Moxel spits out a mocking laugh. “That’s mumbo-jumbo, like out of some weird old zombie movie.”
Luz stares down at the mutilated body on the gurney. “Bill Warren isn’t out of an old zombie movie. He’s lying here dead, right before our eyes. We have to deal with it.”
The Chief looks quizzically at Luz. “What kind of name is Bizango? You’re the one on the detective squad who would know that kind of thing.”
“You mean I’d know because I’m the only one who has African blood?”
“Don’t play your race card on me. Besides, you’re only half black.”
Moxel gives Luz a snarky up-and-down look. “Why don’t you try playing your gender card instead of your race card? What gender are you, anyway?”
Luz ignores Moxel and answers the Chief. “Bizango is a voodoo avenger; he kills people he regards as traitors. Dad told me that. I don’t know more, because voodoo is Haitian and I’m Cuban. We don’t practice voodoo—we practice Santería, which is different.”
“What did your father mean by traitors? Traitors of what?”
“I don’t know. After Bizango was killed, Dad was diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer. Bizango was the furthest thing from his thoughts in those last days.” Luz stares at the hole in Warren’s chest. “Any information on the arrow he was shot with?”
“Same kind that was shot through the chest of Randy Dandy, but it’s not an arrow. It’s a steel spear shot from a Pelletier speargun that fires off on a CO2 cartridge with enough force to take down a great white shark. Pelletier is mostly used by military, banned for sport fishing because the fish don’t stand a chance.”
Moxel hoots with enthusiasm. “The Pelletier is awesome! I saw it in a cool James Bond movie. Bond used the speargun in an underwater duel with this other dude. Both of them were in dive gear. Righteous battle. What was the name of that movie? It had that blond chick in it whose boobs kept popping out of her swimsuit.”
Luz turns her gaze on the red X slashed across the pallid skin of Warren’s stomach. “Why didn’t they clean Bill up? That’s the least they could have done, wash the bloody X off of him.”
The Chief looks at the X. “Evidence, Luz. They’re still analyzing that X. It’s not blood.”
Moxel butts in. “What is it?”
“Spray paint. Common spray paint.” The Chief shrugs. “Our new Bizango is also a graffiti artist. Maybe he’s only a guy who thinks he’s Andy Warhol and is looking for his fifteen minutes of fame.”
Moxel hitches up his gun belt, ready for action. “Who’s this Andy Warhol? Let’s go get him!”
Floating far offshore between Key West and Cuba in his pirate-radio boat, Noah contemplates the microphone and bottle of rum on the console table before him. He swivels in his chair close to the microphone, then backs off. He picks up the bottle and takes a long slug. As the liquor burns in his throat, he looks out through the saltwater-streaked window. The vast blue ocean surrounds him. He could be the only man alive at the dawn of creation, or the only man alive at the end of the world. He leans in close to the microphone and finds his voice.
“We are in the American tropic, in a zone of constant life, death, birth, and decay. As a poet once said, ‘Nothing lasts forever, not even eternal love.’ So—here is my advice: don’t fall in love with a woman, fall in love with a town. A town doesn’t expect you to tell it when you’re coming home. A town doesn’t ask you to stop drinking. Key West is the perfect town to fall in love with. Key West has more bars than churches, schools, grocery stores, and banks put together. You’re always welcome in a Key West bar.” One of the three cell phones on the table before Noah flashes its red light with an incoming call. He punches up the call. “Go, pilgrim—you’re on pirate radio.”
A belligerent male voice spews from the big wood loudspeakers that the cell phone is wired to. “Pirate radio, my ass. You’re miles offshore, moaning about love instead of talking about what bought-off corporate-controlled commercial radio refuses to talk about.”
“You’ve got a beef, bully boy, sling it at me. Show me the rage.”
“I wanna bitch-slap all the bankster bandits and condo cowboys who are destroying the Florida Keys. The worst are those three Neptune Bay partners trying to bulldoze everything natural and put up a wall of condos that will forever block a man’s rightful view of his mother ocean.”
“Two of the Neptune partners are now dead. Didn’t you hear the news about Bill Warren found hanging in the bat tower?”
“I don’t listen to corporate-controlled news radio.”
“Well, there’s still one partner left, Big Conch. He wants to build in the proposed great-white-heron preserve. It’s not a done deal yet. Neptune Bay is coming up for an approval vote.”
“Any corrupt government official who votes approval for Neptune Bay should be hung.”
“That’s it! Show me the rage!”
“Hang ’em high! Let ’em swing by their necks!”
“You know the mantra?”
“Yeah, don’t fool with Mother Nature or—”
“—Mother Nature will fool with you!”
“Keep up the fight. Adios, Dog.”
“Next caller, go.”
A woman’s words slur across the airwaves. “Hey, turtle diddler, you’re cute when you croon about falling in love with a town. Your hot voice puts a love hex on me. I’m boiling in your turtle soup.”
“Are you stoned?”
“Am I phoned? Of course I’m phoned. I’ve been phoned all day. That’s why I phoned you, didn’t I? I want to pet your porpoise. I want to hug your dolphin. Can I show you my age?”
“Rage.”
“I’ll show you better. I’m pulling my panties down right now. See my raging pussy?”
“Mom, I told you never to call me here.”
“Mom? I’m not your fuck—”
Noah cuts off the slurring voice. “Stay on point, pilgrims, no games or I’m cutting this broadcast short. I’m waiting for your call. Good, here’s a brave soul. You’re live.”
“Permian extinction. It’s sneakin’ up on us.”
“Welcome back, Nam vet.”
“You remember when Hurricane Wilma came through Key West years back?”
“We all do—lots of damage, took forever to recover from it.”
“Yeah, but the real damage wasn’t what we expected. Wilma didn’t hit us head-on with one-hundred-thirty-mile-an-hour winds, didn’t smash us with a crashin’ forty-foot-high tsunami wave. Wilma blew across the island, ripped off roofs, uprooted palm trees, then, poof, she was gone. That night, people sleepin’ in their beds dreamed that their dog was lickin’ their face and wouldn’t quit, or they dreamed they were pissin’ and couldn’t stop. People woke up with water risin’ all around them, water risin’ up out of the floors of their houses, floodin’ the streets, coverin’ the cars. It was Wilma’s sea surge from under the coral rock of the island inundatin’ everything. Like the Old Testament deluge, water just kept risin’ with nothin’ to stop it. There was panic, everyone was gonna be drowned. Key West was gonna be submerged forever, like Atlantis. Then the water stopped risin’. That was Wilma’s sneaky punch. The Permian Extinction Event will be like that. The next mega-explosion will come when least expected, annihilate us all.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Mother Nature takes us out before we pollute the whole damn galaxy.”
Noah patches in another call. A brusque male voice bellows. “This is Big Conch, CEO of Neptune Bay Resort.”
“Ah, the guy who hits on my wife all the time when he isn’t busy raping the environment.”
“Don’t give me that stink load about the environment. I create jobs. What do you create? Nada! You want the Florida Keys turned back into a mosquito-infected mangrove swamp.”
“I’d rather live with mosquito bites on my ass than be imprisoned on a concrete island of condos surrounded by a dead sea.”
“You’re just a dipshit bobbing alone on the ocean, trying to
get people to jerk off to phony environmental rage. The truth is, it’s all about your wife. She left you. You’re a pirate without a treasure.”
Noah punches Big Conch off the line. “Fun and games are over for today. Here’s something for my lost treasure out there, if she’s listening.” He picks up a CD. “This is a lament of love lost, sung by a man who has crawled on hands and knees over a thousand miles of broken-glass heartbreak road. Enjoy!”
Noah pushes the disc into the CD player and swivels around in his chair as the song begins. Behind him is the Haitian teenager Rimbaud Mesrine, who has been silently watching the whole time. Noah speaks in French to the boy. “You don’t understand anything that’s been said here today, do you?” Rimbaud shakes his head. Noah continues: “How old are you, kid?”
Rimbaud answers hesitantly in French. “Sixteen.”
“Then you’re old enough to understand this.” Noah cranks up the volume on the CD player.
The man singing his lament from the speakers slits open the heart of the song with a howl of pain.
High-noon sun slams down on a junkyard of abandoned boats of all types and sizes rotting in brutal tropical heat. Some boats are tilted on their sides; some are mounted on concrete blocks with weeds growing up around them; others have their once-tight wooden hulls snapped open and gaping, like prizefighters with their teeth knocked out. Overhead, in the cloudless washed-out sky, vultures glide in circles, looking down among the junked boats for any sign of a dead opportunity.
Between a row of square-hulled houseboats walks Hard Puppy, dressed in his shiny white silk suit. Hard’s white alligator-skin shoes crunch the white coral gravel underfoot as he leads three pit bulls tied to a rope. He stops next to a rusted iron ship anchor half wedged into the ground. He ties the pit bulls to the anchor. He walks back ten feet, swings around, and pulls out a Magnum. He aims the long-barreled gun at the pit bulls straining against the rope. He pulls the Magnum’s trigger. A reverberating blast shocks through the air. One of the tied pit bulls drops to the ground with a dying yelp. The two remaining dogs bark and lunge against the new dead weight of the rope restraining them.
The scent of blood and burnt metal fills the air. Hard aims the Magnum and fires again. In front of the two pit bulls, a chunk of dirt is ripped out and tossed up in a dust cloud. Hard shouts at the dogs, “Keep your asses still!” He grips the gun in both hands, aims, and fires. A bullet zings through the air, striking a pit bull between the eyes. The bullet’s sudden impact explodes the dog’s head in a spew of blood, bone, and flesh.
Behind Hard, a white Dodge Charger roars up and brakes to a stop in the gravel. Luz opens the front door and gets out. Hard swings his Magnum around in his two-handed grip and aims it at Luz. She pushes the bottom of her guayabera shirt aside, exposing her holstered Glock; she steadies her hand on the handle and calls out to Hard across the gravel expanse, “Let’s have an even fight. Killing a cop isn’t as easy as killing a helpless dog.”
Hard’s lips curl back, exposing his platinum teeth. “Man’s got a right shootin’ his own dogs.” He grins with a quick lick of his lips and glances over at the last pit bull standing. “I got one more slacker to pop off.”
“Target practice is finished. Hand over your gun.”
Hard kicks at the gravel with the tip of his alligator shoe. A puff of dust floats up. He shoots Luz a defiant stare.
Luz steps straight up to Hard. “I’m going to run a check on your gun to see the nasty places it’s been. Maybe it’s left a calling card in places where the sun no longer shines.”
Hard grips his Magnum harder. “I ain’t worried ’bout no checkin’. My hardware be clean. Better you get your head out of your ass. Get in touch with your half-nigga side. Let this whole thing slide.”
“It slides if you cop out on the Dandy Randy and Bill Warren murders.”
“Ah, colored girl, don’t be a shit-kicker. A shit-kicker sees a big ol’ pile of shit on the street and kicks it. Best you pass this Neptune Bay shit by. It could stick to your shoes—worse, stink up your life.”
“I’m kicking your shit. I’m taking you in for questioning on the two murders.”
“You crazy bitch. This black boy got nothin’ to do with offin’ white chumps. You should be sniffin’ in the direction of Big Conch’s white ass. Everybody knows Big’s the only Neptune partner left.”
“No. Maybe you partnered with Big to launder your dogfight winnings through Neptune Bay. Maybe you and Big didn’t want to share that with the other two partners. So, whiff, off go Dandy and Warren.”
A sweat breaks out across Hard’s forehead. “I ain’t scammin’ with Big. I be a respectable biz-niz man. That’s why I be wearin’ a suit in this scaldin’ sun. No other black boy as pro-fesh-shu-nal as I be.”
“Blood-money gambling on pit bulls tearing each other apart is not a profession, it’s a crime. You think you can dodge the law, moving your secret dogfights between Key West and Miami. Someday I’ll bust you on it, bust you to pieces.”
Hard turns and looks across the gravel at the whimpering pit bull roped to the anchor. Around the dog, the blood from the two sprawled dead animals has leaked out in a damp red circle. Hard raises his Magnum and points it at the whimpering pit bull. “You want that dog?”
“I don’t want a fighting dog.”
“That dog be no fighter, he be a lover. That’s why I poppin’ him. He’d rather lick his balls than fight. That’s why his name be Chicken. You want Chicken or not?”
Luz studies the pit bull squatting on its haunches in a pool of blood. The dog’s pink tongue dangles out as it whimpers; one of its ears is a gnarly stub, bitten off in a fight. The hair of the dog’s short black coat is slashed with white scars left over from the vicious bites of past battles.
Hard chuckles. “Take Chicken home to that baldheaded daughter of yours. She could use a friend.”
“I’ll take the dog.”
“Deal.”
Hard walks across the gravel. He unties the pit bull from the two dead dogs and leads it back to Luz. The sun glints off of Hard’s smiling metallic mouthful of teeth. “Now you finally got a friend for your crippled daughter.”
Luz’s knee whips up in a powerful jackknife kick straight into Hard’s groin. Hard’s Magnum flies from his hand. He grabs his groin in an anguished wail, gaping at Luz with eyes wide in shock. She rips her pistol from its holster and smacks the gun’s gorilla-grip handle against the side of Hard’s head with a loud crack. Hard drops to the ground, his feet kicking out at the gravel in pain. Luz stands above Hard, who is writhing in the dust. She aims her pistol down at him.
“You mention my daughter again, I’ll kill you!”
A line of shrimping boats is anchored along a concrete pier jutting out into Key West Harbor. The boats’ tall masts and winged outriggers are decorated with strands of twinkling white lights. On the pier, a band plays festive Caribbean music to a crowd of shrimpers, their families, and town locals gathered beneath an overhead banner declaring SHRIMP FLEET BLESSING. In the crowd are Luz and Joan with Carmen and Nina. Nina sits in her wheelchair, her brown eyes taking in the scene with nervous excitement.
Big Conch bullies his way through the center of the crowd. He holds two bottles of beer as he cocks his head back and forth, looking for someone. He spots Zoe dancing with a shrimper, her flared skirt spinning around her bare knees as the delighted partner stomps his white rubber boots to the band’s percussive rhythm. Big closes in on the shrimper and shoves him aside. The man stops dancing and sizes up Big’s imposing stature. The man slinks off. Big offers Zoe one of his two beers. She turns her back on him.
At the edge of the crowd, Hogfish wheels to a squeaky stop on his rusty bicycle. Stretched between the handlebars is the taut fishing line strung with barbed J-hooks. He jerks his head back and forth to the music he hears through the earbuds jammed into his ears and rises from the bicycle’s worn leather seat. He looks over the dancing crowd and glimpses Big following close behind Zoe as she
walks quickly away from him.
Out of the darkness behind the line of docked shrimping boats, Noah’s trawler motors up. Inside the pilothouse, Noah steers his vessel between two large boats and cuts his engine. He looks through the window at the crowd on the pier. Behind him in the shadows is the slight figure of Rimbaud. Noah turns and speaks reassuringly in French: “Do what I told you and stay out of sight. Don’t go out on the deck. I’ll return soon.”
Rimbaud grabs Noah’s arm. “I’m afraid. What if they find me?”
“They won’t find you if you stay hidden inside the storage closet.”
Rimbaud’s eyes widen with fear. “They’ll find me and send me back to Haiti, where the earthquake cracked open the underworld, releasing zombies. Zombies breathing the death of cholera search for innocents to suck out their life.”
“Trust me, I’ll protect you. You won’t be sent to Haiti. I’ll come back with someone who can help us.”
Distrust crosses Rimbaud’s face as he slips away toward the storage closet.
Noah heads for the door and steps out of the pilothouse onto the deck. Anchored next to the trawler is a shrimping boat with its name painted along its side, Pat’s Pride. Pat stands on her deck, dressed in men’s jeans, shirt, and white rubber boots. She spots Noah and shouts above the raucous music from the band on the pier: “Truth Dog, we’re blessing shrimping boats here! Not pirate-radio boats! Shove off!”
Noah shouts back: “If you swear to stop net-killing endangered turtles, I’ll shove off! Until then, you can fuck off!”
Pat turns her back on Noah and bends over. She slaps her blue-jean-covered butt with a loud smack. “Kiss it, sucky eco-boy!”
On the crowded pier, a Catholic priest appears, dressed in a long billowing red robe. The priest is followed by altar boys in starched white cloaks. The boys swing metal censers smoking with burning incense. The crowd falls silent. The band stops playing. All eyes go to the priest. He holds high a gold cross with a nailed Jesus. He looks at the long line of shrimping boats with their decorative lights blinking against the black sky. His voice booms: “Father, our shrimping boats are about to sail out again. We pray thee, Father, fill the nets of our men with thy bountiful gifts. We also beseech your Holy Mother, Mary, to shine her guiding light on our brave men, protect them from danger and stormy seas, return them home to the bosom fold of their families and loved ones.” The crowd shouts, “Amen!”
American Tropic Page 5
