El Barquero didn’t need the delay. He was already behind schedule, and the trunk of his sedan contained the contents of the burlap bags he’d taken from the two men he’d killed in the desert. With all the police around, a trunk full of narcotics made El Barquero extremely cautious about drawing unwanted attention.
On the shoulder of the road, a highway patrol officer was waving the long, slow line of traffic past the jackknifed semi. As El Barquero’s car crept alongside the patrolman, the line of traffic stopped again. Ahead, one of the emergency vehicles momentarily blocked the only open lane of traffic. El Barquero stayed calm as he looked down the line of vehicles in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the serious-looking patrolman watching him. Staring at him. Staring at his car. It wouldn’t be the first time the authorities had asked El Barquero to pull over and step out of the car for no apparent reason. Having brown skin in this part of the country seemed to be good enough reason for law enforcement to question you about anything. Usually, El Barquero played along with them. One of the many advantages of working for the cartel was a ready supply of impeccably forged documents. But he wouldn’t play along with the police today, not with what his trunk contained.
El Barquero slowly slid his hand toward the passenger seat. A thin black leather jacket rested on the seat. Beneath the jacket was his pistol. He reached under the jacket and gripped the weapon. Carefully, he moved the jacket and the pistol toward his lap. Keeping the handgun concealed, he maintained his focus down the road.
“Dammit,” El Barquero hissed under his breath as the overly interested patrolman took a step toward his car. With the traffic at a standstill, the patrolman bent over and knocked on the passenger-side window. The patrolman made a circular motion with his hand to roll the window down. Beneath the jacket in his lap, El Barquero thumbed back the hammer on his pistol as he kept his attention focused down the line of traffic. The officer knocked on the window again, harder this time. El Barquero used his free hand to slowly reach for the automatic window switch. He tightened his grip on the pistol as he finally turned to look the patrolman in his eyes. El Barquero could see his own reflection in the patrolman’s mirrored sunglasses. He prepared to roll down the window.
“I’ll kick your ass, you son of a bitch!” came a loud cry from several cars back down the line of traffic. It was followed immediately by a long, piercing blast of horn. The patrolman looked away from El Barquero and back toward the sudden commotion. The driver of a sedan was refusing to let a pickup truck cut in line. The cowboy in the truck wasn’t happy. The cowboy leaned on his horn again as he inched his truck bumper barely in front of the sedan’s. This time, the man in the sedan got on his horn.
The patrolman took one last look at El Barquero. One very, very long look before turning to walk down the line of stalled traffic to diffuse the situation between the two motorists, both still blasting their horns.
In a moment, the line of traffic began to slowly move forward. Carefully watching the highway patrolman through his rearview mirror, El Barquero gently lowered the hammer on his pistol.
Later that morning, as Avery approached his destination, he stealthily ducked between the boulevard trees that lined the neighborhood sidewalk. Looking back one last time to see if he was being followed, he made a dash for the front door. The multicolored sign out front identified the old Victorian house as The Magic Man’s Curio Shop and Bookstore.
The Magic Man was indeed a head shop, but mainly an emporium of the weird. The maroon three-story building with its rusted wrought-iron fence and quirky gothic spire could easily pass for a year-round haunted house if the tie-dyed treatments in the bay windows didn’t identify it as more of a funhouse than a lair for ghosts and ghouls.
The Magic Man was actually Ziggy, an aging hippy who never quite made it out of the sixties. He lived in the third-floor apartment and ran the two-level shop below. At least, he ran it when he remembered to unlock the front door and flip the sign to OPEN, which was only about half the time.
Avery climbed the front porch stairs, nearly tripping on the top step. Noticing the sign read CLOSED, he pounded on the heavy door.
“Ziggy, you moron!” Avery bellowed. “Wake up!” After a few minutes of banging on the door and windows and disparaging Ziggy’s name in numerous ways, Avery heard the sound of someone struggling to open a lock. Then another. Then another. After five locks and two security chains had finally been disengaged, Ziggy poked his lizard-like face out from around the half-opened door.
“Whoa, like, sorry, dude,” Ziggy stammered as he pushed the door open and flipped the sign over. “Like, what time is it, Avery?”
“Two in the afternoon. Kindly allow me in, you reptilian burnout.”
“What day is it?” Ziggy asked as Avery barged past him.
“The day before tomorrow.”
“Groovy, man,” Ziggy said as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Like, really groovy.” Ziggy scampered across the main room toward the front counter. The painfully skinny shopkeeper’s neck seemed to be losing the struggle to keep his abnormally large head upright. As he ducked behind the cash register, Ziggy chattered excitedly, “Check it out, man, check it out. I just got some really killer stuff in.” He popped back up holding up a small purple cloth bag bound at the top with twine and a mason jar of green and brown herbs. A huge grin spread across Ziggy’s face.
“Oh, please,” Avery said as he rolled his eyes. “I’m not here for your hallucinogenic poison.”
“No way, man. This is authentic Gris Gris, straight from Ghana.”
“Seriously, Ziggy, if you throw a stick in this town, you’ll hit a pot dealer. You don’t need to have it imported from West Africa.”
“It’s not weed, man. It’s, like, Gris Gris. It, like, helps draw love and, like, positive influences into your life.”
“Not interested.”
“Okay, I can dig it, man,” Ziggy said as he put the items back under the counter. “But check this out,” he said pulling out a rectangular item wrapped in white cloth. He carefully placed the item on the counter and unwrapped it. “This is so far out, man,” he said as his large eyes gleamed. “Isn’t it trippy, man?”
“It’s a Ouija board, you lunatic.”
“No way, man. It’s special. Can’t you feel the vibe? This was, like, personally owned by Elvis, man.”
“Well, you should have customers lined up around the corner for such a unique item. Have you given any thought as how to convince your clientele of its actual provenance?”
“Oh, no way, dude. I’m not selling this. This is, like, my personal bat phone to the King.”
“Well, if you get in touch with him, ask him to look around the afterworld for Richard Nixon and punch him in the liver for me.”
“No way, man. You can’t use the King for evil,” Ziggy replied in horror. “That’ll bring down some really bummer karma, man. Really bummer karma.”
“Fine, then,” Avery said as he turned and marched purposefully toward the stairs that led to the store’s book section. “I need immediate access to your stacks.”
“Cool, man, like, no problem,” said Ziggy as he placed the Ouija board beneath the counter and ran upstairs after Avery.
The rooms on the second floor of the shop contained different categories of books. Signs above the various doors listed topics such as Occult, Voodoo, Witchcraft, Spells & Magic, and Secret Societies.
“Where are your tomes on supernatural creatures?” asked Avery.