WILLEM (The Witches of Wimberley Book 1) Page 6

“How about you?”

  “Roofer.”

  “Roofer in Minnesota? You must have a lot of free time.”

  “Really busy in the summer. Snow does a lot of damage to roofs. But I do have time for ice fishing.”

  “So what brings you to this, ah, competition?”

  “Roofing is rough. The work is so awful you can’t get anybody to do it except ex-cons and the only reason why they take the work is because nobody else will hire them. And let me tell you. There’s a reason why nobody else will hire them. If they had a work ethic, they wouldn’t have sought out a life of crime.”

  “I can see that. So if you won, what would you do with your time?” I more or less repeated Blackwell’s question to me. He shook his head and looked embarrassed. “Come on. I won’t judge you.”

  “I like orchids.”

  “What?” I did my best to keep a straight face.

  “You said no judging.”

  “I’m not judging. I just, never mind.”

  “I want to develop a new species that blooms longer.”

  “Where did you go to Orientation?”

  “Chicago.”

  “Did they mention ‘heart’s desire’?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So that’s your heart’s desire. If you had free time and money wasn’t an issue, you’d fool around with flowers?”

  He grinned and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Well then, Roger. I hope you get the other spot.”

  “If I don’t, I’m gonna be glad they wiped my memory ‘cause I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life thinking that I might have been coaxing new orchids in a greenhouse instead of babysitting criminals on roofs.”

  “I heard something about the memory wipe thing, but I didn’t think they meant that literally. I mean that can’t really be done, can it?”

  He squinted his eyes and gave me a little smile like he questioned my sanity.

  “You do know we’re talking about witches, right?”

  “I know there are a lot of people who call themselves witches, but what it means is they like burning candles and herbs, dancing naked in some cases, I guess. Are you saying you think there are women here who really are touched by the supernatural?”

  He laughed. “Man. I don’t know how you’re sitting on that stool next to me. How did you manage to get this far without knowing anything about what you’re doing here?” He shook his head. “Yes. I mean there are women here who really are touched by the supernatural.”

  I had to admit that I felt a thrill start in my nipples and run all the way through my body, producing goosebumps, a cock twitch, and a half hard. What if it was true? I’d spent my whole life secretly hoping that I’d be lucky enough to have an actual encounter with the other side of reality, while not really believing that such a thing might be possible.

  That’s when I realized that I’d been on the wrong path. For the first time I recognized and confronted the fact that I didn’t really want to be an actor. I hadn’t wanted to be a college student taking a foreign language I would never use or studying geology, which I would never use. But I hadn’t really wanted to be an actor either. It was just Plan B more or less suggested by other people. My heart wasn’t in it at all.

  Acting as my heart’s desire? Don’t make me laugh. Actually there’s not much laughable about wasting ten years pursuing something I didn’t even want.

  That revelation made me feel like the dumbest guy sitting on a counter stool anywhere. Why hadn’t I clued in before? And what if I couldn’t get jobs acting because I wasn’t supposed to be acting?

  That follow-up insight almost blew me right off the stool.

  “If that’s true, it would be beyond incredible.”

  “You scared?”

  It hadn’t occurred to me to be scared before and maybe that just meant I was revealing an infinite capacity for stupidity.

  “Should I be?” He shrugged. “Do you believe there’s a ghost at the hotel, too?”

  Roger laughed again. He had a nice laugh. I wondered if that’s what they were looking for. All of a sudden I found myself seriously caring about what they were looking for.

  I wasn’t interested in contemplating a lifetime contract of marriage, but I could do a year with anybody if it meant doing actual hands-on research. Maybe I should say on-site research.

  He lifted a well-toned shoulder. “Who knows? I can’t say I’ve seen anything like that, but ley lines intersect at the crossroads.”

  I jerked my gaze back to his. “Ley lines? You know about ley lines?”

  “I know enough.”

  Deciding to let that go, I said, “So we’re going to meet the witches at the barbeque tonight?”

  He shook his head while still taking a pull on his IBC. When he’d swallowed he said, “I think it’s just contestants and former winners. Our chance to talk to them about life in Wimberley or whatever. They’ll be at the big event tomorrow night though. The Witches’ Ball.”

  The first time I’d heard that phrase it hadn’t made an impression on me, but this time it registered that balls usually mean formal dress. I was kind of alarmed by that.

  While signing the credit card slip for my burger and beer, I said, “Hey, for the, ah, Witches’ Ball, has a suggestion been made about how to dress?”

  “I think they’re pretty casual, big on letting people do their own thing.”

  If Roger wasn’t competing for one of two places, I would have felt secure with that answer, but as it stood, I wasn’t sure I could trust it. And I didn’t want to be the only guy in jeans while everybody else was in ball gowns and monkey suits. On the other hand, maybe individuality was what they were looking for?

  It wasn’t hard to see that I could go crazy with circular arguments. So I decided to ask around at the barbeque. If I needed a tux, I’d manage to get to either Austin or San Antonio and score black tie before tomorrow night.

  There was one crispy fry left at the bottom of the basket. It looked too good to go to waste. So I popped it in my mouth to join the party going on in my happy tummy and slid off the stool.

  “See you tonight,” Roger said.

  “Yep,” I replied and headed for the door.

  Wimberley couldn’t possibly be more different from L.A. It moved as slow as molasses. A lot of people would say that like it was a bad thing, but you know what moves even slower than molasses? L.A. freeways. Big city life isn’t all that.

  I strolled back to the hotel, grabbed a newspaper from the stack at the front desk, and sat down in the lobby. Seemed like a good way to get a jump on checking out the competition.

  It wasn’t hard to recognize my opponents. They were all guys in their twenties and, while I knew from the video that outstanding looks weren’t necessarily a requirement, all the suitors I’d seen in person would definitely be called “hot” by the women I know.

  As they came and went from the hotel, their eyes would invariably fall on me sitting there looking over the top of a newspaper. Seemed we were all doing the same thing, trying to check out the competition, look for weaknesses, some way to eke out an edge over the next guy.

  After an hour of that I found myself thinking, “What’s vacation for if not naps?”

  So I left the paper on the heavy wood and wrought iron coffee table and went upstairs. Before calling the number on the card I was pretty sure I hadn’t had a nap since the time when naps came with milk and cookies. Now I was about to rack up my second in a week. I stretched out on the bed and waited to see what would happen.

  I must have fallen asleep pretty soon after that. When I woke, it was five o’clock, which coincidentally was the same time as the barbeque. Shit. I was making a habit of almost missing important events because of over-napping.

  After throwing water in my face and running my hands through my hair a couple of times, I raced down the steps and out the front door. Fortunately it was a two minute jog. I knew where to go because I’d seen them setting up for it earlier in the
day. There was a quaint-looking café that had access to the grassy river bank below, access that could be denied if you weren’t expected.

  The entrance was being guarded by a djin. At least that was my first thought when I saw the enormous black guy with his shiny bald head and single gold earring. As I approached he gave me a big smile, said, “Good evening, Mr. Draiocht,” and opened the picket gate for me to pass through. “Glad you could make it. Just go down the steps. Everybody’s down by the river.”

  I could hear that. A crowd of all men using conversational tones produces a distinct low rumble.

  “Thank you,” I said, knowing it was an appropriate response but thinking it sounded lame anyway.

  Following the sound of voices, I rushed through the café courtyard and down the steps. Several tents were set up in case of rain, but it was a nice night. In fact, it was a perfect night. Seventy degrees that would become sixty-eight when the sun went down. No wind. No insects. Just enough humidity to soften the air and keep my eyes from trying to wither away in my own head as they sometimes did in L.A’s dry air.

  As I took the last three steps I was thinking that maybe Wimberley was heaven.

  A few people looked over and visibly noted my tardiness. I supposed I was the only one who was late, but I’ve got to tell you, that nap was good.

  I spotted Ivan. When I caught his eye, he gave me a friendly chin lift so I began moving in his direction to say hello. Before I reached him I was intercepted by a waiter.

  “What can I get you to drink, Mr. Draiocht?”

  “Margarita.”

  “Very good, sir. Would you like frozen or on the rocks?”

  “Rocks.”

  “Salt or no salt?”

  “No salt.”

  “Would you like that with 1800, Hornitos, or we stock four kinds of Jose Cuervo: Gold, Silver Especial, Tradicional Reposado, and Extra Anejo.”

  “Reposado.”

  He smiled, gave a tiny head nod and disappeared.

  Ivan smiled. He’d watched the whole exchange. “What is it with you and complicated drinks?”

  “Seems they take their margaritas as seriously as I do.”

  “Will,” he said, “this is Kellan.”

  “Kellan,” I repeated as I shook his hand. Looking around I said, “So this is the competition.”

  “Well, no. About fifteen of these guys are winners.”

  “Other than the ones from the video, how do you know who’s who?”

  Ivan shrugged.

  Kellan said, “The older ones are probably winners.”

  “Yeah,” said Ivan, “but just to be on the safe side I’m going to ask before I start talking.”

  “Makes sense. If they tell the truth.” Turning back to Kellan, I said, “Winner or wannabe?”

  He laughed, clearly surprised. “Good one.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. But you didn’t answer the question.”

  His grin resolved into a smile as he studied me with sparkling eyes. “Okay. You got me. I’m a winner. Been here for six years.”

  Truthfully? I wasn’t expecting that. Partly because I wasn’t expecting the winners to be pretending to be contestants. I guess they were bound to tell the truth when asked point blank though. Good to know.

  “So, Kellan. What’s your heart’s desire?”

  He laughed again. “You’re a fast learner, Willem.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “How did you know my birth name is Willem?”

  “You’re a fast learner, but if you win, you’ll find you’ve got a lot to learn. Later.” He walked away, smiling like somebody who had the best secret in the universe.

  “Wow,” Ivan said, looking a little stunned.

  “You didn’t say anything incriminating, did you?”

  Ivan looked worried. He seemed to be sifting back through their conversation. “I don’t think so. I just thought he was an amiable sort.”

  “He probably is. Winners don’t have to be assholes. At least I don’t think so. The guys on the video seemed genuine enough.”

  “Yeah. They did. Especially the musician.”

  “Simon?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Wonder if he’s here. I think he’d be most likely to give up juicy info.”

  Ivan nodded. “Let’s hunt him down.”

  Something about the way he said that brought out the predator in me. So I responded with what I thought was a manly nod and let my eyes wander over the gathering.

  A tray appeared in front of my line of sight. “One margarita, Mr. Draiocht. On the rocks, no salt, Jose Reposado.”

  The margarita was presented in a heavy Mexican blown glass goblet that could have come from one of the local galleries, and probably did. I took a sip and let my eyes go closed. Damn. I couldn’t make myself a margarita that good.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “This is perfection, …?”

  I let the question hang in the air making it clear that I was asking for his name.

  “Roque. Quintanilla.” He added his surname as an afterthought.

  “Thank you for the best margarita I’ve ever had, Mister Quintanilla.”

  He nodded and disappeared into the crowd with a grin on his face.

  We began skirting around the edges of the crowd for signs of Simon, but I suspected that everyone there was taller than our target. In the end it turned out that he was even shorter than the space in the air where I’d been looking, because he was sitting down at a long raised table in the big tent. Alone. With something that looked like a Tequila Sunrise, a little too colorful for guys’ night out if you ask me.

  The table had chairs on only one side, like the Last Supper, so we went around the ends, each of us approaching him from opposite ends.

  “Hey, Simon,” I said as we approached.

  As I pulled out the chair next to him, he said, “This table isn’t for contestants. Contestants sit out there.” He gestured to the rest of the room.

  “Okay. Well, we’ll leave when the party moves in here.”

  I looked over at Ivan meaningfully. He said, “Yes. Soon as they start this way, we’re ghosts.”

  Simon barked out a laugh that made him seem a little looney. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

  “So,” I said. “We saw you in the video.”

  His eyes slanted toward me with suspicion. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. So I don’t have to ask about your heart’s desire. You didn’t tell us what kind of music you write.”

  He snorted. “You don’t care about music.”

  “The hell you say!” I exclaimed, hearing that Alabama was creeping back into my speech with or without permission. I supposed that twenty-four hours of hearing Texas drawl was involuntarily extending my vowels and softening my consonants. “I know enough to know that was a five figure Gibson Les Paul you were fondling.”

  His eyes widened just a little. He pushed his glasses up his nose, gave me a small smile, and glanced at Ivan, perhaps to see what he was up to.

  “Not everybody would know that.”

  “Damn straight.”

  He looked curious. “You from around here?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just your, uh, terminology. And your cadence. It’s more harmonic in the South. And in Texas. Although Texas is technically the Southwest.”

  “Alabama,” I said. It had been a while since I’d felt pride in saying that and, by God, it felt good.

  He grinned. “Sweet Home.”

  “Amen.”

  He chuckled. I had him.

  “You gonna tell me what kind of music you’re writin’?”

  “Here’s the thing, when times change music gets relabeled. I’m doing something that’s not rock and not country, but a little bit of both.”

  “Like Rockabilly.”

  “No. No. No,” he said. “Not like that at all.” He slanted his eyes toward me. “Do you really know what Rockabilly is?”

  I shrugged. “Of course. Buddy Holly,
Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins. And, don’t hate me for this, but Stray Cats.”

  That got me a huge grin. He banged the table with the palm of his hand. “Hah! Stray Cats. They did fifties better than anybody in the fifties did fifties!”

  I held my palm up for a high five and said, “My man!”

  As Simon slapped my hand I allowed a quick glance at Ivan who was sitting back, enjoying the exchange and grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  “Okay, so you know Rockabilly,” Simon began. “I like songs that tell a story. Like The Eagles. You know at one time they were considered rock. A couple of decades went by and then they were reclassified as soft rock. Another decade went by and they were being covered by every country singer who had a say in what went on albums.” I nodded encouragingly. “I think what they were doing is timeless.”

  “So you’re reviving the sound.”

  “Maybe,” he said with a new coyness. “That’s the goal.”

  “Thing about The Eagles sound… the songs and the musicianship were flawless, but it was all about the harmonies. They used to say the Beach Boys were pioneers of harmony and they were settlers.”

  He was nodding excitedly. “True, but I’m not a copycat. I’m creating something original. I’m just saying that Eagles were a big influence.”

  “Gotcha. Well, if one of us wins, we’re gonna be banging on your studio door and demanding a private performance.”

  He gave us both a small smile. “Maybe.”

  “So, Simon, we keep hearing that there’s nothing we can do to prepare, no way to get an edge on the competition. That true?”

  He nodded. “That’s true. You’re either it or you’re not.” As soon as he said it, he blanched, eyes going wide like he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to say. He stammered a little, trying to recover. “Look, there’s really nothing to tell. No way to game the outcome if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Just tell me one thing. What are we supposed to wear to the thing tomorrow night?”

  He chuckled. “I’ll bet somebody’s already told you it doesn’t matter and I’ll bet you didn’t believe them.”

  Nodding, I said, “Maybe.”

  “Believe it. Wear whatever you want. It won’t matter one way or the other. Winners aren’t chosen because of style. If they were, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting at this table.”