He sat back down, dipped a combination of brain and egg on his fork in the ketchup, and ate it. It was close, but not quite the taste he was looking for.
He swallowed his last bite before and realized what it was missing. Salsa.
Salsa? Haley didn’t even like salsa. He didn’t care for Mexican food that much and never ate salsa. It had a strange flavor to it. There was green stuff in it that tasted like stink bugs
Why would he have a taste for salsa now? The thought perplexed him as he clean up the kitchen. Some of the meat went in the fridge, the rest in the deep freeze. He took his shower next, set his clock for noon and went to bed.
*
Haley woke, dressed for work, and left his house with the trash bag full of discarded Victoria pieces and parts. It hadn’t started to smell yet, and he wanted to get in the dumpster at the hotel before trash pickup.
He parked in his spot and walked down the stairs to the dumpster completely unnoticed. He heaved the bag over the top and it just became another anonymous bag of trash.
Haley still had some time to kill, and his stomach told him he could eat again. Fortunately, the brains seemed to agree with his system.
He walked to Decatur Street with the full intention of drinking a root beer and eating a foot long from a Lucky Dog vendor. A taco van parked on the side of the road caught his eye. His mouth began to water.
A thriving business of taco vans sprung up during the rebuilding of New Orleans after hurricane Katrina. Latino music blared from the van’s radio drowning out the sweet sounds of the calliope from the steam boat Natchez on the Mississippi river nearby. The ambiance of old New Orleans had changed. Haley was not happy about that.
There were five customers waiting in line. Haley could not resist strolling over to check out the food.
The hand painted menu sign included tacos, burritos, tortas; the usual fare. All of it looked surprisingly delicious. He stood in line and waited his turn.
“For you?” the server asked. His trucker’s cap looked new.
“Uh, let me have the shredded beef taco.”
“You want salsa?”
“Salsa? With that green stuff in it?”
“Si. Cilantro.”
“Okay.” The word left his mouth automatically. Why did he get it with salsa? It would ruin the taco.
A brown paper towel wrapped the steaming hot taco. It did a poor job of absorbing all the grease. The smell was heavenly. Haley eyed the salsa on top, closed one eye and took a bite. There it was. That missing taste he had been searching for earlier. The tangy tomato and onion mixture flavored with the distinctness of the cilantro was just what his palate craved.
This was so out of character. Haley was a red beans and rice, fried chicken, or seafood po-boy type of guy. He was New Orleans through and through.
As he chewed on his taco, he realized his foot tapped briskly in time to the Latino music.
What the hell? He was a blues man first and a jazz man second. Latino music is what they played to make you shop faster at the Wal-Mart. And now, he thought he could swing his hips and dance to the beat right then and there. Lordy, lordy. What’s wrong with me?
Haley considered his subconscious was playing tricks on him. He just killed and ate the brains of a Latino woman. How did that affect his psyche? The myths about ancient man eating the brains and hearts of enemies to inherit their strength was just silly superstition. Right?
Was there any truth that feelings and memories were absorbed from eating another person? His Grandmother was a Jehovah’s Witness, and she always said, ‘The soul is in the blood.’ He didn’t really know what that meant. Could it be he now shared Victoria’s soul?
* * *
The fruit of Victoria’s body lasted Haley for about a week. Some of the meals had turned out better than others. He was used to having smoked meat and sausage in many of his dishes. His red beans and thigh meat was just plain bland. No amount of tobasco sauce could save it. The ribs had a good flavor, complemented by an Abita root beer glaze that was both sweet and hot. But there was hardly any meat on those ribs. That girl needed to gain a pound or two. The gumbo held its own with the help of some pork sausage but it tended to overpower the delicate flavor of human. Uh, no. Human don’t taste like chicken. The heart, liver, and kidneys were perfect when served cut up into small pieces and deep-fried. He chopped up a good portion of meat and used it like hamburger. It browned well in the black iron skillet. He made a couple of batches of tacos. Burgers on the charcoal grill really had been his favorite though. They were on the lean side, so he just added a little more mayo to the bun to help them slide down.
A lot had changed with Haley. His views of life in general had taken a turn. He didn’t know if it was for the better or the worse. This was an unexpected phase in his life. Even his dreams were different, although he could not remember much of the details. One dream did stand out in his mind. It had disturbed him the whole day after he awoke. In the dream everyone had spoken in Spanish.
*
The next day Haley passed the Doorman, Ray Percy. He gave him a habitual nod. Ray responded in kind. Ray didn’t fraternize much with the other help, except for Mrs. Adele. Haley thought Mrs. Adele was one fine looking lady. She reminded him of a Hersey bar with the almonds in the right places. Maybe a few too many almonds on her backside. Mrs. Adele worked the day shift also, as a chambermaid.
Those day shift people are sure stuck on themselves. Mrs. Adele wouldn’t even give Haley the time of day. That had always bothered him. As if he wasn’t good enough because he worked the late shifts. It bothered him even more now. In fact everything seemed to get under his skin easier. That was not typical of the New Orleans laissez-faire attitude he once shared.
Haley went through the motions of sweeping, mopping, and cleaning during his first shift. His mind swarmed with an endless chain of thoughts in a re-evaluation of his life. There was a certain disharmony in his spirit that he had never felt before. He wondered if it had anything to do with a growing craving for human flesh. It had been over a week since his meager supply had run out.
After a short break between shifts, Haley pushed his vacuum into restaurant Le Feu and began placing chairs on top of tables before cleaning. Not even halfway through the arduous task, Chef Barque burst through the kitchen door.
“Ah, piss man! You here to push the dirt around, no?”
Haley sighed deeply and loudly. “No, Mr. Barque. I’m here to do my job. Of which I can’t do until you get outta here,” he snapped.
“Eh, piss man? You think you can take that attitude with me? I am five star chef in five star restaurant. Piss men don’t tell me what to do.”
“Mr. Barque, I don’t tell you how to cook and you don’t tell me how to clean. Now, get outta here so’s I can get started.” Haley’s brow crinkled in waves.
“Yes. Yes, piss man. I am leaving. In fact, I will be on two week holiday. I won’t be here to slide on you greasy floors.” He walked to the entrance door and stopped. “Two weeks, piss man. Two weeks. Two weeks I come back. Two weeks you be gone.”
Haley had resumed picking up the chairs and froze. “Gone? What you mean gone? I ain’t going nowheres.”
“Gone, piss man. I get you fired when I get back. I am five star chef. You are five star dog shit. I give you two weeks to find another job. I am compassionate man.” Barque laughed, and left. His laughter trailed in the distance.
Rage built opening pathways in Haley’s mind uncrossed. It burned off the internal fog clouding his thoughts. He continued clearing the floor, working double speed and leaving the floors and kitchen not quite as clean as usual. Something he would have never done before. Priorities had changed.
It wasn’t difficult to break into Chef Barque’s tiny office. All he had to do was work a credit card under the tang of the lock. The spring popped, and he was in. He rummaged through the desk drawers and filing cabinets until he hit pay dirt. Chef Barque lived at 2418 Chartres Street, in the Faubourg Marigny
district of the French Quarter.
Haley gathered a variety of utensils and supplies from the kitchen and placed them in a large trash bag. He left the hotel and got into his car. The first stop was at a convenience store for an energy drink, some ice, and a case of beer. Then down the street to his house, where he removed his license plate, and retrieved his ice chest from the garden shed.
Fifteen minutes later he parked his car in front of Chef Barque’s quaint little one story house. The property lines were narrow. The houses set close enough that it might have been possible to jump from rooftop to rooftop. Even though Barque’s house was small it would have sold for ten times more than Haley’s. Location, location, location.
It was 3 a.m. on a Monday morning. He hoped everyone was asleep. Haley slipped on a knit cap and pulled it down just above his eyes and as far over his ears as it would cover.
He eased out of his car, gently pushing the door to, and made a causal stroll around the area. The streets were empty and the neighborhood quiet. The brightest light came from a billboard over a half block away. A few porch lights were on. The lights dulled by an accumulation of dead bugs seeking salvation in the night.
Convinced that it was now or never, Haley softly stepped to Barque’s door and gave it an authoritative rap. He waited and knocked again while peering into the peephole. On his fourth round of knocks the light came on in the room.
“Go away! I call police!”
“Sir, I am the police,” Haley lied, masking his voice.
“I don’t call police. You go away.”
“Sir, we have a report that you are holding someone hostage. We need to come inside and talk to you.”
“No one else here. You go away,” Barque demanded.
“Just let us come in and talk to you for a minute. If everything’s cool, we’ll be along our way.”
“Step in front of peephole so I see you.”
“We are in front of the peephole. Now, let us in.” Haley had his thumb covering the small one way window.
“Damn humidity,” Barque huffed.
The deadbolt rattled and the door swung open in a jerk. Barque was face to face with a grinning Haley Deucett.
‘Piss man?’ was the last two words Barque ever spoke. Haley raised a sixteen ounce meat tenderizing hammer and crashed it down between Barque’s beady, dark eyes. The chef dropped like a ton of bricks to the floor without even a whimper.
The kill went a lot easier than Haley imagined. He was glad he didn’t have to use the large kitchen knife he had shoved between his belt and pants.
Haley made another quick look up and down the street and opened the trunk on his car. He lifted Barque under his arms and dragged him over and shoved him in the trunk. Barque was a little more than five feet tall, but the little bastard was fat. He was more difficult to handle than Victoria.
His car started right up with the normal sputter and puff of black smoke. He gave it the gas and traveled to the Pontchartrain Expressway and headed across to the West Bank. His cousin’s deer camp was less than an hour away. It was Monday—Haley’s day off, and it was the perfect place for him to spend the day.
*
It was still dark when he turned off the main highway and onto the old logging road that led to the camp. Fortunately, the road was dry and the dirt firm. Otherwise, he would have needed a four-wheel drive truck. Still, he had to keep his speed at a minimum, the ride exposed the age of his shock absorbers.
The camp was nothing more than a fifteen by fifteen shack built with discarded building materials from a scrap pile of a new apartment complex. It offered little for creature comforts, just a place to roll out the sleeping bag to get out of the weather until it was time for the morning hunt.
Haley pulled up next to the weathered structure, opened up his energy drink, and waited for the sun to rise.
*
The morning light and energy drink knocked off the dullness of the drive to the camp. Haley opened the trunk and manhandled Barque’s body onto the ground.
Get me fired? Ha! I’ll get you fired up.
He dragged Barque by his feet over by a large oak. A chain hoist hovered above on a branch. It was used to lift deer waiting to be skinned. Haley looped the chain around the chef’s ankles and pulled him up until his head was a good foot above the ground.
First, he removed Barque’s clothing, and then he slit Barque’s throat. The pasty white body marbled with cellulite swung from side to side as blood pooled underneath. Haley took a knife and gutted him just like he would a deer, and hollowed out the body cavity.
There were a couple of wooden picnic tables that he needed to clean before he could use them. He was glad that the old well hadn’t run dry and used the hand pump to wet some rags he found inside the camp. He cleaned the two tables and benches, moved one over underneath Barque, and lowered him down.
Barque was laid out on his back. His face stained in crimson.
They ain’t nothing attractive about a naked man.
From his supplies from the restaurant, he gathered a jar of liquid seasonings and a large syringe. He opened the jar and sucked up the oily mixture through the thick needle. Injecting food with liquid seasonings had been popular for some time in the South. The ‘Cajun Injection’ seasoning normally spiced up pigs and turkeys, of which Haley considered Barque both. He methodically placed the injections equal distances apart throughout the carcass and shot liberal amounts into the joints. Garlic powder and a blend of Cajun spices served as the dry rub, with plenty of it going into the body cavity.
While the chef marinated, Haley begin to prepare what his cousin called his ‘Cajun microwave.’ Two metal poles stood upright in the ground where normally a whole gutted and butterflied pig would be splayed out. Two fires had to be built, one a few feet in front of the pig, and one a few feet behind it. Behind each fire a sheet of 4X8 tin stood upright, but tilted at a slight angle toward the meat to reflect the heat indirectly and roast the meat.
There was still plenty of firewood left over from winter. Haley stacked the wood for each fire and gathered some smaller twigs and branches for kindling. When everything was set to go, he doused the wood with kerosene and gave it time to soak in.
Haley found an old blanket inside the camp and used it to keep Barque free of dirt as he dragged him to the poles. With some difficulty he managed to prop Barque up and chained each wrist to a pole. Then, he chained each ankle in a similar fashion. Chef Barque was spread out like a big fat X. Haley put a match to the wood and soon both fires roared.
Haley went back to his car and got his new book and reading glasses. It would be several hours before dinner was ready, and he had a lot of reading to catch up on.
He set up a folding chair and a TV tray he found inside the camp near the fire. Another jar of the liquid marinade waited for periodic basting.
It was early May. The morning cool and pleasant. Haley popped the top on a beer and took a long chug. Now, this is nice.
The day grew long as he delved into a brand new novel Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution. The story had him hooked on page one and found it hard to put the book down to check on the meat.
Each beer went down faster than the previous. The delicious aroma of roasting meat wafted in the gentle breeze. His stomach growled in anticipation.
Finally, after more than three hours had passed, the juices ran clear as he cut tiny slices in the carcass. It was ready. Haley could hardly wait. He doused the fires and prepared to eat.
Haley cut a big slab off Barque’s shoulder. The knife slid through as if it was hot butter. The skin was delightfully crispy on the outside and the meat tender and moist on the inside. The skin crunched and the savory flavors of the marinade came alive in his mouth.
This was the best tasting meat he had ever eaten. Pig at a Cochon De Lait had never tasted this good. Haley grabbed another beer and chased down a mouthful of meat.
He ate, and he ate, and he ate. He sampled portions from various parts of the body and judged w
hich he liked best. He had never enjoyed a meal made from Victoria like this.
When he could eat no more, he cut up the chef and packed the parts away in his ice chest. Then he put everything back in place as he found it and cleaned up all of his trash and took it with him. He left for home after screwing his license plate back on.
Haley poked at a piece of meat stuck between his teeth with his tongue, relishing the flavor. An odd craving came over him. He wasn’t hungry, but there was a taste lingering on his palate he couldn’t identify. What was it? What was . . . Caciocavallo Podolico.
What the hell? Where did that come from? Caciocavallo Podolico? I don’t even know how to pronounce that. It was that damn cheese that Barque had accused him of stealing. A cheese that he had never eaten but strangely remembered its flavor.
This wasn’t his mind playing tricks this time. There certainly was a connection to this feeling. Just like with Victoria, he would was sharing part of Chef Barque’s soul. Was this destined to complicate his life even further? No, he thought. Now that he was aware of the consequences, he was determined to use it to his advantage.
* * *
Haley was about to start his second shift cleaning the kitchen for Chef Chauvin. Chef Barque never returned from his ‘vacation,’ and the police didn’t have a clue as to what happened to him. Chef Chauvin was nothing like the disrespectful Frenchman. He was always friendly and complemented Haley on his work. Both were New Orleans Saints fans and would discuss the team every chance they had.
Mrs. Adele came walking down the hall with her head hanging low and would have crashed into Haley if he wouldn’t have stopped her.
Haley gently put his hands on her shoulders. “Mrs. Adele?”
Soul Mates: Higher learning through Cannibalism Page 2