Although the city of Guayaquil on the western hump of Ecuador had a population of more than a million, it retained the flavor of a sleepy coastal town. Calle de Gaviotas was a street of small shops and cozy houses overlooking the Gulf of Guayaquil. The building was two stories, painted a soothing pastel pink. A new sign beside the entrance read:
SENOR FANTÁSTICO
MAESTRO DEL OCULTISMO
McAllister Fain came down the stairs to the doorway, wearing a flowered shirt and high-cut white peasant pants. He shook hands with a stout, dark-browed woman who had preceded him through the doorway.
The woman smiled at him. “You sure there will be a man? In my life? De verdad?”
“Absolutely, señora. And soon. Very soon.”
He watched the woman walk happily up the street, then turned and climbed the stairs. He walked through the small room where the tarot deck lay spread on the table and into the living quarters with the airy rattan furniture. He went out through the French window onto the pink balcony.
Jillian Pappas reached up from her chair and handed him a frosty glass decorated with a pineapple slice.
Fain took an appreciative sip. “Delicious. What is it?”
“Mostly rum. Did you have good news for Mrs. Ycaza?”
“The cards, my dear, not I.”
“Let me guess. A man is coming into her life.”
“Amazing. I might dispense with the cards and just use you.”
“Sounds like fun,” she said.
“No more pupils today?”
“Nope. The English department is closed for the weekend.”
He pulled a chair next to hers, and they sipped their drinks in comfortable silence, looking out over the water.
“It doesn’t seem as hot as when we first came,” Jillian said.
“We’ve had two months to get acclimated,” Fain said. After a moment he added, “Ever miss the old life?”
“Nope. I was kidding myself that I actually enjoyed busting my behind for some little bitty part in a bad play in a crummy theater that would go to some big-chested eighteen-year-old, anyway. Down here I feel like I’m really helping people, teaching English to the poor kids. And learning Spanish from them while I’m at it. How about you, Señor Fantástico? Do you think about what you left behind?”
“Oh, yeah, I think about it. Mostly what I left was a tangle of civil and criminal charges that would take years to straighten out even if I didn’t go to prison. I was a little crazy for a while up there, but now I finally know what I want.” He leaned over and kissed her. “And I’ve got it.”
“Did you have any doubts we’d make it that last night in Eagle’s Roost?”
“Plenty,” he admitted. “I wouldn’t want to have to do that again.”
“Amen,” she said. “What made you so sure the beef blood would work? Didn’t the formula call for human blood? Yours?”
“It’s the nature of magic, darling,” he said. “How much is real, and how much is trickery? Who knows for sure? With the alternative being a messy suicide, I figured I wouldn’t lose a whole lot by trying a variation of the Sultan’s Wine Flask.”
“It sure looked real. I didn’t even see you switch the tube from your vein to the plastic blood bag under your jacket.”
“Another basic principle of magic — misdirection. When I dropped the clamp, everybody looked down just long enough for me to make the switch and start the beef blood flowing.”
“Thank gosh it worked. I never want to do anything that icky again.”
This time Fain was the one to say, “Amen.”
There was a knock at their apartment door.
“Adelante!” Fain called from the balcony.
Mrs. Ruiz, the landlady, entered and came over to the French window. She was a stout, dignified woman in black taffeta. “There is a visitor for you. A boy.”
“I thought you had no more pupils today,” Fain said to Jillian.
“He may be new,” she said.
“I can send him away,” said the landlady.
“No,” Jillian said. “I don’t like to do that. Send him up.”
Mrs. Ruiz nodded and went back down to the foot of the stairs where the door opened onto the street. The boy waited there, bundled from head to foot despite the heat. She motioned for him to go up, then fanned the air in front of her face. It would take more than a bath, she thought, to wash away that carrion smell.
• • •
Slowly, purposefully, Miguel Ledo climbed the stairs.