Sirens of DemiMonde (HalfWorld Trilogy Book 1)

by N. Godwin

  “I see where you’re going,” Killer says, nodding his head.

  “What’s your point?” Washington shoots back, crossing his huge arms across his chest and skeptically scowling at Ken and Bud.

  “The point, Lieutenant, “Bud argues, “is that there is a point here somewhere, but I think it eludes us all.”

  “Bullshi--bull!” Alvarez scoffs. “You think you’re better than people of color just because you’re all lily white!” he says.

  “Tell me something,” Andrea says, facing Alvarez and poking him in his chest with an accusing finger while his friends laugh. “Do you or do you not believe you’re superior to me because you have outdoor plumbing?”

  “Hell yeah!” he laughs along with the men. “I could crush you in a heartbeat.”

  “Ah ha!” Andrea exclaims.

  “So you admit to your prejudice?” I jump in and ask Alvarez with a chuckle, caught up in the fun. “Just because you could squash me like a fly?”

  “Yeah, well, maybe not you,” Alvarez considers, viewing me through squinting eyes.

  “Yeah because Mother would follow you to hell,” McBain tells Alvarez with a laugh as I growl.

  “But you still think you’re better than me, don’t you?!” Andrea snaps at McBain. “Deep down, you believe this, don’t you, because you’re a guy?”

  “Well, now I wouldn’t say better,” McBain replies and cocks his head from side to side. “Just better equipped to protect you lovely ladies from the harsh realities of--”

  “Gag!” all the girls say, even me.

  “Women!” Randy scoffs. “Just except you ain’t our equals with brain power, finances, strength, sports, war or--”

  “Actually,” Rawly interrupts with an impatient wave of his hand. “One of our nearest military Counterparts is a group of women.”

  “Yeah right!” Randy laughs. “Buddy, you really believe our little Jimmy-Sue here is gonna give you the time of day because you champion women? Dream on!” he laughs.

  “Randal!” Ali scolds him.

  “Well you know she ain’t!” he insists looking down. “And you know that’s what this whole display is for, to try and convince Jimmy-Sue to unlock her knees.”

  The sound of chairs screeching across the floor is almost deafening as the SEALs jump to their feet and surround Randy. All of them except Rawly, are facing Randy down angrily and we all hold our breath.

  Rawly just chuckles and lightly flicks his index finger. “Sit,” he orders, and they do.

  “Doom on you, redneck!” Salazar spits at Randy.

  “Who is this guy?” Edwards asks, eyeing Randy suspiciously.

  “Socrates,” Ken and Horst laugh.

  “I just say what people really think,” Randy tells them proudly.

  “Socrates?” Salazar laughs.

  “Anyone got any hemlock?” Washington shouts.

  “That’s my line!” Ken and I say laughing harder.

  Rawly waits until we finish laughing and he addresses Randy again: “One of the most covert arms of the Israeli army consists of women,” he tells a gaping Randy. ”And you wouldn’t believe how beautiful and how lethal they are. Twenty-something year old fighting machines that even you wouldn’t be stupid enough to harass.”

  “Bull!” Randy says.

  “Why wouldn’t he be stupid enough?” Alvarez wants to know. “He’s stupid enough to harass you.”

  While they continue toying with Randy, I notice Washington and McBain have come to lean against my counter with their backs to me. I watch them long enough to see as they each very discretely drop a hundred dollar bill in the donation jar. They move away, sit back down and seamlessly jump back into the debate.

  As Washington sits, Cecile makes her way over to him. She stands in front of him staring at his face, his hands, and his feet. He smiles at her as she takes hold of his nose and moves his face up and down, back and forth, with serious precision.

  “She ain’t—hasn’t never--ever seen a black man as big and pretty as you before,” Kelly tells him as she blushes and looks down. “None of us has.”

  “Come here you pretty little child!” Washington laughs and scoops Cecile up in his arms as she squeals. To my amazement she lets this monster hold her on his lap and continues to study him closely then begins rolling her hands in front of his face.

  “She wants you to do the brown countdown with her,” Kelly tells Washington.

  “The what?”

  “Tell her about someone brown, just like us,” Kelly tells him proudly.

  I watch as Edwards moves up against my bar and pretend to be yawning as he drops a hundred dollar bill in the donation jar. So that was it! Rawly was on another mission of mercy. I check the swearing jar. Sure enough there are twelve hundred dollar bills inside it, too.

  “Interestingly enough,” Washington is telling Kelly, Cecile and the rest of the room, “those Southern slave owners, European immigrants mainly, had no idea they were literally creating their own worst nightmare. They bought and sold our ancestors from all parts of Africa because we were strong and well accustomed to this type of environment. They bred us with different tribes for specific purposes; as field slaves they bred our tribes for size, strength and endurance, for their house slaves they bred tribes known for their intelligence, beauty, artistic abilities, etc... What they couldn’t know is how this infusion of selective breeding would affect our progeny. Through our twist of fate we have evolved into one of the most superior races on the face of the earth.

  “Look at me,” Washington says standing up straight and tall with Cecile still in his arms. “The slave owner who bought my ancestors bred my father’s kin, a Mandingo warrior, to the daughter of a famous Wattusi hunter. Around the turn of the 20th century we had an infusion of Cherokee and French Canadian. What you see standing before you now is an adaptation of strength, agility and brains. That little sister is evolution at its finest.”

  “Cool!” Kelly claps. “Me, too?”

  “Every American has this in common if you think about it. We’re all hybrids, one way or another.”

  “Now, wait,” Ken argues, “that’s only if you believe in the concept of genetics over environment.”

  “Ha!” Randy laughs. “You just said black blood wasn’t smart till it married an Indian or Canuck!”

  “Whoa!” the SEALs say ominously.

  “You’ve obviously never met a Watusi,” McBain laughs. “Ah come on, Mother, can’t we hurt him just a little?”

  “This cake-eater’s got himself a death wish,” Alvarez says spitting on my freshly polished wood floor. “Maybe a little C4 up his ugly wazoo would teach him some manners?”

  “What I’m saying boy,” Washington replies calmly, “is that we’re all hybrids here. Every single one of us, and that’s what makes Americans the most evolved race on the face of the earth.”

  “Wow!” Randy says. “That’s really cool!”

  “Take you, boy. What’s your bloodline?”

  “Irish,” Randy says proudly.

  “And?”

  “And I don’t know what else. My mom was from somewhere in Kansas.”

  “I see,” Washington considers. “Then that would place you somewhere out in a corn field, always blowing blarney and looking for a pot of gold.”

  Everyone claps and whistles while Randy pouts and stomps his feet. “Hey, I think I got me some German too.”

  “How about you, Kelly, any idea where you’re from?”

  Kelly looks utterly miserable and shrugs. “Don’t know,” she says.

  “Let’s figure it out then. What’s your specialty? What do you do the very best?”

  “She sings!” I say with pride as Kelly looks coy, then smiles big.

  “And she’s a fast learner,” Ken adds affectionately. “Crazy smart.”

  “Ah, then my guess is you’re East African. Possibly Ethiopian with a touch of Kenyan.”

  “Really?” Kelly asks. “Is that good?”

  “Abs
olutely!” Washington insists. “Now, take Salazar over there. He’s a natural born warrior with a quick temper and a gift for invisibility, but he can be lazy.”

  “So?”

  “So my guess is he’s Mexican and Greek. The Greek part’s the lazy part, not the Mexican, trust me.”

  “Yeah, I am!” Salazar laughs.

  “I don’t know,” I counter. “Sounds like you’re tap dancing over Nazism to me. Intelligence is not an ethnic trait any more than strength is.”

  Washington sits down and turns his head around and studies the faces of the crowd. “Of course not,” he agrees, “but regional traits are hard to ignore. Ever wondered why Jews, no matter where on earth the winds have blown them, always excel in entertainment, science or finance?”

  “Not all of them!” Horst volleys.

  “Enough to be more than mere trend. What about Africans? What do they excel at?” Washington asks.

  “Athletics!” Hobie says and several people whoop in agreement.

  “The arts.”

  “Entertainment and military,” Ken adds thoughtfully.

  “No matter where they end up,” Washington allows with a satisfied smile. “What about the Russians?”

  “Fine arts, sports, and military,” I find myself saying and nodding.

  “No matter where on earth they wind up,” he chuckles again. “Okay, what about the Germans and the Japanese?”

  “Military and machines!”

  “You got it.”

  Everyone claps except for me.

  “So, Washington, you’re arguing that there is something to be said for where God has placed us?” I ponder almost too low for him to hear.

  “Yes, ma’am, “he says.

  “We’re doomed to be shadows of our fathers? Oh my!” I whisper into my fingers.

  He cocks his head and scrutinizes me as the café grows silent. “Forgive me for observing, Miss Maddox, but you are a very ancient soul, so I can only read your closest heritage. Hmm? You’re very proper and organized but you have a strong streak of independence and creativity, so my guess is you’re English, French, and, um, well, well, well, little sister,” he smiles brightly at me, “and Cherokee.”

  “Wow!” I say. “You are good, racist, but good.”

  “I’m not sure that’s racist, Jimmy-Sue,” Ken argues. “It is geography after all. He’d be more of a nationalist, don’t you think?”

  “Do they beget more nationalists?” Andrea wants to know.

  Everyone comments on this or that as Washington downs a fresh beer then addresses Bubba, who looks uncharacteristically sloshed at such an early hour. “So, Bubba, you’ve been married seven times. Enlighten us on what makes up the perfect Southern wife.”

  Bubba doesn’t even bother to tuck his shirt in over his beer-belly as he rises to the occasion. “El, on wod ask she’d ad lea be a dmn f Southn and--”

  Otis interrupts him with an impatient scoff, having himself long ago given up on this very topic with his younger brother. “One would ask,” he translates in rote, “that she at least be a damn fine, Southern cook who’s able to communicate intelligently about football.”

  The entire room bursts out in laughter. Bud jumps to his feet and raises his mug in toast. “To America, long may she reign!”

  “Booyah!”

  “Amen to that!”

  “Darn “F’in’” tuten!”

  “God bless America!”

  Mugs clink, heads are raised proudly and Alan pops into the center of the room. “Would anyone here object to a quick prayer of thanks?” he asks combing back his red bangs from his eyes and nodding his head in anticipation as if getting ready to lead a cheer.

  Everyone reacts by bombarding Alan with a hail of popcorn.

  “I just love what this place does to the male species!” Andrea says wiping her eyes on her apron and giving Hobie a big hug. She hugs Horst next, then John. Robert walks up to Andrea smiling with his arms wide open. She hesitates a moment, then gives him a quick hug, holding her nose along the way.

  Okay, that does it; it’s getting too darn Norman Rockwell! I quickly change the mood of the music away from this weird sentimentality, wondering if I am the only sober person in the room. I disappear in the storage room just to get some privacy and start counting the paper inventory, noticing we’re low on napkins and I should remember to order more tomorrow. I feel a shadow behind me and I spin around impatiently, immediately annoyed and ready to bite.

  “Rawly, for heaven’s sake stop--”

  But it isn’t Rawly behind me, after all, but an inebriated Alvarez standing just inside the storage room, blocking my exit. Although he is only a couple inches taller than me he is still a towering mass of muscle and wrath. His eyes squint over me and I suddenly feel as if I were his enemy.

  “Do I need to scream?” I ask, feeling trapped by this huge angry man before me.

  “You be nicer to Rawly!” he tells me, thrusting his finger at me as if it were a knife. “When he talks to you, you answer him!” he jeers. “He deserves a lot more respect and you’re going to give it to him or else--”

  “Or else what?” I ask and notice how his breathing is getting more rapid by the moment, like a hungry rabid dog.

  Alvarez’ eyes go crazy and he slams his fist into a gallon can of diced tomatoes directly beside my head. As it slams back into the wall I can see the huge dent in the can and I lean as far back as I can and hold my breath while he nurses his knuckles for only a moment.

  “You are the stupidest woman on the face of the earth!” he spits at me. “Lieutenant Commander Hawkings is the finest man in the world. We are brothers till we die. There’s not a man on the team who wouldn’t die for him! To us he’s God!”

  “He’s not God!”

  “You are a scheming puta! You’re the type of woman who likes to tease a man until he goes crazy. It makes you feel strong,” he hisses, wedging my body hopelessly up against the canned goods as I tremble and turn my head away from his flushed, frenzied face.

  “And cornering helpless women makes you feel strong!” I hear Rawly’s angry voice say from somewhere over Alvarez’ shoulder. “Stand down, asshole!”

  Alvarez spins around quickly. “Mother, I was just telling Miss Maddox how much all your brothers--”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” Rawly says and jerks his thumb back over his shoulder.

  He moves aside as Alvarez makes a quick retreat. We are silent as Rawly studies the top of my head while I stare at our feet. His booted feet are huge and being cornered by him is even more unnerving than Alvarez.

  “Are you alright?” he asks.

  “Uh huh,” I lie, exhaling for the first time in at least sixty seconds.

  “Sorry, their manners can get iffy after being away from polite company for too long. I won’t let it happen again.”

  “They’re a pretty intense lot.” My hands are shaking and I realize Alvarez has spooked me more than I’d thought.

  “What we’re you expecting, choir boys?”

  “Expecting?” I ask and shrug. “I’ve never thought about it.” I watch as his face falls and as he quickly turns his back on me to leave I am struck by a revelation. “Oh, Harold,” I ask, “do you have this place bugged?”

  “No,” he says without turning around. He stops and I stare at the muscles on his neck and shoulders as he turns his head to the side to keep me in his peripheral vision. “Should I?”

  “No!”

  “Then don’t call me Harold,” he says as he turns to face me.

  “How did you know we needed money?” He doesn’t move a muscle. “Answer me!”

  “I’ve accessed the café’s financial records, too.”

  “Too, huh? You give new meaning to the word stalk,” I shake my head and laugh bitterly. “The arrogance in you is endless. God, what to do about you? You accessed my financial information, and the café’s financials records and God knows what else! You intrude and access private information and you don’t even
bother to act asham--”

  Hum? I really should listen better because I suddenly realize this is important information he has divulged. “Hey, Rawly, who’s your squad’s go-to guy with computers?”

  “Squad’s?” He sighs and shakes his head. “Washington is the best research hacker money can buy. He just likes field work better, like the rest of us, but he’s the best.”

  “Is he now?” I chuckle.

  “Why do I always feel like I’m giving you too much information?” Rawly’s serious black eyes probe mine.

  I move to step beyond him and stop in afterthought. “Oh, by the way, thank you for tonight. It was a godsend.”

  “You are an absolute enigma,” he tells me softly. “I thought you’d be angered by my help.”

  “And yet you still did it… Ah, well, pride cometh before the fall,” I explain more to myself than the man towering over me. “These kids are at everyone’s mercy. I’m never too proud where they’re concerned.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” Rawly pauses in deep thought. “God certainly works in mysterious ways, doesn’t He, Helen?”

  I look down feeling my muscles tense so tightly that I feel nauseous. “You’re not God!”

  “Really?” he chuckles and seems amused by my anger. “How can you be so certain?”

  We stare one another down for a measure of time where probing thoughts can confuse the obvious, the ridiculous, and what could never be. He is taking up too much space, too much oxygen and I want to run away and hide but I make myself stand perfectly still as I look up at him a moment longer.

  “I think we both know you’d be too big a stretch, even for God.”

  “Ah, but what if I am Him, my sweet, naïve, Helen, what if? Have you thought this through?”

  “Whatever!” I shout and cover my ears because I swear I can hear a flute playing a strange melody in my mind amid the static, endlessly goading and taunting me further down into somewhere with this ridiculous man. “And I’m not your anything!” I shout over the noise.

  The melodic orchestration is deafening. I glance back up and see confusion and concern written on Rawly’s face. When he realizes I’m staring back at him, his face evolves into one of his masks again, and I can feel him make some kind of mental note.