He laboriously rolled up one sleeve, revealing the scars of living down here. Divots of healed ulcers from skin popping, and some straight cuts over his wrists, maybe self-inflicted when he was sober. The price of hard living and infrequent access to medical or mental health care.
Not finding what he wanted on that arm, he rolled up the sleeve of the other, and I saw it. A wound dressing that was almost as grimy as he was, right in the bend of his arm. He’d punctured himself either with a dirty needle or into an unclean site, and pushed germs from the outside world inside his flesh where they could grow.
I knew from my own brother that there weren’t any safe needle exchange sites in this town. I pulled on an extra set of gloves.
Unfortunately, looking at his wound required being in breathing range of him. I tugged at the tape, which had fused with his arm hair. He grunted in pain until I managed to rip it loose. When I did, the packing at the center of the abscess popped out. It smelled worse than he did, and I was surprised there weren’t maggots inside waving hi.
“You wanted this changed?” I asked him. His whole arm was red and swollen, and I didn’t need a thermometer—I could feel his fever through my gloves. He seemed stuporific. Was this his natural state? Pickled from alcohol? Or had the infection gone to his brain? It was hard to say when you didn’t know someone’s baseline. “Hang on.”
I grabbed an entire box of alcohol wipes out of the cabinet, and started using them one by one to draw grime away from the wound, to find its margins. The surrounding area was puffy and tight, and the center gleamed with lymph and pus. Once I determined the edges of his infection—heated swollen skin down almost to his wrist and going up his upper arm, like the points of a flame—I made a face.
“You’re going to need some antibiotics.” From a hospital. I didn’t envy whoever was going to have to start his IV. He muttered something; I didn’t know if he was talking to himself or to me. “I’m gonna get the doctor, sir.”
I took a step toward the door, then turned. “Hey,” I said, and held up a hand to wave until his eyes tracked on me. He did live down here, after all. “Do you know anything about Santa Muerte?”
With his good hand, he tapped a cross over his chest. And then he passed out on me.
* * *
I stuck around to help watch him until the paramedics came. He woke up a few times and tried to get out of the room, until I redirected him. Luckily, he couldn’t talk well enough to refuse medical care. Nothing was sadder than a patient who was lucid enough to say, “Leave me alone, the liquor store closes at nine.” The paramedics navigated their gurney in through the narrow hall and out again like pros, lashing him down onto it with casual efficiency. Unsurprisingly, they already knew him by name.
Once they were done, Dr. Tovar came back from signing papers and jerked his chin at me. “Cellulitis? Good catch.”
Not really. Just looking at him, smelling him, you knew that he was going to have something. I’d bet money he was covered in MRSA. Good thing my immune system was already strong-like-bull from prior hospital time.
I couldn’t not wonder how my brother was doing. If he even knew about Mom’s cancer. If he even cared.
Frank had a mother too.
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” Dr. Tovar asked, eyeing me. He seemed concerned.
I shook my head, and caught back up with reality. “No. Just not used to working days yet is all. But I will be, by the end of this week,” I promised with a smile.
His gaze softened. Maybe he knew false bravado when he saw it. I bet he saw a lot of it down here. He exaggeratedly looked at his watch. “Why don’t you go to an early lunch then? There’s a bench in the parking lot in the back. Or you can eat inside.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded at me as he closed his office door.
* * *
I got my lunch out of the small fridge in the break room. There was no one else taking a break yet. Dr. Tovar wandered by again, called by Catrina into another one of the smaller rooms. I found the bathroom, then took myself on a repeat tour. There was one door that Catrina hadn’t opened. I tried the handle, and it gave. The men’s bathroom perhaps? Dr. Tovar was the only man I’d seen so far here. I peeked inside and saw a storage room, with a second small fridge at the back of it.
Medical fridges were different from house fridges; they were all lockable and stainless steel. I felt the weight of the keys in my pocket and fished them out, looking for the shorter ones that would fit its smaller lock.
One clicked, and I opened the door.
There were three racks with tubes in them. I reached in and picked one up. The tube had a red top, which matched its contents. I tilted it back and forth. It looked like blood to me.
“What are you looking at?” Caught, I jumped, dropping the test tube to find Catrina standing behind me.
“Nothing,” I said instinctively—even though I was. I regrouped and picked up the test tube on the ground. I held it out to her. “What are all of these for?” None of the tubes had a label.
“None of your business.” She took the tube from my hand and wedged herself beside me to replace it inside. I shuffled back out of her way while she slammed the fridge’s door and relocked it. Afterward she whirled on me. “I gave you the wrong set of keys.” She snapped her fingers and held her hand out.
There was no good reason to collect or keep label-less blood. But I’d just gotten hired. I couldn’t get fired before I managed to figure anything out. I frowned. Even if I gave her the keys back, I knew what I’d seen. Reluctantly, I dropped the key ring into her hand. “What’s all that about?”
“None of your business is what,” Catrina informed me, pocketing the keys, then glaring at me. “I don’t know why he hired you. Don’t be a brat.”
I swallowed. There was no space in this small room for me to get away from her. “I’m just asking why. It’s not like I’m going to tell anybody.”
She squinted at me, and her lips puckered thoughtfully. “I have you figured out now. You’re here because you’re a troublemaker.”
Proving myself to people today was taking an exhausting turn. This wasn’t an argument I could win—and if I was honest, she did have a point. “Obviously,” I said, and made a show of looking at my watchless wrist. “But it looks like I’m a troublemaker still on lunch break,” I said, and then I walked around her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I could only think of one reason why anyone would have unmarked labels of blood lying around—but I was biased, I had vampires on the brain. Hands clutched around my paper lunch bag, I went through the waiting room, heading outside. Maybe a walk would clear my mind.
Olympio stood there, leaning against the wall, hiding in a fractional amount of shade, still hoping to direct our clientele his grandfather’s way. After the morning I’d had, I might just help him.
“Peanut butter and jelly?” I said, offering the extra sandwich I’d brought for him.
He made a face. “I don’t need your sandwich, lady.”
“Edie,” I corrected him. I looked up and down the block. “How about a trade? A sandwich for a tour?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said. He sounded a little unsure, but now he was looking at the sandwich.
“Just a block or two?” I held it out a little closer to him.
He shrugged. “Sure,” he said, and grabbed the sandwich with practiced nonchalance from my hand.
We walked around the neighborhood. Brightly painted buildings fought with general decay. Signs were in Spanish first, and then English, if at all. Any storefront window had bars or chain link covering it, and the roads did not improve. I wondered if any public services got down here, excepting the clinic.
There were moments of hidden beauty. Old-school murals with block forms from the end of last century, and huge motifs, intentional rip-offs of traditional Mexican art. And graffiti, surprising in its vitality, bold streaks of color, with letters so distorted I could hardly read them. Olympio told me who worked where, short stories from his life. He began by not sharing too much, but when I started asking questions and seeming appreciative, he morphed into a tour guide. When we reached the end of the next block, he pulled up short.
“You see that?” He pointed at a mural with an elaborate triple cross. “That’s where Three Crosses territory begins. That’s how they mark their space.”
I had seen others behind Santa Muerte on the clinic’s wall online. “Like a warning sign?”
“Like we’d better turn back.”
I stood on the street staring at the mural for a little longer. “Those were the guys from yesterday, right?”
“Yeah. The second ones.”
“What are they fighting for?” I hadn’t seen any gold mines along our way.
“Territory.”
“Really? I heard them mention a tithe.” I thought back to the moment. It was a little blurry, seeing as I’d been afraid I was going to get shot. “Yeah—they asked for a tithe, right before Dr. Tovar told them to fuck off.”
Olympio bounced and laughed at this. “Ha!”
I furrowed my brow, trying to understand all the layers at play here. “But—I thought you didn’t like him?”
“We have different business practices. But I never said I didn’t like him,” Olympio clarified.
“What’s a gang need a tithe for, anyhow?”
“That’s just the fancy term they’re using for the bribes they’re demanding. You give them money, they protect you from themselves, and then they get to build their fancy church to Santa Muerte. Like she needs a church, or even wants one.” Olympio’s bearing was one of extreme disgust.
I tried not to tense up or show any excitement. “Who is she?”
Olympio gave me an odd look. “She’s one of us. She knows our hearts.”
Person? Saint? Spare alien from Star Trek? Whatever. If she was what the Shadows were looking for, and I could trade her in to heal my mom, I needed to see. “Can you take me to her?”