Tequila Americano

10. sin

"Well, I don't believe in God, so what would be the fucking point?"

"You don't have to believe. A confession is a confession. Hell, you don't even have to repent. You just..." A shrug. "You just let it out. I can ask around for a good, honest priest. They tend to be decent therapists, too. Free of charge."

"Whatever." She spun on her side away from him. "Goodnight, Edgar."

He stood and stooped to kiss her. "Goodnight," he breathed over her cheek. "Remember, I love you. And I'm a fucking firefighter."

He pecked her temple, too, for good measure, and straightened up.

*

It had started to snow.

Ingrid bundled up in her big winter coat, the high collar of which hid half her face. She had her fists buried in its deep, warm pockets and a French cap on her head, chic and woollen. All black, down to the tall boots on her feet.

She stood within the filthy haunches of the city, on Eighth Street between Avenues C and D. A sharp plummet from the Upper East Side offices of The Brennan Co., down into the Lower bowels of Manhattan. The taxi had dropped her at the end of the block and she walked along the pavement, glancing sideways left and right.

Her anxiety had become uncontrollable. The irrational fear, the perpetual panic – alcohol could no longer contain it. So she'd withdrawn three thousand dollars in cash and come out looking for something stronger. Something she could only pick up on specific corners.

Her heart fluttered like a caged bird in her chest. She'd taken into account that she might unwittingly wander into Leon Ortega territory, hence the get-up leaving only her eyes visible. This was the only place she knew where to score, though. She'd read about it, once, in a book starring a drug addict. Remi had confirmed the infamy of the neighbourhood. It might have bettered itself in recent years, except not too much, she hoped.

"Hey, mamacita, what can I do you for?"

A cheery, seedy Hispanic man approached her from the darkness of a side alley.

"Weed," she began, "acid. Looking for an appetizer."

He laughed, his white teeth glowing in the night. "You from the police?"

She frowned. "What? No. And if I was, do you think I'd tell you?"

The man shook his head, still chuckling. Suddenly, a blade glinted in the yellow streetlight and before she knew it, Ingrid had it pressed against her throat.

"You look like a rich lady," he growled in her face. She struggled not to scrunch her nose at the stench his mouth emanated. "Why don't you give me all your dough and I'll let you go without sneaking a peek under this nice coat of yours?"

Her nostrils flared as she breathed, her lips pursed behind her collar. She'd been looking for a high, and she'd found it. Briefly, she considered whether she could run fast enough away from him.

"Pronto, mami!" the man shouted, applying more pressure to his blade.

It sliced her skin and she felt warm blood trickle over her collarbone. As she prepared to extract her hands from her pockets, another figure emerged from the shadows, a mere outline in the budding snowstorm.

"Que está pasando aqui?" the newcomer asked, his voice muffled.

Her assailant replied in Spanish but she couldn't make out his slurred words.

"Is that right?" The gruff voice dripped venom.

The second man now stood within sight and she recognised the amber eyes at once. She froze, and not from the cold. Murder flickered in his mien, like fire stoked in a hearth.