Homemade Sin (5 page)

Hussey had wondered to herself how Mama Wati knew of the buzzard puking game.

“I know everything,” Mama had said aloud in response to Hussey's thought.

The memory faded, bringing Hussey back into the present, as Mama's house came into view. Hussey smiled to herself as she thought of the evening after her first encounter with Mama. How she had climbed out of her bedroom window in silence and with stealth that night, made her way to the lake, and placed a few mushroom seeds on top of every pile of cow flop she could find in the dark. A few she found with her bare feet, the poop oozing up through her toes. And for good measure, she sprinkled some of the seeds on top of the little puddles of buzzard vomit. Little did she know then, in the regurgitation of the eaters of the dead there was a spark of life. In the buzzard bile was purification and rebirth on a microscopic level, a ying and yang, a maypole dance of enzymes.

And even now, preparing to move away from Cassandra and start her new life, Hussey had no idea how that simple act of sprinkling a few mushroom seeds on drying puddles of buzzard vomit would change her life, and the lives of so many others.

The first thing Roland saw when he pried his eyes open the next morning was Stinky, perched on the edge of his pillow staring down at him, with breath both bated and baited, his tail lashing back and forth across Roland's face.

“Are you still here?” Roland said. He winced at the sunlight streaming through the window, his head pounding from the evening before. He scooped up the cat with one arm, lurched to the door and deposited the feline outside his room.

“Go find someone else to bother,” Roland told Stinky as he slammed the door.

Roland sat back down on the bed and ran his hand across his face. He had a vague memory of the cat talking to him last night in the bar, but that was impossible. Those Rum Runners were a lot stronger than he'd thought. In his drunken state he must have found a stray tomcat and imagined the whole thing, even brought the cat home. Geez, he thought, I have to cut down on the drinking. Bleary eyed, Roland stumbled from the bed into the shower and let the warm water drizzle over his body from the low pressure shower head.

Feeling better, he pulled on a pair of baggy shorts and a T-shirt and headed for the door. Stinky was sitting in front of his door, waiting for him. “You still here, kitty?”

“We're still friends, so I'm still here,” Stinky's voice said in Roland's head. “I go where you go.”

“Shit. I can still hear you in my head,” Roland said. “I thought that was merely a drunken illusion.”

“From the looks of you it might still be a drunken illusion,” Stinky said, “but it wasn't an illusion last night and it isn't now. Want to get some lunch?”

Roland shook his head and stared at Stinky. “Can everybody hear you?”

“Only those I want to hear me,” said Stinky. “I know a great place for lunch, just down Duval Street. Whaddya say?”

“I can't even think about food right now,” Roland said, wincing at the mid-morning sun stabbing his eyes through the palm fronds. “I'm going to play tourist and go to Hemingway's house to take the tour.”  

“I used to live there. Not all that much to see,” said Stinky. “Just Papa's writing room off the main house and that big pool. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have lunch? It'll make you feel better.”

“I'm going to Hemingway House.” Roland moved toward the courtyard that led to Duval Street. Stinky fell in behind him.

As Roland passed by the pool he came upon a sad scene. The hotel manager was cradling a sodden tabby on her lap and weeping. As he passed her she looked up at him with tears streaming down her face and said, “My poor little Mr. Whiskers, he drowned in the pool last night. I can't understand it, he never went near water … wouldn't even dip his paws in the Koi pond to chase the fish.”

“It wasn't me!” Stinky's voice sounded a little too emphatic in Roland's head. “I didn't crawl out of the window last night. I slept like a kitten and besides, I told that cat to watch out, he was walking too close to the pool—”

“Get out of my head,” Roland said under his breath in amazement as he stared at Stinky.

“Did you say something?” said the manager.

I thought I was just drunk and hearing things last night, but I think maybe I've completely lost my mind this time. “Oh no, nothing.” Roland said and looked down at his shoes. He wondered if he would be able to master the fine art of turning palm fronds into rosebuds while he talked to himself. Maybe he'd take the bartender up on one of those little aluminum foil hats.

“I see you found a little friend of your own,” said the woman, brightening as she looked down at Stinky. As Roland followed the woman's gaze he noticed Stinky looked a little guilty. The cat turned his head away to avoid looking at the lady or the waterlogged tabby draped across her lap. “Off to see the sights?” said the manager.

“I thought I'd take in Hemingway's house,” said Roland, “and then wander around town.”

“Don't miss the sunset festival at the docks,” said the lady, “there is a guy down there who has trained cats. They jump through flaming hoops and walk a tightwire.”

“Any of those cats telepathic?”

The lady gave him a quizzical look as Stinky emitted a strange sound, somewhere between a meow and a growl. Roland noticed it sounded anxious.

“Never mind,” said Roland, “I just thought maybe it might be something going around down here.”

Stinky mewed loudly and tugged on the cuff of Roland's pants with his teeth, in an attempt to pull Roland into forward motion.

“Looks like he wants you go somewhere,” said the manager, still stroking her expired pussy.

“Probably to a bar.” Roland sighed. “I think this kitty has a drinking problem, two paws and only one mouth.”

“You are the one who had eight Rum Runners last night.” Stinky's voice now sounded condescending as he tugged Roland's pants with greater insistence “And a shot of tequila.”

“I think you better follow him before he shreds your pants.” The manager smiled.

Roland returned her smile and turned toward the white picket gate that led to Duval Street. On Duval Street he turned left heading for Hemingway House, following the route on the tourist map he had perused when he had checked in days ago. He felt a tug on his pants leg in the opposite direction.

“What is it, Lassie?” Roland turned to Stinky, “Has Aunt Polly fallen in the well? Do you want me to follow?”

Stinky mewed an affirmative.

“Ok, you crazy ass cat,” Roland said, “I guess Hemingway House can wait. Lead on McFluff.”

Stinky led Roland on a twisting turning trail through the side streets of Key West. Finally they came to the entrance of a restaurant called Slippery Sue's, where a large sign, shaped like a mermaid, and a bill of fare on the door advertised sushi.

“So that's it, you want me to buy you lunch. I should have known. I figured you for the kind of cat that would just leave Aunt Polly in the well while you dined on Mahi Mahi and Brandy Alexanders.”

“Have a little patience and trust me,” said Stinky, “If this relationship is going to work, you're going to have to trust me. And your shoelace is untied.”

“Relationship?” Roland started to protest as he bent to tie his shoe lace. His hand touched Velcro straps. “You lying feline, there aren't any shoelaces on sanda—” before he could get the words out with the right degree of acrimony, a young woman, dressed in a short skirt and a long, fish-stained apron came flying from the door of the restaurant, down a short set of steps from the restaurant door toward the street, cussing a blue streak.

“Fuck you, you fucking fuck!” The woman shouted at a man standing in the doorway waving a bloody chef's hat at her, red-faced and yelling. Stinky slithered between the woman's feet causing her to trip and fall down the stairs. Arms cartwheeling, she tumbled, ass over tin cup, over the kneeling form of Roland. Roland tried to catch her at the last minute and ended up sprawled in the street with the woman sitting in his lap.

“I fucking quit, you fucking fuck,” the woman screamed from Roland's lap, over her shoulder, at the man in the doorway. Realizing she was sitting in a strange man's lap on the sidewalk, the woman turned her head and stared at Roland, her eyes sparking with anger and curiosity.

Roland stared back at the foul-mouthed woman on his lap.

“What are you looking at?” the woman said, angry, with a tinge of humor.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Roland said.

“Are you buying, Fuckhead?” A smile appeared at the corner of her mouth.

“You have a mouth on you,” said Roland.

“And I know how to use it.” She broke into a full-on alligator grin. “I'm Dee Dee.”

Roland slipped Dee Dee off his lap and helped her to her feet. “Roland,” he said, extending his hand.

Dee Dee touched Roland's outstretched hand softly in a mock shake then brushed herself off. She was straightening her skirt when she spied the cat. Stinky had been following their conversation intently.

“Hey Stinky, whaddya know?” said Dee Dee.

“You know this animal?” Roland said.

“Yeah, I know the little shit.” Dee Dee, rose to her feet. “He spends a lot of time in the dumpster out behind the restaurant. At least I see him there during the day sometimes.”

“That would explain the smell,” said Roland, adjusting his baggy shorts and T-shirt.

“I don't know what the furry little fucker does at night.”

“He hustles drinks at Sloppy Joe's.” Roland picked a waterlogged cigarette butt off his shirt.

“Speaking of drinks,” said Dee Dee. “Did you say you were buying?”

“Sure.” Roland, wondered how he got lucky enough to have a beautiful woman fall into his lap.

“It wasn't luck,” said Stinky in his head, “I planned it this way. Kurt Vonnegut used to call me ‘Wampeter.' It was his word for something or someone that brings two forces together that would never have met otherwise.”

“So now you knew Kurt Vonnegut,” Roland.

“I used to sit on his lap while he dictated his novels to his secretary,” said Stinky. “Remember Cat's Cradle? He was going to call it Bokonism Footsie. Changing the title to Cat's Cradle was my idea.”

The voice was smug in Roland's head.

Stinky gazed up at the sun. “Must be around noon. The Head chef comes in around noon and he must have found all that rotten fish in his hat. Since he and Dee Dee here have had a little rivalry going on recently, he must have assumed it was her.”

Roland stared at the black cat.

“I suggest the Hog's Breath Saloon,” he heard Stinky say. “They have a patio where pets are allowed and they don't water down the Brandy Alexanders.”

“Are you telling me you planned all this?”

“Are you having a conversation with that pussy cat?” Dee Dee raised her eyebrows.

“Your shoe's untied again,” said Stinky as he strutted away down the street, swishing his tail with an air of superiority.

Roland and Dee Dee were seated on the patio at the Hog's Breath Saloon. Stinky sat in a chair between the two taking in the conversation. He turned his head back and forth like someone watching a tennis game.

“We have a special tonight on Zombies,” said the waiter. “Two for one.”

When Roland ordered mango margaritas for two and a basket of conch fritters, Stinky glared at him.

“Could I also have a Brandy Alexander?” Roland said. “And put it in a saucer.”

“Two mango margaritas and the usual for Stinky.” The waiter scribbled the order on his pad.

“Did he say zombies?” said Stinky after the waiter had left. “I gotta see this.” Stinky slipped down from his chair and followed the waiter to the bar. As he approached the bar, he heard a customer, a florid man in a polo shirt, demand “Make me a Zombie.” Stinky leapt up on the bar and watched as the bartender placed a tall, frosty, pinkish-orange drink in front of the customer.

“One Zombie,” said the bartender

Stinky watched closely as the Zombie drinker took a sip from glass.

“Hi, pussy cat,” said the man, then he turned up the Zombie and emptied half the glass.

Stinky scooted up to the man and examined him for signs of zombie-ism. He couldn't tell if the guy was a zombie or not. Stinky decided there was only one way to find out,

“You are my zombie slave, you will do my bidding.” Stinky's voice reverberated in the man's head.

The man choked and spluttered on the last sip of his drink. “Who said that?” He looked up and down the bar anxiously.

“I am your master and you are my zombie slave. You will obey my every command.”

The man gasped. “Oh, Jesus, it's my higher power. I should have never had this drink. I've blown my white chip and now I have to call my sponsor.” The man reached into his pocket and began furiously punching numbers into his cell phone.