Homemade Sin (26 page)

“That's my money,” groaned Mama from the bed.

“You ain't going to need it where you're going,” Bella said. I'm going to find Hussey and get that book back. And with this money to start me out and your potions and mixtures I'll be a powerful voodun in no time. You'll be dead in a few minutes and you won't be able to stop me,” she grinned at Mama Wati. “Oh and Mama,” Bella continued to place vials into the bag. “I cooked bad on purpose you old witch.”

Dee Dee placed a large drink order on the bar in front of Roland.

“Jeez, what did they order?” Roland said as he picked up the list of drinks.

“Those guys ordered one of everything on the menu,” Dee Dee said.

That's a lot of fugu, thought Roland, I better check on them from time to time.

Dee Dee moved over to the sushi table and started furiously cutting fugu. A few moments later Roland called over to her, “Drinks up.”

Dee Dee crossed over to the bar, picked up a tray full of drinks and carried them over to the waiting men.

“Oh, our drinks have arrived!” said the chubbier of the two men seated at a window table. “And don't they look grand?!”

“One Voodoo Curse,” Dee Dee said, placing the drink in front of the chubby man, his eyes sparkling. “And one Hoodoo Hemlock shooter,” Dee Dee continued as she placed the second drink in front of the other man who was almost salivating. He was the thinner of the two, pale with a hawk-like nose. He was wearing a designer jacket and a scarf around his neck tucked into his shirt like an ascot. Dee Dee dropped a sprig of greenery into the drink.

“What is the garnish?” the dapper, salivating man said.

“That's Hemlock. Don't eat it, it's just for show. Unless you have a death wish.”

“How quaint,” the salivating man said, sniffing the shrubbery.

“I'm serious,” Dee Dee said. “It will fucking kill you.”

“Such language!” the dapper man said. “I've never heard such language.”

“Well, fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Dee Dee said. “Now you've heard it four times. Oh hell, I forgot the toad. I'll be right back.” She returned in a matter of seconds with large toad in a small cage and placed it on the table.

“Ah, a dinner companion” The chubby man grinned. He wore a bubblegum pink polo shirt and had a pair of large, designer sunglasses perched on his balding head.

“It's a little rare for our entrée,” said the hawk-nosed man.

“It's a Bufo toad.” Dee Dee put two shot glasses filled with tequila beside the toad. She removed the toad from the cage and placed it on the table in front of the chubby man. “You lick the toad before the shot, like salt.”

The chubby man shrugged, lifted the frog and gave its back a big lick.

“Now do the fucking shot,” Dee Dee instructed.

“Language, please.” The man grimaced then downed the shot with one gulp and, licking his lips, smiled up at Dee Dee.

“This is place is just too cute for words,” the chubby man with the sparkling eyes announced with some difficulty, as he was trying to force the toad taste out of his mouth. He was sloshing the drink around his mouth, puckering and un-puckering his lips.

“Enjoy,” Dee Dee said as she placed the toad back in its cage. “Your food will be up in a minute.” The two men watched Dee Dee with anticipation as she placed the orders for the cooked food with Cutter in the kitchen and began furiously cutting sushi again. When the kitchen order was up she carried a large tray from the kitchen, stopped by the sushi table to add the raw entrées and held the heavily laden tray held high with one hand. She sauntered over to the table where the men were anxiously awaiting their entrees.

As Dee Dee placed each entrée on the table both men looked like two kids in line for a roller coaster, exhilarated and a little anxious. Before she could get the last of the plates off the tray one of the men had speared a chunk of Australian Blue-ringed octopus calamari, held it up close to his face and examined it closely, then shoveled the morsel into his mouth. He tilted his head back and chewed, eyes rolling back like a shark that had just devoured half a mackerel with one chomp. He chewed slowly and let out an extended “Ummmm,” as Dee Dee placed another plate on the table before him. As she served the hawk-nosed man his plate, the chubby man reached into his breast pocket retrieved a small, pink spiral notebook and began scribbling notes.

Roland watched the two men enjoying their dinner from behind the bar. They were alternately gobbling up their repast with relish and scribbling notes. He strolled over to investigate. “Enjoying your dinner?” Roland said as he approached their table.

The chubbier of the two men slapped the table and shouted, “Delicious! Delectable!”

“Debilitating,” Roland said under his breath. “I noticed you were taking some notes,” Roland commented. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”

“Your waitress is a vulgarian,” the dapper man said.

“She has occasional Tourette's. How is the food?”

“Delightful! Disarming!” the man raved.

“Deadly,” Roland said under his breath again.

Just then Dee Dee brought over their desserts and scooped up the empty entrée plates. She placed unhealthy portions of candied California newt and sugar-glazed Eastern salamander before the men. Another round of examining, sniffing and note taking followed. Roland tried again to enquire about the notes.

“If you are trying to figure out the recipes, I'm sure Chef Dee Dee would give them to you,” he said.

“Tasty! Toothsome! Terrific!” the pudgy man expounded through a mouthful of salamander.

“Toxic,” offered Roland, in more of a stage whisper this time than a mutter.

“Are you the owner of this amazing establishment?” the chubby man said.

Roland watched the hawk-faced man slip the scarf from his shirtfront and use it to blot the shining film of sweat that was oozing from his wide forehead. Roland noticed the man was looking a little green.

“I am.” Roland turned to the chubby man. “I don't think your friend is well.”

“Oh, he's fine,” the pudgy man assured Roland. “He's never been able to hold his liquor. I believe the Voodoo Curse has turned him into zombie.” The man laughed at his own joke. “I wish to send my compliments to that sushi girl,” the man fawned, nodding toward Dee Dee who was busily slicing fugu and trying to ignore the two men. “She has a mouth on her but she's a hell of a chef.”

Roland noticed the man's companion was simultaneously mopping his shiny pate and tugging at his lower lip as if he'd had an injection of Novocain. Looking up at Roland with glazed eyes the man muttered, “I can't feel my lips or my tongue.”

“Tell the chef the meal was perfection itself!” the chubby man said, ignoring his ailing companion, bits of salamander speckling his chin. “It was phlavorful with a ph!”

More like phatal with a ph, Roland thought as he strolled over to Dee Dee's sushi table.

“What was that all about?” Dee Dee said as Roland approached.

“Those guys are phugu phucked, with a ph,” Roland said, shaking his head as he passed Dee Dee's sushi station.

As Roland went around behind the bar, Ignatius Jones strolled in and took a seat on one of the barstools.

“Officer Jones, what can I get you?” Roland said.

“Actually I'm on duty,” Jones said. “So make it a beer. I have to ask you some questions about Rebel Buford. He stayed here the night before the race, right?”

“Yeah, he stayed here. He had dinner here in the restaurant, but that's all I know about him.”

From her sushi table Dee Dee overheard Jones say Rebel Buford's name and moved closer to the bar to eavesdrop on the conversation. She wondered if the cop suspected something but figured he was only fishing. She needed to know what he knew, sniff the bait a bit, maybe give it a non-committal nibble, but she wasn't about to snag her lip on the hook. Once she knew what he suspected, she and Cutter could get their story straight.

She peeked into the kitchen to make sure Cutter was safely inside and out of reach of the policeman's questions.

Cutter, without the proper supervision, could be a liability.

“We have reason to suspect someone turned that NASCAR driver into a zombie, then he got blown up,” Jones said. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Why would someone turn a NASCAR driver into a zombie?” Dee Dee said, approaching the bar with apparent innocence.

“Money. Same reason most crimes are committed,” said Jones. “The police in Daytona feel that someone poisoned him and gave him something that put his brain on autopilot. The animal control people found the same toxins in the bodies of the cats that were found dead near this restaurant and we know Rebel Buford stayed here the night before the race. It appears someone turned the driver into a zombie, then bet heavily on him and cleaned up.”

Dee Dee moved behind the bar and faced Jones. “Are you hungry Deputy? I can make you some sushi on the house. Maybe you would you like a drink. Let me make you a zombie.”

“Oh no! How did it happen? When?” Hussey sat up and sobbed into her cell phone. She and Roland had been lying on his bed basking in a sweaty, post coital stupor. They were trying to ignore the caterwauling of the copulating cats outside his window.

Roland looked at Hussey, concerned. He realized this was not a happy phone call.

“Of course I'm coming to the funeral. When is it?” Hussey was choking back sobs. “Do you mind if I bring someone? No, not Cutter. A new guy, his name is Roland. OK, I'll see you and dad tomorrow.”

Hussey dropped her cell phone onto the night stand and buried her face in Roland's chest. Roland stroked her back and her hair and soothed her as much as he could. When the sobs subsided he said “What happened?”

“That was my mom on the phone. Mama Wati is dead. She died a few days ago. Her funeral is tomorrow afternoon, my mom just found out. Would you go to the funeral with me?”

“Do I have to wear a tie?”

“In Cassandra, you would be the only one wearing a tie, unless my father went, and I seriously doubt dad would be seen at a voodoorine's funeral. Most men in Cassandra only wear ties when they are in deep trouble, like weddings and court dates.”

“Did you say voodoorine?” Roland said.

“We'll be gone for a couple of days,” Roland told Dee Dee and Cutter as they gathered around the bar. That means Cutter handles the bar and the kitchen and Dee Dee will have to cut fish and serve all the tables.” Roland was dressed in somber black jeans and black polo shirt. Hussey wore a short black dress and carried a purple hat.

Roland stared at her hat as they crossed the parking lot and approached his car.

In answer to Roland's quizzical look at her hat, Hussey simply said, “Voodoo funeral attire.”

Within minutes Roland and Hussey were tooling through Tampa, heading eastward on I-4 toward Orlando and ultimately Cassandra.

“So how far to Cassandra?” Roland said as they passed Disney World.

“About another half hour. We have to wind around some back roads.”

“OK, so tell me about Mama Wati?”

“She was a full-fledged voodun and the woman who taught me everything I know about voodoo,” Hussey said. “I learned from the best,” she continued, with a catch in her voice.

“Isn't voodoo just a bunch of mumbo jumbo? I mean, you gave that greyhound some kind of drug that restarted his brain and it took away whatever mental problem he had, but that's biochemical, not supernatural. Voodoo is all based on belief, right? If you believe you are cursed you're going to do things subconsciously to make the curse come true. If you don't believe it, it has no power over you, right?”

Hussey heard her own words, spoken to Mama Wati, coming back to haunt her, and they didn't sound as convincing when spoken by someone else. “Something like that.” Hussey sank down low in her seat. “Actually, the belief and the chemistry kind of work together. The mumbo jumbo, as you call it; the spells, incantations, charms and talismans wouldn't work as well without the chemicals, whether it's boiled tree bark or newt eyes. The pageantry, the act of mumbling a few magic words or waving a magic feather, actually triggers something in a person's biochemistry to jump-starts the chemicals. The last time I saw Mama Wati, I called it mumbo jumbo too, but now I think there's more to it.”