“You’ve got to be kidding,” Hank said. “That there’s the best dang mar-gyoo-rita in all of Omaha.”

“Might be,” Jimmy said, “but it’s not what I need.” He gripped the bar so that the shaking of his bony hands was less obvious.

It was happy hour in the Tiki Lounge, but people never felt happy when they saw Jimmy’s condition. Weak, emaciated, shaky—most thought he was HIV positive or had Parkinson’s. Very few believed he was under a voodoo curse.

“We got more in the kitchen,” Hank said. “Maybe sea salt or—”

Jimmy waved him off.

Jimmy was a margarita maven. No one had greater passion for a drink than Jimmy had for that frozen concoction. He loved it so much that it was killing him.

“It’s not the salt,” he said, “it’s the shaker—I need that crazy wooden Loa fetish with the glass shaker in its belly. I hoped your tacky tiki-themed doodad would do, but Mama Creole’s spells are tougher than kitsch.”

Jimmy pushed himself away from the bar and walked out on shaky legs.

“Guess I just have to keep on searching.”