Domingo stared at the colorful panels. Eventually he turned his attention to the wall he had plastered with magazine and book covers. He ran a hand over an image of a vampire woman in a long white dress, a misty forest behind her.
Vampires. Danger. Adventure. He’d met one and she was damn pretty.
Domingo looked at the pile of hybrid personal protective clothing he was putting together for the rag-and-bone man. He should do some work, collect more clothes, take empty bottles to the recycling center. But he did not need to. He had money. He had a whole fortune.
Domingo did not know how to spend all that cash. After careful consideration he decided he needed breakfast. He exited the tunnel and walked into a fast-food joint, where he purchased an egg-and-sausage combo. It didn’t taste the way it looked in the picture, but he wolfed it down and bought a large orange juice at a stand outside. He drank it in a few quick gulps, then went back for a milk shake.
Afterward, he headed to an Internet café. It was one of the large ones, with many rows of booths squeezed next to each other. Each booth had a door with a latch that would open only after you tossed tokens into a slot. Domingo bought a handful of tokens from an attendant at the front counter who was chewing bubble gum, then squeezed himself into an empty booth.
Domingo sat in a ratty fake leather chair that had been patched one too many times. The computer screen was hidden behind a partition, and Domingo had to insert more tokens into a slot before the partition opened. He scooted closer to the computer screen, clumsily thumbing it until a few options showed up. He chose keyboard input, and a compartment beneath the screen slid open. He pulled out the keyboard.
The breathy moans of a woman spilled into Domingo’s narrow space. He frowned. The woman panted and moaned again. The guy in the next cubicle must be watching porn.
Domingo pulled out his frayed headphones, carefully wrapped with insulating tape, and pushed the play button on the music player. Depeche Mode began to sing about a personal Jesus. Domingo didn’t know a whole lot about music, but when he’d first found his player it was filled with ’80s songs and he’d listened to mixtures of Soda Stereo and Duran Duran with fascination. He’d asked Quinto about the bands, because Quinto knew all kinds of weird things. Quinto had taken him to an Internet café much like the one he was in now. They’d downloaded more tracks and Quinto had talked about a new wave, but Domingo told him he’d never seen the ocean.
Domingo did a search for the word “Tlāhuihpochtli.” Stories about gangs, murders, and drugs filled the view screen, images quickly superimposing until they formed a large mosaic. Domingo tugged at the images, running his fingers across the screen.
He scrolled through an article about the history of the Tlahuelpocmimi, pausing to look at the images that accompanied the text. They were black-and-white illustrations that looked very old, but were nothing like the pictures of the European vampires in the graphic novels. No one was wearing a cape, for one.
“Mexico’s native vampire species, with roots that go back to the time of the Aztecs,” he whispered.
The article had lots of information but it used very big words he didn’t know, such as “hematophagy,” “endemic,” “anticoagulants,” and “matrilineal stratified sept.” Domingo could read well enough, but these words and sentences were much harder than the ones in the mags. He gave up on the article, preferring to stare at the bold headlines and colorful pictures of the vampire gangsters. Those resembled the comic books he kept at his place; he was comfortable with this kind of stuff.
Domingo opened another page and read the headline twice.
CHILD KILLERS.
“The Tlahuelpocmimi have a specialized diet. They consume only the blood of the young.”
The accompanying illustration showed a line drawing of three hags huddled together. One of them was holding a baby up by its foot, dangling it above her grotesquely, impossibly large mouth. The other two were rubbing their hands together, waiting their turn.
But no. Atl had not killed him. Atl was not an ugly, old woman.
A countdown number blinked on the screen. If Domingo wished to stay inside the booth, he would need to dump more tokens into the slot. Instead, he stood up and left. The attendant was banging on the door next to Domingo’s, urging the bum who had fallen asleep inside to get out.
It was raining when Domingo stepped out. He pulled up his jacket’s hood and walked up the street, hands in his pockets. He went back to the tunnels, lit a couple of candles, and fell upon his old mattress, thinking about Atl. He knew plenty of assholes. One didn’t get to be his age and live in the streets without bumping into a few of them. Atl didn’t strike him as one of the bad guys. And she was beautiful. And he hadn’t been with a girl in a while.
Domingo wondered what it might be like to date someone as pretty and special as Atl. He had never really dated. There were hurried copulations in back alleys, the kind street kids manage. The rest he could only imagine, the stuff of commercials for wedding dresses and tuxedo rentals.
Domingo placed a hand beneath his head.
He remembered Belén and there was a sour taste in his mouth.
Belén liked to wear her hair braided with plastic beads. She had a gap-toothed smile but she was nice. They’d snuggled together in the park, her head resting on his shoulder. Then Belén had gone off with the Jackal and he couldn’t even talk to her after that.
Domingo blew out the candles, turned on his music player, and the happy beats of ’80s pop music lulled him to sleep.
He went to the public baths the next morning. He bought a ticket for a public bath with a tub instead of the communal showers and purchased two hours of bath time with unlimited use of water. He made a point to purchase the expensive shampoo and soap. He also bought a shaving kit.
Domingo usually brought laundry to wash at the baths, but not this day. He filled the tub with warm water and slipped in, soaking until his fingers were wrinkled. He washed his hair with lots of shampoo. Two years before he’d had lice. It had been very annoying. He had to buy a soap that smelled bad and a lice comb to get rid of the infestation. It might have been easier to shave his hair off, but Domingo thought that his hair was one of his best features.
Once he was done with his bath, Domingo stepped out of the tub and wrapped the towel he had brought with him, tying it around his waist. He did not shave often. It was not like he had a lot of facial hair, merely some incipient whiskers. But he wanted to appear well groomed. He lathered his face and shaved.
After his bath, Domingo went clothes shopping. He had never bought new clothes in his entire life. When he was still living at home, before his stepdad kicked him out, he’d enjoyed the hand-me-downs of his older brothers. On the streets, when he was washing car windows, there was little chance of new clothes. Now that he gathered garbage he found enough stuff among the rubbish to wear. Shoes, hats, jackets. If the rag-and-bone man didn’t want them, Domingo kept them. But that day he had money and he ventured into a department store.
He tried on fancy jeans, peered curiously into the full-length mirror. He’d looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror of cars and in bathrooms. Not like this, under so many lights, three mirrors angled and repeating his image.
Domingo observed himself critically. His hair was longish and a rich, pleasant brown. His mouth, when he opened it, revealed ugly, crooked teeth. He had bushy eyebrows, a broad nose. He was not handsome, but he thought that if he stood upright and if he kept his mouth shut he looked fine.