by Tim Marquitz
“Pete. Remember where you at. Let me handle her.”
Johnny said to the old woman, “You seem a nice old lady. Let me help a you out.”
He stood up, reached into a pants pocket, pulled out a roll, and peeled off two hundred dollar bills.
“Here, nonna.” He handed it to her. “Put it in you dress where the money stay safe. I get you home OK. Flora, excuse, scusi, prego.”
Johnny gently took the old woman by the arm and escorted her out from the dance hall through the marble foyer to the courtyard. The night air was cool from the sea breeze that blew from the Malecón.
“Chico, you good man.”
Johnny laughed. “No, nonna, I’m just a wise a’ guy. But thanks.”
“No, you kind to old Maman Voudoun. I’m going to bless, benedecir, protect you. Show me the gold chain.”
“What? How you know about that? Mi mama, she’s a’ give it to me in Sicily.”
“No mind. Show me, now.”
Bemused, Johnny loosened his tie, undid his collar, and pulled out the gold chain. A small gold cross and twisted gold horn hung from the chain. Maman Voudoun opened a small leather bag and took out a green stone.
“This una cosa preciosa, precious thing, best thing Maman Voudoun can give.”
Two faces were sculpted into the stone; one black, one white, both merged into the other. She hung the amulet from his chain and tucked it back into his shirt.
“When danger come, you need help, pray Baron Samedi. He make one man here, other man there, but both men same, you. Tu entiendes, chico, you understand?”
Johnny shook his head and smiled, a flash of strong white teeth. “Sure. Grazie, nonna.”
He raised his right hand. A ’57 Buick pulled up. Johnny opened the back door and helped Maman Voudoun inside.
“Sal, take this nice lady home, OK?” He handed Sal a five spot.
“No problem, boss.”
They drove off. Johnny turned to go back inside, chuckling, but a man called out to him.
“Oye, vato. Ven aca. Come here, man.”
The mambo dancer on a smoke break, coiled elegantly against a wall. Thin face creased by a pencil mustache, a black cigarillo dangled from a corner of his mouth.
“You know me, vato?”
“Sure, you the dancer for this a joint. How you doing tonight? You pretty good, you know that?”
The dancer smiled faintly as if only acknowledging a universally known truth.
“You done OK just now, vato. Maman Voudoun, maybe she seem old and poor, but she’s a powerful mambo, muy fuerte. You keep that amulet. Going to save your life someday.”
Johnny laughed out loud. “OK, you. I’m a’ gonna do just that.”
The dancer took the cigarillo from his mouth and nodded emphatically.
“Haga eso, do that. Take it from El Barbaro, Benny Moré, the one who knows.”
Johnny returned to the dance hall, shaking his head.
“Pazzo, crazy.”
#
At his table, Connubio leaned as close to Flora as his girth would allow. He earnestly murmured in her ear while she tried to draw away, plainly repulsed. Johnny deftly butted in.
“You being pretty rude, Pete. I no like a’ that.”
“What took you so long, Johnny? I don’t like being ignored when I’m on a date.”
Johnny resumed his seat. “Hey, babe, sorry. The old woman, she tell some a long, crazy story I no understand.”
Flora frowned, then reconsidered and smiled. “That was sweet of you to give her that money and to see her home.”
“You’re too soft for a made guy,” Connubio said.
“You want a classy joint, Pete? You want old lady blood onna floor? My way, she’s a’ easier.”
“Don’t tell me how to run my place, you dumb Guinea. Goddamn arrogant prick, just get off the boat, gamble your way into a pissant share, and start mouthing off like you own the whole joint—”
Johnny stood up. He put Flora’s wrap over her bare shoulders and helped her from her chair.
“I see you later, Pete. We settle things between you and me then, okay? You see, you find out.”
Pete’s slit eyes blazed malice.
“Yeah. Sure, kid.”
Johnny scowled back at him. He kissed Flora long and full on the lips.
“Come on, baby.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “You gonna love my place.”
#
Johnny’s beach house was off Varadero Beach. The flat-roofed, light blue pastel house had been designed by a member of Lloyd Wright’s atelier. Johnny had won it two months before from a wealthy Cuban doctor in an all-night, cocaine and whiskey fueled poker game. He fixed mojitos in the fully modern kitchen, equipped with every convenience and high-quality Swedish cutlery. They sipped their drinks outside by the twenty-five meter swimming pool.
“I must say I don’t like your friend Pete very much. He said some really mean, dirty things to me while you were gone.”
“He ain’t no friend, baby. Pete, he ain’t nothing but un villano, a peasant. He think he a big shot, but he no know people like I know. Mayer, Santo, even Batista, boss of the whole goddamn a island, whole lotta other big shots, we tight, like this. You don’t worry about that schifosa Pete Connubio. I fix him but good. Relax. Drink up.”
A sickle moon hung low and near in the sky, surrounded by stars, the golden light reflected and diffracted by the water in the pool. A warm, gentle wind streamed in from the sea, bearing the heady scent of tropical flowers. Surf roared, a constant, reassuring lullaby. Every now and then they caught snatches of song and strummed guitars from partygoers on the beach.
“It’s just heavenly here. Does Hemingway live anywhere near this place?”
“Who’s he, Hemingway?”
Flora giggled, remembered herself, and put a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. I’m just surprised you never heard of him. Let’s talk about something else. Just think, we’re here on this beautiful big house right on the beach, nobody but you and me.”
Johnny smiled. “Yeah, we all alone, baby. You wanna have a dip, you go right ahead.”
Flora goggle-eyed at Johnny and laughed. “In what? I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”
“In whatever you want, baby.”
She studied him closely for a long moment. Without a word, Flora stood up and pulled her dress over her head. It took some time to wriggle out of her shift and pantyhose. Naked, Flora took his breath away, blonde, athletic, and stunningly beautiful. She dove into the deep end. Johnny undressed and followed her into the pool. Flora wrapped herself around him, a white body against his olive, muscular one. She picked up his necklace and studied the pendants.
“What are these?”
“She’s a cross and a cornuto. Mi mama, she a give them me before I come over from Corleone, for protection.”
She fingered the amulet.
“Yeah, but what’s this one? It’s really different looking.”
Johnny giggled. “The old nonna, the one I help out, she a’ give that to me tonight. Said she’s a good luck. Crazy, huh? Let’s a talk about something important, huh?”
“OK, Johnny. Like what?”
“I’m a’ gonna show you.”
Johnny kissed her urgently. He ran his hands up and down her firm young body. She eagerly kissed back, ground herself against him. They swam to the shallow end and left by the steps. Johnny draped a full-length terrycloth robe around Flora. He swept her off her feet and carried her through a French door to the nearby master bedroom. They had sex on the big, circular bed behind gauzy mosquito nets, a passionate, noisy bout. Flora and Johnny lay next to each other, soaked in salty sweat.
“Whoa. You hot Italian stud.”
Johnny smiled. “You a sweet kid. Tomorrow I take you shopping. You want a shower?”
“No thanks, sweetie. I just want to lie here and sleep for a little bit. I feel so warm and relaxed after what we just did.”
Johnny kis
sed her. “OK. Keep warm. I’m a’ gonna come back for you again.”
Johnny got out of bed and went into the marble bathroom. He shut the heavy mahogany door. After a relaxing hot shower in the gold-fitted tub, Johnny dried himself off. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped outside the bathroom.
Flora lay on the bed, her throat cut from ear to ear. The white satin sheets were soaked with her blood. Connubio sat in an armchair by the bed, obviously deeply drunk, with a nasty grin, a bloody straight razor in his left hand, and a .38 revolver in his right.
“Hello, Johnny. I got a special place in my heart for assholes like you.”
Pete raised the pistol and fired. The bullet missed Johnny’s head by a good foot, but still almost deafened him.
“Figlio di putana,” Connubio cursed. He grabbed the pistol with both hands and aimed slowly.
`Johnny ducked back inside the bathroom and heaved the door shut. The slug buried itself in the thick wood. Johnny bolted the door.
“That won’t stop me. I’ll shoot the lock off.”
The windowless bathroom offered no escape. Johnny clasped his pendants and fervently prayed, “Oh, Madonna and tutti Santi, please help me.”
A bullet slammed into the lock.
“Jesu, help me.”
Another bullet smashed into the lock.
From nowhere, as if a foreign spirit spoke through his mouth, Johnny heard himself say, “Baron Samedi, please help me.”
Somewhere in the cosmos, a skeleton clad in a top hat snapped bony fingers. Johnny found himself naked in the brightly lit kitchen, an open drawer before him, filled with gleaming knives.
Water dripped from him onto the kitchen tiles only to also hit the bathroom floor. Johnny stared into the bathroom mirror at his own face in amazement as his other self slowly padded out of the kitchen, a long, sharp, Gense butcher knife in one hand. Johnny crept to his bedroom while he hid from Connubio in the locked bathroom. He stood next to the open door and peeped in. Connubio kicked at the bathroom door.
“Come out, you coward.” The effort left him bent over and gasping. “First gutless Sicilian I ever saw. Won’t get yours like a man.”
Johnny ran into the room. He stabbed Connubio, ran the wide blade deep into a kidney.
“Aaauuggh.”
The big man hit the floor. Black blood seeped from his wound onto the rug. Johnny turned him over. Connubio’s eyes rolled back into his head. Johnny slapped him hard across the face.
“Pete. Wake up, you succhiatore. You ain’t going into shock, paesan. Oh no, no just yet, no with me around. Not till you a’ see who shanked you.”
Connubio focused on Johnny’s face. He raised a hand as if to ward him off.
“How?” he whispered. “You’re locked in—”
The bathroom door opened. Johnny looked down at Pete as his lifeblood slowly drained from his gored body. Connubio stared in dazed wonder at him and then back at his double.
“How? You’re two—”
The other Johnny who knelt beside him smiled and shrugged.
“Search me, Pete. Like a’ you said, I’m just a dumb Guinea.”
Both Johnnies laughed hysterically, pointed at Connubio, reveled in his plight. Connubio groaned and died.
#
“So that’s how I get my nickname.”
Toots Shor’s mid-town Manhattan joint was quiet that evening. Johnny sat with the others in a table in a secluded corner of the restaurant, reserved exclusively for celebrities and other VIPs. The remains of a recently finished elaborate meal stood on the table. He sipped his Johnny Walker Red on the rocks and ran his hands through his combed back, thick hair, now lightly flecked with gray. LBJ droned a speech about the Vietnam War on a small black and white TV, placed on the massive, circular bar by a bartender at some patron’s request.
“Pretty nice deal, huh, Frank? Not even a big shot like you can make a claim like that,” Massy Getti said. Old, wizened, angular body crammed into a tight gray suit, rheumy eyes alive with merriment. “Old Johnny boy, he sure does get around. He can do his comare and his old lady at one and the same time.”
“Yeah, Frank, Johnny’s got ‘em coming and going. You just never know when or where he’s gonna pop up or even how many of him you’ll see,” Toots Shor said, his broad, rubbery face split wide and infinitely creased by a grin. “What do you think?”
The most famous singer in the world sat back, sipped his scotch, and assumed a pensive air. He puffed on a cigarette for a while, as if debating the matter, turning over pros and cons.
Finally he said, “You know what I think? I think you guys are the biggest bunch of bullshitters I ever met.”
Everyone laughed hysterically, Sinatra the hardest of all. Johnny flashed another killer grin, delighted to be in such exalted company. He held up two fingers to signal the waitress to fetch another round. On him, of course.
The Seed
N.X. Sharps
The warehouse was far enough from the monotony of the suburbs to emanate danger but not near enough to the bad part of the city as to pose any real risk. The number of the beast and inverted crosses were spray painted on the walls. A pentagram was chalked out on the floor amidst shattered beer bottles, used condoms, and smoked spliffs—the detritus of teen rebellion. Had a concerned parent tracked their wayward offspring here it would have ignited a moral panic. The media would trot out so called experts on Satanism and warn the public away from rock music and Dungeons & Dragons.
The warehouse was a poser’s paradise.
It was the perfect location to perform a ritual sacrifice.
I whistled, giving the all clear, and my adopted family shuffled in from the rain carrying flashlights and cleaning supplies. We were four in number, with a fifth, sixth, and seventh on the way. A bleach stained Alice in Chains t-shirt clung to my chest and rain had pasted together my jeans to my legs. The others dressed in an assortment of clothes, primarily black, without a hooded robe or goat face mask in sight.
Where the fuck do you buy hooded robes anyway, is there an Occult Gap? Does Tommy Hilfiger have a spring line dedicated to fashionable doomsday sects?
We set about cleaning an area to make the offering, sweeping up glass shards with brooms and scrubbing the pentagram away with brushes. We labored in silence, reflecting on the task ahead of us.
Tonight I would take a life for the first time.
I popped the antacid from my front pocket, hoping to smother the poisonous butterflies rioting in my stomach. I clenched the brush as I scrubbed to prevent my hands from trembling. I was apprehensive but electrified. I disgusted myself and I celebrated my impending rebirth within the Liberator movement. Mister Lichter taught me the hidden history of the world and I had witnessed his ability to manipulate the physical and aethereal. I hungered to learn more of the Praeter Scientia, the Liberator’s gift to mankind, and tonight I would.
Lightning struck nearby, causing me to jump and illuminating the depot. The tread of thunder accompanied it and we paused in our respective duties. The Oppressor was quick to anger and abounding in steadfast retribution.
If He is aware of our intent then punishment will be swift and complete.
The others returned to the job at hand as the rumble receded. They had been members of the movement for longer than I. Shrugging off the unease as best I could I proceeded to remove the pentagram from the concrete. Not even the Oppressor was omniscient, regardless of what his followers claimed. I would not be cowed by lightning and thunder, not tonight.
“Good evening my faithful few.”
In walked Mister Lichter—tall, thin, impeccably dressed and most importantly untouched by the downpour. Wisps of white hair sprouted from above his ears but refused to converge across the dome of his head. Vibrant eyes beamed at us from behind a pair of spectacles.
“Good evening,” we responded.
I stood, knees protesting, as he greeted my brethren each in turn. He embraced each of them, trading affections and pleasantries.
Of Mister Lichter’s past I knew only that he had once been a member of the Fellowship Foundation, a society of academics that was big on speculating and theorizing but shied away from action. He rejected their hypocrisy and sought to take action. He discovered purpose in the Liberator’s movement and gathered likeminded people to the cause.
Mister Lichter stood before me, arms open.
“My dear boy,” he said.
His voice was smooth as sweet tea and just as refreshing. I hugged him tight; content to smell the peppermint on his breath before we unclasped. He stepped back and placed a hand against my cheek. His weathered palms radiated warmth and he affixed me with his grandfatherly stare.
“A year has passed since you joined the family. Oh how time grinds on, halting for no man. I have cherished your time with us and I would like to believe that you have as well.”
“I have sir. I’ve never felt more at home.”
Mister Lichter beamed all the brighter at this response.
“Tonight you will seal that bond. This ceremony will solidify your commitment to the Liberator’s War in Heaven. I am an old man and I do not expect to be alive when the Oppressor is finally defeated, but I daresay, you may indeed partake in His ultimate downfall. Your generation is poised to carry on the aeons-long crusade.”
“The Oppressor will be cast down and mankind will ascend the throne,” announced Brother Ryan, zealous as always.
“Are you ready to make me proud?”
“I am sir.” I asserted.
“Of course you are my dear boy. Now go my children, and fetch the Topheth from my van, you’ll know it when you see it. The hour is nearly upon us and Sister Rebecca will arrive shortly with the offering.”
That my girlfriend was responsible for transporting the sacrifice came as a surprise but I obeyed the command, leaving the comfort of the shelter with Ryan, Erin, and Mark in tow. Outside the storm raged in earnest. Lances of lightning cut gaping wounds in the night sky as we ran through the deluge, making for Mister Lichter’s nondescript van. Ryan made it there first, throwing open the rear hatch and revealing a bronze idol.
Mister Lichter wasn’t kidding. There could be no confusing the statue before us for anything other than the Topheth. The head of a bull rested on a human torso with hands held forth above a brazier that sat between its crossed legs. It looked old, maybe not ancient but definitely old. It also looked heavy. Beside it were a canister of lighter fluid and a plastic-wrapped package of wood.
