Homemade Sin

by V. Mark Covington

  “Watch what you’re doing,” said the Wilford Brimley look-alike. “Put more bananas in that blender and more rum, lots more rum, and remember I need six of those. And bring them out to the pool when you’re done,” he said as he sloshed on the carpet back toward the door, “I’m getting a chill from this air conditioner.”

  “Got any more Mambo powder?” Roland said to Hussey.

  Once again seated beside Jones, Bella watched as the yachtsmen started to stir, they were waking up as zombies. She sauntered over, hands on her hips and addressed the group of four.

  “You’re all zombies now,” she informed them, their wide, staring eyes fixed on her. “You’re going to listen to me from now on, do what I tell you to do.”

  “Sit down and keep your mouth shut,” Hussey said as she pointed Cutter toward the table where Jones sat. She joined Bella who was addressing the quartet of zombies.

  “They are all Borko zombies,” Bella said to Hussey. “Helpless as day old kittens.”

  “I know,” Hussey said. “They’re going to need somebody who knows about zombies to take care of them.” She looked at Bella. “Does anybody know anything about them?”

  “I know they have a hundred foot yacht,” Roland piped up. “And I know they are pompous assholes.”

  Bella stepped over to Jones and took his hand. “Up for a little sea voyage?” she said.

  “There’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight again,” Jones said with a lascivious grin.

  Bella stood and addressed the staring, slack-jawed zombies again. “OK folks, I want you to get up and go to your boat. I’m going to go along to make sure you are all right.”

  The zombies rose as one and filed out the door toward the docks.

  “I’ll take good care of them,” Bella assured Hussey.

  Jones reached into his pocket and handed Hussey the vial of Borko powder. “It’s your call Hussey,” he said. “You can turn Cutter, the Borko powder and the fugu over to Deputy Dickerson. I can call him and let him know what happened here and he’ll pick up Cutter and take him to jail. I’m getting on that boat with Bella.”

  “What’s the point of turning him over to the police?” Hussey said. “Dee Dee was the one who planned it all, Cutter was just the idiot who went along with it. No one was actually turned into a zombie except those guys at the table and Cutter had nothing to do with that. The police couldn’t actually charge him with anything.”

  “That’s the way it usually goes.” Jones sighed. “Evil people do heinous things and leave the truly stupid people holding the bag.”

  Cutter started to object but thought better of it and closed his mouth.

  “What do you propose to do with him?” Jones said.

  “I think I can come up with an appropriate punishment,” Hussey said. “Why don’t you leave it to me?” She gave Cutter an ominous smirk. “And I still have this.” She waved the runcible spoon in Cutter’s face. She had forgotten she was still holding it until that moment.

  Bella and Jones followed the zombies as they trudged aboard the biggest yacht she had ever seen. The name “Pale Sea Horseman” was stenciled on the stern.

  Captain Gordon Black stood at the end of the gangplank to greet the returning passengers. Stewards, maids, bartenders and cooks flanked the captain and saluted as the Four Horsemen came aboard. They marched in a straight line, eyes staring straight ahead as if they were on the Bataan Death March. When all were on board Bella instructed them to go below to their cabins and await instructions.

  “What happened to them?” the Captain said. “They’re usually barking orders, demanding food and drinks. They seem to be in a trance.”

  “That will take a little explaining,” Bella told the Captain. “They have been turned into zombies. Let’s just say they’re going to be a lot less demanding from here on out. My friend and I are going to tag along on your ship to make sure they don’t get into any trouble. Who are these folks anyway?”

  “The guy who owns this ship is some medical hot shot, he calls himself Death. One of them is the CEO of a top pharmaceutical company; he calls himself ‘Pestilence.’ The rest are other big shots, too. One guy is some kind of big time lawyer, and one guy is some insurance executive.”

  “Do you think any of them will be missed for a while?” Bella said.

  “Not very likely,” Captain Black said. “They get a lot of important looking faxes every day and they scribble notes on the faxes and fax them back. But I’ve read some of the faxes and it’s mostly government regulations, insurance legislation, new drug approvals and policy decisions, stuff like that. Do you know anything about government policy, insurance or healthcare?”

  “I have a deck of tarot cards,” Bella said. “From what I’ve seen lately I’ll probably do better with those than these guys have done with health care policies.”

  “Where are we headed?” the Captain said.

  “Let’s cruise down the Gulf coast around the Keys and over to New Orleans,” Bella said, smiling at Jones.

  “Back to New Orleans, broke and homeless.” Jones sighed and placed his arm around Bella’s waist.

  “I wouldn’t say broke. I kind of borrowed some money without permission from Mama Wati’s place when I left. I used it to bet on the boxer and I made a nice chunk of change. I want to pay back Mama’s husband, Obadiah, what I borrowed, plus interest. He was always good to me, even if he did pinch me in the ass sometimes when I stood over the stove. And I’m sure these guys have some money stashed in offshore accounts they won’t be needing.”

  “But don’t these men have wives, families?” Jones said. “I’m sure someone will be looking for them.”

  “We’ll skim a little off the top, and use it to start rebuilding in the Ninth Ward, and we can try to find their families when we get to New Orleans,” Bella said.

  “Any instructions for the crew?” the Captain said.

  “Tell the crew to relax and get ready for a very enjoyable cruise,” Bella said.

  Epilogue

  Dee Dee Deloach and Winfrey Pinth Merrmian sat on the top deck of Winfrey’s new yacht, The Flying Fugu as the captain steered the vessel into the harbor at Key West.

  “Ah, Key West,” Winfrey said. “I do so love Key West. Maybe we’ll locate our corporate offices here, what do you say?”

  Dee Dee stared in silence at the approaching Key West dock, seemingly lost in thought.

  “And I am so glad you managed to clean up your language,” Winfrey said. “I haven’t heard you curse once since we left Miami.”

  Dee Dee didn’t reply, she continued to stare at the boats docking at the harbor.

  “Our Fugu Lounges are doing well.” Winfrey smiled. “We’re starting to rake in the money. The restaurants in Miami and Palm Beach have only been open a few weeks and they are already booked for months in advance. And since you won’t be needing your half of the profits, I am going to be filthy rich. I do wish my constant companion was here to see my success,” Winfrey said, a smug smile dancing on his lips. “He would be so proud. But that’s not possible, is it Dee Dee … since you poisoned him?”

  Wordlessly, Dee Dee turned slowly toward Winfrey, her face placid.

  “It was so nice of your friend, Mr. Cutter, to provide me with the necessary nostrum for my purposes. He was most cooperative when I explained my little plan to him. He was almost enthusiastic. And it is amazing how easily one can slip something into someone’s food, isn’t it? But you know all about that.” Winfrey produced a small vial from deep in his pants pocket and held it to the light. “I wonder what ‘Borko’ means anyway,” he said aloud reading the label. “Probably some Haitian or African term.”

  A single tear escaped Dee Dee’s wide, staring eyes and slid down her cheek.

  Bella was seated in a deck chair receiving a pedicure from War. Pestilence was putting a second coat of polish on her fingernails and her shoulders were being massaged by Famine. Death, wearing a white dinner jacket, was hovering over her, holding a tray
containing a half full bottle of Dom Perignon in a silver ice bucket and holding out a toast point covered in Beluga caviar. She was flipping the pages of Yachting magazine between bites.

  Seated in the deck chair to her right was Ignatius Jones, wearing a white panama hat and dark glasses, basking in the sunshine and sea air. To Bella’s left sat Tony Cajones.

  “I’ll take a glass of that bubbly,” Tony said, lifting a crystal flute from the tray. “I’m drier than a spinster’s panties in a salt box tumbling around in a dryer with no cling free.”

  “Ever manage to contact these guys’ families?” Jones said to Bella, ignoring Tony.

  “Yes and none of them want them back. As long as the checks keep coming in, these guys won’t be missed by anyone.”

  The captain strolled across the deck toward her. “We are almost to New Orleans,” he told Bella.

  “Great!” Bella Donna said. “We’ll have the Ninth back humming along in no time. Tony, the boat and crew will be all yours.”

  “I think I’ll keep going south,” Tony said. “Where do you go when you go south from New Orleans? Cancun? Costa Rica? Rio? The five families are looking for me. When you find yourself in this situation where a serious reevaluation of your life is in order, the best thing to do is to head south, always south.”

  The buzzards of destiny circled low over a motionless body near the bank of Lake Helen. Roland watched them swoop down toward the body then rise up quickly, covering the body and the ground with buzzard puke. Roland smiled, his fingers poised over the keys of his laptop. He was sitting in the deck chair of his 40-foot 1934 Playmate Series wooden motor yacht anchored in the center of Lake Helen. The black hull of the completely restored Pilar glimmered off the surface of the lake.

  The boat was Roland’s only extravagant purchase from the money Winfrey had given him to franchise the Fugu Lounge. The yacht had cost him a boatload of money, but to own Hemingway’s boat was to feel the spirit of Papa sitting beside him. Stinky sat on a small velvet cushion on the roof of the pilot house, behind Roland’s head, backseat-writing over Roland’s shoulder. Hussey was sprawled out on a deck chair beside Roland, a copy of the Orlando Sentinel in her hand.

  “Do you think your mother is upset that you didn’t marry a doctor?” Roland said.

  “Not at all.” Hussey said, looking up from the paper. “I told her you were going to be a famous writer and bestselling authors make more money than doctors anyway and you’ll be home to look after her grandchildren. Besides, she told me she knew you weren’t a doctor all along, she could tell by your hands.”

  “Too rough?”

  “No,” Hussey said. “She said ‘they weren’t slapping yourself on the back or in someone else’s pockets.’” Hussey laughed and turned back to the newspaper. “Hey, here’s the ad for my book-signing in Orlando,” she said. “My agent thinks the Conjure book will be a big hit, but I have to make some appearances to promote it. Of course, I had to edit out some of the more dangerous potions but there are a lot of natural remedies in it. It should help those folks who can’t afford doctors and prescription medicine.”

  “How much do you expect to get for the Mambo formula?” Roland said.

  “We should know tomorrow. The test trials went well and the FDA approved it last week. Probably more than enough to finish medical school, fix up my grandfather’s house and pick up his practice where he left off. I think Mama Wati would approve. I’ll be the next doctor-voodun of Cassandra. Who would have thought that purée of purple mushrooms would be worth so much? They’re calling it the best thing to hit the market since aspirin. The journals compared its discovery to the polio vaccine.”

  “Speaking of the mushrooms,” Roland said waving his hand toward the figure on shore. The man was bent over placing little flags in the ground on the bank of the lake. Moreover circled him like a shepherd making sure he didn’t stray from his task. “How long are you going to make Cutter incite those buzzards to vomit on him and collect mushrooms?”

  “Until he’s farmed enough mushrooms to pay back all my parents’ money,” replied Hussey as she disappeared around the bridge toward the bow of the boat. Roland watched Cutter shake his leg trying to shake off some of the buzzard puke. He reached back and pulled a beer from the little refrigerator, settled back into Hemingway’s fishing chair and sipped his beer as he watched the sun start to dip low into the lake. His laptop computer sat on a little folding table in front of him.

  “You shouldn’t drink and write,” Stinky admonished Roland.

  Roland took another sip of beer. “Hemingway once said ‘write drunk edit sober,’” said Roland. “I’m beginning to understand Papa more and more lately, must be the boat.

  “Hey, Hussey, my friend,” Stinky’s voice resounded in Hussey’s head, “since you’re up, how about popping down to the galley and bringing me a saucer of brandy and cream?”

  “I think I liked it better when you wouldn’t talk to me,” Hussey said as she disappeared down into the galley.

  Roland glared at Stinky.

  “OK, OK. Let’s begin,” Stinky said as Roland’s hands floated over the keys on his laptop.

  “The story opens with a guy sitting on a bar stool at Sloppy Joe’s in Key West,” Stinky dictated, “he’s staring at a picture of Hemingway on the wall and sipping a Rum Runner. An omnipotent being in the form of a very handsome cat addresses him from under his bar stool …”

  We hope you enjoyed Homemade Sin by V. Mark Covington. Please turn the page for a preview of Church of the Path of Least Resistance.

  Church of the Path of Least Resistance

  V. Mark Covington

  Chapter One

  Wednesday morning. Having to get up after only a few hours sleep was worse than no sleep at all. It left him feeling small and confused. He wanted to be back in bed with another two hours between him and having to deal with the Washington Beltway. Two more hours respite from weaving his Mercedes through rush hour tangles, trying to tie his tie while traffic ground to a standstill, making jackrabbit lane changes to close the gap in front of him before a car from another lane zipped into it. Sipping a cup of coffee and listening to Howard Stern interview some drunken angry dwarf. Two more hours to curl up beside his softly-snoring wife in their nice warm bed and dream of Caribbean beaches, turquoise water, white sand and bikini-clad girls strolling along the waterline.

  Come to think of it, the beaches in his dreams had been a lot warmer of late than his bed.

  Instead he was standing in line at the 7-Eleven on a cold predawn March morning, smelling coffee and rancid hotdog grease wafting from behind the counter. He realized he had been transfixed, hypnotized as if he were still partially asleep, staring at the hotdogs, watching them roll over and over on top of the heated metal cylinders, when an icy gust of cold wind rushed through the door and shocked him back to reality. What the hell was he doing standing in line to buy coffee at 5:45 in the morning?

  He stared out of the big 7-Eleven window as cars sped, fishtailed, and slowed in the dusting of snow on Connecticut Avenue. Damn snow, it was wonderful when it started falling in December, tolerable in February when the heaviest snows fell and closed down the city for a day or two, but in late March it was simply a nuisance. He shook his head in amazement that so many people were awake and slipping along on the snowy streets at this time of the morning.

  John Wye was not a morning person. Moreover, he was just not a four o’clock in the morning person, which was when the call had come.

  At first he hadn’t recognized the name. The woman on the other end of the line said she was Helen Compari, and she’d sounded upset. When his brain kicked off the fuzzy, wool blanket of sleep, the name sounded familiar. Helen Campari, Mike Campari’s mother. Once his mind made the connection he bolted upright in bed, shocked awake by the realization that if Mike’s mother was upset enough to call him in the middle of the night, something very bad must have happened.

  “John,” Helen had said with a quivering voice,
“Mike called fifteen minutes ago. He wouldn’t tell me where he was or what was going on and he tried to be calm and not to worry me but I could hear in his voice that he was scared. He said he couldn’t talk for long, and he asked me to call you and give you a message. I don’t understand it but I told him I’d call you.”

  “What was the message?” John asked, now fully awake.

  “It was strange. He said to tell you to remember the song that was playing when you met Rachael. Then he said ‘Flight 1421.’”

  Fucking Mike, John thought, he was always into codes and secret words. He remembered the song. It started with the death of the chicken man in Philadelphia by explosion, and the singer instructing his girlfriend to apply cosmetics and coiffure her hair. The refrain referred to entropy or reincarnation or something, but the title was what Mike wanted him to get. Atlantic City. He flashed back to that night at the bar when Rachael had walked in. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her and Mike had razzed him until he mustered the nerve to walk up and talk to her. Atlantic City.

  John and Mike had been good friends in school, together with the third musketeer, Jimmy Keyo. John remembered the night Jimmy got into such deep shit.

  Jimmy had sucker-punched the Head of the Judicial Board back in college after that asshole had lobbied the rest of the board to give Jimmy a semester’s suspension. Everybody had girls stay over in the dorm for weekends ‒ Jimmy just got caught. The smarmy little head of the student disciplinary board had leaned into Keyo’s face and said ‘That little bit of tail will cost you a semester smart boy’ and Keyo had hauled back and decked him. Jimmy had never been one for taking a lot of crap from anyone.

  A small, tightly-rolled joint fell out of Jimmy’s shirt pocket when he drew back to punch the head of the board. As the punch followed through, his eyes, as well as the eyes of the rest of the board, went from the bloody nose of their co-prosecutor to the small, almost toothpick-sized joint rolling across the floor. When Jimmy realized what had happened he bolted from the room, down the stairs and into the parking lot. John smiled as he remembered the sound of Jimmy’s old Mustang crank up and tear ass off campus.