feel better to be out of the house." It was an elegant restaurant catering to the young affluent community of the city. Julia frequented the place enough to be known by name and table. Prudently, she addressed Casey only when necessary, avoiding conversation and allowing her distraught companion time to internalize and cope with Magali's 'death.' She hadn't thought the ploy would cause as much grief as it apparently did, and hoped that, with time, Casey would come to understand what was obvious to her-Casey's attraction to Magali was a simple matter of 'slumming.'

Julia had been present during Casey's most formative and upwardly mobile years, and why Casey would discard a stratum of society they had both sacrificed much for membership in was incomprehensible. After all, in her mind at least, Magali Guerrero's life was forfeit by her very own choices and lifestyle. If not now, eventually the woman would expire in some ditch, cell or drug den-- either by her own hand or by one of the various daggers perpetually pointed in her direction. Ultimately, she would only drag Casey down with her to wallow in the slime of society's underbelly, live long enough to destroy the opportunities Julia had meticulously laid at Casey's feet, and then in a tragic blaze of misconstrued glory- cease to be. Without question the rogue was beautiful, the romance of danger in her without equal because it was real, but it was impossible for Julia to imagine her as anything other than a brief diversion.

I'll just have to help you see that, Julia thought, lifting a wineglass to sip its burgundy liquid, dark against her skin.

Casey was pushing thin slices of yellow squash to the sides of her plate with her fork. She couldn't shake the feeling of awkwardness usually brought on by knowing something had been left behind or doubting whether an appliance was turned off before leaving the house. She wanted to dispute what her eyes had seen, but like so many of her generation, it was unimaginable to doubt what was presented visually. Film was the new religion, the new truth. Mercifully, Julia was leaving her alone with her thoughts, after trying for nearly an hour to console her. Casey hadn't heard a word she had spoken; instead, she withdrew into herself refusing to cry or speak her lament. She placed the fork down with its tines leaning on the edge of the plate and, although she hadn't eaten a scrap, dabbed the sides of her lips with the cloth napkin off her lap.

"Excuse me, Julia. I need to use the bathroom."

"The lavatory," Julia corrected, "is towards the far left corner" then lifted the wineglass to indicate the direction.

Casey straightened out the crease in her dress as she stood, and gave Julia a weak smile. Her body was only material, she refused to surrender any of her emotions to the woman. Making her way through the maze of chairs and tables, a few patrons she recognized as Julia's clients nodded or smiled a brief "hello", continuing their conversation or dinners as if a business acquaintance had walked by. She, however, knew more about them than they would ever publicly acknowledge, and it gave her a small measure of satisfaction. She realized, just then, what it was like to be Julia.

Across from the polished, wooden doors to the restrooms, a series of booth telephones lined the wall. Just as her hand touched the bathroom door, the conception of an idea changed her direction and, peering over her shoulder she lunged at one of the phones. Quickly, taking rushed, furtive looks towards the dining area, she dialed a series of numbers, whispered her name into a recording and waited.

Across the country, Jesse leapt over a pile-covered coffee table, spilling books, papers, and dumping a cold mug of coffee onto the rag area rug to reach her phone. Kristin was a pack rat, and Devi enjoyed taking tid-bits of junk mail and used books to chew and rip as entertainment. The fawn pit-bull had been out of sorts after missing her mistress for months, seeing her for a few hectic hours and then not again in weeks. Magali had vanished into the cracks, and Jesse, not knowing when or if her cousin would return had brought the animal home with her for the first time.

"Aw, shit," she hissed stubbing her toe against the leg of the futon frame. "Hello?"

"This is a collect call from-'Casey'-Will you accept the charges?" a computer voice droned in her ear, Casey's human voice snared in its electronic humming.

"Yeah, shit, yeah," Jesse rushed out.

"Your answer could not be understood. Please respond 'yes' or 'no' to the following question. This is a collect call from-'Casey'-will you accept the charges?"

"Yes," she pronounced distinctly.

"Jesse-"

"Woman, where the hell are you? Stinky butt! You up and disappear, don't know how to call anyone-Aw fuck, Devi! Don't drink that," Jesse yelled at the dog lapping at the spilt coffee.

"You have Devi?" Casey asked with a note of terror.

"Huh? Yeah, she couldn't stay alone forever...I...damn, Casey we need to talk about Zee, but this isn't something we should discuss on the phone. Where are you?" Her question was followed by a long moment of dead silence, and Jesse thought that the connection had been broken until she finally heard Casey's voice again cracking with sadness.

"Umm...it's a long story, Jesse. And...I know already...I just...God, I'm sorry...I...I have to go. I'll call again when I can," she finished and hung up the phone.

Casey hesitated for a brief second on her way into the bathroom, deliberating whether she should chance a second call. The fact that Devi was with Jesse and not at Magali's and because a face to face conversation was requested, all but confirmed to her the finality of the tragedy. Yet the feeling remained-there was a missing piece to the puzzle; and Casey couldn't decide if it was real or just a symptom of her sorrow. Devi's mistress was no more; her Black Velvet had gone to grace heaven or rule hell.

Starvation had originally started her on the path through the demon realm she now claimed as her own, but Magali had almost forgotten what it felt like to be hungry. Without narcotics to deaden the desperate, basic needs of life, nature overthrew sentiment and forced a focus transcending the desire for love or the necessity of shelter. It gnawed and ached in a way that words would fail to describe; the feeble line between beast and human became threadbare. Were she a Neanderthal, she would be off on the hunt to kill something-anything she could rip apart and consume; in the modern world that translated into the acquisition of money. Gas was expensive, and the longer she rode, the more of her measly grubstake her engine ate up.

Magali passed a pawnshop and debated whether to hock off her ring and chain that she had wrapped into the rags of a T-shirt and tucked into the bottom of her saddlebags. For now, it was one solution, and she rolled the bike back towards the curb and shut off the engine. The red neon sign glowed down on a wooden bench where a plump older woman sat wringing her hands and gazing down the boulevard. A smile wrinkled the corners of her mouth as a scrawny, dirty man meandered his tired step towards her. Magali recognized him as one of the workers who had been unloaded under the highway. He took off his straw hat and gave the woman a peck on the cheek, their dark features a reflection of each other-- round dark eyes, high cheekbones and the flattened nasal bridge of native blood. They laughed at a secret exchange of words, and then grew quiet as another figure approached with a pronounced swagger. Magali tensed; his uniform of khaki pants and white, immaculate T-shirt whose short sleeves showed off a string of gothic letters down his forearm, sent alarms screaming through her. But the older woman grinned and opened her arms, welcoming him into the warmth of her bosom and kissing his forehead. A bus rolled up and opened its doors just a few feet away from them. The older couple waved at the young man as they ascended the steps, and Magali opened her bags to fish for the tiny bundle of gold that would feed her.

As the bus pulled away, a cloud of gray exhaust surrounded her. Through it the young man looked after it as if checking whether the vehicle was safely away. She caught full sight of his face-- the thin goatee on his chin and the dark round eyes that widened further as they looked in her direction. She didn't think there was anything unusual enough about her to cause that reaction from him, and her hand, already in the saddlebag, gripped the handle of the gun she kept there. Magali heard their approach, a trample of booted feet encircling the young man before he could escape. Aggressive stances were all she needed to read what was happening, and she lifted the gun out of the bag and hid it behind her back as she walked. Technically, it was none of her business, but the image of tearstains on the cheeks of the woman she'd watched carefully enfold the young man imprinted itself on her mind. She imagined her own mother much the same way, except that the tears weren't for her, but because of her.

"Joker, you're chingao, vato. Where's your clique? None of your Camaradas got balls tonight?" one of the men dressed in all black spat. He was making sure the kid knew he was fucked.

"Que hubole, Ace? Man, I'm just passing through," Joker offered. His hands open and arms spread away from his sides, he tried to back away, coming close to another rival who stood behind him.

"My ol' lady get's nervous when you come down the block. Seme va la onda, vato. I lose it, you know?"

"Vete a la madre," Joker hissed in his last stand before accepting the beating that could most likely end his miserable life.

They were on him before he could add anything to his 'go fuck your mother' curse, and landing on the ground he was doing his best to protect his head from the blows. A sharp clap that could have been thunder, but repeated, vanquished the strikes that rained on him mercilessly. He spoke a silent prayer; then it occurred to him that they could have just shot him. But there was no pain, and he would have recognized that type of ache. Daring to raise his head, he took in what might have been the Angel of Death. She was tall, with nearly white hair that showed dark roots; her hands, strong, gripped at the collar of the man who had addressed him and pushed a gun forcefully into his mouth. The sneer on her face was terror in the flesh. She whispered something, and a wet line trickled down the man's pant leg and dripped to the ground. He could see in her eyes not only anger, but ecstasy: she was enjoying what she was doing, and that scared the hell out of him. Ace dropped to the street when she let go, his hands landing in the small lake of his own urine, and the angel laughed, her voice echoing along with the footfalls of Ace's running. Her gaze fell on Joker, freezing him to his spot.

Magali's ribs throbbed with the force she had used to lift the scamp. Still weak from her recovery and without nourishment, the action had shocked her as much as frightened everyone else. Forcing her stride to remain steady, she padded to the beaten young man, noticing upon closer inspection that he was no more than sixteen. When she extended her arm down to him, furnishing a helping hand, he flinched

"Get up, I won't hurt you," she said, as gently as she could despite the heat of wrath still burning in her.

He grabbed onto her and pulled himself up. His weight, though meager, was enough to make her wince at the soreness.

"Thanks, ruca. Estabas firme. You get down for people you don't know a lot?"

Estabas firme, standing strong? Yeah, right. "No, I don't. But I think you just cost me fuckin' dinner."

He peered over to where she was staring. The closed sign hanging on the door of the pawnshop had read open before the sudden scuffle.

"There's no food in there, camarada. And I can give you a better price for that cuete, than you can get in that shop anyway," he said, eyeing the gun in her hand.

Magali looked at the gun and then at the kid. The new slang would get some getting used to. "My piece isn't for sale. Any other shops around here?"

He shook his head. "Hijole, no way. But...if it's dinner you want, I think I can hook you up, ruca."

The way he said "ruca," a word she didn't know, reminded her of the way her boys would call their girlfriends 'girl'. "Call me ruca again, and we're gonna have problems," she growled, tucking the gun into her jeans.

"My bad, ru-ummm...what do I call you, then?"

"Maga." She gave him her hand again in introduction. Jorge, her little brother, had called her that when he was too young to mouth the syllables of her name.

"Macha?" The ringing in his ears hadn't quite cleared, but the name seemed to make sense: the woman was as strong as a man, with the balls to match. He had never seen a woman act the way she had; and making a man pee on himself, it was unheard of. "I'm Joker," he supplied, shaking her hand.

"Alright, Joker. Dinner's on you then."

"That your bike?" he asked pointing at the dusty machine.

Magali nodded and smiled, shaking her head as Joker showed his age and jumped onto the back seat of the bike.

"Come on, it's not far," he shouted jubilantly.

"Fine, but you wear this," she commanded, throwing the helmet on his lap. "And tell me where to turn before we get to a corner." He reminded her of Jorge, not his face, but the bounce of life in him before things went awry.

Boyle Heights, she was discovering, was not very different from her own neighborhood in New York, other than that there were houses instead of buildings. Metal gates and fences guarded sparse lawns littered with toys and car parts; wooden porches with peeling paint sagged and leaned; telephone poles rose from sidewalks, lining the dark skies with their cables and antennas. Joker behaved and signaled where she should turn with appropriate notice, leading them through shadows and streetlight points of brilliance. On their last turn, Magali spotted the gloomy expanse of a cemetery at night. It could serve for one night's rest, she thought.

"Right here, this house on the left," she heard Joker yell over the roar of the engine, and pulled in.

He jumped off, immediately running for a crowd of boys similarly dressed. The way his hands were moving and the manner in which he pointed at her and the bike revealed that he was spinning his tale of the night's adventure. One powerfully built youngster stepped away from the crowd and directed his gaze at Magali. He gave her a short nod she took for welcome, and then flashed her a hand sign with his fingers. She was safe. They walked over, with Joker coolly leading them.

"Macha, these are my homeboys, my camarada, my family Evergreen. This is Shorty, Azteca, Blue, Riff and Gongo."

One by one they shook hands with her, with only Gongo, the biggest, clapping her on the shoulder. He didn't wear a shirt, and tattoos adorned his chest and arms like badges won in war.

"Joker, he gets in trouble a lot. Likes pedo, all the time. You got down for him, estamos firme for you."

With Gongo's blessing given, Joker ran towards the house leaping the fence rather than going through the gate. Magali nodded at Gongo and followed Joker, opening the gate and walking through, knowing her bike would be secure where she had left it. The kid, she noticed, had an affinity for doing things his own way; he leaned in through a window off the house's porch yelling, "Martina". His baggy khakis slid down lower as he did.

It was a single floor home with wooden planks and faded paint. Its roof needed work, and the windows looked older than she was. The yard, like so many others, had its share of plastic toys strewn about, and also a tire hanging from a withered tree. Magali sat on a step. Its wood was splintered and worn, but she was glad for the rest. Days spent on the bike had put a vibration in her hands that she couldn't shake.

"I'll be right back. Chingada, this woman's deaf," Joker exaggerated and crawled in through the window.

Across the street, the boys she had met resumed their game of dice; Gongo knelt, his back arched and showing the banner across his shoulders that read 'Perdona me.' They were the same two words Magali wore over the tattooed Saint on her back, a call for forgiveness-- whether from God, mother or brother. It said that the young man had done time in prison. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket and lit it. Leaning back on the steps and taking a long pull, she stared into the night sky. Mei had always told her you got what you gave, and she wondered if she deserved the stroke of luck that seemed to be reaching for her.

"I see why they call you Macha," a sweet voice whispered behind her, jerking her away from her thoughts.

Standing in the open doorway, halfway between a warped screen and the solid door, a shapely young woman held a sleeping toddler cradled against her chest. The boy's tiny leg swung over her arm freely, and his black, thick tresses poked out onto her shoulder where his head rested peacefully. He shuddered as his skin felt the cool night air, and nestled closer to the heat of the woman's body. She shielded him with her slender hands, covering the parts of him that were naked-he was clad only in a saggy diaper. Her long black hair fell over her shoulders and tickled his face, and the boy slapped at the distraction from his slumber. She crooned at him, making clucking noises behind her full lips, and adjusted his weight as she stepped out onto the porch.

"I'm Martina, and my brother told me what you did. He shouldn't be over there, they don' t like him; but he insists on making sure our Jefita gets on the bus all right. Thank you for looking out for him."

Unused to being spoken to without the specter of Bajo Zero, she remained silent at the candid speech. The word Jefita, little chief, reserved for women who were in charge and loved, stuck in the back of her throat. Callie had a way of calling Alejandra that when she thought Magali couldn't hear her, but then the connotation was different, and she suspected that the woman was referring to their mother.

"I made Joker go wash his face, he's a mess. I swear that kid wouldn't even notice if one of his arms was missing. Hey, Macha, you mute or what?"

"No." Magali croaked.

"Shhh, stop talking so much, you'll wake the baby." Martina chuckled, having a laugh at Magali's expense. "You know what? You look pretty messed up yourself. Joker said you were hungry, but you're not coming in this house with all that dirt on you."

Magali's jaw dropped as the young woman disappeared into the house, returning minutes later with a towel on one arm and the toddler in the other. "There's a hose and a tub in the back. If you go clean up, I'll bring something out for you," she said, tossing the towel at Magali and returning into the house.

After retrieving her last clean T-shirt from her saddlebags, Magali headed through the corridor--wide enough for only one car--between the house and the fence into the backyard. There were more toys and a small garage connected to the house by a sloping strip of concrete. She found the hose attached to an outside faucet protruding from the back wall of the house. Next to it was the metal tub Martina had mentioned. She stripped off the T-shirt she had worn for the past three days, its stiff material scratching her as she did, and threw it aside. Her skin felt gritty and tight, and the creases of her hands and fingernails were dark with grime. She turned the key of the faucet a few times, and waited for the jet of water to come out through the hose, aiming the stream into the tub. Inside the house a radio suddenly blared with bass and a rapid shouting lyric coated with California slang-- West Coast Rap. Martina cursed and the volume lowered.

The water spurted out hot from its time in the hose and under the sun, then cooled quickly to a temperature more tepid than cold. Magali stuck her head under the surge and over the tub, scrubbing away the dirt with her other hand. Some of the water flowed down the back and sides of her neck, and when she stood it coursed down her back in cool rivulets. She ran the stream over her arms and washed her face. It felt good to be clean, however partial it was.

"It's beautiful," Martina gasped from the back door.

Magali grabbed the towel and dried her hair with a brisk rub. She had her back turned when the woman had stepped out, and although she wore her sports bra, the tattoo of the Saint was easy to see, as was the butt of her gun at her waist.

"How long?"

"A few days, for a few hours." Magali responded noncommittally.

"I meant how long were you in?" Martina amended, tossing her a bar of soap, professionally looking the gun over. "I forgot this."

"Three years," Magali responded, nodding her head and catching the soap. "A little more here and there." She was among her own, and attempting to cover up what was obvious to them would be pointless. She used the soap to wash her hands with and dunked them into the water already in the tub.

Joker stepped out from behind Martina, the blood from his face wiped away and a fresh A-shirt hugging his torso.

"Camarada, nice letters. Sin, that your clique or something?" he asked with a quizzical expression, taking in her scars and wounds that appeared to have been recently made.

"Nah, that's just me, homie," she said to him, and pulled on her fresh T-shirt.

"Now you can eat, chola. Stay out here, it's nice out. You too Joker, I don't want Miguelito to wake up with you jumping all over the place."

Joker sneered and sighed, apparently he wasn't willing to argue with his sister. "Don't worry, Macha. She'll hook us up real nice, I saw her take out two beers from the fridge before I came out. She acts mean sometimes, but she's cool. Her ol' man's locked up, so she gets crabby and shit."

"You always talk so much, Joker?" she asked, sitting down on the concrete steps leading up to the back door. Joker joined her, lighting a cigarette.

"Yeah," he replied, offering her some of his smoke.

She shook her head and waved a hand at it. It was only a gesture of politeness, and she was expected to turn him down when he knew she had her own pack.

Joker let out a puff of smoke and flicked away the small stack of ashes on the end of the cigarette. "You're not from around here. I mean Cali. Your accent's different."

"New York. Just chillin' here for a little bit." Magali stretched, her ribs were aggravated, and she was getting a headache from the hunger.

"So, you have a place to crash?"

She shook her head, rubbing her temples and pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Martina used to live in the garage with her ol' man. Me and him put up some sheet rock and shit, turned the place into a little apartment. She moved back into the house with Miguelito when he got taken away. There's not much in there, but there's a bed. Room enough for your bike too. If you want-"

"Joker! No offense, Macha," Martina cut in, balancing two bowls in one arm and holding two bottles of beer by their necks in the other, "but we don't know you from a can of paint, and the place isn't free. Mama's been trying to rent it out for the past month-"

"But, Martina-"

"No buts, Joker, Macha saved your ass but..."

"How much?" Magali joined in.

"I don't know, that's up to the Jefita. She's gonna be pissed that Joker got in trouble again, and...you got a job?" she questioned, shoving the bowls into Magali and Joker's laps.

"No."

"Oh great, so how you going to pay for the room? Gang banging?"

Martina set the bottles down on the step and stomped into the house, leaving Joker shrugging and Magali aghast at her abrupt turn around. The bowl was warm on her lap, a steaming combination of pinto beans with chilis and yellow rice flecked with tomatoes and cilantro. Folded neatly on the side was a pile of round corn tortillas, and Magali watched as Joker tore one in half and used it to scoop out a handful of rice and beans. She copied him, stuffing her mouth with the warm combination and swallowing it down with a long swig of beer. She heard the front door open and shut and Joker wolfed down another mouthful then put the dish aside.

"Jefa's home. Let me talk to her," he said.

Joker retreated into the house, closing the back door behind him; the backyard light turned on as he did. Voices from the street floated to her, the dice game raging on, a dog barked angrily from somewhere. Another piece of tortilla and another mouthful and the bowl was clean; she finished the beer and tossed back her head, missing the weight of her mane. A square of pale light fell over her, the shadow of a woman cast in its center.

"My son says you want to rent the room. Is this true?"

In the light the woman looked older than she remembered from seeing her at the bus stop. She was plump and darker than her daughter was, with starker native features and the glow of a mother's love around her. Magali could imagine her hands carefully cutting the contents of a family dinner, or cradling her grandchild

Standing up, Magali brushed her hands off on her jeans and straightened up to her full length. "Yeah, that's true. What do you want for it?"

"Seventy-five dollars a week," the older woman voiced, putting her hands on her wide hips.

"How's forty?"

She held out her hand and Magali dug in her pocket, producing the forty dollars and placing them in her hand. "It's Wednesday, forty dollars gives you until next Monday. You go out and get a job tomorrow. Joker will be out with the key."

"Thanks, umm..."

"Concha, that's what everyone calls me," the older woman called out, waving her arm in the air and stepping through the doorway.

"Orale, she gave it to you. See? I tol' you I'd take care of it." Joker bounced on the balls of his feet as he waved the key in front of her.

"Gimme that, Joker," she laughed; he had earned his nickname well.

"Come on, I'll show you the place."

It hadn't been lived in for months; dust covered everything and a few spiders had made themselves at home in the corners of the ceiling. With Joker's help, she managed to maneuver the bike into the space through the garage door left over from its previous purpose. It took up most of the center of the room. The only furniture left was an old cast iron bed, big enough for two small people and just the right size for her alone. A cramped room holding a shower stall, sink, and toilet stood at a corner, a quarter, clear plastic door closing it off from the rest of the room. Patterned linoleum covered the floor with gray lines and swirls; one window let in the night air. Overhead, a light bulb hung suspended in midair from an electric cable, a beaded chain dangling from its socket. Concha had stopped by with a set of blue cotton sheets, quietly dropping them off and saying her good nights. Joker eventually got the hint that Magali was exhausted, and left her alone. Lying on the middle of the bed, her boots and T-shirt off, she inhaled the last of her cigarette and dropped it into an empty beer bottle by the bed. In the darkness she watched the orange ember die at the bottom of the container, as she stretched out on the bed. Lumps and dips in the mattress had no effect on her; she was grateful for the fullness of her belly and the welcoming ease promised by sleep. Her hand fell on the warm stone crucifix lying on her chest; she squeezed it in her fist and then kissed the curl between her index finger and thumb. When the day's lamp went out, supplication was a well formed habit.

**************************************************

Martina wiped her hands of soapy water on the apron draped from her neck, and sipped at her mug of coffee two hours old. With everything that had to be done in the morning, she could never seem to finish a cup in one sitting, and it vexed her to no end that her brother slept in late if he wasn't just getting in. Joker was grumbling in the bathroom, and Miguelito, as if knowing there was someone new around, banged on the back door to be let out like a well-trained puppy.

She pulled the flowered curtain of the backdoor window aside and peered towards her once-upon-a-time home. Through the haze of the mid-day sun she pictured her husband, Esteban, shirtless and perspiring as he sat on his weight bench. His homeboys joked around him as he proudly lifted their newborn son above his head, muscles rippled under the tattooed letters across his abdomen and back, and the portrait of Christ's Sacred Heart on his shoulder. He'd spend his weekend mornings pumping iron, playing with their son, and talking to his friends until noon. Then, dutifully, almost as if he were bored, he'd work on the garage or mow the lawn. For Martina those were happy times, when the world seemed to mature and move away from the reckless days of youth. It was to become an era of nostalgia to which Martina would turn to again and again, when life played its cruel games and declared 'check'.

For an hour she had tried to get Joker to rise, reminding him of the many occasions on which their mother had insisted he find work, and of the consequences if he didn't. Martina had been tempted to do the same for the 'hero of the week', sleeping soundly in the renovated garage-turned-living space. For some reason she thought it better to let the woman rest, despite Martina's certainty that her mother had issued an identical order to her the previous night. It may have been the look of utter exhaustion on her face, or the profound sorrow in the woman's eyes, that had Martina decide an extended sleep would be better in the long run. But it was well past noon, and she was beginning to suspect that all was not well.

Though they were fading, and it had been dark, Martina had spotted the small bruise-like wounds on the woman's arm; the marks confused her. She knew from experience how to identify an addict, and she could only guess the woman was in recovery, but the injuries were relatively new.

"Joker, I'll be right back," she yelled over her shoulder while opening the door and grabbing Miguelito's hand.

Promising to be the first in a series of hot days, the heat exiled every existing cloud. Holding him by one arm, she swung Miguelito down the back steps, placing him and his bare feet on the stretch of grass between the house and the garage. He was off and running the second she let go, making a beeline for the red and yellow plastic tricycle he had abandoned the day before.

Martina pulled off the apron and wadded it between two hands before tossing it in through the kitchen window; it was too close of a reminder how much her life mirrored her mother's. Mome