Voodoo Lounge

by Christian Bauman

  Chapter

  13

  The friendliest of all fires.

  Behind closed eyelids, in sleep thin and restless, they were locked and loaded face to face behind rifle sights with the FADH platoon in the park. In the corner of her vision she could see the feet of the lynched man, pale purple-brown, but there was a wind now, his feet swinging back and forth, swaying dead wood, the stink of black rot and onions on the breeze;strange fruit. She heard Marc Hall’s yell, the crack of his pistol shot, but someone aimed wrong because Pelton was falling, on his back in the dirt, blood pumping from a hole in his throat as he grasped Tory’s boots, smearing everything red and brown.Blood! He needs blood! a medic yelled in her ear.Give it to him, Sergeant! And she put the muzzle of her rifle on Pelton’s forehead, watching as his eyes rolled and spun in fear, and she squeezed the trigger.

  Late Morning

  Chapter

  14

  “Pastor says—” The young woman’s mouth kept moving, sentences flowing from thin lips, but Junior Davis’s ears closed after those first two words. He nodded a few times, forced a smile when he thought it might be appropriate, but heard not a word she said and instead concentrated on stirring coffee and thinkingI wish we had real eggs. The ship rolled, long morning-sea rolls, far and slow, everyone in the dining room eating breakfast with one hand to the edge of a table, not enough to hold tight but ready to hold on. The sun was bright through the windows, warm across the scuffed hardwood deck and reflecting off the bulkheads and Junior’s eyes were two thin slits against the glare. The sun felt good, though, on his arms.

  “—didn’t think it could be true, but Pastor says—”

  Nod, nod, weak smile, excuse me could you pass the salt, nod, smile, thatis amazing I’m sure you’re right, nod, praise Jesus.

  On a normal ship he might have a wardroom or crew’s galley to retreat away to, but with exactly two on the paid crew, and all in service of the Lord, he and McBride were lucky to have cabins to themselves.

  “—so when Pastor told me that—”

  A hundred people on this boat, and conversation never strayed far fromPastor said this andPastor said that andWell, Pastor told me andOh, I don’t know if Pastor would care for that. He’d come on crew late winter and thought it all funny, before he’d lived in its smell awhile, and stewed in its gospel. Now he just wished they’d get some real eggs from time to time and tried not to think much else about it.

  “—but like Pastor always says—”

  A third of the boat was married couples—some with cabins to themselves, some not—and the midwife seemed to pull a new baby every other month or so; a few of them had to be copulating, at least occasionally. The Pastor talk was so pervasive on the boat, Junior Davis had come to assume it penetrated into procreation as well. He imagined a smack across a pale, Christian ass and a wild yell ofWho’s your Pastor? and almost spit his coffee across the table. Fist to mouth, he managed to hold it in, trying to turn his laugh into intestinal distress.

  “Are you okay?” the young woman asked. Junior Davis got his breath and gave assurances and she said, “You have to watch every bite you eat in these less-fortunate countries. Like Pastor always says, the mark of good health is—”

  Pastor says harder! Harder!

  “—and I don’t know how it is these people live like that, but once I was talking to Pastor and—”

  Ohhhhh…pastorpastorpastorpastorpastorPASTOR!

  “Could I have some more of that coffee, please?” he said, holding up his mug, and she poured it for him.

  “More eggs?” she asked, holding out the bowl, and he smiled and shook his head and said no. He couldn’t do it anymore, the fake eggs. Just looking at them made him ill. No one else seemed to like them either; the bowls never seemed to get lower than half-empty at breakfast these days.

  They’d been getting local eggs for a while, on the barter system. Some fresh meat, too; goats and small fish. The provisions came in exchange for spiritual services: preaching, baptizing, praying. But life was supply and demand, and the American missionaries had a greater need for what the Haitians had than any desire on the part of the Haitians to be saved or preached to. When they’d first got to Haiti, round about May, this dining hall was filled every day at 2:00P.M. with Haitians coming onboard for Pastor’s daily service. And they’d leave behind all sorts of things: eggs and vegetables, small brown bottles of liquor (Pastor had these quietly poured overboard, unless Junior Davis or McBride got to them first), small weavings and idols (Pastor had these quietly burned). The room would fill, men and women and always with their babies, too, kids running up and down while Pastor did her slow, quiet thing on the small wood platform McBride had built her. Junior Davis would slip in the back of the room and watch sometimes; McBride, too—it was the only part of the vessel they kept air-conditioned, and the air cranked hard in there. Junior Davis would sit still in the back, trying to think what this old ship was like sixty years before, as a small ocean cruiser, the dining hall filled evenings with tuxedos and gowns and flirts and champagne. McBride would come in, sweating rivers from the outside heat, and sit under an air vent with hands folded in his lap. Junior Davis didn’t know what McBride thought about on those air-conditioned afternoons, but he had a feeling it wasn’t the sermon.

  That was Cap-Haitien. By July they were in Jacmel. The heat went from oppressive to unbearable. The fuel tanks were very low. When Junior Davis remembered to sound the tanks the thin metal measuring tapes came up anemic. There seemed to be no money for fuel, either. Pastor didn’t elaborate, but something had changed with the missionary organization in the States. There were a few worried, private radio messages between her and whoever was in charge; the last time, Pastor came out to the bridge and instead of having McBride arrange for a fuel purchase ordered Junior Davis to switch off the generator except for mealtimes.

  That killed afternoon air-conditioning. All the good Christians seemed surprised when the Haitians immediately stopped filling the dining hall for prayer service every day, but Junior Davis had called it. Supply and demand. Pastor retreated to her cabin and stayed there a week. By the time she came out, instant eggs were a menu staple.

  “Supply and demand,” Junior Davis said.

  “I’m sorry?” The woman had a worried look on her face.

  Davis managed another smile. “Just thinking aloud,” he said.

  The woman nodded, chewing on her narrow lip. Around the dining hall the good Christians were finishing breakfast, bringing plates into the galley for cleaning.

  “You look a little sick, Mister Davis,” she said.

  Junior Davis was trying to remember this precious thing’s name. She’d been fluttering her eyelashes in his direction three or four weeks now, but for the life of him he couldn’t hold on to her name. Gayle? Maybe. Lorraine? He thought it was Lorraine.

  “I’m a little under the weather, Lorraine,” he said, without the slightest trace of irony. “I haven’t felt myself for quite a while.”

  The eyelash flutters hadn’t gone unnoticed. Unacknowledged, mostly, but not unnoticed. If Junior Davis didn’t know better he’d say Lorraine was trying to get to know him. In the biblical sense. The ship being what it was, you’d think this wasn’t likely. But then the Lord works in mysterious ways. It didn’t much matter, though. He had rules now. Strict rules. He was damaged goods, and there were rules to follow.

  “More coffee?” she said, holding the plastic carafe. It was horrible stuff; weak and watery. But it was all they had.

  “Thank you, Lorraine,” he said, and she smiled sweetly, filling his cup. People seemed to want to take care of him. It had always been so. He hadn’t checked a mirror but was fairly sure what he looked like this morning, and couldn’t imagine anyone on the ship seemed more in need of care than him.

  That, and nothing set the Jesus girls’ hearts to beating like a convert. Although, with all that fluttering, he wasn’t sure conversion was where Lorraine’s head was at.

 
“Good morning, Mister Davis.” McBride slid a chair out from the table and lowered himself into it, across from his engineer. Junior Davis lifted coffee mug in greeting, a thin expression on his face. The vessel master was unshaven and tired, forearms dark with grease, gray T-shirt and jeans looking like they could get up and walk on their own. He’d been awake all night, and would remain up—and almost constantly on the bridge—until next they saw port. Davis was the sole engineer, but there was only so much you could do under way in the pit. He had volunteers down there to keep an eye on the gauges, and run for him if something happened, but not much was needed beyond that. McBride, on the other hand, was the only real able seaman left on the ship. It hadn’t always been so; when he’d taken the job there’d been a crew of three under him. Clean, praying, Godly men, and not a one over twenty-four, but two from tug families and one a maritime academy graduate, all able to stand a solo bridge watch. They’d drifted off, his crew, as God grew heavier on the boat and the ship sailed less. Now it was just him, against all maritime regulations and common sense. But what could you do. It was calm enough now; he had a few onboard he’d trained in fundamentals, and one of them was on the bridge so McBride could slip away for a cup of coffee and talk with Davis.

  McBride nodded at the girl sitting next to Davis—he couldn’t remember her name. “Morning, Miss,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I need a moment alone with himself.” He cocked his head at Davis, winked at her. She apologized and stood, walking over to a table on the other side of the dining hall, joining a group of women finishing their breakfast. McBride’s eye followed as she went; too skinny for his taste, but a fine ass under those shorts. She’d do well to steer clear of Davis, but it was obvious from watching that’s where she was headed.

  “You know the rules, Davis,” McBride said. “Not unless you plan on marrying her, and even then not until you do.”

  Davis gazed up at the ceiling. “There’s lots of rules,” he said, “from lots of directions. And I follow them all.”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Don’t get fucking preachy with me, McBride.”

  “Watch your mouth,” the older man hissed.

  Junior Davis looked down into his coffee and didn’t say anything.

  McBride eyed him, then sighed and reached for the carafe, filling the mug he’d brought to the table. He took a sip, then said, “Forget it.”

  “Yeah.” Davis looked up and shrugged.

  They sat and drank their coffee in silence, watching the women at the far table. Lorraine looked over her shoulder, saw them staring, and put her eyes quickly back to her own group.

  McBride sipped from his cup, leaned back in his chair. “You come on here ’cause you knew we were going to Haiti,” he said.

  Davis nodded. “I didn’t make a secret of it.”

  “No, and nothing wrong with it. But I think you wanted to go to Haiti because you had a good idea your Army wouldn’t be far behind.”

  The engineer raised his eyebrows. “I came to Haiti,” he said, “to drink.”

  “Indeed. And a good job you’ve done of it, too, my friend.”

  Davis laughed despite himself, and said, “I was always a good soldier, Skipper. I get a mission and I see it through.”

  McBride chuckled with him, then stopped. He didn’t say anything for a moment, then asked, “What’s driving you, Davis?”

  Junior Davis opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. He shrugged again. McBride grunted, crossed his arms over his chest. There was no way in. No way at all. Davis was killing himself and he’d likely take his reasons to the grave.

  “Listen,” McBride said. “There’s going to be an American boat in Jacmel. An Army boat.”

  Davis looked up. “Mike Boats?”

  “No. A ship. An L something.”

  “LCU.”

  “Maybe.” McBride pushed a hand down into his front pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, a fax. He glanced over it then said, “No, an LSV.” Davis kept his face poker-straight. There were three LSVs in the active-duty Army; it didn’t necessarily mean anything. McBride raised his eyes to Davis, and spoke slowly, not unkindly: “I can’t have trouble in Jacmel,” he said, and Davis nodded. “Am I wrong in thinking you didn’t leave the service on the best possible terms?”

  “No,” Davis said quietly. “You’re not wrong.”

  “And am I wrong in thinking some people on this Army ship might be familiar with you?”

  “It’s possible.”

  McBride leaned forward. “It’s desperate for us, here,” he said. “I know you don’t care about Pastor, or these people, but it’s my job. And they deserve a break. She deserves a break.”

  Davis nodded, staring at his lap.

  “Look,” McBride said, “I’m gonna leave it up to you. You know what’s at stake for us. You act as you see fit, but I’m thinking you try to stay out of sight.”

  Davis nodded again, unable to look up. It didn’t mean anything, he thought. The odds were so against it. Yes, once he’d had thoughts along these lines—itwas why he’d joined this ship. Itwas what he’d been thinking. In a drunken, vague, hazy way, but still.

  But not now. There was no redemption and he knew it. Too far gone. He’d set out for it, but he wasn’t here—on this ship, in Haiti—as a way back in now. He was here to check out.

  “I won’t be any trouble,” he said, then finally looked up, looking McBride in the eye. “I’ll be no trouble.”

  McBride nodded. “Okay.” He stood to leave. Davis pointed at the fax paper in his hand and said, “Can I see that?” McBride put it on the table, then turned and walked from the dining hall, sea legs braced in the long rolls of the morning ocean.

  Junior Davis reached out and touched the paper, drumming his fingers on it. He looked up and saw Lorraine smiling at him from across the room, and he smiled back.Oh, Lorraine, Lorraine, he thought. He picked up the paper. It was a simple fax, providing ETA information for Jacmel and a friendly skipper-to-skipper greeting. There was a typed sign-off:CW3 JOHN MANNINO, US ARMY, TC, COMMANDING. The vessel designation was below that:UNITED STATES ARMY VESSELKENNETH E .GILMANLSV-16.

  Tory, I have made you a place in my heart.

  Davis’s right hand was tapping feverishly against his leg. Noticing, he gripped his thigh, squeezing as hard as he could.

  Tory, I have—

  Like a shot, his hand went up then stopped short before making contact with his face, remembering where he was, all the motion and energy in his body going suddenly to his feet instead, both of them tapping uncontrollably.

  —made you a place in my heart.

  Right-hand fingers on his left forearm, he pinched, hard, then again, then again, fingernails digging. The fax crumpled under the pressure in his left hand, and when he pinched this time he drew blood, surface capillaries popping like grapes. When Lorraine came up behind him he was so startled he almost hit her, jumping to his feet, then falling back into his chair, mumbling apologies.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said, reaching out for his arm. He pulled back, not letting her touch, grabbing a napkin from the table and pressing it against his arm.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said again, but still he kept his arm away.

  He said, “I have a bandage in my cabin, Lorraine. But I’m a little unsteady. Would you help me there?”

  Chapter

  15

  The lieutenant in charge of the 10th Mountain soldiers guarding the port had requisitioned himself an open-air brick hut, set back from the actual wire and—hopefully—out of grenade-throwing range. The lieutenant was the same one, Tory realized, who’d had trouble opening the port’s main gate yesterday. His name was Vine. Lieutenant Vine had been to the airport earlier this morning and carried somewhat harder news than port gossip.

  “Biggest thing so far I guess was the Marines, up to Cap-Haitien.”

  “Hit?” Tory said.

  “No, or not bad anyhow. They all walked away. Killed like eight or
nine FADH, though. Right at their own police station. Blew ’em away.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah, no shit.” He shook his head, then said again, “Killed ’em.” Like he was trying to get his head wrapped around it.

  “What were they doing, Sir?” She was thinking of the FADH yesterday, in the park. The lynching.

  He shrugged. “Don’t know.” Vine took a drag off his cigarette. He looked out beyond the brick wall as he smoked, watching the crowd—shifting and moving around the port fence in the thick heat. “FADH’s bad business, though, I think,” he said. “Not quite sure what the deal is there.”

  Tory remembered her question about the FADH.

  Good or bad?

  Yes.

  “They’re hanging people in the streets,” she said.

  The lieutenant nodded and flicked his cigarette butt over the bricks. “All’s I know is someone needs to uncork head from ass on this issue. No one knows who it is we’re fighting.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Tory walked up to the wire to wait with Pelton and Riddle. The air smelled of burning rubber again; not as thick as yesterday, but there all the same, tendrils of odor heavy on a light breeze.

  The little buses zooming around Port-au-Prince’s narrow streets were calledtap-taps. Some were actual buses, some ancient, modified VW and Volvo vans. The Haitians said it fast, two quick consonants—tap-tap.