For (Sara) Elizabeth Barnett, without whose eleventh-hour copyedit this book wouldn't be here now.
New York might as well have been on an entirely different planet from El Paso, and as bad as life there had been there at the end, after three months here, Tomas Torres wished he was still back there.
Mamacita had moved them all up from El Paso when her cousin promised good jobs up north. They sure as hell hadn't been making it in El Paso; it had been a steady downhill drop since Papi walked out on them three years ago. Not that he'd been all that much help once he'd started drinking hard, acting out with craziness that had terrified Mamacita and infuriated Tomas, and losing the good job at the garage that he'd had since before Tomas had been born. But at least while he'd still been with them, there'd usually been a paycheck. Bills got paid. Food got put on the table. With him gone-
Mamacita had tried to get a job, any job, but in El Paso, with the Border so close, why pay benefits and decent money when you could hire los pollitos with no green card and no papers for a few dollars an hour?
Then Mama's cousin Carmelita came through with three bus tickets to New York and the promise of work. But somehow even that hadn't turned out right. There were jobs, but it was expensive to live in New York, even in El Barrio. And even though Mamacita had a degree in Education from the University of Mexico, it didn't matter. The only job she could get was as a maid, cleaning up other people's dirt. Being solamente una criada didn't pay well, either; she had to work two jobs just to pay the rent on their tiny, noisy, stinking, one-bedroom apartment. He didn't even have his own bedroom any more. He slept on a couch in the living room. And to make everything worse, he hadn't been sleeping well lately at all.
He hated the way Mamacita looked, tired all the time now. Hated that she was never home, or that when she was, she never had time for either him or Rosalita any more. All she did was work or pray. He could hear her Rosalitario beads softly clicking in the early morning hours in-between shifts, 'Lo ruego hago algo de se'-I pray he makes something of himself. He hated when she prayed for him, too. If God had been going to help them, He should have done it a long time ago.
It was the end of April, and the weather should have been nice for weeks to come-the three of them had gotten here in January, and that had been horrible; no warm clothes, and no money to buy any. But instead of spring weather, which still would have been too cold for Tomas, since summer couldn't come soon enough for him, they'd gotten an early heat wave. It suited him just fine, but everybody around here was bitching about it. The one thing he'd learned for certain about El Norte and El Manzana Grande was that nobody was ever satisfied with anything here. Only his little sister Rosalita was happy, and that was because she had the same friends she'd had back home. Of course those friends were invisible, and nobody could hear them but her, but at least his little hermana was happy. 'Lita was five years younger than Tomas was-ten to his fifteen-she'd only been seven when Papi had finally left three years ago, and really hadn't seemed to notice the drinking and the fights at all. The one thing Tomas was determined on was that 'Lita would always only see good things around her. At least she enjoyed school here, and all her teachers loved her.
That was why, though Tomas had never bothered to attend school himself once they arrived in El Norte, he walked Rosalita to her school every morning and picked her up every afternoon.
They'd stopped at the corner bodega, partly to cool off after the long hot walk back from 'Lita's school-the little corner grocery store a long block from their apartment was air-conditioned-and partly so that 'Lita could pick out a treat. He knew he shouldn't waste their food money on things like that-wasn't Mamacita working two jobs just to keep food on the table?-But he couldn't resist spoiling 'Lita every chance he got, and it was only a dollar or two. He was more than willing to skip lunch a few days a week just to see her smile.
Besides, there were other good reasons for stopping at this particular bodega.
He browsed the bakery rack as an excuse to check out the hot cholas at the magazine rack while 'Lita hung over the freezer at the front of the store. She always took forever, even though she always ended up choosing the same thing: a cherry Ice Rocket. The cholas were wearing gang colors, so he certainly wasn't stupid enough to even look at them directly, but they were certainly easy on the eyes. There were three of them, giggling over each other's shoulders and talking trash about the chicas in El Fuego magazine. One was asi, one was nice and one…oh, too bad she was chola, because Tomas had every intention of living to see sixteen. He'd gotten along fine with the clicas back home, but he'd never been crazy enough to run with any of them, and he wasn't going to make that mistake here, either. In El Paso he'd been someone to respect; he'd managed to stay out of the gangs by virtue of having a skill they all valued, because he could fix cars. The kids from the clicas would toss him a couple of Benjamins for dropping stolen superchargers in their rides, or hooking up mad wattage stereo systems in their trunks. He hooked up the veteranos and the vatos from Nuestra Familia for free, 'cause that's how you got respect Norte?o-style, but that didn't mean he wanted to join a gang-or become an ex-con-himself. For what he could do he was respected like the other vatos in the barrio, kept his clothes and his do-rags brown or gray, and nobody messed with him. But here-he didn't have jack. He was still new to the hood, just a caló speaking pachuco in most people's eyes. Before he got anywhere he'd have to get more juice. All over again.
It would help if there was money. That was another thing that had been supposed to be easy and hadn't been. He'd dropped out of school when they got here-well, not exactly 'dropped out;' Mamacita had registered Rosalita, but she'd assumed he'd register himself, and he hadn't turned in the paperwork after she signed it. It was that simple; in the eyes of the New York State Department of Education he didn't exist. He'd meant to pick up an odd job or two to help out. He could tune cars because he'd been helping Papi at the garage from the time he could walk; the one thing his father had done for him that he valued was teach him to fix cars.
But no one seemed to turn their own wrenches around here, and there weren't that many cars to begin with, maybe because there was next to no place to park. He'd quickly found out that no one but the drug-dealers were hiring, and no way was he going to work for a dealer, selling primo or chiva to some whacked out base-head. He had his suspicions that part or all of his father's craziness had been due to drugs, and he wanted no part of that.
Tomas was trying to walk a wary line here; being respected by the gangs without having to be one of them-he'd managed it in Texas, but he'd been in that barrio forever, and he was the wrench. Get into a gang and the next thing you knew, there'd be shootings, and drive-bys, and maybe Rosalita caught in the crossfire-or maybe she'd end up as one of their pets; hiding their guns and drugs, and in a few years being pressured to-
No. No way. Rosalita was gonna make it in the gringo world, and that meant Tomas had to find some slick, smart way to make a lot of money. Enough so Mamacita could stop working. Enough for Rosalita to go to college. Enough for Tomas to get his own wheels. He'd chop the top, kick up both turbos' boost, rebuild the cylinders so he could drop a hundred shot of NOS in it. He'd put in a hydraulics kit, and drop it so low-profile that it would smoke any lo-rider, a dancer, yeah. He'd build her himself, with his own two hands. He could do that.
Suddenly he was wrenched out of the happy day-dream he'd taken refuge in so often lately. The cholas were reacting to something he couldn't see; they began inching, crouched over, towards the door.
His gut screamed an alert. Where was Rosalita?
He looked around wildly and spotted her. She'd left the ice cream case and was standing by the counter, her frozen treat forgotten in her hand. There was a man standing next to her-too close.
And he had a gun.
"Hand over da cash, man!"
The harsh words made Tomas freeze, and sent the three girls scuttling out the door to freedom.
"No worries. Keep cool, man." Mr. de la Yedra was in no mood to argue with a man holding a loaded .45. Especially not one that looked as loco as this one.
Neither was Tomas-except-except that Rosalita was there, right there, next to him. Tomas wanted to run right up to him and snatch her to safety. Wanted to jump this fool, slam the guy to the ground for even being near his little hermana with a loaded gun in his hand. Rosalita seemed to be frozen there, like a scared rabbit. He felt rage, rage like he'd never felt before, boiling up inside him as the dude waved the piece in the air. His fear and anger felt like lava, burning in him, not with pain, but with power-
"That's all?" The gunman screamed as Mr. de la Yedra literally emptied the register drawer out onto the counter for him. "You get me more, you hear me? You open the safe-"
Rosalita, move! Tomas thought furiously. Stop standing there like you think he won't see you!
But Rosalita didn't move, not one inch. The invisible friends she was always talking to weren't giving her any good advice today.
"I don't have a safe, Mister," Carlos de la Yedra whispered. He was a old man, and he'd never been kind, not even to 'Lita, but Tomas felt sorry for him now. "I can't afford a safe. My wife picked up the money and took it to the bank an hour ago, that's all I have, take it-"
"Then you get that money from the bank!" the gunman shrieked at the top of his lungs. "You call that bitch wife of yours and you tell her to get that money back outta the bank right now, or-or-"
And then the unthinkable happened. The gunman reached out and snatched Rosalita by the arm. She dropped the Ice Rocket to the floor and let out a shrill scream that twisted in Tomas's gut like a knife. The man shouted something unintelligible and jammed the barrel of his gun against the side of her head, and 'Lita went instantly silent.
"You get that money or I'll-"
The rage in Tomas boiled over and something exploded deep inside. His vision washed red, and heat erupted from him like he was standing in a fire, except the fire was inside him, not outside him. There was no thinking now, only furia. He straightened out of his crouch and stepped out into the aisle.
"LET. HER. GO!" he roared.
And in an instinctive gesture, without any thought at all, he pulled back his arm as if he was pitching a rock at the gunman. He threw as hard as he could, as the startled gunman turned in Tomas's direction.
There had been nothing in his hand when he threw.
But something had left it.
A ball of fire.
The fire struck the gunman square in the face, splattering over his skin as if it were liquid and pelting the counter-top with tiny droplets of flame.
The gunman screamed like a girl and clawed at his face with both hands, hitting himself in the nose with the gun. It might have been funny under other circumstances, but Tomas was in no mood to laugh. He was already hitting him with another fireball, this time to the chest. This one clung, and the gunman's shirt began to burn.
Tomas couldn't understand it. Where was this coming from? It felt almost as if it was being pulled from inside him, from his anger, but how could that be?
Rosalita scrambled out of the way, beginning to scream again, and Mr. de la Yedra ducked under the counter. Rosalita ran toward the only safety she could see-Tomas-skidding to a halt as he threw a third fireball toward the gunman. As the third missile left his hand, Tomas felt something pulling inside his chest until the fireball separated from him and sped towards the thug. He ran forward and grabbed Rosalita in the split-second before she ran for the door by herself. For an instant, Tomas hesitated. By now the gunman was afire, and he was stumbling around the front of the store, screaming in pain and crashing into the displays of chips and candy bars. Mr. de la Yedra was still hiding behind the counter.
He's gonna catch the store on fire-
Dragging Rosalita by the arm, Tomas shoved the gunman out the door. The still-burning man stumbled across the threshold and into the street, where even the normally unflappable denizens of Spanish Harlem began shouting and screaming at the sight. Tomas didn't care. The doorway was clear, and he was the next one through it. Rosalita was screaming and fighting now, as if she was more afraid of him than she'd been of the ladron who'd held a gun to her head, but after a few steps she went as limp as an old dishrag, and he was able to pick her up and sling her over his shoulder, and run.
All the way up the hill to their apartment he could hear the horns in the street behind him-he knew, from the one glance back he'd risked, that the guy was still trying to run away. By the time Tomas reached the top of the hill, he could hear sirens as well.
***
He wrenched open the broken door to the foyer, dashed past the mailboxes and pelted up the stairs. Rosalita was getting heavier every second, but he wasn't going to stop or even slow down. He reached the fourth floor and ran down the hall, fumbling out the keys. When he got to the door he slid Rosalita down off his shoulder, then fought with his own shaking hands to get the keys into the locks and the door open. Rosalita stood beside him staring up at him with a strange, scared look on her face as he worked his way down the deadbolts to the door lock.
Finally he got the last lock open, wrenched the door itself open and dragged Rosalita inside. As he locked up again, she seemed to shake off her shock. She looked at him for a moment as if she didn't recognize him. And then she went crazy on him again. She started sobbing, and backed away down the hall, shaking her head.
It hurt. He was her hermano, wasn't he? He'd rescued her, hadn't he? Just because he was throwing fireballs at a guy didn't make him a monster, did it?
Did it?
Doubt made him angry, and he lunged for her, grabbing her shoulders and shaking instead of comforting her like he might have before this all happened. Like he always had in the past whenever something went wrong.
"Dammit, Rosalita, stop that! Stop that right now!" Her sobs turned to outright wailing and he shook her harder. "You listen to me! ?Oye! You didn't see nothin', you hear? ?No vea nada! We got to the bodega, the guy was already in there rippin' the place off, and we ran! You hear? You understand? You can't tell nobody about this, never, no way!"
"Mama-" she whimpered, looking up at him. He hated to see the fear in her eyes, but he was frightened too.
"?Especialmente no madre!" He didn't even want to think about what Mamacita would do if she heard about this. She was funny about stuff like that. Anything with even a hint of brujeria, and she just went off. Maybe it was because of the way Papi had gotten before he disappeared. Even 'Lita didn't talk to her invisible friends around Mama. Not any more.
Tomas couldn't really remember when 'Lita had first come up with them. It wasn't cool for boys to pay attention to what girls did, especially baby sisters. He'd always thought that 'Lita was talking to her dolls. Back when there'd been money-back in the good times-her room had been filled with them. There'd been one of them, a bride doll, almost as big as she'd been. She'd only been four then.
And one day-he'd been ten, and 'Lita had been five, and Papi had just started drinking, and Tomas had still been young enough, and stupid enough, to think things were going to get better and they'd all go back to being the way they were-he'd come home from school to find 'Lita sobbing in her room and the whole house and yard filled with the stench of burning plastic. Mamacita had taken all her dolls-every one, even the bride doll-and burned them in the incinerator in the back yard. She'd slapped Tomas when he'd asked why, and Mamacita never hit him.
After that, there'd been very little money to spend on luxuries like toys.
"Nothin' to Mamacita or anyone else. Aye nada."
Rosalita choked down her sobs and nodded silently, face tear-streaked.
"Now go clean up. I fix us some cereal or rice or something." There wasn't a lot left in the kitchen, but it was going to have to do until Mamacita came home with another check. At least they'd gotten home safely.
He turned Rosalita around and gave her a little shove towards the bathroom.
"Get cleaned up, mija. I fix something to eat."
Food would take her mind off what had happened. For that matter, food would take his mind off what had happened. Whatever it was, it had to have been some fluke, some freaky thing, and it would never happen again….
But what about tomorrow? Tomorrow he'd have to walk past that corner again, and right down that street. What if someone recognized him?
The fear was fading, and Tomas smirked. Mr. de la Yedra had never wanted to know him before, when Tomas had suggested he could work at his store as a way to earn some extra money. He wouldn't want to know him now. And he'd been hiding behind the counter the whole time. What was he going to say? "This gato fresco showed up in my store and saved me from a malandrín by throwing fireballs?"
If Tomas couldn't believe it-and he'd done it-why would someone else? He'd come up with another explanation-a cigarette lighter or something. People's memories were funny that way. They tended to forget things they didn't want to know about.
***
It was two days later.
Tomas sat on the fire escape outside the living room window. Even now, the neighborhood was noisy; cars, music, people on the street. Nobody looked up, though, so he had his privacy, and behind him, the apartment was dark and quiet. It was nearly midnight. Mamacita had gotten home about half an hour ago; in six hours she'd have to get up to catch the bus for work. This was no way to live.
At least nobody had noticed what he'd done. Just as he'd thought. There hadn't even been a story about it in El Diario.
He made himself as comfortable as he could on the rusting metal and made the little flame move from one fingertip to the next and back again, like someone flipping a coin across the backs of his fingers. It was like the flame of a cigarette lighter-pale orange and steady-except it came from his skin, and it didn't burn.
He stared at it, fascinated. Each night he waited until Mamacita and Rosalita were in bed before trying anything. Each night he promised himself that tonight would be the last time, but it never was. The fire was too much fun to play with. Too…seductive. It just felt…right, somehow.
What had happened to him in the bodega hadn't been a fluke, nor a freak thing. A few minutes later when he'd gone to turn on the stove to make some rice, the pilot light had blown out, and instead of reaching for the box of matches as he usually did, he had unthinkingly pointed his finger at the burner. It had lit with a tiny whoosh. Thank God Rosalita hadn't seen it.
So now…here he was. Playing with fire.
It was ridiculously easy, actually. All he had to do was get mad. Annoyed for little stuff like lighting the burner. Hard, raging angry for the fireballs. He'd fire-balled some rats down in the basement yesterday just to prove to himself he could do it again.
Now he made the little flame dance over the tips of his fingers and wondered what had happened to him to turn him into a fenómeno-a freak-like this. And what the hell he was supposed to do with it?
It wasn't like he wanted to be a superhero. That was for comic books and movies. And he couldn't see just telling people he could do this. Either they wouldn't believe him-and lock him up for being crazy-or they would believe him, and then he'd probably be arrested or dissected or something. And then what would happen to his family?
This power was his. So couldn't there be some way for him to use it to help Mamacita and Rosalita? Only he couldn't figure out what it was. Being able to set things on fire just didn't seem very useful.
New movement in the street below caught his attention, and what was moving down there did more than catch it.
A man was staring up at the fire escape, watching him.
It was a dark man, in a dark, perfectly tailored suit. And even from where Tomas sat, he could feel the chill coming off the man, the sense that he would pop a cap in your head with one hand while eating lunch with the other if that was what he'd been ordered to do.
This was so not good.
The man crooked a finger at him, and pointed to his own feet. You. Down here.
Trying not to think about what this meant, Tomas nodded, and waved, and ducked back in through the window. Moving as silently as he could-though he knew that nothing would disturb either his sister or his mother-he slipped through the rooms and made his way down to the street.
The man was even bigger close up, and he hadn't looked small from the fire escape. Still without saying a word, he pointed to a car parked on the other side of the street. A black Lincoln Town Car. Boring, but very expensive.
This was definitely not good.
He made his way to the car, and as he approached, the rear window rolled silently down.
He couldn't see inside. The interior was entirely in shadow and the passenger a mere silhouette.
A soft voice drifted out of the interior. "Tomas Torres."
His mouth felt very dry. "Si," he replied, then added, "Se?or."
"Little incident at the store down the street two days ago," the voice persisted. "Thief routed. Muy Bueno. I would hate for the gentleman who owns the place to fall behind on his payments."
Ah. Now Tomas knew who he was talking to. Tiburon Prestamo, the padrone. Everyone had heard of him. If you had a problem, Se?or Prestamo could solve it for you. But his help came at a price.
A high price.
"So I understand you have a way with fire." A pause. "What interests me is that the policia couldn't find a trace of what actually caused the fire. Very interesting, that. You know what that means?"
The shadowy figure leaned forward; Tomas caught a whiff of expensive cologne, saw a gleam of silver hair in the street lights. He shook his head.
"Come on, you look like a bright boy. Without having a cause for a fire, they can't say it was arson, can they?"
Tomas shook his head again.
"Now, I could use someone like you," the padrone said, settling back in his seat. "Sometimes people are reluctant to pay what they owe. Now normally, I would ask someone like Jorge over there to pay them a visit and reason with them."
Tomas glanced aside at 'Jorge' and repressed a shudder.
"But it would please me to be able to handle such matters with more finesse. And a man can't pay his debt with two broken arms."
"No, Se?or," Tomas managed.
"So I would like to employ your services, so that Jorge's time can be more profitably spent elsewhere-unless, of course, a more vigorous reminder turns out to be required. But those occasions hurt my heart. I consider them a failure of trust, a matter that I hope will never arise between us. And to show you how much I value your participation in my little enterprise, shall we say…a thousand a week?"
A thousand a week!
Tomas did his best not to stare slack jawed. That was more money than both Mama's jobs put together. Rosalita could stay in school and have the pretty dresses she craved-and even new dolls to replace the ones she'd lost. Mamacita could quit one of her jobs. Not both of them-Tomas wasn't going to be crazy enough to tell her how much he was really making and who his boss was, but he could tell her he'd found a job and bring her enough money that she'd be happy to quit one of her jobs so that she could spend more time at home. It would be easy to sneak more cash into the house without her noticing, and the rest he could save for tools, for his own car…
"A smart young man such as yourself you knows a good deal when he hears it, does he not?" the padrone said.
You don't want to be a runner but you'll take his money?
Tomas's conscience reared up and he crushed it down ruthlessly. Anyone stupid enough to take a favore-especially a loan-from the padrone and then not make whatever payment was owed deserved what he had coming to him.
"Si, se?or," he said, respectfully. "I will do this thing for you."
"Excellent." The padrone leaned back into the shadows of the back seat. "Jorge, give him the cell."
The muscle-man fished a tiny cell-phone out of his breast pocket and handed it to Tomas, who could not help noticing the scars across the backs of the knuckles, as if Jorge was accustomed to hitting things often and hard.
"Do not give that number out to anyone. Your orders will come when someone calls you on that phone, so I don't want it busy. Ever."
Tomas nodded. "As you say." He suppressed another reminder from his conscience about how this was just like the way the dealers operated.
"I see we understand each other. This is good. After you do your first job for me, Jorge will bring you your first week's pay. And I do not want to discover that you are working for anyone else. I would be gravely disappointed."
Tomas shook his head.
The padrone nodded, satisfied. "But I do not want you to feel as if you are being taken advantage of," he added. He motioned again to Jorge, who again reached into his breast pocket once more and pulled out a roll of bills, peeling off five twenties. "Go take that little sister of yours for pizza. I'm sure she likes pizza."
Tomas took the money and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. "She does, Se?or. Thank you-"
But the padrone was finished with him. The window rolled up, Jorge got into the sedan's front seat on the passenger side, the driver started the car, and the car rolled slowly away.
And only after he had gone back upstairs to the apartment did Tomas realize something. Nothing about these last few minutes-even the 'gift' of money-had been an act of kindness. The money-and Se?or Prestamo's final words to him-had been a warning. We know you have a sister and we know where you all live. It would be a very bad idea to change your mind.
***
He told himself he wasn't scared.
It had been three days since Se?or Prestamo had given him the cellphone. Long enough for him to imagine that it might never ring, to pretend to himself that the whole night had never happened. Then this afternoon, while he'd been waiting outside Rosalita's school to pick her up-the money meant they could take the bus to and from school, and there was pizza and ice cream after school-the cellphone he carried with him everywhere now had rung.
He hadn't recognized the voice at the other end. It had given him a time and an address. And instructions.
And here he was. Out in the extremo del extreme of Queens-a place he'd never wanted to be-hanging around outside some old dusty warehouse in the middle of the night.
Everything here was dark-not many lights-and despite the heat of the night, Tomas shivered. It would be just his luck to get mugged. He was getting better control over his fire, but it was still far from perfect. And until he actually used it, nobody knew he had it. It wasn't much of a threat. Not like a gun.
There didn't seem to be anyone at the front-all closed up tight-but he wasn't going in the front door anyway. He walked around to the back of the building, where the loading docks were. There was a door marked 'Service.' When he got there, it opened, and an old guy in a Rent-a-Cop uniform opened it. He looked around, as if he was just checking out the view. Tomas was standing right in front of him, but it was like the guy didn't see him at all. He set a brick in the door, chocking it open, and walked down the steps and away.
Tomas hurried inside, grabbing the brick and closing the door.
Once there, he wiped his hands several times on the thighs of his jeans, looking around. One lone light-bulb burned, far above him. There were stacks of cartons and big shipping crates all around him-the warehouse was filled with stuff-and he thought for a moment of liberating a souvenir or two, but it would take too much time, and Se?or Prestamo hadn't said anything about that. Besides, he had no idea what was in any of them. He wasn't here to find out, either. He was supposed to set this place on fire. He just hoped that whatever was in them would burn. It'd be just his crappy luck if they were all filled with truck parts or something.
If this place went up, it would be the biggest thing he'd burned yet. He stared down at his open hand, imagining it filled with fire. Come on, come on…
But all he felt was nervous. He couldn't imagine how he was going to set this place ablaze. He'd never felt less like a arrancador del fuego in his life. Maybe the power was gone. Maybe it had only been temporary, like a cold.
What would he do then? People like Se?or Prestamo didn't take "sorry" for an answer. Failure would be the same as refusal. And he wouldn't be the first one to suffer. It would be Rosa. And Mama.
Fear grew in him then, and anger. He hadn't asked for this power. He hadn't asked for his whole life to be turned al revés-upside down-overnight. He hadn't asked for Papi to go loco and to lose everything he had. Everything all of them had had.
Suddenly he felt the heat growing in his chest again-just like in the bodega, and in the basement. At first his relief damped it down, but he concentrated on his anger, and it soon returned, and this time he made it grow. He fed it with every scrap of anger and fear he had buried inside him.
And suddenly the fire was there.
With a whoop of glee Tomas flung a fireball at the nearest stack of cartons. He didn't know what was inside, but the outside-wood and cardboard-caught quickly, and was soon burning with a bright golden light. Soon he was tossing fireballs everywhere, laughing in relief as they struck the crates and cartons around him, sticking and spattering and catching.
Burning.
It was only when he was coughing so hard he could barely breathe-and the warehouse was filled with smoke-that Tomas realized that he might be able to start fires, but that didn't mean he was invulnerable to an entire burning warehouse coming down around him. He stumbled unsteadily through the smoke, back to the door he'd entered through, and staggered out down the stairs to the loading dock.
He was smart enough to know not to run, even though the fire was now plainly visible through the windows. Running attracted attention. Run-anywhere-and people always wanted to know why. He forced himself to walk the two long blocks and stand quietly on the subway platform-it was elevated here, not underground-waiting for the train. Just an ordinary innocent ciudadano going about his business. He was still standing on the platform when he heard the first fire sirens.
***
After that, it was easy.
Over the next two weeks, he got a few more calls. Once to torch an empty tenement. That was fun; it went up instantly-nothing but dry wood inside-and he didn't make the mistake he'd made in the warehouse and stick around once the fire was started. Once he was told to start a fire in an empty lot. That was simple; all he had to do was toss one fireball and all the grass and trash went up like a pile of autumn leaves. A couple of times, all he had to do was set fire to a dumpster in an alley. Those could be hard-you never knew what might be in them-but two or three of his fireballs would start pretty much anything burning, and by now it was no trouble at all to call them up. Once he set fire to a car parked on the street. Each Friday afternoon Jorge came and found him outside Rosalita's school-Tomas knew that was no coincidence-and handed him a thick envelope full of cash. Two weeks. Two thousand dollars.
But having money was more difficult than he'd thought it would be, and it didn't seem to solve any problems. He'd thought he could buy Rosalita toys and clothes, but Mamacita would see them, and what would she say? He'd thought he could tell her he'd gotten a job, and explain the money that way-at least some of it-but what? And where? She'd want names, details, and he wouldn't be able to provide them. He'd been sure he could sneak money into the housekeeping account, but the one time he'd tried it, Mamacita had been so suspicious, he hadn't dared try it again. She counted every penny.
He was stuck.
I'll think of something, he told himself desperately. Maybe Se?or Prestamo will help. He hated to think of going to the padrone for a favor, but Prestamo owed him now, didn't he? Tomas was taking care of all his dirty little jobs for him.
Like tonight.
He had no idea why he was going to Brooklyn; that was one of the questions he didn't ask in his new line of work. Brooklyn was a long way away from Spanish Harlem-all the way off the bottom of Manhattan, and then some-but that was the address Tomas had been given for tonight's job. He hoped he could find the place easily, and do the job quickly, because from the looks of things, he'd have to hurry to get back before Mamacita was up and about. No chance he could just take a cab back, either, even though he had money to burn, because no taxista would stop for somebody who looked like a banger in the middle of the night. He'd have to take the trains back as well as out, and hope they were running-fast-when he was done.
***
It was after two when he reached the address he'd been given. Tomas looked around in confusion. He checked the scrap of paper in his pocket. Yes, this was the right place.
But it was all wrong.
The tenement he'd burned had been empty, with a junkyard on one side and an empty lot on the other. Here, both sides of the block were lined with two-story red brick buildings. His destination was the bridal shop in the middle of the right-hand side of the block, and there were businesses on both sides. All of them were gated and dark at this time of night, of course, but above all the shops, there were apartments.
There's no way the whole block can be empty.
Tomas was confused. He knew he was supposed to come here and burn the place. That was what he did. And if he did it, there was no way nobody was going to get hurt or killed, because the bridal shop was right in the middle of the block, and the fire was going to spread.
He'd never hurt anyone. He'd never been asked to hurt anyone. Just burn things. Cars. Buildings. Garbage.
Maybe Se?or Prestamo just wants me to burn up the stock?
He thought he might have enough control of his powers by now to do that. And everything in a bridal salon was white, anyway; if he just set a small fire, one that would go out by itself, smoke damage should ruin just about everything there. That had to be it. I'll just go in and look around…
The building had the old-fashioned kind of security gates-iron latticework gates, not a solid shutter-with separate ones for the window and the door. As he'd been promised, the security gate for the door was unlocked, and so was the door itself. He slid the big steel door gate back cautiously-it was well-oiled, and didn't make much noise-and then opened the door.
He'd barely taken half-a-dozen steps inside before he was grabbed from behind.
"Freeze, you little skel! You're under arrest!"
