Felicia Cienfuegos coughed up another scarlet gob. Its viscosity caused icey alarm to stab her brother's heart. Guillermo sat beside her bed in her only chair. The village santero had blessed her with his unique santiguo, asking for the aid of Babalu-Aye, patron of the sick. Guillermo only knew his Bible, so he prayed to Jesus.
Dim slats of sunlight, dust motes.
"Luz," he moaned, having no faith in the array of coconuts and cowry shells, candles and incense, florida water and camphor oil.
He lit a cigar. Thinking, maybe its smoke could clear her narrow room of this evil.
The Orishas made him laugh.
He bent close to his little sister and asked for the name of this man in Havana.
Pink froth escaped Felicia's lips. Barely a whisper: "Hermano Lopez."
And the Avenging Angel nodded.
*
From behind Uncle Zoot's warm eyelids came the voice, rasping like sandpaper across a windowpane. "Hermano?"
"Si. I am Hermano."
"Wake up. You son of a whore. I have something for you."
Uncle Zoot felt a profound shuddering in his soul. He complied.
Standing before him was a man pointing a greasy revolver. It was the filthy leaf raker.
"Do I know you?"
"Remember in Hell my sister Luz."
Three bullets slammed into Uncle Zoot's belly. The pain began like a cramp that precedes an explosion of diarreah.
The assassin tucked the pistol in his waistband, stooped over and hoisted the dying man to his feet. Together they staggered like drinking buddies seeking a place to piss. Arm in arm, into a thicket of pines. As soon as they were out of sight Guillermo dumped the corpse upon moist earth.
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