“Somebody up front by the buche steamer. Thought I heard em when I came in, put the light up there but couldn’t see nobody.”
“Maybe hiding behind the counter.”
“Let’s rush em.”
“Hold on. Could be a kid or something, let’s find out.”
“Might be armed. Can’t afford to take chances,” Rod’s breath puffed in Justo’s face.
“We take the chance. If they were going to open up they would have done it when you barged in the door.”
“I say don’t wait for more backup, rush em now.”
“Dammit no.” Justo had trouble keeping his angry voice down. There were many ways he had imagined himself dying, but being shot in a Cuban sandwich shop on Halloween night was not one of them. “I said wait.”
“I’m not going to lie here on my gut forever. Who knows if we’ll get backup on a night like this?”
“Okay, you slide over against the wall so we both don’t get nailed when I shout our ID.”
“That’s more like it.” Rod nudged Justo’s ribs with the barrel tip of his revolver, then slid away.
Justo waited until his uneasy breathing steadied, then blurted, “Key West Police! Throw out your weapons and stand with your hands up. You will not be hurt!”
All was quiet at the other end of the dark aisle. In the stillness Justo’s heavy breathing came back, blood thumping in his eardrums. He decided to sit tight, time was on his side, time is the ally of the pursuer. A shuffling sound came from behind the counter at the front of the shop, it was the last thing Justo heard before five shots fired from Rod’s gun, thundering together in deafening clap.
Rod’s flashlight clicked on, its beam piercing the dark aisle, illuminating a wooden counter splintered by bullet holes. The beam climbed to the top of the counter, exposing the chrome-handled gleam of an ancient buche machine. Shelved above the steamer were cans of condensed milk, two of them blown open, the wall behind splattered white. The light clicked off.
“Justo?” Rod’s husky whisper came through darkness from the far side of the room. “You think I got em?”
“Why the Christ did you shoot?”
“Heard em making a move on us.”
“Told you to wait it out.” Justo flicked on his flashlight, shooting the beam up the aisle.
Rod’s light came back on, its beam crossing Justo’s. “Looks like I got em, huh? But there ain’t no blood anywhere, just milk.”
Justo stood cautiously, keeping the light beam and his .38 aimed at the counter. “Go see what you bagged. I’ll cover.”
The shadow of Rod’s bulk rose from across the room, he stalked up the aisle, Justo’s light beam stabbing into his back.
Justo mumbled impatiently beneath his breath. Rod was embarked on another ignorant move, placing himself in the line of fire in the event someone came up shooting from behind the counter.
Rod stopped and peered over the bullet-riddled counter, holding his gun at the ready. “Well, kiss my ass good-bye!”
“What is it?” Justo moved quickly up the aisle. Maybe Rod had shot a kid attempting to steal the cigar box of money old Garcia kept hidden. Justo pushed Rod aside and leaned over the counter, shining his flashlight down. In a puddle of milk dripping from exploded cans above was the largest Cuban Death’s Head bug Justo ever laid eyes on, big as a rat, its antennae trembling with confusion. Iridescent eyes gleamed from the insect’s hoary head, beneath its twelve legs scuddling through creamy ooze was a wire lead, one end connected to an alarm bell on the wall, the other attached to a cigar box stuffed with money under the counter. The bug had tripped the alarm wire on its way to raiding a bag of sugar near the cigar box. “Congratulations,” Justo shined his flashlight into Rod’s perplexed face. “You almost blew away a prize-winning bug.”
“Don’t patronize me, porch monkey.” Rod waved his gun. “It’s a mistake anyone could have made.” He aimed the gun down and fired, blasting a fist-size hole in the floor, obliterating the bug.
Through ear-splitting reverberation triggered by the gunshot Justo shouted, “What did you call me?”
“You heard it,” Rod screamed in Justo’s face.
Justo was aware of how close Rod’s big body was to his, how they were both the same size, black and white versions glaring at one another. He felt the muscles in his right arm twitch, preparing to slam his flashlight’s metal butt into Rod’s sun-blistered face. He hesitated. He sensed a painful hole opening in his stomach, a hole like the one created by the bullet just fired through the floor. Overwhelming rage welled up from the hole, he knew he was going to kill Rod. He had to outthink himself before it was too late. He spun around and walked down the dark aisle, out the door, away from raging instinct, not stopping until he reached the lighthouse. He stood trembling beneath the tower which no longer guided misguided mariners, but still lorded it over streets of modest shotgun houses, the neighborhood where Aunt Oris lived and chickens pecked in backyards planted with tropical fruit trees, a place marked on early Key West maps as Africa Town. A place still called Nigger Town, Black Town, Tan Town, or home, depending on the color of one’s skin. A place where for generations there were churches, schools and movie theaters for Coloreds only, a far cry from the distant world a few blocks away across Duval Street. As a boy Justo journeyed to Aunt Oris’ shack from the other side of Duval, where he lived, because his people were considered Cuban, not Colored. In those days the ice-cream man still called to children in the street before Aunt Oris’ shack, men gathered up at the corner grocery store, and women watched over all from porches behind picket fences. It was a time when the lighthouse lantern still burned, its bright beacon passing over all on the island equally, but not passing over equals. The steady light glossed over obvious separations, vicious hates, and institutionalized fear. Now even that light was darkened to nothing, but reality was illuminated for Justo. He wanted to hurl Rod’s white carcass into dark sea, but there are times when a man must choose his own life above others, save himself from himself. At such times a man must look within for guiding light, steer his ship from harm’s way. Justo forced himself to walk toward the babble of distant Duval. The shadow of fear was filling with evil and there was a long way to go before the witching hour struck. He had to find St. Cloud before the light went out for everyone.
21
EVERYONE is selling false goods, guilt is the currency of fools, Evelyn reminded St. Cloud of this many times. He was mystified as to why he should be thinking of this as he stood in a crowd cheering the brassy blast of a passing Bahamian band, even the blood buzz of rum in his veins couldn’t blot the thought. His mind was the mainspring of a clock undone, he was out of sorts, a cuckoo in a cockroach body, a scorpion in a burning palm tree. Even Bubba-Bob had not recognized him earlier, but that may have been because this was the first time he had come down from his barstool to join the Duval Street frolic on Halloween night. Usually St. Cloud let the party come to him. Tonight he donned an appropriate disguise, dealt himself in with the hordes of masked merrymakers surging through city streets. Bubba-Bob may also have not recognized him because his arm was around Scarlett O’Hara. The ruffled top of Scarlett’s scooped dress revealed curvacious breasts uplifted by a corsetted waist. She was a five-alarm item stopping every male in her path, but the flutter of her lashes above cool green eyes dispatched foolhardy drunks and misguided adventurers back into the costumed crowd. Bubba-Bob had not paused to bray macho compliments only because he was on the singleminded prowl for St. Cloud. It never occurred to Bubba-Bob, passing by in his white cowboy hat, that Rhett Butler, with his arm cinched around Scarlett’s waist, was St. Cloud. Like nearly everyone else in town Bubba-Bob had never seen St. Cloud wearing anything other than rumpled pants, ratty seersucker sports jacket, and a sweat-stained sailing cap. Bubba-Bob had passed Rhett and Scarlett by without so much as a knowing wink or outraged hoot, but Bonefish stopped dead in his tracks. Bonefish deduced here was a real Southern gentleman and his lady, who must have dire need of
an air-conditioner in their antebellum mansion. He had air-conditioners to spare, was willing to oblige the needy, even if they already were rich.
“El Finito be on his way,” Bonefish hopped from one foot to the other with great urgency before Rhett and Scarlett. “Be here by midnight,” he turned his bent nose heavenward, nostrils twitching at night sky. “You feels the weather creepin up your backs? Oppressive weather. Weather what’s hot and calculatin. Wants to explode in your face. Wants to be done with you. Maybe you need an extra aircondishner? How bout a brand-new toaster still in the box? Got me electric blankets and car tires too. You be havin these things cause this tired ol fish be too smart to outrun Mister Finito. You try drive off this island cross the bridges, Mister Finito he go chase you. He go chase you, an he go get you.”
Lila nudged St. Cloud, she wanted him to make Bonefish go away, his rantings frightened her, his bone-sharp body pushing too close.
Bonefish dug into bulging jacket pockets and pulled out glistening green avocados, holding them to the sky in outstretched arms. “Take these gator pears,” Bonefish’s mouth opened in a sly smile. “You need meat to survive.”
Lila nudged St. Cloud harder, but realized he was not concerned with Bonefish’s raving, was even amused by it. She wanted to walk away, but the press of the crowd prevented her. Too many strange things had been happening to her and St. Cloud lately. Things she knew not the design of seemed to be closing in.
“I’ll take one of those pears.” St. Cloud placed the open palm of his hand before Bonefish in order to receive the blessing of fruit.
“Take two!” Bonefish thrust both avocados at St. Cloud, startled someone finally heeded his warning about oncoming disaster. “Those gator pears be savin you.” He backed into the crowd, pointing a finger at the sky. “Smell the air. Always before Finito comin the air be filled with the stink of dead turtles.”
St. Cloud shoved the fruit into frayed pockets of the long-tailed tuxedo jacket he wore. Like a proper Southern gentleman, he sipped his libation from a flask, a not so small canteen sloshing with rum. “Hey, come back here!” He called to Bonefish, whose thin body was being buffeted in the opposite direction by the current of the crowd. “I could use that air-conditioner. Never had one, just sweat it out every year. Come on back!”
“No time! Smell the turtles. Save yourselves.” Bonefish disappeared behind a wall of secretaries from Miami dressed in pink pig outfits, fighting their way closer to the muscular black men of the Bahamian band strutting their musical stuff up Duval Street.
St. Cloud looked to the night sky. He couldn’t smell anything. All he saw were overhanging balconies weighted with merrymakers hurling water balloons, firecrackers and confetti bombs. He sensed no hint of boisterous weather lurking offshore. The usual murky humidity prevailed, fuzzing the outlines of near and far images, decomposing distinctions, in a rush to replace old rot with fresh-born. No dead turtles were spinning from the sky, only costumed inebriates stirred the pot of mayhem from above. St. Cloud smiled, Bonefish was probably the only one on the island not trying to peddle false goods. Bonefish wasn’t trying to sell anything, he was trying to give it all away. He was dead right about one thing, sooner or later the Mister Finito he talked about was going to come blowing hard out of Africa to take the island back down to its lowest common organic currency, reinstate a natural order. No more Fantasy Fests then, just conchs cooing in sea moss, manatees mooing in mangroves, flamingos flaming through cloudless sky above an island wiped clean of all commerce other than whiptail lizards dividing delicious fire ants with flocks of chirpy palm warblers. Such sights St. Cloud hoped to see, but when the end came no one would survive to tell the tale of what happened after the two-hundred-mile-an-hour west-moving mass of rising hot air hit town. No one except maybe Bonefish could survive that, and he certainly would have no use for people then, no guilt would burden him. A simple string of pearl perfect islands would be left, stretching from the Dry Tortugas to Miami’s Key Biscayne, naked as the day Ponce de León sighted them in spring of 1513, afloat in timelessness, exactly where St. Cloud wanted to be, on a newborn land with Lila. It takes a fool to love like a fool. After the hurricane St. Cloud could slip from beneath the rock of self-contempt, swim to surface illumination where Lila beckoned. Temptation was on the rise, St. Cloud was prepared to cash in his fool’s gold, set aside despairing over his failed past in order to risk defeat anew. He was dueling against the omnipresent shadow of MK for Lila, but the main adversary was Lila herself. She had the instinct of youth to remain free, this instinct was his most formidable foe. To accomplish his own salvation he had to destroy Lila’s independence. Her unsullied female wholeness he now risked despoiling. Within the sea-green depths of her eyes the true stakes of the game were reflected. The battle was to secure her trust in order to dominate her soul. Lila was not about to surrender without fighting off all comers, her instinct to remain free was a tenacious rope which might prove impossible for any man to cut. No matter how complicated and unjustified St. Cloud’s pursuit of Lila became, he was compelled to continue until they were bound forever, or severed forever. Like any intelligent man engaged in combat against beguiling female weaponry wielded with intuitive force, he understood he was the lesser of the two warriors, but he was determined to prevail, and was not above employing any low-down trick to accomplish his exalted male purpose. He eagerly exploited every opportunity which highlighted his weakness, demonstrating he was the least strong of the two of them, throwing himself upon the threshold of self-pity, debasing himself in order to win over his opponent’s maternal instinct for nurturing the weaker of the species. When this obvious trick failed to suffice he marched off in search of an arcane arsenal which she would never suspect, called in spooks, spirits and saints of both black and white magic, which is why he allowed Justo some months earlier to present him to his Aunt Oris.
Justo had not taken St. Cloud to meet Aunt Oris because he thought the man was simply confused with desperate desire for a younger woman, he took St. Cloud because he thought Aunt Oris might save his life. There were many things that occurred on the island best left unexplained, these were the things Aunt Oris understood, she worked both sides of the spiritual street, calling upon deities from two cultures. In her nearly century-old body, with its twig thin bones and small skull pulled tight with dark luminescent skin, there resided a presence transcending merely human endeavors. Aunt Oris possessed a prescient practicality of survival, embracing religiosity unencumbered by formal teachings, inspired by pragmatism in a world not ruled by doctrine, but dominated by sheer force of individual will. The net of Aunt Oris cast far and wide, gathering in young and old across the island, yet her powers remained unspoken to outsiders, were never referred to directly by insiders. To conjoin Aunt Oris’ beliefs with one’s own desire for healing and protection offered a powerful bonding unto itself. Hers was power not predicated solely on obeisance and ceremony, rather it was rooted in that most simplistic of all faiths, faith in oneself, then faith to step outside oneself.
Aunt Oris was blind, but even if she could see it would make no difference that St. Cloud was white, she recognized no color. She saw not into people, but through things. She did not need to be told of toads in the cemetery with mouths nailed shut, of hanging goats in the bat tower with ears slashed off, nor be informed of a connecting line of bizarre poetry which inexplicably ran through her great-nephew Justo and the outsider he brought to her house. She needed no reminder that the shadow of fear was rapidly filling, that Justo sensed deep in his soul something far more sinister than Colombian cowboys loose in the streets, preparing to strike. Justo need not explain he wanted St. Cloud kept alive because he was more than a close compañero, he was a touched soul, with the gift of tongues. That gift, if directed, could touch others. Justo still intended it to touch Voltaire. He had not sent prior word of his visit to Aunt Oris. She always knew Justo was going to appear, and lit perfumed candles at her bedroom altar to Santa Barbara days before he arrived. S
he was more than a blood relation, she was his spiritual Godmother, protector in this life and guide into the next world, the one who placed Saints in his path to guide the way. If he betrayed the Saints she would be aware of it. He had to prove his faith continually, only the faithful could battle spirits from beyond. With the Saints on his side Justo could fight Zobop, but for St. Cloud to survive he must prove his faith. Zobop was not one thing, but many, a magical gangster who changed victims into beasts before slaughtering them. This Justo learned from Aunt Oris; her eyes, which could not see the present, still saw the past. She spoke to Justo and St. Cloud of a time in the old land, before even Slavers came, in villages where people feared to venture from safety of mudded huts, because beyond in dark bush was Zobop, who was not to be denied. “And what about this?” Justo asked Aunt Oris, rising from a chair in her kitchen where he had been listening, placing between the polished whites of her palms the old glass jar filled with rusted fishhooks, bent coins and twisted nails, which had been mysteriously left on St. Cloud’s doorstep. He sat back down and winked reassuringly at St. Cloud, who had no idea what was going on. The kitchen was cluttered with bundled herbs and dried flowers of every scent and color, faded photographs of black Saints torn from faith-healing magazines papered the walls. On top of the refrigerator a bronzed cross writhing with a plastic crucified Christ was illuminated by flickering red votive candles. The blade of a severely sharpened machete gleamed in one corner. Curious youngsters peered through an open window at St. Cloud, behind them muscular men stood watch over the old woman who lived in the little shack longer than anyone remembered, who spent freely from her treasure trove of generous spirit, a woman they would lay down their lives for. Chickens in the yard cackled as a white fan-tail pigeon landed in a jacaranda tree blooming purple. Aunt Oris shook the jar Justo had handed her, listening intently to the rattle of hooks, coins and nails within. She raised the jar to her ear, bending to its rounded cool shape, as if divining the roar of the sea within a conch shell. Her white hair fell across her face, covering the jar. Her knees came up beneath the simple cotton of her dress as she pushed back in a cane rocker and hummed, not sounding a tune or hymn, but a distant, private incantation, building momentum. The creaking rocker swept her near weightless being to and fro across the plank board floor. Over the heads of curious children at the window the white fan-tail pigeon appeared in a flurry of outstretched wings, catching a precarious perch on Aunt Oris’ shoulder. The sudden apparition surprised St. Cloud, he’d seen his share of park pigeons swoop and drop their splatter of white poop on many a statue, but he had never seen a wild pigeon land on a person’s shoulder. Quickly as the fan-tail achieved its balanced purpose, it lifted from Aunt Oris’ shoulder, fluttering around the room, a trapped spirit in dim sunlight, finally finding the open window and winging away over the heads of the incredulous children, who jumped back at the sudden voice coming from Aunt Oris. Shouted words drowned out the loudly creaking rocker, words reverberating with the nervous intensity of a young bride testifying to eternal fidelity before a church full of strangers. “Aint seen no bad as dis since we wer’n de times of Mistah Roozvelt. Durin de Big Wind, de times of de Big Breath of O comes blowin o’er dis islind. Lordee laud, de peoples deyblowin way’n yonder inta de ocin’s graves. Go’n comin agin, yah yah, comin agin. It wer’n de year de Flaglir fella’s rayroad done blow’n down, an de sponges, dey all die in de ocin’s bed. An my husbin cry’n cause all de fishins in de ocins be dy’n too. I sez husbin, hushin now honie, be mo bettah by’n bye, ya’ll sees. Jes pray to de O. O makin show yo gits de pay.” Aunt Oris stopped rocking, holding the old jar in quivering hands, her molten gray eyes going through Justo across from her, her forehead folded in wrinkles of concern, her voice swiftly changing to that of a terrified small girl calling down a narrow alley at phantom shapes moving violently in darkness. “Oh Mistah Filor sly as de mouse, but he doan be what dey thinkin he be. Ya’ll lookin in dis here bottle from de sea. Ya’ll thinkin yo see Jay-sis in dis here glass prisin. Ya’ll thinkin dese nails be from de Jay-sis cross, dat dese hooks from Saint Petrie’s boat in de sea of Gal-o-lee, n dese coins be from Jewel-yes Seizure’s purse. NO. Ya’ll bin thinkin wrong. Dis jar no sign Jay-sis a comin. Dis here be Filor’s work, he be a bufo toad talkin through sewed up lips. Filor’s like de crab, what is mo bettah den de man, cause crab doan need no helpin hand makin his palace in de sand. Dis here be no Guede Ni Bo, ain’t no Jay-sis desendin. Dis be Ti Puce lan d’ L’eau, a lil flea in water. Dis be hissin an kissin Danbhalah his many selfs. Y’all bewares he doan gits no drum to makes a Big Wind a’comin. Serpent man Danbhalah gots no ears. God takes em long agos, stretched em on de temple drums so only Priests can talk to Danbhalah. Sometimes Danbhalah go in disguises, lookin to makin a false drum to fool de peoples he is a Great Papa drum talkin from de temples. Danbhalah takin de ears from de goat to makes his false sound ring true, mislead peoples from de righteous crossroads.” Aunt Oris’ frail body collapsed in the rocker. Sunlight through the window above the children’s silhouetted heads was almost gone, the candles atop the refrigerator flickered down, throwing shadows across the walls of sainted black faces. Aunt Oris’ eyes did not close. She sat in almost complete stillness, her shallow breathing barely perceptible, as if in deep yet wide-eyed sleep, dreaming an upright dream while sunlight melted. Murmurs from the muscular men in the yard grew lower, then stopped. A clouded sense of foreboding gathered in the small shack. Justo lit a beeswax candle in a coconut shell atop a high bureau of drawers. A moaning came from Aunt Oris. Her body heaved in a shudder, anxious words sputtering anew from her lips, catching Justo up with a start. “Oh migh divine Horseman! Doan let dem trap yo! Run migh man! Pray to de Great Papa before de boat sink!” The words hurled at Justo as Aunt Oris bolted to the edge of her rocker, trembling hands reaching out in darkness, running over Justo’s face as tears flowed down her own. “Oh migh sweet blood, migh soul, migh mighty Horseman!” The words rasped in near breathless sobs. “Doan yo let Zobop cut his yellow X on yo chest! Doan be fool to step into Zobop’s yellow circle!” Aunt Oris slumped, her sobs quieting as worried murmurs from muscular men in the yard started again. Justo sat back down next to St. Cloud. Aunt Oris’ cotton dress appeared to be a simple shroud draped on the fragile outline of her body, her lower legs seemed invisible, her shoes empty of feet. A detached voice emerged from her with disconcerting strength, unwavering, its intentions directed straight at St. Cloud. “Yo be bad luck! A hex man! Born wit de name Saint. Only Saints be Saints, born wit out sins. Saints sins later, when dey doubts de holy truths. Yo gots to believe to be de Saint. Uproot doubts. I see doubts follow yo like clouds of rain. I sees arrows in yo heart from Queen Erzulie, Mistress of Water. Yo gots deep water in yo brain. Erzulie is drowning yo in her swamp of kisses. The Queen be laughin at yo, cause yo no Saint. Her kisses be wet but her hearts be dry. Cause yo doubt, Erzulie go drown yo. Zobop’s go’n put his yellow X on yo, less yo wake up. Yo got to believe. Here yo go, boy!” Aunt Oris’ hands dipped into the folds of her cotton dress. St. Cloud could not see what she was doing. The motion of her hands finally came up in dim light, flinging an object at him. It struck his cheek and fell to the floor. “Yo put’n de magic on,” Aunt Oris’ voice urged. “Keep de magic round yo neck so Zobop can’t git it in his noose.” St. Cloud felt on the floor for the object. His fingers traced over a wishbone on a braided string necklace, dried pieces of fowl meat still clung to the bone. “Dat magic keep yo safe, be good as Justo’s chicken bone, only doan be gold. Justo believe, he touch gold, den de loa gods feel him callin. Yo must touch bone to believe. Even den loa Saints may no feel yo callin.” St. Cloud looped the wishbone charm around his neck in darkness. After a while he heard the creaking of Aunt Oris’ rocker again. She cooed in a pigeon contented voice. “Dat mo bettah. Now yo doan doubts so much. Believes what I tells yo bout de Queen. Yo no gits Erzulie like a regular Saint. Gots to feed her specials. Not wit prayers ’n candles. Not wit monies ’n male perfumes. She is sea,
pearl of de ocins. De pearl of fish be its eye. Pearl of turtle be its foot. Pearl of octopus be her belly. Gots to feed de Queen differents if yo wants journey to Zi let En Bas De L’Ea, de islind way down yondah under de sea. Gots to go down dere where de souls wid no eyes livin. Gots to go dere if yo is de Saint.”
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