Bones

by Eli Easton

  The inside was nothing like the Voodoo (Vodou?) Queen’s store either. Hers was small, almost tiny, and crammed to the rafters with all kinds of crap. Dolls, skulls, bags, candles, hats, oils and liquids, bones and herbs, and strings of beads, cowrie shells, and necklaces. The ceiling dripped with the stuff. But Lucky Charms? While it had some of the same stuff, it looked positively empty compared to Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo. It was two or three times as big, quite spacious inside, full of the light that came in through the big plate-glass window, and the interior walls painted even brighter than the outer. There were banners on the walls that reminded me a bit of those in the meeting hall of any church—nothing sinister about them. Common saints, it appeared, but with names like Ezili Danto, Legba, Marassa Dosou Dosa and La Sirene (although this last looked more like a mermaid than a saint).

  The first third or so of the shop had some long tables and tiered displays with books, tarot decks, candles (including some shaped like men, women, penises, and female genitalia), soaps, and other novelties. On one wall was a set of shelves lined with tiny bottles of oil with labels such as Stop Gossip, Lavender Love Drops, Return to Me, Clarity (I could use some of that!), Cast Off Evil, Bend Over (I was dying to know what that was), Jinx Breaker, and my favorite, Bitch Be Gone.

  Oh. And there were statues. Statues of Catholic saints. I still found that weird. The hair on my arms moved as I remembered the hotel room and the ceramic Virgin Mary figurine lodged in a dead man’s throat.

  I had just noticed a cabinet with little baskets filled with Charms! Only $5.99! when a man spoke. “Good morning!”

  I jumped as if someone had snuck up behind me and shouted, “Boo!” and all but pissed myself. I spun around—

  “May I help you?”

  —and nearly gasped at the sight of the man walking toward me.

  He was that guy.

  He looked like he was in his late twenties, around my age. He was taller than me (of course), with a perfect olive complexion and short ringlets of jet-black hair that framed a breathtakingly beautiful face. His eyes were sparkling black, and my friend Gay would have killed for his dark, thick lashes. (“Boys aren’t supposed to have such beautiful eyelashes! It’s not fair!”) His nose was large but not overly so—strong, I would say—and those lips. Christ! So full. What must it be like to kiss lips like those? I wondered.

  I could see he had an athletic build, even in his baggy white islander shirt, and with the top buttons undone, it was apparent he had a smooth, probably hairless, chest. He was wearing what looked like a shark’s tooth on a leather thong around his neck, and it seemed to point downward—or maybe that was just me grabbing an excuse to look downward. I had to force my eyes to stay on his beautiful face, those dark eyes, wide nose, and full lips.

  He was gorgeous.

  He was fucking gorgeous.

  He was “that guy.” That type I see at a bar and can’t stop looking at and desperately want to approach, even buy him a drink, but never, ever actually have the nerve to do so. That guy I try not to stare at, but I can’t stop.

  Everyone knows “that guy.”

  And then, “that guy” spoke to me….

  “Are you all right?”

  Could it have been a worse question? What kind of total doofus was I in his eyes? And dammit, even his voice was beautiful.

  He was looking at me with those eyes like polished obsidian, waiting—I could see he was waiting for me to say something—but the goddamned words wouldn’t come out of my mouth. It was as if there were some kind of misfiring going on in my brain, and the thoughts weren’t getting translated into actions.

  Finally: “I-I, yes?” I felt a rush of heat travel up my face. Jeez! Get your act together. He’s just some dude. “I’m sorry, but it’s just…. You’re….” Watch what you’re saying. “Ah. You’re… not what I was expecting.”

  “You were expecting Angela Basset, maybe?”

  “Huh?” I so intellectually asked.

  “You know. As Marie Laveau? From American Horror Story?”

  “I’ve never watched it,” I replied, finally able to speak. American Horror Story had apparently not been an offering at the video store.

  “You should. It’s great. Nothing like real life, of course—they got a lot mixed up. People got all bent out of shape about what they did with Papa Legba. Seemed to mix him up a bit with Bawon Samedi.”

  Bawon Samedi? Could he be any relation to Baron Manjè Kè, I wondered.

  “Papa Legba would never kill babies. But I still love the show. Can’t help it. I love to be scared.” He grinned, and sure enough, he had perfect teeth, and those eyes of his flashed like summer lightning.

  This is ridiculous. I mentally slapped myself. I was acting like a fool. “I think maybe I was expecting a crazy little old black lady.”

  “Well, I’ve certainly been called crazy,” he said. “But I’m not a little old lady—although there is some African a few generations back.”

  That explained his lovely complexion. I would have to lie out in the sun all summer long to get that color.

  “It was my great-grandmother. She married my Italian great-grandfather. It was scandalous, I guess.” He waggled thick brows.

  I nodded, at a loss for words once more. What did you say to that? That’s nice? I’m sorry? Cheers?

  “So you’ve never been in the shop before,” said the pretty man. It was a statement and not a question.

  I shook my head.

  “I would remember if you had,” he added.

  He would? “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would you remember me?”

  He laughed. Music. “I think the way you blush is adorable, for one thing. I would remember that.”

  My face blazed all the more. Was he shitting me? This guy was a salesman!

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” He winked, but with both eyes. Now that was adorable. Would that be more a blink than a wink? “Let me guess. You’re in here looking for a love charm.” The way he said love sent a jolt right to my crotch. “You want to find the perfect man.”

  He knew I was gay?

  Well, of course he knew. He had to see I was practically drooling over him!

  “Wow. You just blushed even more.”

  He did that blink/wink thing again, and I felt the heat rise up even more. I felt like my face was on fire.

  “Look, ah….” My words started to tangle again, and I forced myself to talk—started by pulling my press badge out. My shield. “I’m with the Chronicle and—”

  His expression transformed. I couldn’t believe how quickly. Like a marionette with its strings cut, his shoulders slumped and his whole face seemed to fall. Those bright eyes stopped flashing, as if a light switch and been turned off. “Oh,” he said quietly.

  Even the warmth in his voice was gone. It was all business now. I was surprised how much I missed it.

  He turned that intent gaze away from me and glanced around the room, put hands on hips, then visibly forced himself to look back. “How may I help you, Mr.…?”

  “Taylor. Taylor Dunton.” I groaned inside. Had I really said that? Who says that? Except for maybe James Bond.

  “Mr. Dunton.”

  Mister. Shit.

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I just hoped… well… I….”

  For Christ’s sake, Mencken said in my mind (he wouldn’t say “fuck,” but had no compunctions with Gay’s Lord’s name). Act like an effing professional! Are you a reporter or not? Stop thinking about how hot he is and do your job!

  I gulped. “I’m sorry Mr.….” I trailed off as he had done.

  “Parry,” he replied. There were actors auditioning for the role of a Vulcan in a Star Trek movie with more emotion in their voices. And he’d given me one name, not two. Was it his first name or last?

  “Mr. Parry”—he didn’t correct me, so it must have been his last name—“there was a murder yesterday that looked suspiciously like—”

 
“Yes. I know. The police have already questioned me.” His tone went from neutral to cold, if not hostile.

  Really? Brookhart? But she’d said witches or Satanists. She hadn’t mentioned voodoo at all.

  Ah well. In for a penny. “I’m sorry about that. But it does look a lot like a—”

  “What it looks like is another case of people not having a single clue what my religion is all about.” He shook his head. “Prejudice. You people watch movies like The Skeleton Key and The Serpent and the Rainbow, and you think you know what we’re all about. Hollywood bullshit.”

  I grimaced. That’s exactly what I had done. “Along with Isle of the Snake People and I Walked With a Zombie,” I admitted. “I’m sorry.” I shrugged. “It wasn’t just movies, though. I got online and—”

  He rolled his (beautiful) eyes. “Let me guess. Wikipedia?”

  I bit my lip, embarrassed. What kind of reporter was I? “Not just Wikipedia. I read a bunch of blogs….”

  “We don’t sacrifice people,” he said quietly.

  “Vodouisants?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. Sighed. “I don’t know anyone who uses that word. I don’t.”

  “Oh.” I thought maybe at least that had been good. “Wh-what word do you use?”

  “I am a practitioner of my religion.”

  “I—To be fair there’s a lot of contradictory stuff out there,” I said. “Even with the—” I almost said “vodouisants.” I cleared my throat. “Even among practitioners of voodoo. I didn’t know what to believe. Hell. I don’t know how to spell it. V-o-o-d-o-o. Or V-o—”

  “In my house it is spelled V-o-d-o-u.”

  “Your house?”

  “House. It’s…. I suppose you could say it’s like a denomination. Mine is out of New Orleans.”

  “Like Marie Laveau.”

  “Yes.” Parry gave me one quick nod. So this guy believed in this stuff. He didn’t look crazy. Normal clothes. No bones in his nose or ears, no doo-rag over his hair. There was nothing creepy about him at all. If I saw him on the street—or in a bar!—I would never take him for anything but a normal guy. A normal gorgeous guy.

  “Some people don’t like my denomination because I was not initiated in Haiti.”

  Really? “Is that a big deal?”

  “Some people say so. Some say only Haitian vodou is real. That you have to go to Haiti to take your asson.”

  Asson. I knew that! “A ceremonial rattle?”

  There was a flicker in his eyes. Was that a slight nod?

  “It was given to you when you were, what? Brought into….” I shrugged, not wanting to say the wrong thing. “When you became a….”

  “Houngan. Ounsi—a first-level priest.”

  I’d seen the word “houngan” as well. “So in The Believers, the human sacrifices….”

  “The Believers is not vodou, it’s—”

  “Yes. Santería. Sorry.”

  Another flicker. This time he gave me a nod.

  “Not all online research is useless,” I said. “It points the way. It gave me background and then made me see I had to go to a source. So I came here. My boss sure isn’t flying me off to New Orleans, let alone Haiti.”

  “Too bad. Because I was thinking of closing the store for a few days. Flying home myself.”

  “Home?” I asked. “Is that New Orleans or—”

  “Yes. Remember, I wasn’t initiated in Haiti.”

  “That doesn’t mean Haiti isn’t your home.”

  Parry smiled. Not that big smile that had sent lightning to my crotch, but it did make my heart flutter. “True. I meant New Orleans. I want to see my manbo. And when there’s another killing, I’ll be out of town—”

  “And have an alibi. Smart.” And when there’s another killing…. “So you think there’s going to be another?”

  “Of course I do,” Parry said. “So do you. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “I suppose it is,” I replied. “If I found the killer, it would make my career.”

  “Well, it’s not me.” He put his hands back on his hips.

  “Good.”

  “Good?” he asked. “Why ‘good?’”

  Because I like you, I thought—and very suddenly he was smiling again. Shit! Had I said that out loud?

  “I’m sorry,” Parry said. “It’s just….”

  “Just what?”

  He sighed, relaxing. “You know how people watch the coverage of a gay pride parade and all the news shows is NAMBLA and men in leather chaps with their asses hanging out? And then straight people think that’s all we’re about?”

  We’re. So he was gay. I fought back a grin. “Yeah….” I did know. I surely did.

  “It’s like that. And I thought maybe you were doing the same thing.”

  I shrugged, gave a nod. “Sure. And maybe I am guilty. But now I want to know. Explain it to me?”

  The left corner of his mouth turned up. “Over coffee?”

  My heart sped up. “Sure.” Coffee with this guy? You bet!

  “I’m closing at five. Be here or be square.”

  “I can talk now.”

  He glanced out the big front window, and when I turned to look, I saw two vans pulling into the parking lot. “Thought you might want to avoid them. The protesters are back.”

  Shit. “I’m not afraid.” I looked back up into those eyes of his. Wow.

  “Thanks,” Parry said. “But still. It’ll be easier.”

  “All right.” If he insisted. “Five.”

  I offered my hand, being sure to wipe my palm casually up my jeans leg on the way, the way Mencken had taught me—“Never offer a sweaty hand!”—and when he took it, a shock traveled up my arm. Our eyes locked, and it felt like he was looking right into my head. Who knew? Maybe he was. Could vodouisants—no, practitioners of vodou—do that? Vodou-do? I laughed and he joined me.

  God! Could he read my mind? I trembled. It felt delicious.

  You better get the hell out of here before you make a complete fool of yourself! Like I hadn’t done that already.

  I made myself turn toward the door—and my eyes caught on the baskets of charms. They had little signs next to them. Love & Passion, Blessings, Peaceful Sleep, Court Case. And…. Well, I’ll be damned. Same-Sex Love. I reached in and pulled one out. It was a small ball of something tied up in a little piece of rainbow fabric. For something so small, it felt surprisingly heavy. “So, does this work, Mr. Parry?”

  “Myles,” he said. “I look over my shoulder when someone calls me Mr. Parry. And, yes. It works. Why else would I sell them?”

  “Gotta keep the doors open,” I answered. “This is vodou?”

  “Hoodoo.” Myles grinned. “We’ll talk about it over coffee.”

  “It’s a date,” I said, and felt the heat travel up my face once again. Date? Did you really say “date?”

  “It’s a date,” Myles echoed, and his eyes were flashing in that way of his.

  I nodded, once more unable to talk. I held out the charm.

  “On the house,” he said. “I’ll tell you how to take care of it tonight.”

  “O-okay.” I shoved it in my pocket and fled before I really did make a fool of myself.

  THE FIRST call was to Gay. I had to tell someone, and who else?

  “You’re kidding me!” she squealed.

  “I kid thee not,” I said, using one of her favorite phrases.

  “You’re going on a date with a witch doctor? Isn’t that a little scary?”

  “He’s not scary.” Although there is a part of me wondering if he really can read my mind.

  “I don’t know, baby. I don’t think I could go on a date with a vodou-guy. I don’t care how hot he is.”

  “And he is hot.”

  “Gee whiz” came her quick response. “This isn’t all about you getting laid, is it?”

  “Not all about,” I answered. “Besides, he’s not interested in me like that.” How could he be? After all, he was that guy.
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  “Well, is it a date or not?”

  “It’s an interview.”

  “Over coffee?”

  “Over coffee.” Was that weird?

  She harrumphed into the phone. “Well, just be careful, okay? I don’t want to have to try and find you an exorcist. I wouldn’t even know where to look for one. Nazarenes don’t believe in exorcists.”

  “But they do believe in demon possession,” I said. I knew. My childhood was filled with stories of Jesus casting demons into swine. I was—to paraphrase that long-ago-date’s words—a recovering Baptist.

  “They do,” she said. “I’ll be thinking about it. You be thinking about me not needing to think about it!”

  “I promise.”

  The second call was from Dt. Brookhart.

  There had been another killing.

  I jumped into my excuse for a car and made it there in record time. The chief of police beat me there, so I had to do my best to look invisible.

  This one was at an old abandoned theater downtown, and I tried to figure out why that was tickling some back part of my brain.

  She was laid out on the stage, and there were lots of candles and lots of feathers and lots and lots of blood.

  Like the first guy, she was cut open, her chest wide, and it was all I could do not to faint. There was something horrible about her breasts, splayed to either side. I wanted to puke. Remember the Hindenburg! I tried and failed to convince myself. Don’t puke! Don’t puke! Don’t puke! That worked. Barely.

  And like the first time, there, on the wall, were the words: TO SERVE BARON MANGE KEY. Baron Mange Key? Who the fuck was that? Was he the mysterious Baron Manjè Kè?

  Brookhart materialized at my side. “Stay in the background,” she commanded. “I’ll get you what I can.” She held out her hand. When I looked at her, puzzled, she told me to give her my phone, and she used it to get me some photographs.

  Wow, I thought. She really did like me, didn’t she?

  The information on the VIC turned out to be: Karen Overcamp, thirty-six years old, five six, one hundred forty-five pounds (which apparently is heavy, for God’s sake), single. Her ID said she was from Weeping Water, Nebraska.

  “Ever heard of it?” Brookhart asked, returning my phone.