Carlos

I take the bus into town and walk the last four blocks to El Perro Gordo Bar and Grill. The grill part stops serving food at nine, but the bar stays open til midnight.

Unlike a lot of places in Spring Lakes, it caters to locals rather than to tourist tastes. The fare is simple and affordable, and there are no shot glasses, fridge magnets, keychains, t-shirts, tumblers, or postcards to be had. The atmosphere is laid back, the lighting warm and relaxed, and the clientele diverse. It was a multipurpose establishment: a tired man could pop in for a drink at the end of the day and not be bothered, a horny one could get lucky and pick up a date. That's what drew me here in the first place, and how I met Alejo at the bar.

He'd taken an obvious liking to me right away, and because I'd been feeling especially lonely and dejected that night, I'd encouraged him. I hadn't meant for it to be more than casual flirtation, but pretty soon he was pouring me drinks on the house and my inhibitions were down the drain.

We ended up in the bathroom. I sucked him off. After that, things got fuzzy.

He'd brought me back to his place, and I had a vague memory of painful, unsatisfying sex. I woke up with a hangover. Then I was basically thrown out with the trash, in which I was relieved to see a used condom. I couldn't remember if I'd insisted on it, or if Alejo just wasn't stupid enough to go bareback with a stranger, but it had alleviated one fear, at least.

I hadn't expected to hear from Alejo again. That kind of guy sees guys like me as a nock on his bedpost, and nothing more, so I'd been surprised when he texted. I didn't remember giving him my number. Maybe it had been better for him than for me; maybe I'd been so out of it, I'd seemed into it; maybe he was telling the truth, and it was me that had come onto him.

Then again, maybe I'd been too drunk to give proper consent.

If any of these same thoughts have troubled Alejo, he gives no sign of it as he waves to me from behind the bar, a grin stretching his face.

I slide onto a stool at the end and he winks at me as he serves a couple of college girls, flirting shamelessly with both. They giggle and blush, clearly enjoying the attention. Alejo is a popular guy behind the bar, and I wonder which part is the lie: is it an act, or did he play both teams after all?

He saunters over, towel flung over his shoulder, and leans across the bar to tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear.

"Hello, gorgeous. Knew you'd be back for more."

Ugh. Cringe.

I plaster on a smile and nod down the bar at the college girls, who are watching us curiously. "Looks like you got your hands full already."

He laughs and winks. "Nah. I'm just in it for the tips. What can I get you?"

I'd rather not drink at all, but I don't want to rouse his suspicions, either. "How 'bout something light."

"You got it."

He pours me a lager from a tap and sets the pint glass in front of me.

"So, where you been, cabrón? What happened to the cop? He get tired of you that fast?"

I lift my glass, but only let a little past my lips. "Something like that. I heard you got picked up for questioning."

He barks a laugh. "Fuck, you know how it is. They round up the usual suspects. Guys like me are always top of that list."

Shrugging, I say, "Well, you did know Kyle."

His expression turns ugly. "Fucking Kyle. You know his girlfriend tried to set the cops on me? Stupid whore." He tilts his head to the side and cracks his neck, showing off the tattoos that stretch from collar bone to jaw. None of them mean anything to me, and they appear to have been chosen at random.

I take another sip of beer, trying to think of a way to bring up his alibi for the night of Sparks' death without being obvious.

"Did you know Kyle needed money?" I ask.

He snorts. "Who doesn't?"

"I dunno. You seem to be doing alright." My eyes go to the shiny gold watch on his wrist and I recall the flashy car he drove to Kyle's funeral.

"I made some good investments lately, is all," he says distractedly. "Hang on."

The college girls are waving for his attention and a group of men have settled at the other end of the bar. One of them looks really familiar, but I can't tell where I've seen him before. Another bar, maybe, given that Alejo switches back into flirt mode and serves up their drinks with admirable efficiency.

My phone buzzes just as he turns back to me, and I just have time to glimpse a text from John.

Hey. Where are you?

My heart skips a beat and warmth flares in my chest. Not wanting to draw Alejo's attention to it in case he gets nosy, I pocket the device without making a reply.

"Now where were we?" he asks, reaching across the bar to rub his thumb across the back of my knuckles. "You got pretty hands for such a hard-working guy, you know? Pretty mouth, too." He brushes a fleck of beer foam from my upper lip. Behind him, the college girls lean their heads together and giggle, apparently delighted to catch a glimpse of homo action in the wild.

"We were talking about Kyle's ex," I say, downing a large gulp of beer just to get him to stop touching me.

"Oh, yeah. That bitch. Guess Kyle told her some shit about me setting him up to take a fall." He snorts. "All I did was ask him to keep me out of it. He got caught, I didn't; he was fifteen, I was nineteen. He got a spate in juvie, I'd have been charged as an adult — ten years, minimum."

"You didn't promise him his share when he got out?"

Alejo laughs. "Share? Share of what? We got caught. Well, Kyle got caught. I got away empty handed."

"So, he didn't come to you asking for help?"

"Sure he did. An' I helped him out, too. Or I offered to. Little punk turned me down. Hey, why you so interested anyway?"

I give my attention to my beer again. To my surprise, the glass is almost empty. Shrugging, I sprinkle some truth in the mix of lies, hoping it will lend me some much-needed believability. "It's just, uh..." I laugh awkwardly and swirl the last bit of beer at the bottom of my glass. "I lent Kyle some money, myself. Good timing, huh? And now, well... I'm in the shit and I need a way out."

Smirking, Alejo leans across the bar, bringing his face uncomfortably close to mine. "I got a better idea. Lemme finish up here, and I'll show you what I have in mind. You in?"

"Yeah, I'm in."

"Good boy." I barely manage not to gag as he licks my mouth and kisses me. "I'll get you another drink. On the house."

~ ★ ~

I don't consider myself a stupid guy, usually. Sure, I couldn't read til I was eight, but I knew the internal combustion engine inside out by the time I was five. I'm a quick learner, and self-motivated, as proven by the fact I basically taught myself high school — enough to pass the GED and get a diploma, anyway. Toni hadn't been the most involved home-school teacher.

On the other hand, as my friends have noted in the past, sometimes it takes me too long to put two and two together.

Over the next hour, Alejo serves me two more drinks: another beer, and something he calls an ángel caido — a fallen angel. His own creation, he claims. I'm not a heavy drinker, but I'm not a lightweight, either. I've got nothing on Aunt Toni (never challenge her to tequila shots) but I can hold my own.

Two beers and a cocktail should be nothing, so it's weird that I'm reeling by the time Alejo's shift comes to an end. In fact, I feel like I did the last time he served me drinks, and as he guides me from the bar and out back to his car, something finally clicks into place.

"Fuck..." I catch myself against him as I miss the step at the door and almost fall. "The fuck was in that drink? Did you... fucking roofie me?"

Alejo laughs. "Nah, I just gave you a taste, man! A sample. Nothing to worry about."

"Did you... drug me last time, too?"

He props me against the hood of his car as he unlocks it. "Not enough for you to notice. Just enough to make you feel good."

I feel like puking but giggle drunkenly instead. "In that case, it didn't work."

Alejo scoffs. "Bitch, please. You were begging for it. And now you're back for more. But don't worry — like I said, it's just a taste. Don't freak on me like Kyle did."

"You're... dealing drugs."

I curse myself for not texting John. I knew if I did, he'd text back, and I'd get excited and distracted and blow my cover. A good bartender knows how to read people, and Alejo is good at what he does. So, I'd kept my phone in my pocket, resisting the burning urge to check my messages. I hadn't dared slip away to the bathroom, either, afraid that — given what happened last time — Alejo would take it as an invitation and follow me.

"Calm your tits, man," he says, circling around to the back of his car and popping open the trunk. "This shit isn't even illegal. Probly should be, but it's like, made from some kinda fuckin' herbs, or some shit. My cousin hooked me up with the supplier. Sells for more than cocaine, to the right buyers. C'mere."

Reluctantly, I push myself away from his car and walk towards him unsteadily. He'd parked in the alley behind the bar, and except for a row of trash cans and a few other vehicles, it's deserted. Given how low I've been scoring on the smart meter so far, I'd be only half surprised if he knocked me out and threw me in his trunk, but instead he lifts the cover off the spare wheel-well and sets it aside.

Instead of a spare tire, the space is filled with a donut-shaped container made of dense, black Styrofoam. Lifting the lid, he sets it aside, revealing hundreds of small, cylindrical glass bottles nestled in fitted depressions within the foam. He pulls one out, holding it up between his finger and thumb to show me the clear liquid within.

"It's called possession," he says. "One drop of this, and you feel good — like you do, now. Two drops and you're open to suggestion. Three, and you won't remember your own name in the morning, much less mine, and you'll do anything I say. More than that gets dangerous."

"It's a... date rape drug?" I gasp, unable to hide my disgust.

Alejo rolls his eyes and puts the vial away, re-covering the container and closing the wheel-well. "It's a party drug. I'm not responsible for how it's used."

I feel the blood literally drain from my face as something clicks into place. "If you gave someone enough of this, and told them to kill themselves, would they do it?"

Alejo laughs. "There's a sick thought. I dunno. Probably, if you did it right. It's not like it completely destroys your sense of self-preservation. But if I told you that you could fly, you'd believe me. Now, you want in, or not? I offered to cut Kyle a share, but he said he was done with 'trouble.' Wanted to 'go straight.' Look where he is now."

"You killed him?"

I back away, cursing my stupid mouth and the fact I can't seem to stop myself from saying whatever comes to mind.

"What?" Alejo gawks at me. "Fuck, no. I'm no fuckin' killer."

"Who have you sold this shit to?"

I stumble and catch myself on a trash can, knocking it over with a clatter and falling on my ass. Alejo looks down at me with a frown. "The fuck should I know? It's not like we exchange business cards. Wait a minute... Is this some under-cover shit? Are you working with that cop?"

"No, I—"

He grabs the front of my shirt, hauls me to my feet and throws me against the back of his car, leaning over with his face close to mine. "I swear to God, cabrón, if you try to fuck me over, I will fuck you up. I will make you forget your own damn name."

"Everything okay out here?"

Alejo spins at the sound of a new voice, and I lurch upright and put a few steps of distance between us. The speaker is the vaguely familiar dark-haired guy I'd seen at the bar, who seems to have just emerged from the back entrance.

"Yeah, everything's fine," Alejo says, shooting me a warning glare and brushing invisible dust from his jacket.

My would-be rescuer turns to me for confirmation, and I nod. "Yeah. Just a misunderstanding."

To my surprise, the man's eyes go wide and he points at me. "Oh, hey! It's you!"

I squint, trying to make out his features better through my somewhat swirly vision. "I don't..."

"It's Rafael — the guy who's truck almost creamed you the other day." He laughs. "You okay?"

"Oh, yeah. The landscaper, right? Yeah, I'm okay."

"Good." He grins and turns to Alejo. "Anyway, I just came out to see what was going down."

Alejo shoots me a warning glance. "How much you want this time?"

"How 'bout... six."

Alejo's brows raise and he whistles. "Fuck, man. Alright."

He checks that we're alone before opening the trunk again. As he does, more gears click into place.

Landscaper. He was on Lucille's street. Lucille could have been coerced into performing the ritual on herself while under the influence of this drug. He's buying this drug. Lucille left her house to a gardener. A landscaper is a gardener of a kind, right? Maybe she was open to suggestions about her will, too.

Fuck me. I don't know how the ritual of Feasts fits in to all this, but I need to get away and call John.

Money exchanges hands. Alejo packs the vials in a slim box, like one might use to gift jewelry, and Rafael slips it in his pocket.

I begin edging towards the door and the safety of the bar as Alejo carefully repacks his stash, leaning over the open trunk. I'm about halfway there when Rafael pulls a pistol from inside his jacket and shoots him in the back of the head.

The shot is surprisingly quiet.

Alejo slumps like a puppet with cut strings, half in the trunk of his car. Rafael rifles in his pocket and retrieves the roll of bills. 

I stand frozen in shock. Then, as Rafael straightens and turns, I bolt for the door. Somehow still alive, I reach it, grasp the handle, and pull hard.

It's locked. My blood turns to ice. I shut my eyes. 

Nothing happens.

Slowly, I turn back and find Rafael watching me. He holds the gun loose at his side.

"Locked it on my way out," he says. "I knew when you followed him you'd put it together."

"Put... what together?" My lips are numb with fear, but I force myself to speak. The longer he talks to me, the longer I live.

He smirks. "Alejo couldn't keep a secret any better than he could keep his dick in his pants. I knew he'd show you the drug and tell you how it works. You'd think of Lucille, and maybe Kyle — how he was kept alive so much longer than should have been possible. Even if you didn't, you'd tell the cop, and the cop would think of it. And then Alejo would squeal." He shakes his head. "Good thing I been keeping tabs and followed you tonight. I wasn't ready to take you yet, but I guess it can't be helped. Hope the demon doesn't mind an early supper."

"I don't... know what you're talking about," I gasp. It seems a bit dumb to pretend ignorance at this point, but I got nothing else.

"No?"

He turns at the rumble of an engine. For a moment, my heart leaps with hope as a dark, boxy van pulls across the entrance of the alleyway and stops. Then Rafael grasps my arm and presses the gun to my side, pulling me along as he walks me to the van.

The side door slides open and Rafael pushes me inside. The driver leans around her seat, and I find myself confronted by a familiar shock of purple hair above a pixie-like face.

"Rexi?" My mind swirls, and I wonder if Alejo gave me a bigger dose than he thought.

Rafael steps in and shuts the door, keeping the gun trained on me as he takes his seat. 

"You wouldn't know it, Carlos," he says, looking down at me, "but our families go way back. We got some catching up to do."

He nods at Rexi and the van lurches into motion, and carries us into the night.