In Voltaire’s village people were starving, throughout the mountains people were starving, yet the Tonton Macoutes still came at night searching for the comoquin, those suspected of belonging to the club of traitors speaking badly of the government, the spies and cowards who plotted escape to America. The Tontons came with trucks grinding through the night, smashing doors and leading men away in ropes. One night they took Voltaire’s father, one night they took Voltaire himself. His hands tied, he stood with head bowed among many men in a truck bumping for miles along a darkened road until stopping, each man pulled out at gunpoint and placed in one of four lines before the stone wall of a prison, waiting to be escorted in and interviewed by the chief Tonton. A few men came back out of the prison and were herded into the truck, most did not return. Before dawn those still left in line began to wail with fear. When Voltaire was taken before the chief he could not stop wailing. “What’s wrong with you,” the chief demanded. “You have no right to scream like this! I want you to go home and shut your mouth! I never want to hear from you again!” When the truck was ready to go only eight men were in it. The truck swung around behind the prison, rumbled down a cobblestone road, past the stench of the prison dump, scattering surprised dogs that tore at a fresh pile of beaten men with hands bound by ropes. Many on the truck recognized brothers, fathers, uncles, friends. No one made a sound.
Voltaire’s mother once journeyed to the prison where her husband was kept, then she was followed by Tontons in a jeep for the five hours it took her to walk back to her village. The Tontons asked questions of her neighbors, people stopped talking to her. What the Tontons did not know was she had no heart to return to the prison, what she saw there was not the man she loved, but a tortured body covered with blood, the face beaten beyond a familiar bone, the mind wandering around with no one to control it, a stream of jibberish flowing from smashed lips. Voltaire’s mother later heard the man she loved died breathing blood into his brain. That is when her brother, Romulus, made his decision to escape by boat to America. Romulus did not have the two thousand dollars to pay the smugglers for the trip, but when he got to America the smugglers promised he could earn the money and send it back, he could earn the money to support his seven children too, and send it back. Romulus’ boat lost its way. The smugglers had promised there would be someone on board to navigate, but there were only simple paysans who understood how to plant by a full moon and harvest beneath a bright sun, they knew nothing of how nocturnal celestial lights could point a boat right. Romulus’ boat came into Miami Beach on a cloudless summer day, past speeding yachts and waving water-skiers. Gleaming glass buildings towered in a wall along the sand, cars roared along a palm-fringed boulevard, the loud beat of rhythmic radio music was in the air and a line of police vans was parked, waiting with uniformed policemen watching from behind sunglasses as the Haitian boat drifted aimlessly to shore. There was no turning back, nowhere to run, the policemen had rifles and dogs. The people of Romulus’ boat jumped overboard into warm surf, their few belongings bundled and balanced on their heads as they walked among the greased sunbathers of the crowded beach and threw up their hands in surrender.
Romulus was taken to the detention center in the Everglades, held for two months, then deported back to Haiti. The Tontons put him in Fort Dimanche prison outside of Port-au-Prince. Most men do not leave Fort Dimanche; if they are not beaten to death they die of tuberculosis, dysentery, or having the blood sucked from them by scores of vermin. Romulus survived six months and made it back to his family in the village high in the Cibao Mountains, his disfigured body weighing less than eighty-five pounds. Romulus needed all the security he could get to protect him. Romulus needed le bon Dieu, Jesus Christ, he needed Maît’ Carrefour, the master who stands guard at earthly gates and keeps a protective eye on homes, roads and paths, he needed a thousand ouangas to preserve him from the smugglers, whom he still owed two thousand dollars. Because Romulus had taken the sea journey to America and was sent back without money he was made an example of by the smugglers, an example used often, an example no amount of security could protect a man from. Romulus was chopped like a pig, screaming in the night as the goats made milk, axes dismembering his body. You don’t pay the price, you pay with your life.
So it was now to Voltaire, the oldest, to support his mother, and his Uncle Romulus’ family of seven children. The only way to do this was to leave the village and journey to where the jobs were. Voltaire went to the smugglers and promised to pay for his passage once he got to America. Unlike Romulus’ boat, Voltaire’s sailed immediately into trouble, horrible trouble. Before Voltaire’s journey his mother took him to a mystery house at the crossroads for a Wete Mo Na Dlo, a ceremony of fishing a deceased one’s soul from the water. But no one Voltaire knew had died in water. He did not understand why his mother had taken him to the ceremony. On Voltaire’s first night out the boat caught the Caribbean current toward Cuba, a full moon silvered the sea and fish began to fly, everywhere sparkling wings over water. The people became very quiet and huddled low beneath the gunwale, for they knew that to be struck by a flying fish is to die. A flying fish is the arrow shot from the ghostly bow of a deceased one. The fish flew and flew. No one could hide. Ghost arrows never miss their intended mark.
4:00. Loud knocking at the door brought St. Cloud up from Voltaire’s vision of flying fish. Voltaire stopped talking, looking at the door with apprehension. You don’t pay the price, you pay with your life. St. Cloud rose and stretched a trembling hand across the table, not so much to help Voltaire up, but to support him in his ordeal.
“Come, my philosopher friend. Judgment, not justice, awaits you.”
6
HANDSOMEMOST Jimmy had one dead greyhound and was about to pop number two. He had to wait for another airplane to take off so nobody could hear his next gunshot. Handsomemost liked the thought that the people in the last airplane, lifting up and off at the end of the runway where the land gave itself back to swampy mangrove marsh, had no idea he was down below taking one more ugly dog out of the race. He could have taken the greyhounds to the city dump to pop them, but that would have meant a long drive with dogs drooling all over the upholstery of his expensive Japanese sports car. The other thing about the dump was the sea gulls, hordes of sea gulls swooping around in thermal gusts over the mountain of garbage that had grown to become the highest man-made point in the Florida Keys. Those sea gulls gave Handsomemost the jitters, ruined his sense of romance and style. Style was what Handsomemost Jimmy prided himself most in, besides, it stank out there at the dump. Handsomemost liked to think he had style in spades. He wasn’t just a scammer gambler from the dark side of town. He had worked his way up to a cultivated image. Handsomemost slithered around in tailored black slacks, and no matter what the weather, he made certain their crease never gave out. He sported black silk shirts, kept them open way down the front to display a necklace of two-fist-size doubloons fetched up from one of the Spanish wrecks off the reef. The doubloons were real, not the imitations sold around town to tourist coin collectors, but real gold that glittered like the gold of Handsomemost’s heavy bracelet watch. Handsomemost was not to be trifled with. He liked white powder and white women, bought and sold both, used and abused both, it was a man’s right. Handsomemost bought and sold racehorses and racing dogs, airplanes and powerboats. He didn’t like to be trifled with. He was not one of the local white-boy scammers who figured if he wore a tight Hawaiian shirt, a gold earring, had a visible tattoo and brought a load of marijuana up from Belize, he was a pirate. What that kind of white boy was was just a little less dumb than the dumb narcs who couldn’t catch him. The worst thing about white scammers like that was they had bad taste in music, not even bad, terrible. Handsomemost liked to think he was black because he was smart, not the other way around. He liked to romance a dishonest wage from an honest night’s work. He prided himself that he was the type of scammer who would shoot a man for a dime and give him change.
Handsomemost was a
ll these things plus impatient. He was growing more impatient by the moment waiting on another plane headed for Miami to lift off with a roar from the end of the short runway. The two greyhounds he held on tight leashes were also impatient, frightened and confused, wanting to run the racetrack, waiting for another shot to be fired from Handsomemost’s gun, not knowing the shot would be intended for one of them. Handsomemost kicked the tip of a shiny black alligator-skin loafer at the gravelly limestone which went out under him in all directions between shallow salt ponds into mangrove scrub. Earlier, there had been a kid on a bicycle right when Handsomemost popped the first greyhound. The kid was about twelve and white, he came around a stand of scrub on the gravel path and skidded the bike tires to a quick stop when he saw Handsomemost with his gun pointed at one of the greyhounds tied to the spindled roots of a mangrove. The white kid spun away in a hurry of dust as the groan of a plane lifting off skimmed overhead. What Handsomemost didn’t need now was cops, not that cops bothered him. He knew most of the cops had things to trade, things cops liked to know about other people, people whom Handsomemost was not so interested in seeing stay in business. Some of these other people had good-looking wives, even if they were Cuban. Handsomemost was a white-woman man himself. He liked his women snowy as milk, or in a pinch, like coffee, hot and black. When things really heated up he had milk with his coffee. On the subject of women Handsomemost had his particulars, which included no Cubans. But every day could carry an exception to the rule. Handsomemost wasn’t so stupid as not to figure a boy goes to school to learn the rules so he can break them. Handsomemost didn’t have much use for Cuban men either, thought they were excitable and had bad taste in music, all those jarring happy notes, pee-pee guitars and upbeat skinny voices, uncool. Far as Handsomemost was concerned Cubans could be kept in a deep-freeze for the rest of their lives and still wouldn’t come out cool, or know anything about music. The Cubans’ toe-tapping sense of rhythm had all the elegance of a kangaroo in heat. Handsomemost considered himself a man of consummate style and innate rhythmic grace, he wouldn’t be caught dead eating pig, uncool. The problem with the Cubans was they liked to eat pig more than chicken. How can someone who does that be taken seriously? A pig is a dirty barnyard grunt, a chicken is a clean-feathered pebble pecker with fat thighs and succulent breasts. It wasn’t that Handsomemost ate chicken, he hated it, reminded him of his childhood. He was a steak and lobster man at all the finest restaurants in town, he was a big spender and a big tipper. If a bartender gave him seven dollars’ change from a ten-dollar bill Handsomemost was insulted, and often as not, even if he was in a fancy restaurant, screamed at the bartender: What am I going to do with this skimpy shit! Can’t even make a phone call with it! You keep it! Handsomemost did not like to be insulted, he made big money, measured his life out in one-hundred-dollar bills. He didn’t like white bartenders who thought he needed chicken feed change, or smartass scammers in tight Hawaiian shirts like Karl Dean. Karl Dean trifled and now he was history.
Handsomemost could hear one of the prop jets warming up out on the runway. The high-pitched engine whine made the dogs even more skittery. He stroked their sleek arched bony bodies to calm them, then walked them across to the third dog, lying where it fell from a bullet in the head. The two greyhounds sniffed their former running mate, their tails arrowed straight and trembling. Handsomemost tied the dogs to a red-bristling root of mangrove, paced ten steps back and took up his position. Maybe he could pop both burnt-out bunny chasers with two quick shots; one per plane was too slow. Handsomemost didn’t have all day for this stuff. It was seven in the morning and he hadn’t been to bed. He had been at the dog races the night before, then racing around town doing his usual business till dawn. A man needs a day’s rest for a night’s work.
Handsomemost raised his gun, steadied it with both hands to take the magnum force of its kickback. The sound of the plane was coming closer faster. He took aim at the greyhound on the right, it stood poised and alert, about to jump from the gate and race the track, eyes expectant and excited as the groan of the overpassing plane was directly above; the sudden force of a bullet smashed into the long pointed face with a shattering impact, kicking the animal off its feet, snapping the body straight out to the end of the leash before it dropped motionless. The other greyhound jumped, confusing the gunshot with the starting bell of a race, figuring its fallen companion had tripped up its post start. The greyhound lunged against its leash. The chained restraint of its neck collar caused it to rear up and flip over. The overhead plane was pulling away. Handsomemost was swearing under his breath. He couldn’t get a bead on the last greyhound at the end of the leash as it leapt to its feet, not wanting to be left behind by the invisible racing pack. Goddamn, Handsomemost growled, firing two quick shots which kicked up puffs of white limestone gravel around the bouncing greyhound. Bitch!
“Put the gun down!” The words bellowed above the roaring engine thrust of the departing plane.
Handsomemost did not lower his gun. He turned his body slowly toward the words behind him. He did not like to be told what to do, he did not like to be messed with, especially when he had a loaded gun.
“I’m not going to repeat it! Put the gun down!”
Handsomemost continued to turn his head slowly, until a figure in the bend of the path behind him came clearly into view. Handsomemost stopped turning. The gun held outstretched in both hands before him pointed directly at the figure.
“Target practice is over!”
Handsomemost hated cops, they were bad for business. Especially smart cops who knew the value of accommodation, the cops who would let you run ahead of the pack and not try to trip your pace, figuring sooner or later you would go too fast and throw your stride, trip up. No, Handsomemost didn’t like cute cops who liked to mess with minds. He liked cops who either wanted to bust your face wide open or throw a bribe. That was easier and better for business. White cops were predictable, he always knew which card to pull out of his sleeve with them. Cuban cops were unpredictable, like mad dogs. Cuban cops won’t let go until they get the bone, especially the one Handsomemost had an unobstructed view of not more than thirty yards away. He could see the bump of the cop’s automatic tucked beneath the waistband of his pants, poking the front of his loose guayabera. Handsomemost couldn’t figure this guy out, half African, half Cuban. He knew this guy all his life and still didn’t know if he could trust his African half. Flip a coin, any fool’s guess which side this guy was going to come down on. Handsomemost felt his finger on the trigger of the gun he had aimed at this guy he didn’t trust. Damn kid on the bike must have called the cops. One thing Handsomemost didn’t like was to gamble against the house, he was a short-odds man. Still, there was an undeniable urge to blow the Cuban part of this guy away, splatter his black beans and yellow rice across the mangroves, whatever was left could be trusted. Ah, for the simple life. Handsomemost lowered his gun and shouted, “These here be run-out dogs! Got no gas left to chase the metal bunny round the track! These here old puppies be more better off bein sand-flea butter!”
Justo walked toward Handsomemost, the force of his heavy body digging the soles of his shoes into gravel. “Give me the gun.”
Handsomemost did not move. A smile wrinkled his top lip, which had a sprocket of black hairs on it that he kept combed and pasted in a sporty mustache. “Ain’t done nothin illegal.” He couldn’t stop a quick laugh coming through the lips of his smile. He wanted to say: I never did anything legal in my life, you old Tom, but instead he did his arguing dance. “These here be my dogs. Got a right to shoot em. Man don’t need no license to shoot his own dogs. Why should I take em to some white vet what’s goin to gas em, then charge me enough to buy a new convertible with? Answer me that, huh? Why would a smart black boy like me do a thing like that, huh?”
“Give me the gun.”
“Lighten up. You be practicin a mean act for Hollywood or somethin?”
“I won’t ask you again.”
Handsomem
ost looked into Justo’s brown eyes. Nope, no mercy there. Coptime mentality. Nevertheless he figured he could deal with Justo. Justo knew the accommodation, understood which side his bread was buttered on, knew the Saints had to be fed. Handsomemost relaxed his grip on the gun, let it twirl over his trigger finger, which was studded with diamonds of a fat gold ring. Handsomemost offered the gun with a wink. “Heard any good music lately?”
“No, but you will.” Justo took the gun. “I’m booking you.”
“Hey! I said lighten up. What it is? We be bubbas. What be wrong with shootin your own dog? These doggies got run out bad and ugly. Can’t win no more races for papa. Best they be put out of their miseries. Their hound-dog days be over. Best you be lucky enough to have somebody be shootin you when your hound-dog days be over and misery time comes callin. Who wants to drag around life losin races all the time? Not me. When my misery time comes goin to be takin this here same gun, send me a telegram through my head from ear to ear. Return to sender. You be understandin, bubba?”
“Let’s take a walk out to my car.”
“Ain’t gettin in no cop’s car. You be one crazy Cuban bean, you think that. Sides, ain’t been home all night. Needs my beauty rest. You can dig that, bein a family man and all.”
There were times Justo enjoyed being a cop, when the heavens opened up and showed him the way, how there was good and evil in the world and one couldn’t exist without the other. This was such a time. He wanted to blow the creature before him to kingdom come. Of course Handsomemost hadn’t had any sleep, he had done so much cocaine his flared nostrils appeared to be pinned to his earlobes, plus he suffered a bad case of snorter’s shoulder, an uncontrollable muscle spasm twitching his right shoulder like a baseball pitcher about to fire off a nervous spitball. Handsomemost didn’t have enough moral fiber to make a hatband with. Justo had less than no respect for him. No respect for losers who thought they were the last bastion of romance, hotshot pirates. Justo had more respect for the poor bastard who shovels snow out of his driveway every morning so he can go to work to meet the mortgage. He took perverse delight at being the counterbalance to a corrupt world. To be an honest man was to be the last true outlaw. But Justo knew he couldn’t exist without Handsomemost. The pie of life had been divided up between the keepers of the law and the breakers of it, nothing would ever change that, without each other they were out of a job. It’s a hot dog–eat–hot dog world. Justo’s knee jerked up in a cocked instinctive reaction, straight into Handsomemost’s groin. “Don’t ever mention my family to me.”
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