Page 3 of Soothsayer

Well, all right, sometimes I did know, like today, but I was hoping I could head it off at the pass before things got serious. I combed my hair back and polished the look off with a short-brimmed gray fedora, a little more battered than the rest of my suit because I liked to wear it more often, and glanced at myself in the mirror. I looked lean, sharp-featured, the kind of smooth that hid knives just beneath the surface. I looked like a predator, like a shark. I sighed and then went back downstairs to help Marisol get ready.

She was dolled up too, like a cross between a fortune teller and a flamenco dancer. Her curling hair was pulled back with a purple silk scarf; she had a peasant-style blouse on that put her cleavage on display, and her skirt was layered with row after row of colorful fabric. She jingled a little as she walked, her necklaces and bracelets announcing her like heavenly trumpeters, and she’d darkened her eyelashes and added lipstick bright enough to draw the eye instantly to her mouth. Marisol had a schtick, same as me, but damn, she looked good while she did it. Unlike me, I knew Marisol was armed with more than her jewelry. Couldn’t be too careful.

Marisol looked at me and pursed her lips. “Not the black suit?”

“You told me it makes me look like a gangster,” I said, turning on the OPEN sign and pulling up the blinds.

“It does, but this guy might respect you more if you look like that.”

“At this point, I think the respect thing is pretty much moot. If he respected my skills, he wouldn’t be coming back, yet again. This guy only respects himself.”

“But you don’t look reallyscaryin that suit either,” she said, a little disconsolately. “You look…Cillian, honestly, you look like you’re out to seduce someone.”

“Is it working?” I asked with a grin as she walked by. She smacked me on the shoulder, but she was smiling.

“Don’t even try it,cielito. I’d give you a heart attack. Besides, then your mama would kill me, and I already know that’s not how I’m going to go.” She did know that; one of the first things Marisol had asked me, years ago when I was still scared of myself and missing my mother so bad it made me sick, was her own future. If I had known then what I know now, I wouldn’t have done it, but she was kind and genuinely hopeful for something, and I gave in. I looked into Marisol’s eyes, and I saw her tangled mess of hope and fear, all wound around a boy who had just left her, who she feared would never come back, and—

Marisol was my first really good lie, the kind of lie that has so much truth in it you can barely tell it’s not what you want it to be. It was the chameleon of lies, the fucking stick insect of lies. I did what I did, and she cried and thanked me, and I still feel guilty about it, but you know…she shouldn’t have asked. Of all people, Marisol should have known better, so my guilt was tempered with a dash of anger and a sense of inevitability. She’d wanted to know, I’d told her, end of story. Just…the end, period.

“She’d be gentle,” I said instead of bringing up Marisol’s fate, straightening out one of her racks of brightly beaded kurtis. “You’d never see her coming. It would be just like falling asleep.”

“Is that how your mama takes care of her personal problems, Cillian?”

“It’s how she’d want to.” I knew that much. My mother had killed one person that I knew of, and she’d done it right in front of me. It had been anything but gentle, but she’d been desperate. That was one of the few memories of my own that occasionally gave me nightmares.

“Well, she always was—oh hey, honey.” She glanced out the front window. “Looks like he’s here. And he brought two bruisers with him. Son of abitch, I knew it. They stay outside.”

“Marisol—”

“No, they stay outside! He wants to be a big man, he can be a big man all by himself. He doesn’t get to intimidate us on my own property.” She placed herself at the front door and waited for them to arrive.

It was definitely the same guy, big and broad, deliberately bald to help disguise his receding hairline, scowling and sweating in the morning sunlight. He wore a white suit and his goons wore black, which made me really happy I’d opted for gray. Marisol was right. I probably did look like a gangster in the other one, and that wasn’t at all the point.

“Let us in,” one of the goons said to Marisol.

“Sorry, paying customers only,” she said with a bright smile, one hand drifting behind her back to the Glock I knew she had tucked in a holster at the waistband of her skirt. “That means Mr. Klinger and no one else.”

“They’ll each buy a fuckin’ trinket. Just let us in already,” Mr. Klinger snapped from his spot between the two men.

“No, sorry, I don’t allow dogs into my store.”

One of the men scowled. “Now listen here—”

“No,youlisten,” she said. “This is my store, and I can refuse entrance to whoever I think might cause trouble. If you want to argue your rights with me, there’s a cop on the corner three blocks down in an unmarked car who would probably be happy to discuss the situation with us. He’s been there ever since the dispensary next door opened, just keeping the peace, but he probably gets bored. You gonna make me call him over here? Because the cops respond real fast to trouble like screaming women and loud bangs.”

To his credit, the goon didn’t try to push the issue, just looked back at his boss. Mr. Klinger grudgingly gave in. “Get back to the car, and keep it running. I won’t be long.”

“Yes, boss.” They left, and Marisol smiled again.

“Come right in, sir.” She let him through, and when he saw me behind the glass case where the register sat, all his badly hidden anxiety came rushing to the fore.

“You.” His hands gripped the lapels of his suit so hard I was a little afraid he would rip it. “You, I need to speak to you, now. In private.”

“Just like before,” I told him. “Both times. It’s always private?Marisol’s just watching the door. She doesn’t hear anything that goes on here.” Which was a lie, of course. She heard everything, but people were easier to convince once they’d seen me in action. “Sit down, Charles.” I pointed at one of the chairs behind the register, and he almost fell into it. “Money.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and set it on the top of the case, a thousand dollars in small bills, just like before. I took the envelope and placed it inside my jacket and then sat across from him, folded my legs, and cocked my head with disappointment. “Charles, Charles…what did I tell you last time?”

“I know, but Ichangedit this time, I really did!” he insisted, sweating even though the air-conditioning was on high. “Last time you told me I hadn’t done enough, so I did this time, I swear. I took care of everything, so it has to have changed!”

“Charles.” I rolled my eyes. “When I told you that you hadn’t done enough, I meant that you couldneverdo enough. You know that, I said the first time not to fight it. You have to accept that what’s coming down on you now—that hammer’s going to fall no matter what. You can’t hide your tracks, Charles. It’s too late.”

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