I'm back! FINALLY! Sorry guys-per usual, it was school.

wow-I'm in a C2 now! that rocks! and-I'm almost up to 20,000 words!

Funny. I haven't seen 'Constantine' in about two months and I only saw it once…yet, I'm still holding strong to the fan base. Odd.

Yeah, well, here we get some more of the mystery piecing together. We also get some more of Chas and his life. I like to think that Chas has a life outside of being Constantine's driver, or at least tries to.

There's some Spanish in here ( like the chapter's title). If you want the translation, go find it yourselves 'cause I'm lazy.


Chapter 8-Encontrar

The news broadcast was still on the on-the-scene reporter, who seemed a little paled upon seeing the photo. Still, she pulled off reading the rest of her report without missing a beat, "Police are welcoming any information citizens can provide to help arrest this killer…"

A woman's tanned, red-nail polished finger hit the blue 'power' button on the set. She didn't need to hear anymore. The woman was in her late thirties, but her youthful beauty didn't seem at all threatened by the ever closer, looming number, '40', which made many cringe at its very mention. She was wearing black khakis that hugged her well-formed thighs and butt and a low-cut scarlet shirt. She walked from the living room to her kitchen with a sigh.

Rosario Mandez, 'Rosie' to her friends, sat down at her white kitchen table, her recently manicured hands clasped to her forehead in worry, pushing back her long, dark hair. Spread out before her was a set of newspapers: they were all front pages, the head lines all relating to the Sin District murders ('Another Woman Brutally Murdered in Sin', 'Infamous Sin District Plays Host to a Killer', etc.).

Rosie took her hands away from her face and held them together, as if in prayer.

Yo lo tengo que encontrar.

She paused for a minute, to gaze at the gory pictures of the victims.

Pero primero yo tengo que preguntar Dios por perdón.

Later, Rosie knelt in a pew at St. Peter's, her eyes closed and her hands pressed together in prayer. The church had an uncommonly low ceiling, but otherwise it was a very proper house of God. Candles lit the side aisles, illuminating mosaics depicting the Stations of the Cross. The walls were wooden. The frames of the doorways were carved with beautiful crosses and saintly figures. Behind the alter, mounted on a grand pink marble slab, was a life-size replica figure of Jesus on the Cross, carved in Italy and delivered specially to the church.

The confession boxes were in the back, a seemingly foreboding design gesture by the Church. Rosie had considered going to the back. True, the priest could not repeat her confession, but he could call the authorities, or more likely a psych ward. No. Rosie knew that no priest, no matter how devout, would believe her, let alone help her.

When she had finished her silent prayers, she crossed herself, stood, and walked out quietly so as not to disturb the other parishioners. It was hard, however, for high heels to walk quietly on the white marble floor. She paused at the door, which held brass cups of holy water. Rosie dipped her hand into the cup, crossed herself, took a deep breath, and stepped out.

As she walked down the concrete steps from the church to the sidewalk, a man with red hair in a brown suit waited at the base of the steps for her. Rosie didn't even notice the man until she was only three steps away from him. She looked up, and upon seeing him, she tensed, like she was about to run.

"Miss Mendez?" he asked politely with a slightly British accent, "May I have a word?"

"Who're you?" she demanded in clear English.

"Detective Charles Acton, Los Angeles Police," he replied as he produced his badge.

While Rosie seemed a little relieved, she still remained tense. A cop was not the most welcomed person in her life.

"You don't exactly sound like an LA cop," Rosie pointed out suspiciously as she walked down the steps to face the man. Being 5' 6", it wasn't surprising that Rosie was about six inches shorter than the detective. Still, she held a strong composure.

"I was assigned here," Acton said politely. He then added, "But, that doesn't really matter, does it?" His voice suddenly became low, and slightly malicious, "After all, you're not what one would call 'native' either, are you?"

Rosie froze, her eyes widened. How could he know? How could anyone know? The papers, while not genuine, had been good enough to pass through…

Unlike many others, Rosie and her small family had gotten to California not by trying to cross the border, but instead by sneaking on a freighter. Her mother had some how convinced one of the ship hands to let the four of them (Rosie, her mother, her brother, and her aunt) sneak on board in the cargo deck. In fact, her mother was also the one who had managed to mysteriously obtain the forged documents…

But Rosie's citizenship had never been questioned. No one could have known…

"Now, I'll just keep that between us," Acton said, his tone softened, "If you just agree to answer some questions."

"Questions about what?" Rosie asked cautiously.

"The recent murders in the Sin District area," Acton replied.

Rosie relaxed…or at least, that's what she tried to make it appear. Underneath her calm exterior, Rosie's heart began to beat much faster in panic. Was that why she was feeling a little tired all of a sudden?

"What about them?" Rosie asked casually.

"Correct me if I'm mistaken," there was an underline of smugness there, "But, you do work in the Sin District, don't you?" Acton asked.

Rosie nodded-which she regretted rather quickly, because a headache was coming on… "Yes. On nights, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Rest of the week I work in a diner."

"What exactly is your occupation?"

"Waitress." Why was she feeling so tired?

"I mean in the Sin District."

"I'm a…" Rosie hesitated.

Acton seemed fixated on her…and yet, a little distracted.

"Do go on…" he urged quietly in a dark tone as he stared at her.

"I'm a hooker," Rosie admitted. Her head was pounding, and her body felt weak.

"Who do you work for?" Again, Acton's tone was on the edge of threatening, but now he seemed like his mind was elsewhere.

"Mister…" Rosie grabbed the iron black handrail for support. Why was she so exhausted? It didn't make any sense… "Mister B…Mister Balthazar…"

"Yes, yes…" Acton said, his voice almost a whisper. He'd known Rosie's spoken answer all along. But the things he was discovering from within her…they were most interesting.

"I…" Rosie struggled to stand on her own… "I have to go…"

She turned and started to slowly walk away.

"Quite all right," Acton replied after her. He wasn't staring at her anymore, and his tone had switched back to the polite, English lit.

As Rosie got farther from the detective, she began to feel much better.

Acton smiled after her. "You've given more than enough," he said quietly.


Red Hott Chili Peppers played in the background, muffled out by the chatter of the customers lounging in the couches and chairs around tables as they sipped their espressos, scones, cappicinos, muffins, lattes, and biscottis. The 'Latte Lounge' was pretty laid back, the walls, rugs, carpets, furniture, and counters all colored with calming, cool shades of red, yellow, brown, and green. The lighting wasn't blaringly bright, but it was good enough so that your eyes weren't strained.

A girl about nineteen with short, straight blue hair wearing a server's uniform (cotton white shirt, navy apron with 'Latte Lounge' printed in curly font on the front, and tan khakis) handed her latest customer his drink and took the cash with her black nail polished hand, on which were adorned a three silver rings (one a plain silver ring, another dotted with an obsidian stone, and the other twisted to look braided).

The girl handed back the change with a nice smile and a 'have a nice day'. The customer gave a kind nod, then walked off.

The front door opened, announcing itself as the bells attached to it jingled pleasantly. The girl looked up to see who the newcomer was, and her face brightened up when she saw the curly head, a cabby hat vainly attempting to keep the koosh-ball of hair under control.

"Chas!" the girl waved over excitedly.

Chas walked over to the counter, and despite his attempt to appear cheerful, he still kind of slumped and his face still seemed a little down. He was still kind of shamed from his last conversation with John. He hadn't meant to offend the guy or anything…and he hadn't meant to come of like a wimp either.

"Hey, haven't seen you around here in a while," the girl greeted Chas, "What's up?"

Chas shrugged as he propped his arms up on the counter. "Hey, Zoey," he greeted in turn, "Yeah. Nothin' much going on."

Zoey gave a small smile. "You should've stopped by last Thursday. James Savannah came by and played some tunes. Place was packed! Junes was ecstatic!"

Junes was the guy who ran things. He was a pretty cool guy, but he was more into money than he would typically let on.

"James Savannah? You actually got him?" Chas asked, surprised.

James Savannah was an up-and-coming local musician. He played the acoustic guitar and sang-sometimes love songs, some times Bob Dylan-style songs, with metaphors about all the shit going on in the world. Actually, Savannah's songs were probably a lot simpler than they seemed, given that most of his fans were high during or after attending his performances. Word was that he was soon to get a record deal, complete with a music video and maybe even a tour.

Zoey nodded with pride. "I got an autograph or two. I figure I'll sell 'em on eBay when he gets really famous and earn myself a couple hundred bucks or so," she said with a wink.

Chas laughed.

"So, you still got that taxi gig?"

Chas paused. So much for looking for a little distraction.

He cleared his throat before replying, "Uh…yeah. Still got it."

He changed the subject: "So…still going to Pierce?"

Zoey paused, her eyes going to the floor. "Uh…yeah."

Zoey had been lucky. She'd had the money to go to college. She was majoring in business, she told Chas, so she could either take over the 'Latte Lounge' when Junes left (he'd mentioned that he'd been planning on retiring in a few years) or make her own business, selling jewelry or something.

Chas, however, had not been lucky. He had never been that great in school, especially not after he'd gotten the job with the cab company and later became John Constantine's transport. And he definitely didn't have the money. He was lucky to have enough to live on his own.

"Hey, uh, Chas," Zoey said in a quiet voice, "Are you gonna order something? Cause I'm supposed to be working…"

Chas sighed heavily. Great. Now he'd upset Zoey. He wanted to change the subject. But what could he talk about? He hadn't been around to talk about anything that had happened around the area or socially and he mind was mostly full of information on the occult rather than anything, well, normal.

"Hey…uh…" Chas searched his head for something-anything to talk about. Finally, he found it. "You here about that serial killer in the Sin District?"

Zoey, who had gone to busy herself with the frappacino machine, looked over her shoulder at him. "Yeah. Glad I don't have to walk home through there. Gives me the creeps."

"Yeah, I know."

Zoey gave him a strange look before Chas managed to realize how weird he'd just sounded.

"Er…I mean, that place freaks me out too."

"Oh, yeah?" Zoey raised an eyebrow, "You ever been down there?"

Chas straightened a little with pride. "Oh yeah. I was just down there just the other night."

"Wait…while that psycho was down there? Are you crazy?"

"Well, you know the taxi-cabbie motto: Come rain or snow or psychopaths…"

Zoey laughed and Chas was feeling a little better.

"Okay. Well, for our courageous hero, I'll give you a chocolate-chip muffin, on the house," Zoey said as she lifted up the glass covering over the plate of muffins, scones, and other pastries.

"Sweet."