No One Lives Forever

'Let me do all the talking.' She grabbed the bag from his shoulder and put it on the floor. With her back to the clerk, she undid the top two buttons of her white blouse. After a second look, she unbuttoned a third. 'How do I look?'

Christian raised an eyebrow, his expression flat and his tone mechanical. 'Hold me back.'

With a practiced glare, Jasmine jutted her chin. 'Watch . . . and learn, grasshoppa.' Working her hips, she headed for the register, not taking her eyes off the unsuspecting rutting buck in her sights behind the counter.

'Can I help you?' A heavy Portuguese accent, but so far the guy's English was understandable.

The young man had no interest in Christian. He smiled at Jasmine with eager eyes and brilliant white teeth against dark skin. A handsome kid in a land of good-looking people. By the looks of him, Jasmine had bagged her buck without even trying. The clerk being a flagrant horn dog made it far too easy for a woman like Jasmine. Christian cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. He had the urge to confiscate the kid's man card, send him back to the factory for retooling.

The guy's badge carried his first name.

'Hector,' she began, placing the bag on the counter, 'you look like a smart guy. Help me out, will ya?' '

Heaping on the sex appeal, Jasmine leaned on the counter, making sure good old Hector got an eyeful. Christian veered left and down the nearest aisle, staying within earshot. He pretended to shop—as if he'd suddenly run out of yak fetus and chicken feet—but he kept an eye on the clerk. The guy's body language might give a clue if he lied or hid something.

Ironically, Jasmine had a real flair for bullshit and stacked it high without breaking a sweat. He found it increasingly difficult to chalk her skill up to a good thing.

'My ex-husband cheated on me. And now, when I'm trying to move on with someone new . . .' She smiled at Christian and gave a perky shrug, practically blowing him a kiss. '. . . the lying bastard is trying to ruin everything. He wants me back.'

Hector gave him a skeptical sideways glance, probably wondering why the beautiful woman hadn't traded up in the process. Unable to hide all his bruises, Christian knew what he must look like. Jasmine milked the sympathy factor, twirling a strand of hair with her finger. The guy ate it up, watching every move she made.

'Some men have no idea the best way to treat a woman.' Hector tweaked an eyebrow, making a move of his own.

Christian rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. Yep, a real horn dog.

'I thought by leaving the U.S. for a while, my ex would cool off, but he's hired a local thug to scare me,' she went on, embellishing her story. 'I don't want to report this to the police. It's a private matter. I just want it to stop.'

Hector leaned closer, more engaged by the treasures underneath the white blouse than her sob story. 'But what I can do for you . . . Miss . . . ?' The kid fished for a name, his English challenged.

'Jasmine. Please . . . call me Jasmine.' She smiled and held out her hand. He took it, holding on too long. 'First, that bastard left a calling card at my hotel room. What can you tell me about this?'

She dumped the contents of the carryon bag in front of the clerk. The black magic paraphernalia caught the guy's attention, but not half as much as the headless snake. It thumped onto the countertop. Hector gasped and jumped back. Christian knew the feeling.

Try this sucker with fangs, bro. Talk about changin' your shorts.

'This is . . . jararaca. Is deadly. Bad, very bad.' Hector pushed his back against a wall, not taking his eyes off the snake. 'You got the head? Where's the head?'

'Last night this thing came as a matched set, head and all. My ex-husband's idea of a prank.' Jasmine cocked her hip and fought back her amusement as Hector regained control of himself. 'See what I mean? The sick bastard's out of control.'

'And the rest of this?' The guy peeled himself off the wall and stepped back to the counter . . . slowly. 'What is it?'

'You tell me.'

Hector kept one eye on the dead snake like it was playing possum . . . without a head. With the other eye, he searched through the remains of the makeshift black magic altar and noticed Charboneau's voodoo pincushion.

'This you?' the guy asked with another sideways glance, noticing the family resemblance.

Guess all tourists looked alike to Hector.

'Yeah. Creepy, huh?' Christian spied a glimmer over the clerk's shoulder.

A small pinpoint of light broke through the murky shadows, coming from a peephole in a door behind the counter. Movement. Someone eclipsed a light. Given the location of the doorway and the framework of the walls, Christian assumed the really nasty stuff was under lock and key, reserved for special patrons. But someone behind the door wanted a closer look at the tourists. Most probably, the peephole had been installed for that reason.

Hector shook his head. 'I only sell this. Can't help you, but someone set the evil eye on you, man. Nasty curse.'

'The doll and the altar materials look homegrown,' Christian said, 'like someone built it from scratch. It looks different than the merchandise in your store. Can you tell me anything more about it?' Christian asked.

The clerk shrugged. 'Sorry. Maybe if you leave your number. I can reach you, have someone call. Leave this with me.'

At this point, Christian knew he had few alternatives . . . and no need for a dead snake or a voodoo doll with a used up curse on it. He nodded and handed the kid his business card, saying, 'We're staying at the Hotel Palma Dourada.'

'Nice.' Hector grinned and wrote the hotel on the back of the card. 'Anything else I do for you?'

Since Christian was on a roll, he reached into his pocket for a copy of the photo of Rodrigo Santo. 'Yeah, you ever see this guy?'

The kid took the photo and glanced down. A muscle under his eye ticked and his jaw flinched, a subtle move.

'That's the guy my ex hired to harass us.' Jasmine pointed at the photo but shot a heated glare at Christian. She looked surprised by his direct approach, especially since she was supposed to do all the talking. Maybe she hadn't seen the light flicker through the peephole behind Hector.

More under control now, the clerk pursed his lips and shook his head. 'No, man. I never see him.' He handed the photo back.

It all happened so fast. Had he imagined the kid's reaction? He pressed. 'Someone told us Bianca Salvador might know the man in this photo. Is she in?'

'No. Me, I only one here.' He smiled, cool under fire now. Apparently, lying in a second language came naturally. 'Bianca Salvador is old. She no come here . . . much. Her health no good, you know?'

'So you know all about this hinky inventory? I thought you only sold the stuff.' Christian caught a moment of hesitation in Hector. 'I mean, none of these jars are labeled. If Bianca Salvador isn't here, she must have the utmost confidence in your ability to serve her customers.'

Hector narrowed his eyes, knowing he'd been set up, but without skipping a beat, conjured up a steaming pile of horse dung. Fresh. He must have learned a thing or two from Jasmine.