“We finally got used to it though, and in fact that was one of the things she taught us.” Brad glanced at the other two women. They were looking down at their plates, but together slowly looked up at him with only the whites of their eyes showing.
“Holy shit!” Brad jumped back in his seat and dropped his fork. Consuelo and Josephine did a slow blink and their eyes looked normal again. They were giggling like little girls. Lydia was not amused.
“Please excuse the childish behavior of my sisters, Brad. They have an immature sense of humor sometimes.” The look she was giving her sisters was scaring him almost as much as the white-eyes thing had. Lydia suddenly smiled big and continued on with her story.
“Wiola taught us each different things. I learned some magic tricks, Josephine got her start in alchemy, and Consuelo learned about men.” All eyes went to Consuelo who smiled modestly, then worked her eyebrows up and down suggestively.
“Our teachers taught us a lot of other things too. Practical things to help us take care of ourselves in the real world. They took us on field trips to places like hospitals, garages, and jails. We learned first-aid, what it’s like to be blind or deaf, basic car repair, con games, disguises, and how to fight dirty. Sadly, we haven’t seen or heard from our teachers since our mother died last year. I guess they decided we were ready to be on our own.”
Brad was at a loss as to what to say. As strange as the story sounded, he was sure everything Lydia had told him was the truth. They continued eating in silence and Brad noticed the three women finished their food at exactly the same time he did. Lydia clapped her hands together softly and smiled.
“Now, who wants pie?”
♦
That was some good pie too; Josephine brought me a little piece that evening. She lay on her bed without any clothes on and read while I sat between these two big, soft, warm pillows she has on her chest, and ate pie. She read poetry to me for a while and then got that look in her eye that meant a quick trip across the street for a ripe mango. Luckily, I had foreseen that coming and had one rolled up under the bed already. If you’ve never had a mango tongue bath, you don’t know what you’re missing.
∨ Key Witch ∧
6
The Artist
The sky threw a party and invited all its friends. The birds showed up early, as usual, flying around and squawking about the weather. The sun made an appearance, but remained aloof, preferring to look down on the rest of the guests. Some white puffy clouds showed up fashionably late and mingled easily, laughing and telling jokes. They were the life of the party. The trees were pissed and just stood around on the ground pretending not to care they hadn’t been invited.
Miss Doris, fully abloom in freshly purchased floral prints and colorful scarves, found him on a sunny morning while taking one of her first strolls around the island. He was drawing a mural with charcoal on the side of a house. It was quite an impressive mural of one of the early Dali paintings. The young artist would tell her he could see paintings in his mind as clearly as the first time he saw them in art books. He hinted that he’d spent many hours in libraries and art galleries stoned to the gills on psychedelics.
A small crowd had formed that morning, watching the eccentric young man who’d been drawing on sidewalks, trashcans, buildings, and even trees for the past few days. Miss Doris was a patron of the arts herself, and recognized the talent he possessed.
Living alone in a house she’d rented recently on the edge of Old Town, she’d just turned 50, but was still young enough to fully appreciate more than just the most obvious talents of the young artist.
Miss Doris coaxed him away from the scene just as the owner of the house was going into a full red-faced rage over the surrealistic drawing on the side of his newly renovated cigar-maker’s house. She took him home and tried to explain the ways of the world to the young man with the wild eyes.
“My naughty Dali, you should be more careful. People can be fun, but they can be dangerous too. Understand?”
Orange Dali looked up from the food she had set out for him. He acted like he hadn’t eaten in days – a true starving artist. “I hear voices in my head.” He tapped his temple before going back to his sandwich.
“I see. They tell you to draw on houses?” She was sitting across the kitchen table, trying to see inside those eyes.
“No, of course not, that would be crazy. The voices tell me to pick up bread, or that the kid got in trouble again, that the check is in the mail, the estimate for the car was more than expected, and sometimes, just before they stop, the voices tell me they love me.”
By the third sandwich, Miss Doris had learned that Orange Dali thought he might have been in a research experiment of some kind that involved implantable cellphones. Something had obviously gone wrong.
“Where do you come from, my dear Dali? Where were you before you came here?”
He had found a container of potato salad in the fridge. She gave him a spoon. He gave her a blank look.
“I really don’t remember. I just come here for the season.”
“Ah, the tourist season. So you can sell your artwork to tourists?”
He gave her an incredulous look and a little shake of his head.
“No, I don’t care about tourists. I’m here for the hurricane season.” He looked at the fridge. “Can I have some of that pie?”
Miss Doris took good care of her new friend whenever he came around after that, and more than once they spent the night in her bed. But Miss Doris soon found out it was best to let him come and go as he pleased. He was quite the mad artist and not ready to be domesticated.
♦
Orange Dali spent a lot of time watching the world go by from his secret spot next to a bike rack in Old Town. In the morning the spot was in the shade from a T-shirt shop, and in the afternoon the intense sun was behind a big tree across the street.
“Oh my, did you see his eyes? I bet there isn’t a thought in that poor man’s head!”
Orange Dali heard a lot of that from the tourists passing by. Of course he had thoughts, but most of them were very old thoughts. He had new thoughts too, usually about art, but sometimes about the weather or Miss Doris.
He wasn’t really hidden very well sitting in his secret spot on the busy street. Sometimes he would hold a palm frond to help him blend-in, but usually he just held very still, hoping no one would notice. It was important not to be noticed. People tended to act different if they thought no one was watching.
A man with long, tangled hair on a faded bicycle rode by. “Hey OD!” It was one of the local barflies, probably out during the light of day to hustle some tourists for a semi-honest buck. He didn’t move or acknowledge the man, didn’t want anyone to notice him. He wished he had a palm frond to hide behind.
A pale young couple speaking German walked by holding hands and looking hung-over. They stopped talking and stared at him as they walked by. He had decided to use his hat and orange cape to hide himself, but it didn’t seem to work on Germans.
Another couple, these both males, not as young but just as pale, strolled by gawking and whispering. They were looking at everything, just off one of the cruise ships.
“Oh my God! Look at that! Take my picture next to this creature!”
One of the strollers carefully stood next to the still and huddled form wrapped in orange plastic. The big-faced Swatch on the man’s wrist hung down directly in Orange Dali’s face. The ringing started in his head and the watch began to melt. His body shook with each ring, and he carefully slipped a hand out from under the cape and popped himself a good one on the side of the head. The watch-wearer jumped back to his friend’s side, and the ringing in the artist’s head finally stopped completely as they walked away.
“H-hello.”
It was the delicious dark-haired young woman from the old hotel. She was standing right in front of him, smiling. She had very intriguing eyes. He could tell she could see him, so there was no sense trying to hide. He tilted his
hat back and gave her a little smile of his own.
“Have you s-s-seen this w-woman? It’s s-someone who was around h-here a few m-months ago.” The image of the melting watch was burning in his brain and he needed to get it out. He took the picture from the babe with the big dark eyes and turned it over. With the picture on the ground, he produced a pen and furiously drew the image of the melting wristwatch on the back. When he was done, he handed it to the beauty and sat back on his spot. As she was giving his drawing a drop-jaw look, he noticed the picture of the woman.
“No, never seen her before. Sorry.” Suddenly overcome with self-consciousness, he hid behind his hat and cape again.
“Y-you’re a bit of a-a-an odd one!” He peeked out at her and she gave him a wink. “N-nice drawing. C-can I k-keep it?”
He buried his head deeper and waved his hand to dismiss any notion that he would want the picture. He’d only wanted to get it out of his head.
“T-thanks, I g-gotta go. B-bye!”
He snuck a look as she walked away. Thinking about those eyes. There was a man in a new car parked across the street watching her too. Something wasn’t right about the man.
♦
Josephine, my love, showed me a picture she got from the crazy street person with the funny mustache. Guy could draw; you got to give him that. She put it on the wall with some tape on one of the few spots on the wall that didn’t already have a picture, map, chemistry diagram, or movie poster. She’s got this one poster called E.T. with this weird little dude who looks a little like my cousin Ernie237. She told me about the movie one night. Sounded like a real yawner to me.
∨ Key Witch ∧
7
The Beach
The sun didn’t show up for work the next day. Didn’t even call in. Swore it would never go to another party. Getting too old for that stuff. Slept all day and some dark clouds from down south had to cover. The clouds were so upset about the short notice they couldn’t be bothered with raining.
Louie watched the hot little number walk away from the freak with the orange cape. He’d dropped Gustov at the beach a couple of hours earlier and tried to find a parking place where he could keep an eye on things. Parking was a real bitch in this town. He’d moved the car once, but it was still in a lousy spot in the sun. He was sweating like a pig and his jock itch was coming back. What a shit job this was turning out to be.
To top it off, Gustov was being a real pain in the ass. Didn’t want to help with the surveillance thing, said he’d be ready to do his part when it was time to go to work. Moody fucker. Just watched the Weather Channel in the motel room and fed the birds out at the beach. If it wasn’t for the man’s reputation, he’d make Gus for some kind of fucking weirdo.
♦
It was the best beach in Key West, but it still wasn’t all that much. Gustov grew up in the Miami area – now those were some beaches. Miles of sandy beach and blue water. It was a little odd in Miami these days the way the towering condos and hotels shaded the beach in the afternoon, and holiday weekends the place was a zoo, but it was still the best in the state.
When he was a kid, there was always a big day at the beach every weekend. Sundays the old man was at the Dolphins game or camped out in front of the tube, but Saturdays were beach day. His mom would make all kinds of food, they’d load the station wagon with every kind of beach shit known to man, and head out early. Most of the time they’d meet up with some friends or family, then turn the kids loose while the adults sat back and ate, drank, talked, and yelled at the kids.
It wasn’t a bad deal unless you didn’t like the beach. Of all the things Gus was afraid of as a child, most of them seemed to be at the beach in large numbers.
When he was little he was terrified of the seagulls. Winged sea rats, screeching and shitting everywhere, jumping on any little scrap of food dropped on the beach. One summer his parents got a new camera, and to use up the last of the film they decided to get some pictures of their wimpy kid. It was some big family thing at the beach that day and some of his older girl cousins were throwing Fritos up over their heads for the seagulls to catch.
The first six pack of beer Gus’s dad drank that day helped him decide to get the little wuss to overcome his fear of the stupid birds by holding a Frito over his head for the picture. Gus wasn’t having any of it until his dad swatted him in the head and stuck his angry beer and fried chicken scented face up close.
“Quit being such a little baby in front of your cousins and do it!”
Gus looked to his mother for help but she was setting her bottomless glass of rum-punch in the shade and picking up the camera. “Do what your father tells you!”
Gus stood over by the water with his eyes tightly closed, crying, and holding a Frito over his head with seagulls descending on him from all directions. Two birds made a pass at the same time. One grabbed the prize and some finger, and the other put a wing in his face.
His eyes popped open and he shrieked. His girl cousins started laughing their heads off. When he realized he’d wet his pants, he ran into the water. It was too late though – the moment had been captured on film for posterity. For years it was the hit of the family photo album for every houseguest who visited.
He finally got even with his dad.
The old man had gut cancer and it was either that or the drinking was going to kill him soon enough anyway. Gus spent a few years after that getting his room and board from the state, and his continuing education from his fellow inmates. By the time he got out of prison he was seriously warped, but he had grown into a big man and there wasn’t much he was afraid of anymore. Before long he was doing contract collections for a Miami businessman named Joey Thumbs.
There were seagulls on the beach in Key West, and some kids were throwing crackers. Gustov was wearing his usual slacks and sport shirt, watching from a picnic table in the shade. After the kids left he took a paper bag out of his pocket and threw a few handfuls up in the air. By the third throw, there were enough birds that not much was hitting the sand. When the bag was empty he called his partner on the cellphone. Dinner time, his treat.
♦
“I’m gonna make the call.” Gustov got up and went to the pay phone just outside the restaurant. The man didn’t like you to call him from a cellphone. Funny that way.
Louie headed for the can. He’d been needing to make a trip to the men’s room and get cleaned up since his partner told him the story about the time some broad had cut out on a guy from one of the big families up north.
Bitch had grabbed not only a tidy sum of the family’s cash, but a diary the guy’s wife had been keeping. Said it was one of your more incriminating documents, and she was going to sell it to the newspapers if anyone fucked with her. Turns out she had some boyfriend on the side too, and they’d headed to Miami. Hide out there for a while.
Gustov got the job. Said it took him a couple days to find out where they were staying. Little apartment a couple blocks from the beach. Nice place. Kitchen with all your modern appliances for a carefree life. Stuck the boyfriends hand down the garbage disposal till she came up with the diary. Boyfriend wasn’t much, bled to death right there over the sink. Woman was so distraught she shot herself in the back of the head twice and jumped off a bridge into Biscayne Bay.
Louie didn’t need to hear about that kind of shit. Very unsanitary thing, bleeding to death like that in the kitchen. He was having enough trouble getting to sleep these days as it was without thinking about some big piece of work like Gustov sticking some little screamer’s hand down a garbage disposal.
While Gustov was making the call he went to the restroom and soaped his hands up real good. He’d lost his appetite during the telling of the story, but ate the steak anyway. He didn’t want his partner to know the effect the story had on him. The steak wasn’t setting too good in his stomach. He gave his hands another quick one, then splashed some water on his face before going back out to the table.
“You fall in or something? I was
about to go in there looking for you.” Gustov was smiling, so Louie figured he must have gotten good news. “I hope you remembered to wash your hands.”
The big guy was Mr. Good Humor for once. Louie looked at the dessert menu. Maybe a little bowl of ice cream to settle his stomach.
The big man dropped his voice. “It looks like it might be a go. We’ll know for sure by tomorrow.”
Gustov motioned to a waiter and leaned in a little closer. “This should be a nice easy job. I’d like to do some more of this kind of work, so let’s make sure there aren’t any problems, okay?”
Louie didn’t like the way his partner was looking at him, shot him the look right back. They gave the waiter their dessert order, then went back to it. The only thing he’d been told when he signed on was if the job moved past the surveillance phase, the pay scale went up considerably. Gustov had filled him in a little more a couple days earlier. Just a little.
“So, we making a grab, or what?”
The big man waved it off.
“Patience. You know all you need to know at this point.”
This kind of bullshit wasn’t making Louie a happy man. It also wasn’t helping his digestion either. This was the first time the two had worked together, even though they both did most of their work for the same man. Gustov seemed to enjoy keeping him just a little on edge. Must be the bully in him.
“I will tell you this. From what the boss was saying, it’s got something to do with a real estate scam. Real big-time stuff.”
♦
Jeremy spends a lot of time trying to figure out a way to make a quick buck. He got enough money together forging lottery tickets to buy a computer so he could start an electronic chain letter on the Internet. A few days later he started getting money in the mail. He was real happy.
Key Witch Page 6