Uninvited

by B. G. Thomas

  “Why would you remember me?”

  He laughed. Music. Lovely. “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 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 do-rag over his hair, no bones in his nose or ears. 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. Except of course, he was that 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 a gay pride parade on TV, and the only stuff those news programs show are 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! As if 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, slightly altering 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.

  “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.

  “Never,” I said. “Sounds small.” I checked. “Yup. Population 1,050, according to the last census. Looking for her on Facebook now….” What did we do before smartphones?

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” she snapped.

  “Here she is. And guess what?” I gave her a smirk. “She’s in town for a convention.”

  Up shot one of her perfect eyebrows. “Interesting.”

  I glanced toward the victim, trying to hide behind the detective so the chief wouldn’t see me. He hated reporters. “Is her heart gone?” I shuddered.

  “You bet your cute butt it is.”

  I thought of Myles. Would he be brought in again? “You wouldn’t be the one who questioned the owner of Lucky Charms, would you?”

  Her other brow joined its twin. “What would you know about him?”

  “Not much. Only that he was questioned. I was hoping it was you. He’d get half a chance that way.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. It was me.”

  “Witchcraft,” I said with a huff.

  “Witchcraft. Voodoo. It’s all the same.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I said, as if I hadn’t lumped a bunch of shit together only hours before. As if I had a vested interest. “You were trying to throw me off.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. Didn’t I just sneak some fucking pictures for you?”

  So she had.

  “So, like I said. What would you know about him?” When I didn’t say anything, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Are you fucking him?”

  I laughed. “I just met him earlier today. And no, I haven’t fucked him.” But God, I would love to!

  “But you wanna.”

  Of course I did! “Think I’ve got a shot?”

  Brookhart shrugged in that way of hers, with one shoulder. She ran a hand through her short waves. “I’m not really a good judge of that kind of thing. Gold-star lesbian, here. Still. I think you’re cute. If I was a gay man, I’d do you.”

  And that was dedicated homosexuality if she could only think of having sex with me if she were a man. I laughed. Couldn’t help it. The chief snapped his head in our direction, and I ducked. For once my height was an advantage.

  “Is there a statue in her throat again?”

  Brookhart grimaced. Shook her head. “No. Somewhere else.”

  “Where,” I asked. She just locked eyes with me, then darted her glance downward, then back up. It took me a second. “God.”

  “God didn’t have shit to do with it,” she said with a scowl.

  “Virgin Mary again?”

  “It was a guy this time.”

  I supposed it made some kind of weird, freaky, hetero version of sense.

  “I don’t know saints any more than I know dick,” she continued. “But I’ll try and find out, if it makes any difference.”

  “It might.”

  She nodded. “I’ll call you.”

  “I guess I can’t use the victim’s name?” I asked, forgoing the word ”vic.”

  Brookhart shook her head. “But I’ll call you when you can. Now amscray.”

  “You gonna haul Myles in again?”

  “Probably.”

  “Can you be done with him by five?”

  Those brows arched upward again, and she sm
irked at me. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Thanks, Daph.”

  I amscrayed.

  I couldn’t amscray fast enough.

  But I called Myles and warned him. It was the least I could do.

  HE WAS waiting for me at five. Brookhart was good to her word, if she in fact had hauled him in. At least the protestors were gone.

  “She took care of that,” Myles told me when I asked.

  “She?”

  “Detective Brookhart. She even questioned me in the shop this time, while her partner went around and touched things. Even the altar. Can you believe it? The Lwa don’t like their things bothered with.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. There had been a lot of that the last two days, me not knowing what to say.

  Was I really cut out for this?

  “I’m sorry about that. Townsend. I call him Detective Asshole.”

  “Good name for him. Of course, the police do like to play good cop, bad cop. Is she a lesbian?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “I never assume.”

  Mencken would approve.

  “How about we go to The Shepherd’s Bean?” I asked. “It’s my favorite, and they’re open late tonight. We can even walk over.”

  “Sure,” Myles answered. He checked the door of the shop to make sure it was locked. “Let’s do it.”

  Oh, how I could take those words.

  “So about your gris-gris,” Myles said. He pronounced it “gree-gree.”

  “My what?” The word sounded familiar.

  “Your charm,” he replied, just as I was figuring it out.

  I pulled it out of my pocket.

  “You need to feed it if you want it to work.”

  I looked over at him and saw he was completely serious. No smile—no flashing eyes. “Feed it?” It sounded a little creepy. I suddenly remembered an old Karen Black movie that was made before I was born but was creepy as shit. She’d been chased around her house by a little doll with huge sharp teeth. The babysitter had shown it to me, and it was weeks before I could get in or out of my bed without leaping as far out into the room as I could. I was afraid that doll might be under the bed. The boom when I landed on the bare wood floor pissed Mom off every time. She never had that babysitter come back again.

  “Feed it,” Myles said. “A tiny bit of rum—just a few drops will do. And some oil. I’ll give you that. The Lavender Love Drops would be good. Then keep it on you, a different part of you depending on the kind of man you’re looking for. Shirt pocket near your heart for love. Your underwear if all you’re looking for is sex.”