The Collection

dealing with the situa­tion, but they were all horrible, and I asked if I could talk to someone who knew more about the black arts than she did, but she would not give me any names, not even for a pair of Andrew Jacksons.

I wanted to stop by my place, pick up a few phone num­bers, some people I knew who weren't Guatemalan but might be able to tell me something about lifting curses, but Armstrong was waiting for me outside my apartment, and with typically piggish glee he told me that since I was one of the last people to see Hector alive, I was automatically a suspect in his murder. I denied everything as I desperately tried to think of who could have seen me with him, who could have ratted me out, but Armstrong motioned for me to get in the cruiser so we could go down to the station and talk.

All the way over, my stomach was tied up in knots. Not because of Hector—I was innocent, and I knew there was no way that even Armstrong could make that stick—but be­cause I needed to talk to the Big Man. He was waiting with his one arm to hear what I'd found, but I sure as hell couldn't call from a police station, and I sat in the interro­gation room as I waited for someone to talk to me, and pre­tended I was in no hurry to do anything.

An hour or so later, a smirking Armstrong joined me. He asked me a shitload of stupid questions, then leaned smugly back in his chair. 'In my estimation, you're a flight risk,' he said. 'I can keep you in custody for twenty-four without cause, and I think I'm going to do that while we sort through what you said and check out your alibis.'

He grinned at me. He knew I was innocent, but this was his idea of fun, and I made no comment and pretended as though I didn't care one way or the other as I was led to a holding cell.

I was awakened in the middle of the night by a cowed young sergeant who was accompanied by an intimidating man in a smartly fitted business suit, and I knew that the Big Man had tracked me down and had me sprung.

I was happy to be out, but I didn't like being this close to someone that powerful, and I vowed to be careful who I took on as clients in the future—no matter how interesting their cases might be.

A limo was waiting outside, and we drove in silence out to the desert.

It was late at night, but the Big Man was awake. He was also limping. It looked like he was wearing a diaper, but I saw the grimace of pain on his face as he sat down, and I knew something else had happened, something far worse than mere incontinence.

I was afraid to ask, but I had to know. 'What happened?'

'My cock,' he said, his voice barely above a mumble. 'It attacked me.'

'What?'

'I woke up, and it'd turned into a snake. It was biting my leg and whipping around and biting my stomach, and I could feel its poison spreading through me. So I ran into the kitchen and got a knife and I cut it off.'

It took a moment for that to sink in. Pressman had cut off his own penis? I imagined Maya's mother cackling to her­self as she wove that spell.

'The doctors sewed me up, but they couldn't sew it back on. It was still alive. We had to kill it.' He grimaced, using his arm to grab the side of the sofa and support himself. 'So what'd you find out?'

I told him the truth. 'Maya's dead. Her mother killed her. Now she blames you for that, too.' I motioned toward his crotch. 'So this is going to go on. You're going to be tor­tured until you die. And then she'll own you after death. She'll be able to do whatever she wants with your soul.'

'I'll kill her,' he said. 'I'll find that bitch and kill her.'

'Won't do any good. The whammy's on, and as I under­stand it, killing her won't stop it. All of the Guatemalans are terrified. She's one powerful woman.'

'So what are my options?'

I shrugged. 'Only three that I see. One: get her to stop, convince her to lift the curse, which, considering the situa­tion, I don't think is going to happen. Two: put up with this shit until you die and then go gently into her vindictive lit­tle hands ...' I trailed off.

'And three?'

I looked at him. 'You can take your own life. That will put an end to it. Her curse is meant to kill you ... eventu­ally. But if you take matters into your own hands, if you in­terrupt it and thwart her plans, all rights revert back to you.'

I was playing it cool, playing it tough, but the truth was, I was scared shitless. Not of the Big Man, not anymore, but of what I'd gotten into here, of the powers we were dealing with. I was out of my depth, but Pressman was still putting it all on my shoulders. I was supposed to be the expert, and it was a role I neither deserved nor wanted.

He was actually considering the benefits of suicide.

'So if I eat my gun—'

'No,' I said. 'It has to be stabbing or hanging.'

He slammed his hand down on the back of the couch. 'Why?' He glared at me. 'What fucking difference does that make?'

'I don't know why,' I said. 'But it does make a differ­ence. I don't make the rules, I just explain them. And for some reason, those are the only two ways that are guaran­teed to get you out from under the curse. A shooting might work, but then again, it might not. And you'll only get one chance at this, so you'd better make sure it counts.'

He shook his head, lurched away from the sofa. 'Fuck that. There's no way in hell I'm going to off myself because some little wetback bitch put her voodoo on me. I'll take my chances. I'm going to find her and get rid of her and we'll see if that works.'

That's what he said on Thursday.

On Friday, his teeth fell out.

On Saturday, he began shitting rocks.

His men did find the maid, and the cops found her later, her teeth knocked out, her arm amputated, her private parts cut open, her anus stuffed with gravel. Like Hector, she was in a Dumpster, having been left there to die, and over the next few days several other Guatemalans, who I suppose had some relationship to Maya's mother, were also found murdered.

But it didn't stop for the Big Man. His travails grew worse, and by midweek, he was able to walk only with the help of serious painkillers.

I asked around, checked my other sources, even went out to see Bookbinder, but the first facts proved true, and no one knew of a way to get around the witch's handiwork.

I stayed away, stayed home, tried to stay out of it, tried not to think about it, but finally he called me in, and I went. There was almost no trace left of that hard, confident crime lord I'd met the first day. He was broken and blubbering, drunk and wasted, and he told me that he wanted to hang himself.

Only he was too weak to do it on his own.

I told him he could have some of his men help him, but he said he didn't want them to do it and they probably wouldn't anyway. He also wanted to make sure he did everything right, that nothing went wrong.

'You're the only one who knows that shit,' he said, his voice slurred.

I nodded reluctantly.

He grabbed my shoulder. I think he wanted to make sure he had my full attention, but it seemed more as though he used me to steady himself. 'I don't want to suffer after death,' he whispered. His eyes were feverish, intense. 'And I don't want that wetback bitch to win.' His voice rose. 'Your daughter was the best fuck I ever had!' he shouted to the air. 'I took that whore the way she liked it! I gave her what she wanted! I gave her what she wanted!'

I left him in the bedroom, went out to the garage and found a rope, and set it up, throwing it over the beam, tying the knots.

He changed his mind at the last minute. A lot of people do. It's a hard way to go, a painful, ugly way, and the sec­ond he jumped off the chair, he started to claw at the rope and flail away in the air.

I thought about helping him. Part of me wanted to help him.

But I didn't.

I let him thrash about, watching him die, until he was still. I'll probably go to hell for that, but I can't seem to muster up much remorse for it. I wish I could say that I let him die for his own sake, so Maya's mother wouldn't own his soul, but the truth was that I did it because I wanted him dead. I thought we'd all be better off without him.