just an idea

"This one stole from you. He would like to apologize."

The girl was slight, almost delicate. Under the moonlight her face seemed nearly luminous. Her hair hung in a long braid down her back. The braid pulled so tight and smooth it only added to the doll-like appearance of painted on hair and features. But no doll maker would paint a face like that. From eye to lip across a porcelain cheek a deep scar marred a square jaw. The corner of her mouth was twisted back and down because of the scar, forming a permanent sneer on one side.

It was this girl and another that had quietly stepped out of a dark alley.

A tickle of fear crossed Dean's mind. It was late and the street empty. He was foolish to walk alone at this time of night. He could barely remember where he was coming from. Some bar not far from the street market he thought. How many drinks had he had? How long had he been pining over something pointless? This girl and her partner had startled him from his brooding thoughts as he was walking home.

Dean's muddled silence seemed to annoy the girl. Her brow furrowed slightly and her eyes seemed to darken. She said again, "This one stole from you. He would like to apologize."

Dean’s drunken tunnel vision focused on her cruel mouth. Her teeth were too small, her lips too thin. Tearing his eyes away from the girl’s face he saw her right hand gripping the arm of young man not much more than a boy. He had the ragged look of the local poor. The city crawled with street toughs like this, boys and girls alike. They all had a hard demeanor and even harder eyes.

This boy was at this moment, far from tough. He stood with eyes filled with fear. He was hardly the street thug his dress made him out to be. His eyes were wide with what could only be terror. It was a warm night, but not overly so. Still the boy dripped with sweat. It beaded on his forehead and rolled down his face. Mixing with the film of dust from the street, his face was streaked. And where those tears filling his eyes? The boy's mouth was open as if to speak or maybe scream. But no sound came. He was petrified as though he had seen the end of all things.

The stony faced girl spoke again. "This is yours, Dean Saint Thomas." She reached out, a leather billfold in her hand.

It was his. Under the girl's thumb he could see the branded image of a flower. Daisy had always liked to give gifts with flowers on them. "So you always remember who gave them to you", Daisy had said.

Dean slowly took the offered billfold. There was an unreality to the moment beyond that of too much drink. He felt like he was standing in a dream with this pale girl. "Thank you." He paused as she started leading the quaking boy into the shadows. "How can I repay you?" he asked before he lost sight of her in the shadowy darkness of the alley.

"Pray for this one, that his sins may be forgiven."

Dean's walk long home was uneventful. The dry warm air of late October caressed his skin. The street of the slum remarkably quiet. The bars were the rowdiest but they seemed hushed and subdued. As he passed he'd hear the voices inside but not the boisterousness he was used to hearing. Even the prostitutes were oddly rare. When he spotted some they were traveling in small packs.

Fumbling a little with the lock to the back door, he entered the kitchen as quietly as possible. As he shut the door behind him, the room suddenly flooded with light.

"Where have you been all night? I thought you may be dead. And just , with all your rattling about outside the door, I thought that
your killer had come back here to kill me and steal all your things." As she gave him hell, the old woman gestured with the cast iron pan
and kitchen knife in her hands. "You know it isn't safe at night. What with the killer and all."

Right, the killer. That's why the streets of Oaxaca City were so quiet. Three murders in as many weeks was uneventful by Mexican standards. But these particular murders were far more gristly than a typical street brawl or tourist mugging gone horribly bad. The papers described limbs being removed and internal organs being exposed. In a city steeped in gods and spirits, the unspoken ritualism frightened people.

Seeing Dean drunk but safe at home, Adonica eventually cooled down. She returned her weapons to their places and proceeded to mix up some chocolate. "It will take away the effect of you drinking, and you will sleep easier."

Hot chocolate was Adonica's cure for all ills. Have a headache? She'd make hot chocolate. Have a stuffy nose? Have some hot chocolate. Stumble home slightly drunk and mildly shaken up from a strange encounter in an alley? Here's a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Dean didn't argue, there was no point. If he turned her down, she'd just make a bigger mug of the stuff and thrust it in his hands. Sometimes he worried she'd pour it down his throat.

Adonica's chocolate was amazing. It was thick to almost a pudding consistency. It was perfectly smooth and sweetened with honey and a little sugar cane, with just a touch of the sweet spice of cinnamon and the heat of red pepper. And somehow, it always seemed to work. A steaming mug of Adonica's chocolate did seem to cure most ills.

As she mixed the ingredients over the flame of the stove top, Dean told her of his stop at the Noche bar off the market square. The told her how he had lingered too long over drinks and talk with tourists, which later turned into lingering over drinks and talk with locals unwinding after a long shop day. He didn't tell her of his quiet brooding over Daisy which came later in his stay at the bar. Adonica would just get agitated with him. Nor did he tell her about the encounter with the girl and the thief later in the street.

In the comforting light of the kitchen with Adonica bustling about like a mother hen, it came to him that he recognized the frightened boy. He had been in the bar, drinking with some rough friends at a table to the side. The barman had been a little worried they would start trouble. He and the boy had bumped into one another when Dean had gone to the bathroom. Dean felt like a fool for missing such a clumsy pickpocket move.

Slowly sipping his drink, Dean took the cup with him to bed. As he walked up the three flights of stairs to the floor he kept for himself, he hoped their few guests hadn't overheard Adonica's ire in the kitchen earlier. The House of Flowers Bed and Breakfast had four rooms for rent. This week two were occupied, both on the second floor of the building. Mr and Mrs Hardy's room was the closest to the kitchen. If anyone would have been disturbed, it would be them. Dean decided he would apologize to the guests over breakfast in the morning. Might as well head off any possible complaints by being proactive.

Dean's private apartment at the top of the house was fairly bright in the light of the moon. His cat, Zod, greeted him briefly but
affectionately before going back to sleeping in his favorite chair. Dean stood by the window facing the direction of the market square, not really thinking of anything as he finished his cooling hot chocolate and listened to his cat purring from across the room.

In the days following the incident in the dark by the alley, new details would come to Dean's mind. Dean was positive the girl had worn gloves. They were supple leather, worn with age. She must have come across them among a family's things or perhaps they were a find at a
used clothing stall. They had the look of high quality but very old. He thought there may have been embroidery at the cuffs but it had been too dark and too small a detail for him to remember.

Beyond the gloves, the girl's clothing was unlike what he was used to seeing in the street, especially on a warm night. Dressed in a turtleneck, split skirt, and boots, she could have been a young woman about to go horseback riding. Her only accessory was a rosary hooked over her belt at her hip.

The memory of the rosary seemed to grow stronger as the days passed. He could picture the blond wooden beads connected with silver, the tiny yet intricate image of Christ on the wooden cross hanging over the slim hip of the girl.