Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [96]
I needed to think about something else. Humming softly to myself, in hopes of drowning out the tummy-tickling sound of Lopez using words like encantado and semana, I started poking around the plaza looking for leftover baka food or other signs that the creatures had been here. It was a big area to cover, but Lopez’s argument with his father was taking a while, so I had time to look over the whole place.
I got excited when I found some splotches of red on the paving stones—so excited that I even forgot about Don Juan for a few moments. But the color of the scattered blotches was too bright to be blood, I realized after my initial reaction. It looked more like faded red paint or chalk. There was also melted candle wax. Not far from these marks and wax droppings, there was a large blackened area with ashes around its edges.
“Ah.”
Not baka or zombies, I realized. Partiers. A bonfire, some candles, some . . . red whatever. If the group was large enough that they didn’t have to worry about being mugged by night in this isolated spot, then it was a great place for a party: a big, private, open-air plaza beneath the skeletal beauty of the old iron watchtower. And after the trees lost their leaves for the winter, there would be good views of the city by night from this spot.
But the start of autumn was still more than a month away, and the summer sun was merciless up here. I decided it was time to suggest to Lopez that we be on our way.
As I returned to his side, to my relief, he broke into English. “All right, fine. Okay. I’ll do it. Yes.” He sighed. “I just said yes, didn’t I?”
Apparently English was the language of surrender in the Lopez family. Based on what little I knew about his mother, this didn’t really surprise me.
“Two hours, start to finish,” he said firmly. “From the moment I pick her up at the station until the moment I drop her off there again. That’s all I can spare. Make sure she understands that.”
I caught his eye and pointed toward the stone steps. Lopez nodded to me and raised a finger, indicating he’d be done momentarily.
“Sí . . . Sí, entiendo.” In response to his father’s next comment, he said ironically, “De nada, papá.”
I felt my insides fluttering again. Even when being ironic, he sounded sexy in Spanish.
Oh, get a grip.
Lopez ended the call and pocketed his phone. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” I made a sympathetic face. “Parents.”
“Exactly,” he said wearily.
I decided not to mention the Spanish thing. He might not even realize that I hadn’t known he spoke the language, and I was seriously concerned that I’d turn into some sort of gushing nudnik as soon as I opened my mouth on the subject.
“My dad can be a little . . . old-fashioned about certain things,” Lopez said as he walked over to my daypack and scooped it up. “My mom complains about it, but I swear to God she encourages it.”
“Is there something wrong at home?” I asked carefully, not wanting to pry, but nonetheless curious.
“No, no. Nothing like that.” As we approached the uneven, rocky stairs, he said, “Here, you’d better take my arm.” We began descending the steps together. “When something’s actually wrong, my parents go to church. Or they retreat to their bedroom to discuss it quietly behind a closed door. Long dramatic arguments occur in our family strictly over stupid stuff.” He paused. “We have a lot of long dramatic arguments.”
Making my way carefully over a broken step with Lopez’s help, I asked, “What was this stupid stuff?”
“My mom wants to go to some fancy new store on the Upper West Side tomorrow, and my dad can’t take her, so he wants me to take her. Even though, between my actual job and the other cases I’m helping out on, whether my help is wanted or not—such as the Twenty-Fifth Precinct’s lonesome severed hand . . . I’ll probably be working fourteen hours tomorrow and don’t have time for this. But I’m the son who lives in the city, so I’m the one who has to do it.”
Wondering if I was missing something, I asked, “Is there some reason your mom can’t shop on the Upper