Whilst Shantytown looked far from welcoming from the outside: stone archways, broken planks and rickety stairs, the atmosphere seemed to strangely become more relaxing the further you entered.

Yes, the climate seemed to change as they descended, a bizarre sort of fog rolling in and clouds seemingly appearing out of nowhere, as if the place carried its own permanent bad mood. Yes, it could use some maintenance: Victoria had tripped on the stairs and almost wrenched one of her own legs out on a moulded plank when her foot fell through it. Anton had found this uproariously funny and didn't stop laughing until she hit him with a discarded waste paper basket. But once the darkness gave way to multicoloured strings of lights and the depressing splashes of the river to loud laughter and the chink of glasses, she found herself feeling much more relaxed.

This was far from the soul-crushing slum she'd expected to witness. True, it was dilapidated, but it had an endearing sense of community to it.

Then, of course, Doucet's presence alone was enough to tear that air of happiness to the ground.

As they strolled along the boardwalk, the resident of the hut nearest nudged his neighbour and whispered something. A man and a woman in the next shuffled closer to each other, as if fearing Victoria might attack. One by one, the chatter died and the world seemed to fall silent, until they reached a wooden table in the centre of the makeshift neighbourhood, taken up by three women.

If looks could kill, Victoria knew that Doucet would have died again at least thirty-five times. The woman in the centre of the table, with long, greying hair, slowly put a handful of playing cards down before speaking.

"Hello, Anton" she said stiffly. She'd seemed so happy just a moment ago when they were ten metres away, but now she looked like she hadn't smiled in decades.

"Tía Yolanda" Doucet replied pleasantly. "You're looking as ravishing as ever."

"Don't you Tía me" she grumbled. "We use that name for family and you are not part of it."

Doucet just continued grinning in the face of all the cold stares, but by this point Victoria didn't expect anything different from him. Right now, she was more concerned with making herself as small as possible.

"Why, Yolanda, I'm wounded. What did I do to earn such ire?"

"Do you want the list?"

"…what did I do this month to earn such ire?"

"You dumped those cockroaches in the stew."

"It was an experiment. I needed to see at which concentration food begins to taste buggy."

"You said my name was stupid."

"But it is stupid."

"Anton."

"Alright, okay" Doucet conceded, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not Shantytown's most well-liked member, I get it. Listen, do you know where Chichárron is? I just need to talk to him and I'll be out of your hair."

One of the other ladies motioned to a shack to the right, which, unlike the others, had no light coming from its windows and no signs of life except for a steady plume of smoke coming from the chimney.

"Ah, thank you, um…Lydia, was it?"

"Linda!"

"And what a lovely name it is, too."

Linda just glowered and downed her shot glass.

Doucet turned as if he was on wheels and strolled away. Just as Victoria made to follow him, she heard herself being addressed.

"None of this is being directed at you, dear. I hope you know that."

She turned back to see the women smiling at her amicably. She didn't know what to say, so she just nodded numbly.

"How did someone as nice-looking as yourself get caught up with him?" Yolanda asked. Victoria got the feeling that everyone in a mile's radius was listening in.

"He owes me some money" she explained, as vaguely as she could. The women tittered and someone in the background gave a bark of laughter.

"Anton's got a horrible track record when it comes to giving things back, prima. Even worse than poor old Héctor."

Victoria didn't know why Yolanda had just addressed her as a cousin or who this Héctor character was, but neither did it matter. She shrugged in a way she hoped appeared nonchalant.

"Well, I've got a good track record for hitting people with boots, so he'd better watch out."

She didn't, of course. At most, she'd taken a swing at a few bullies back in her childhood and ended up with her face in the mud, crying. But that was part of the past and not something she was eager to relive. Hopefully her more successful stern looks would make what she was saying seem true.

The residents seemed to buy it. More of them laughed this time, she was certain she could even hear a few give an appreciative whistle. Too many people were looking at her, paying attention to her.

She didn't like it.

"I'd better follow him" she blurted and made towards Doucet, who was rapping on the hut's door.

"Keep an eye on him, prima" she heard Yolanda call after her. "If he misbehaves, give him a whack from us."

Chichárron was just as unhappy to see Doucet as all the other Shantytown residents, but Victoria got the feeling that unlike when it came to them, Doucet was no special case. The man's entire face seemed almost custom built for frowning. Trying to imagine him with a smile resulted in him looking completely unnatural in Victoria's mind.

The inside of the hut was a mess, every surface crammed with dust-covered rubbish that was either faded, worn, or in desperate need of repair. Shelves, counters, even an empty and rusted fridge held a trove of shapeless objects she couldn't identify thanks to the shadows.

"Your wife is trying to analyse me" he growled as a way of greeting. He was a portly man, much too small for the hammock he was lying in, dressed in a weathered hat and flannel shirt.

Victoria didn't know what to feel insulted about first: the fact that he thought her so obvious, or his insinuation that she was somehow related to this grinning idiot.

"Wife? If only I was so lucky" Doucet chuckled in reply. Victoria decided to settle the issue by glaring at the back of his head. Chichárron caught her doing it and snorted.

"Well, at least she doesn't take your mierda."

"Keep looking on the bright side, there's a good man."

Victoria followed him as he strolled up to the hammock, looking around at all the junk and kicking up dust as if he owned the place.

"Have you been redecorating? I love what you've done with the panelling. Very classy."

"Why are you here, Anton?"

"What, can a fellow not visit his favourite house-bound semi-cripple from time to time?"

Chichárron gave him a long, hard look.

"…I need that hundred pesos I won."

Chichárron growled and threw a rubber duck at him. Not exactly being the world's deadliest weapon, the toy bounced harmlessly off the front of Doucet's head.

"I told you last month, ratbag, I'm not giving you that money. You cheated!"

"So did you. I just cheated better."

"It was still my game, until you set the table alight and used the smoke so no-one would notice you swapping your cards."

"Oh Chichárron, why not let bygones be bygones? It's not as if it was worth anything…"

"Primo Carlos was going to sell it for a week's firewood."

"Eh, warmth is overrated."

This time, a basketball was flung. Doucet sidestepped it, but Victoria wasn't as fast and it skimmed the side of her face, knocking her glasses off-balance.

"My dear friend, as enjoyable as it is to talk to you, I'm afraid we must speed this up a tad. You see my lovely companion here?"

Victoria bristled at "lovely".

"I seem to have misplaced my last wad of notes, as I realised when I attempted to pay her for her services. Now I'm sure you understand that I don't want to be perceived as some kind of criminal–"

Victoria rolled her eyes and she could swear Chichárron did too at the exact same time.

"- so if you could possibly hand me my earnings, I can give her her payment, you can potentially keep the remaining fifty pesos depending on your attitude and I can get back to my case. Everyone, as they say, wins."

Chichárron's jaw tightened. It was clear he was wrestling the urge to comply as well as the urge to wring Doucet's neck. Victoria had to admit, she could sympathise with him.

"Fine" he huffed eventually. "But this is for her sake, not yours, understand?"

"Gladly!"

"Yolanda has it."

Doucet huffed slightly.

"Typical" he uttered, before stalking back outside and pulling the door shut behind him. All that could be heard was the odd bit of sloshing from the river and the distant laughter of a couple of residents, who seemed to have lightened up once again. Victoria was starting to feel a bit awkward, just standing there in the middle of someone else's home.

"So, what are you then?"

Victoria turned to face Chichárron.

"I'm sorry?"

"Services, he said. What kind?" he paused. "You ain't a prostitute, are ya?"

Victoria tripped over her tongue several times as she spluttered indignantly.

How would that even work down here?

"No! No, I'm – no!"

He just shrugged.

"Hey, when you get to where I am, you don't bother to judge. It's not like it isn't a common sight around here, I mean…people get desperate in their final years, y'know?"

"You mean before…?" She let the question hang, pretty sure she already knew the answer.

"Before they're forgotten, yeah. I never saw the point trying to get it all to drag on for longer. If you're gonna go, might as well go quickly. Oh, well. Least I still got some dignity."

Victoria just eyed up the overflowing cupboards and gave a non-committal hum, hoping the disbelief wasn't too evident.

"No need to be getting so snooty" he snapped. Obviously she hadn't done a very good job of it. "You're probably one of the well-remembered folk, aren't ya? You may be laughing now – but we all end up down here in the end."

"Thanks for the uplifting message" Victoria quipped, raising an eyebrow and trying to ignore the ominous feeling settling in her stomach.

Chichárron just lay silently, staring her directly in the eye. For a moment, Victoria wondered whether she'd gone too far. But he eventually gave a sardonic smirk and shuffled around a little in his hammock.

"Y'know, you and the freak ought to hang out more. I swear, you're pretty much made for each other."

A question that had been resting on Victoria's tongue made it to the front of her mind.

"Why is he so disliked down here?"

"Who, Anton? Well, why is anyone disliked? Everyone's got their own reason. He's evasive, he's uppity, he talks and talks and never shuts the hell up…"

"…but your reasons are different?" Victoria asked, sensing something more behind his words.

"…yeah. Yeah, you could say that." He leaned the furthest forward Victoria had seen him go yet, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial manner. "Y'know why people come down here in the first place, right?"

"I think so, yes. They don't have a photo on the ofrenda, their bones start to wear, they lose their jobs and are shunned from the public eye, correct?"

"Yup. See, Anton was just like everyone else, y'know? Young man, no other dead relatives…the classic tragedy. He'd been dead for about...I dunno, two years, maybe…when he first showed up, with no photo on the ofrenda for the second time in a row. I thought he was still gonna go back and give it a try the next year – the fresh-faced folk keep at it for a bit until they realise it's useless…"

He paused and snorted surreptitiously. "Well, most 'a them, anyway."

Victoria let him finish his private joke before he leaned back in again.

"But he didn't. It was if he didn't even care. Like he'd expected it."

"Strange" Victoria commented.

Chichárron shook his head.

"Nah, that ain't the strange part. See, he came down here about five years after I first arrived. And as you can see missy, I haven't aged too well. The end's coming for me pretty soon, I can feel it. So why the hell am I wasting away in this hut and he's still fresh as a daisy despite being under the same circumstances?"

Victoria eyed the door. Even though it wasn't exactly a state secret, she'd feel seriously uncomfortable if Doucet happened to return in the midst of their conversation.

"Well, you can still be remembered even without a photo, can't you? People can still tell stories, can't they?" she tried.

Chichárron nodded. "But stories don't last long. They're easily forgotten. The details get skewed, people forget names and places and what have you. You know what really lasts forever?"

Even the river seemed quiet by this point.

"Notoriety."

It made sense, Victoria had to admit. If a person's life was ruined, it only stood the reason that they'd remember the person that ruined it, albeit with extreme dislike or burning hatred. And naturally, the more people that hated you, the better you'd be remembered.

Yet already, the more logical and compassionate side of Victoria's brain was struggling to play devil's advocate.

"I'd admit that your friend is a bit…strange, senor. But…notorious? He may be creepy, but he seems harmless. I mean, I - after all, what evil villain loses a wad of banknotes via a large and obvious hole in his pocket?"

"First" Chichárron said, ticking the points off his fingers, "he isn't my friend. Second, no-one knows anything about who he used to be or where he came from. He flat-out refuses to tell us himself and always avoids the question. Thirdly, anyone who's anyone knows how to recognise acting. And Doucet's one hell of an actor. What's he got to hide?"

Victoria's retort died on her metaphorical tongue.

The door to the shack slammed open and Doucet waltzed back in, fingering through a stack of notes.

"Forty-eight, forty-nine…fifty. Victoria" he declared, outstretching a fist full of notes. Victoria took them and slid them down the pocket of her apron. Chichárron watched her intently, before turning back to Doucet.

"What's this case of yours, anyway?"

Doucet was silent, fidgeting with his half of the money. Chichárron just sighed helplessly.

"You're kidding. De la Cruz again?"

Doucet shoved the notes into an inner pocket and fiddled with his bow tie, still not speaking.

"I can't believe I have to keep telling you this. Leave the guy alone. Yeah, I get that he's a self-satisfied loudmouth, but I could be as easily describing you. Why've you got to make him the suspect for everything?"

"Because he usually is."

"His lawyers are going to catch on that you're giving out a fake address by the time they send their seventeenth cease and desist order, you know. Do you want his bodyguards storming down here and ransacking my place again?"

Victoria had lost the trail of this conversation. The most she knew about Ernesto de la Cruz was that he was a famous singer, both in life and death. Obviously, given her family history, nothing more than that.

"What's he suspected of?" she interjected.

Chichárron snorted. "Everything, apparently. Arson, vandalism, cats stuck up trees, you name it. I'm betting Anton here would try to tag earthquakes and hurricanes on him if he could. It's why barely anyone wants to hire him, he always wants to believe the man is up to something."

He frowned. A thought seemed to have just struck him.

"Hang on. Who did hire you?"

"Our friend with the silly goatee paid me quite a substantial amount to look into De la Cruz for plagiarism."

"Héctor?" Chichárron asked, his features suddenly alight with what looked to be genuine concern. "Why does he suddenly care? He's barely got any possessions left to pay you with. He – hold on, he doesn't even play anymore!"

Doucet shrugged. "Desperate times, perhaps. He's fading away, so he tries to get revenge the only way he can."

Chichárron laughed, but there was little real joy behind it.

"So that's what you are now, huh? Some avenging angel?"

"Of course not" Doucet said simply. "I'm just a detective looking for work. The involvement of De la Cruz is merely a coincidence."

Chichárron gave a disbelieving little sniff. Then he paused and sniffed again.

"You smell funny."

"It's my natural musk."

"You didn't smell that way before you left."

"Dearest Yolanda may have baptised me with her whiskey when I went to collect my earnings."

"Baptised?" both him and Victoria asked at the same time.

"She threw it at me."

Chichárron sighed. "You just can't keep it shut, can you?"

Doucet sighed huffily, like a child in a strop. "It's not my fault her dress looks like shredded newspaper."

"Apologise."

The word was out of Victoria's mouth before it reached her brain. Doucet's gaze turned to her and his head tilted slightly. The gaping chasms peered at her over the glasses.

"I'm sorry?"

"Apologise to Yolanda for saying that. These people are already being forgotten, the last thing they need is you showing up each day and selfishly adding to their misery."

He opened his mouth to speak, or more possibly, complain, but she refused to give him the opportunity. Ignoring the bemused look on Chichárron's face, she grabbed him around the arm and frog-marched him out of the door and to the table.

"Apologise" she repeated sternly. Yolanda and the other two women shared a look, half-surprised, half-smug.

"Yolanda" Doucet began in an overdramatic fashion, "I apologise for the life, or, to be more precise, afterlife-ruining remark I made approximately three minutes ago when I likened your fashion choice to a –"

Victoria dug her heel into his foot.

"Ow. I'm sorry for insulting your dress."

Yolanda's brow raised and she turned to Victoria. "My, my, you certainly have him well-trained."

The smile Victoria gave was wry, but genuine.

"I must admit, I feel rather embarrassed."

"I don't care."

"You've just reinstated ninety years' worth of repressed and embarrassing memories in one moment. You, my dear, are an exceptionally talented lady."

They'd since left Shantytown to the raucous approval of their new crowd, Yolanda promising her a free drink if she ever returned and Chichárron shouting across the boardwalk that she'd really made his day. Whilst all Doucet got was a long face. Figuratively. She doubted even pliers could shift that smile, as it remained ever-glued to his features.

She ignored his empty compliment and began walking back the way they'd come. Dusk was settling in and she aimed to get back to the zapateria before seven 'o clock. That way, she could prepare dinner as an apology for not helping out for half of the day.

The sound of a second pair of footsteps behind her proved incredibly distracting.

"Why are you following me?" she asked through gritted teeth. This man was starting to become seriously irritating.

I've got your money, you've got your shoes. Our business is finished. Now go away.

"No particular reason" he hummed. "I'm just following you up this way because it seems to be the most interesting."

"Once we reach the city centre, I'll give you ten minutes. By that point, I expect you to have left me alone and gone somewhere else."

He was silent for a blessed fifteen seconds.

"Did I ever tell you about how me and Chichárron met?"

"Allow me to repeat myself: I don't care."

"It has pirates in it."

Victoria decided it best not to respond at this point. Maybe he'd finally get the hint and go away.

"Well, if you replace the word pirates with estate agents…" he trailed off slightly. He coughed in a pointedly exaggerated way before he opened his mouth again. "How much does your job at that stifling little shoe shop mean to you?"

"Pardon?"

"I feel I may have touched a nerve, so I'll rephrase. Do you do your job out of personal interest or just because it's a family tradition?"

"Both."

"Both" Doucet repeated. "That's…maddeningly unhelpful."

The lights of the city centre and the noise of trolleys above their heads became more prominent.

"How would you like to join me on my case?"

Victoria had to admit, she wasn't expecting him to ask that.

"Why?" she asked in a cool voice, refusing to turn around and let her surprise be known.

"Well, why not? You're smart, you clearly know how to handle yourself…your skills are simply wasted as a shoemaker."

"Oh, and they aren't with you?" Victoria snarled, spinning around and jabbing him the chest with her finger. "Some nobody detective with a fixation on a celebrity musician?"

If Doucet was insulted, his face betrayed no emotion to prove it.

"Private detective with a fixation on a celebrity musician."

Victoria wanted to scream. "Oh, you are hopeless!"

"Why, Miss Rivera! That's one of the nicest things anybody's ever said to me!"

She gave him the dirtiest glare she could muster and stormed off, her speed so fast that he had to lightly jog to match her pace. It gave her a sort of vindictive pleasure to watch it.

"I like you, Victoria. You make me laugh. So, my offer will always stand, if you wish to accept it."

Great. The egocentric narcissist likes me.

"Don't hold your breath" she scowled, turning to face him once more, but the sentence drifted off as she did so.

The street was empty, like he was never there. It was an exact repeat of that moment in the garden just last night. She stood stock-still as the world continued to move around her, half-expecting him to jump out from behind a bin, before folding her arms and continuing her trudge back to the house.

One day, I'm going to learn how he does that.