No1 - The Psycho Surrealist

Chapter 7 - Gut Check

Beyond its schizophrenic freneticism, it was a portrait of a middle-aged, long-haired brunette in her mid-forties. Despite being painted predominantly in reds and oranges, she was white, her face slender if pot-marked, her eyes wide and bright, trapped inside rimless glasses. The woman's usual clean sweep of hair was replaced by a mane of snakes, resembling that of Medusa. On her head, sweeping like smoke, was a piece of headwear of the pharaohs. He created the whole face from a variety of bones and fingers interlocking.

Doq found himself staring at the portrait of his best friend, Felicia Rodriguez-Chavarria.

Doq was horrified by the portrait he had created, painted on the edge of sanity.

Bright blue lights burned in each eye.

Death.

#

The day was hot and sunny, yet a deathly chill froze Doq to the bone; shivering, he gripped tightly to a pair of binoculars. He was surveying the sidewalk.

He was being followed, tracked by a ghost.

Parked outside his apartment was a black Chevy Impala, silent as the Headless Horseman's Coiste Bodhar. While it was empty, its occupant wasn't far away.

It was about ten in the morning, and the chill of night hadn't left him. Doq had seen one person get in and out of that car: A blue-haired girl, black, possibly Haitian or Jamaican—a punk-rocker type with those holey jeans and short, tousled hair.

After scanning the length of Hollywood's famous boulevard, the Haitian approached his office complex with purpose in her step. Setting the binoculars down, Doq opened his desk drawer, grabbed his pistol, and waited there, armed.

The blue-haired girl returned. She turned her back to him and walked to the black Chevy parked across the street. She put her hand on the door handle but didn't open it. Consternation twisted her expression. Her eyes connected with his for a moment, catching Doq's heart.

The skies are such a brilliant blue—-dark, Prussian blue. Doq let the blinds drop and rolled back to his desk.

He rubbed his eyes raw before lighting up another cigarette, his eyes connecting with that envelope on his desk and the stack of cash within the drawer.

The only thing you've got to do is protect him. Sitting on his desk kept him glued to the case—the envelope of money Yatish had handed him—ten thousand dollars cash, all of them Benjamins. It sat listlessly on his desk, yet powerful enough to draw him closer. That board full of pins and strings, a madman's art piece hinting at the subtle flows of the world, showed the movement of Sandra's killer and the answers to who was responsible. Unconscious bits and pieces that suggested the killer's activities, their hidden motives.

Doq's ability was on overdrive.

Turning it in his hands, Doq suddenly grew sick. The name Maurosahtu came to his mind, piquing his curiosity just then. The psychic is aware of Maurosahtu. He had come across him before. He believes it is Maurosahtu who plans to kill him. Was it possible that Yatish could answer his ultimate questions?

He spent a lifetime tracking down that shady creature in a wispy black cloak, and some random man could help him solve it. It sparked his flame to find the illness that plagued him for years.

No, Doq said to himself, grinding his teeth as he threw the envelope.

When he reached for the Benjamins on his desk, Doq had forgotten about the Haitian tail and the black Impala.

No big deal.

Just another SoCal rando.

There was a knock at his front door.