Homemade Sin

by V. Mark Covington

  “I think Pauley is gonna whack Big Pussy next week,” announced Alfonzo. “I think Tony is pretty pissed at him for being a rat.”

  Vito shook his head. “That’s the Sopranos reruns you been watching you meatball. That’s been off the air for years. You’re getting real life and television mixed up again.”

  “Meatballs!” Carlo shouted. “I think we’re having meatballs for dinner tonight.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Carlo,” Vito said. “Nobody gives a fuck what’s for dinner at your place tonight. Who do you think is gonna get whacked this month?”

  “I think we’re having chicken again.” Gino the Greeter sighed. “We always have chicken.”

  “Gino you’re a pirla,” he said. “And take that red vest off, you look like a moolie.”

  “Sorry I just got off work,” replied Gino as he slipped out of his Walmart vest.

  “Now,” Vito continued, “Do any of you goombas, who still has half a brain, have anything intelligent to say on the subject of who is getting whacked this month?”

  Carlo sighed deeply. “You know,” he said. “I wish I was back in the game, whacking guys instead of just sitting around watching it from the sidelines.”

  “Yeah,” commented Gino, “instead of welcoming these rat fuck bastards to Walmart I ought to still be welcoming scumbags to hell.”

  “You said it,” Vito said, “I’m too young to retire. I still got lots of hits left in me.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Carlo said. “We’re just a bunch of old guys, how would we get back in the game? Our families put us out to pasture.”

  “I used to have muscles,” Alfonzo said, “now I have sagging tits and my biceps hang down like those underarm flaps fat old ladies have.”

  The table issued a group sigh.

  Tony Tums raised his hand. “I don’t know who’s gettin’ whacked and I don’t think a bunch of washed up old fuckers like us could get back in the game, but I got a tip for youz guyz. Put your money on Rebel Buford in the Daytona 500. I got it from a reliable source the kid is gonna win.”

  “Cutter and I are going to the race at Daytona,” Dee Dee declared to Roland, “You and Hussey are going to have to fillet fugu for a while.”

  “I don’t know how to cut that stuff,” Roland said, “what if I cut it wrong and kill someone?”

  “Just do the best you can. And it might be a good idea to get them to pay as soon as you bring the food, that way you don’t get stiffed.” Dee Dee paused and smiled. “In any sense of the word.”

  Cutter drove and Dee Dee sat in the shotgun seat. Rebel relaxed in the back of Cutter’s van staring at the ceiling.

  “How do you feel about being cooped up in this van?” Dee Dee said to Rebel.

  “No problem,” said Rebel in a predictable monotone.

  Cutter flashed Rebel’s pass at the security guard at gate and was waved into a special parking lot reserved for drivers and crew members. As soon as Rebel exited the van, a heavy-set, florid man came bounding toward them. He threw a bearish arm around Rebel’s shoulders and pumped his hand.

  “It’s about time you got here, old son. I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days, where have you been?”

  “Vacation,” Rebel intoned.

  Dee Dee reached out and clasped Rebel’s other hand. “Is this your crew chief, honey?” she said.

  “Yes,” Rebel said mechanically. “His name is Casey.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Dee Dee said, her voice dripping honey. “I’m Dee Dee. Our boy is going to win this race today.”

  “Well, well, looks like you got yourself a new honey.” Casey smiled.

  Rebel opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  “I’m his fiancée,” Dee Dee said. “We just got engaged. We’ll be getting married as soon as he wins the race today.”

  “Hell, Rebel, you old dog.” Casey beamed. “You went and got engaged on your little beach trip, and she’s a looker too. Congratulations!”

  Rebel stared and nodded.

  Casey cocked his head and stared at Rebel, studying him like he was listening to a ping in a previously well-tuned engine. “You all right, son?” Casey said to Rebel. “You’re usually a lot more talkative than this. You don’t seem all that excited for a man who just got engaged. Are you hung over?”

  “No, he’s just calm,” Dee Dee said. “He’s had some green tea on the way over. It calms him down.”

  “Well, since you’re his fiancée I guess you’ll be sitting in his private box, right?”

  “Hey, a private box,” Cutter chimed in. “That sounds great.”

  “And who are you,” Casey said, turning toward Cutter who was lurking behind Dee Dee.

  “He’s my brother,” Dee Dee said. “We’ll need a pass to that private box for him too.”

  “Well, let’s get you two pointed in the right direction and then we need to get old number 13 here suited up and ready to drive.”

  Dee Dee kissed Rebel for luck and Casey scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to Dee Dee. He pointed them toward a row of skyboxes above the start-finish line.

  “Just show this note to the guy at the door to Rebel’s sky box. That’ll get you in.”

  By the time Dee Dee and Cutter found the right box and took their seats in Rebel’s box, high above the stands, the race had already started.

  “Which car is he driving?” Cutter said.

  “Number thirteen,” Dee Dee said, “it has the slot machine sticker on it; see the one in third place?”

  “Eights and Aces Video Poker.” Cutter laughed when he read the logo under the multi-colored picture of a slot machine, with three little skulls and cross-bones displayed where the machines usually showed fruit. “That’s appropriate, dead man’s hand.”

  “Maybe he can get sponsored by a funeral home now,” Dee Dee said, then laughed. “Or maybe a headstone maker! How much more money did you put down on him?”

  “The whole nut,” Cutter said, “Everything we took from the safe. I doubled my bet with Tony a few minutes ago, brings it to five grand, at ten to one, so he better win.”

  “That dog won didn’t he?” Dee Dee said. “This is the same thing. Rebel will win.”

  A big haired, red-faced woman in the seat beside Dee Dee interjected, “Ya’ll talking about old number 13, Rebel Buford?” She was adjusting her tube top higher up over her ample breasts. “He’ll choke, he always does.” She took a deep drink out of a beer can wrapped in a checkered flag snuggie, lit a cigarette and continued. “Sure, he starts out OK, but about three quarters through he starts to get a little hinky, starts driving a little erratic.” She took a puff of her cigarette. “Hell, I’ve seen him actually be in the lead for most of the race then drive into the infield get out of his car and walk away. They interviewed him later and he muttered something about giant rats and fat bears. The man is nuts if you ask me. He’ll choke anytime now.”

  “Oh yeah, check it out!” Dee Dee shrieked, pointing to the cars speeding around the track. “There he goes!”

  Inside the cockpit of car number 13, Rebel Buford, hit the accelerator hard, crushing the gas pedal into the floor. His car shot around the second place car in the turn and started catching up to the leader. Images of giant talking rats and musical bears were danced across his psyche but he ignored them, he mashed the accelerator down until metal was touching metal.

  “I ain’t never seen him do that before,” said the big-haired woman, dropping her cigarette and staring slack jawed in amazement as number 13 overtook the leader and put distance between his car and the now number two driver.

  Inside car number 13 Rebel Buford was as calm and tranquil as a corpse buried in the lotus position as he hit the back straightaway and left the other cars far behind.

  “Look at him go!” shouted Dee Dee, grasping Cutter’s hand and jumping up and down in her chair.

  “Sombitch,” said the large woman, cracking another beer. “It’s like he has no fear!”
/>   “That’s cause he’s a zombie,” Dee Dee said.

  Dee Dee’s statement didn’t register with the woman who stared at car 13 as it tucked into the turn at full speed, streaking toward the finish line.

  “He keeps going faster,” the woman said, shocked. “He has nerves of steel.”

  “He’s the living dead,” Dee Dee said. “He has no nerves at all.”

  “Look at him go,” the woman said, ignoring Dee Dee, as the back end of Rebel’s car slid around into the curve. “It’s like he’s not scared of dying.”

  “Dead, dead, dead,” chanted Dee Dee. Rebel’s car accelerated toward the checkered flag. Car number 13 burned past the stands and blew the hat off the man who was waving the checkered flag at him. The car kept going as the crowd rose to its collective feet, cheering.

  “Now what’s he doing?” the woman said, before polishing off her beer and reaching for another. “He won already, first time I ever seen Rebel Buford win a race, but it looks like he’s still racing.”

  “Oh shit, we gotta tell him to stop,” Dee Dee said to Cutter, remembering the dog.

  “Stop racing Rebel!” Dee Dee shouted, but the roar of the car engines drowned out her directive.

  “Stop! Stop!” she yelled as Rebel’s car streaked into the first turn. Continuing to accelerate, the car missed the turn by inches, slammed into the wall and burst into flames.

  “Get out of the car Rebel!” screamed Dee Dee. “Run!”

  In moments the flames found the fuel tank and the car exploded into a ball of fire sending bits of metal, rubber and fiberglass raining down on the track. Dee Dee saw Rebel emerge from the inferno covered in flames and walk mechanically toward the infield.

  “Oh my God!” shouted Dee Dee. “He’s on fire!”

  “Why isn’t he rolling on the ground, putting the fire out?” shrieked the big-haired woman.

  At that moment a team of men in white, flame-resistant jumpsuits ran up to Rebel and began spraying him with fire extinguishers. Rebel never broke stride as he lurched toward the infield.

  “I don’t think he’s gonna survive that,” the woman said.

  “Shit!” Dee Dee shouted. “There goes my wedding in the infield.”

  “Well, let’s go back to St. Pete and get our winnings,” Cutter said.

  Cutter and Dee Dee traveled west on Route 4 in silence for the first hour. Cutter finally broke the silence. “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “He’s gotta be. He was covered in fire, nobody could survive that.”

  “We killed him,” Cutter said. “If we hadn’t made him a zombie he wouldn’t have crashed and died. We are murderers.”

  “No, we’re not. He was just a racer who missed a turn, that’s it, so forget about it. What are you going to do with your winnings?” Dee Dee changed the subject.

  “I’m going to deposit all of it in Hussey’s account. It will almost pay her back all of her money I lost at poker. I just have to pick a good time to tell her about it. This is really going to surprise her.”

  Deputy Ignatius Jones ran his hand across his face. He was staring at a forensic report from the vet’s office on the toxin found in the cats’ brains. His eyes drifted to the other report on his desk, a medical report from Daytona General Hospital. “This can’t be right,” he muttered under his breath as he held up one report in each hand and compared the two. Carrying the medical report he knocked on the sheriff’s office door. “What is this?” he said waving the report at the sheriff.

  “We got a request from Daytona PD to do a follow up on the crash at the Daytona 500,” said the sheriff. “Remember that NASCAR driver who crashed a couple of days ago at Daytona. He’s banged up pretty bad but they think he’ll live. The doctors found some weird toxins in his blood and some other strange things, things they couldn’t identify, so they sent out a general information request to all police and sheriffs’ departments to see if anybody had ever found anything similar. The toxin report matched what the vet turned up on those dead kitties so I sent them the autopsy reports. It turns out that the driver had stayed at the Santeria Hotel here in St. Pete Beach, right before the race, so the Daytona PD figured it was worth a look. They asked me to do a little digging at the hotel, so I’m assigning the digging to you. Poke around the hotel, interview some folks. They don’t think there’s any real connection but we need to cover all the bases.”

  Jones wondered if the toxins in the race car driver’s system had anything to do with the crazy cat he had found in the alley behind the Santeria. “Why is Daytona PD interested in a NASCAR accident? Do they think somebody messed with the car?”

  “Too early to tell but I’ve set up a conference call with the lab guy at Daytona General. His report is pretty strange. Go out to the Santeria and check it out. And don’t bring me a report that says a pussy cat poisoned him, or a chipmunk.” The sheriff checked at his watch. “Have a seat, it’s time to talk to the lab guy,” he said as he punched in the numbers on his phone.

  “Frank East,” said a voice on the line. From the background noise Jones could tell that both parties were on speaker phone.

  “I read your report,” said the sheriff into the phone speaker, “but I don’t understand it. You said Buford was technically dead when his car blew up? Was he dead or alive?”

  Jones was straining from his chair across the sheriff’s desk to hear the lab technician’s voice.

  “The report didn’t say he was dead exactly,” the lab technician said. “He was in a kind of walking coma, so he was undead.”

  “Undead?” the sheriff said.

  “Well, there’s dead, semi-dead and undead,” Frank said. “Dead is permanent, the spirit has left the body and moved on to a different plane; dead folks are basically spiritually bereft. Then there’s semi-dead, that would be spiritually confused … the spirit has left the body but hasn’t moved on; that would be your ghosts, poltergeists and such. Finally, there is undead. This is spiritually challenged. The spirit is still in the body but is no longer in charge. That would be your coma patients, zombies, and golfers. This guy is undead, there was evidence that his brain wasn’t functioning normally, like parts of his brain were numb. The guy wasn’t thinking, he was functioning on auto-pilot.”

  “How could he win Daytona without thinking? I mean, doesn’t it takes some thinking to win a race?” said the sheriff.

  “Like I said,” Frank said, “he was functioning on autopilot, racing came naturally to him, so he could do it without thinking by sheer muscle memory. It’s called being unconsciously conscious.”

  “Unconsciously conscious?” Jones said.

  “Yeah, there are different states of consciousness. First there is unconsciously unconscious: say you are a kid and you watch your parents driving a car, you have no idea how to do it yourself, but you don’t know how much you don’t know. Then there is consciously unconscious: as you get older, you’re more aware of how your parents turn the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, turn the steering wheel, step on the gas, and now you know how it’s possible for you to drive, you just haven’t done it and you’re aware there’s more to it. You know that you don’t know. Then there’s consciously conscious. You take Driver’s Ed in school and you learn how to drive on the street. You are acutely aware of every turn of the wheel. You hit the brake too hard or too often. You know that you know and are very aware of doing it. The last stage is being unconsciously conscious. You’ve been driving for years, and one day you realize you don’t remember the last thirty miles. Your mind was focused on something else. You drive by rote. It’s a form of self-hypnosis. That is how it was with Mr. Buford, except parts of his mind were actually non-functioning. He was organically unconsciously conscious and physically undead when he won that race. He’d been that way for a couple of days.”

  “Do you know what caused parts of his brain not to function?” Jones said.

  “I found traces of tetrodotoxin in his system, it’s a neurotoxin. He was poisoned.”

 
“Would that explain the dead parts of the brain?” said the sheriff.

  “Not dead,” corrected Frank, “just numb and a little atrophied. Tetrodotoxin slows down the metabolism, heart rate, lung function, shuts off oxygen to the brain. It destroys the autonomic parts of the brain – but not the conscious parts – the seat of personality, and the source of psychological and neurological disorders. It causes permanent brain damage. We found some other unusual compounds in his blood, some organic material we haven’t been able to identify. It looks to be some compound comprised mostly of vulture DNA and a fungus nobody has ever seen before, some kind of hallucinogen. It looks like someone poisoned him with tetrodotoxin; just enough to switch off his consciousness, then re-stimulated the brain with this compound so he was walking around like a zombie.”

  “The man was a zombie?” Jones said. “I’ve seen zombies before, back in New Orleans. They walk around in a daze all the time. It’s scary as hell when you bump into one of those living dead people in a dark alley at night.”

  The sheriff squinted at Jones.

  “Yep,” Frank said, “It’s not exactly a technical term, but I’d say the man was a zombie.”

  The sheriff stared at the telephone. “Frank, what are you talking about? There are no such things as zombies.”

  “Call it whatever you want,” Frank said. “The man’s brain was turned off and he was technically dead but that strange compound stimulated his brain enough that he could still walk around, drive race cars, function almost normally. The man was undead. There is a medical explanation for it, but there is no real medical term. The closest terminology I can use to describe it is that somebody turned the man into a zombie.”

  “Why would someone turn him into a zombie?” the sheriff said.

  “Voodoo,” Jones said, “the only person who can make a zombie is a voodun. Someone at the Santeria Hotel is a genuine voodun and I’ll lay you odds it ain’t that pussy cat.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Snooty Foody