Cry Havoc (11 page)

Mother Love propped a crutch and straw broom into a corner next to a small table. She started singing, one of those African songs that made Eddie Mae feel proud. And a little afraid too. She knew what was coming. Mother Love smoothed a square of yellow satin over the table. On it she put a Saint Lazarus holy card, a clay pot with a perforated lid, and two plastic dogs. She surrounded them with seventeen yellow candles.

Stepping back, she surveyed the table. She must have liked what she saw, because she gave a short nod, saying, “Now we’ll feed Babaluaye.”

Eddie Mae’s four chins quivered nervously. This was the part she didn’t like. She offered a silent prayer to Jesus, hoping He wouldn’t mind. She meant no harm, only wanted her son to be healthy. He could understand that, couldn’t He?

Mother Love dipped a perfectly manicured hand into the box Lucian had brought. She unwrapped a square of cornbread and put it on the table next to an orange, a banana, and an open jar of coconut butter. A bottle of 151 rum complemented the food. Eddie Mae hoped she had enough money to pay for this.

Mother Love studied the table again.

“I’ll make beans and rice tonight, but for now this’ll have to do.”

Scratching sounds came from the box and Mother Love pulled out a paper bag. Eddie Mae squirmed, enduring a scornful glance as she crossed herself. Mother Love sang her African song again and drew two pigeons from the bag. She held them over the table by their legs. Eddie Mae closed her eyes, but not quickly enough. With swift ease Mother Love twisted the heads off. She shook their blood onto the table, placing the drained bodies alongside the other offerings. She sang again.

Mother Love’s low voice, Eddie Mae’s faith in her, the sticky heat—they all combined to make Eddie Mae drowsy. She watched sleepily as the Mother washed a rope of black and white beads in the blood, didn’t protest when she folded the sticky strand into her hand.

“Take those to Tyrell,” she ordered. “Put ‘em on him. Don’t let no one take ‘em off. They got Babaluaye’s power now. You take ‘em offa him, I can’t tell what’ll happen.”

Eddie Mae’s chins waggled their understanding. Mother Love barked, “That’ll cost you two hundred dollars, Eddie Mae. And cheap at that.”

“Lord, don’t I know it.”

Eddie Mae pulled a wad of wet, crumpled bills from her cleavage. She smoothed them out against her thigh, laying them gently, one by one, into the Mother’s bloodied palm.

Driving home one late night, Frank had heard a telepathic spy on a talk show share his vision of the world’s end. He saw the jet stream swooping down close to earth and wreaking havoc with agriculture. He predicted mass starvation, particularly in Third World countries. Even more gruesome, he warned that as this time approached, it would be heralded by an unprecedented number of children killing other children.

Reading the
Los Angeles Times,
she wondered if the end was indeed nigh; the Santa Anas had been bellowing wildfires for a week, and another high school kid had decided to settle a pubescent score by shooting half his classmates and a teacher.

Sprawled half naked on a chaise lounge, Frank found the almost empty Corona in the chair’s shade. The sun was hot, the beer was cold, and the news was always bad. World without end, amen, Frank thought, but if it ended today she was going out a happy woman.

Dinner was ready—pink shrimp in avocado halves, sliced ruby tomatoes from the farmer’s market, fresh bread from the Old Town Bakery, all accompanied by an icy bottle of pale Fume—and Gail would be here any minute to share it with her. Frank shook the newspaper into place, amazed she’d actually admitted to, and accepted, being happy.

She came in from the patio for a fresh beer, just as Gail burst through the front door. Her entrances were fast, breathless, and usually scared the shit out of Frank.

“Hurricane Gail has made landfall,” she greeted.

“That’s me,” the doc laughed. “All awhirl to see you.”

Gail dropped her fat briefcase onto the tile floor and hurled herself at Frank, who found the doc’s physical enthusiasm as unsettling as it was charming. In her office or cutting in the morgue, Gail’s passion for her work was obvious, but she maintained distance from the cops and detectives she worked with. Maybe because she’d never thought to, Frank had unwittingly bridged that distance. She’d accepted Gail’s friendship, and then diffidently, her courtship. Frank’s hesitance wasn’t related to Gail, but rather to her own doubts about being a lover again.

There’d been the fling with Kennedy but that was just what it was—a fling; something they had both needed at the time, but which was never meant to last. It felt different with Gail. Less urgent, more thoughtful. She felt like she wanted Gail rather than needed her. That was reassuring, in that it lulled Frank into a sense of control over her emotions.

They cooled off later in the shower, still unwilling to part. Wearing only loose robes, they ate the plump avocados on the patio and satisfied the last of their hungers. Settling into one of the side by side lounge chairs, Frank poured the last of the wine, luxuriating in the peace that comes with perfect satiation. Gail’s hand rested on her thigh. Frank stroked it, asking, “Think you’ll get to the Colonel tomorrow?”

“The Colonel?”

“Lewis’s slit throat,” Frank reminded her. “I know you’re back-logged. Just curious.”

“Ahh, right,” Gail nodded dreamily. “Barring any unforeseen disasters, we’ll probably get to him tomorrow. I can’t cut him for you though. I have to chain myself to the desk in the morning, then have lunch with Sartoris, and there’s the Health Department meeting after that. Isn’t your Colonel just a slice and dice?”

“Don’t know.”

Frank explained about Mother Love, after which Gail murmured through her drowsiness, “She sounds nasty. You should be careful.”

“Don’t tell me you believe in that sort of hocus-pocus.”

“Well, I do.”

Frank waited for the punch line. When it didn’t come she craned her head to see if Gail was joking.

“You serious?”

“I just think you should be careful. You could be getting into something much bigger than you think.”

Frank laughed, “You sound like Jill. She’s terrified of all that mumbo-jumbo. Me? I’m pretty confident I can hold my own against an old woman with dead cats and graveyard dirt.”

“Laugh now, but still, watch your back. Let’s go to bed.”

“Wait a sec. You’re a medical doctor. A rational, twentieth-century woman trained in scientific method and you’re telling me you believe in the Psychic Hotline?”

In a fairly decent Jamaican accent Frank imitated the TV commercial, saying, “Call now, fuh yuh free readin’.”

Gail scowled. “All I’m saying is that if someone’s truly intent on hurting you, they can. That’s all.”

“How do you figure? Mother Love’s going to make a doll with blonde hair, dress it in a miniature Armani suit and stick pins in it?”

“Who knows? Not that the pins in the doll would work but the intent she harnesses might.”

“I’m not tracking.”

“All I’m saying is don’t be too cocky. There’s energy in the world —some of it’s positive, some of it’s negative—and I think it can be channeled for good or bad purposes.”

“So you think she can put a spell on me? Turn me into a toad?”

“Don’t be silly. I just think she can tap into negative energy and apply it with mal intent. Good God, don’t we see enough of that every day?”

“I don’t think what I see on the street is evil. I think it’s stupidity. People get carried away by greed and jealousy. Anger. They’re not evil, just ignorant. Or chemically imbalanced.” She shrugged.

“What about a guy like Delamore?”

Frank flinched at the name, but quickly rationalized, “He’s not evil. He’s sick. He didn’t develop normally. At some point kids learn compassion, but if they’re never taught it, then they grow up to be quote/unquote evil. I think what you call evil is a profound developmental and/or physiological failure. The Delamores never learn how to relate to anyone other than themselves.”

“Do you deny that evil exists?”

“Why do I feel like I’m being cross-examined?”

“Do you?”

Concealing her exasperation Frank answered, “Yeah. I don’t believe Satan’s sitting in a fiery cave at the center of the earth eating lost souls any more than he’s hangin’ out at the corner of Florence and Normandie.”

“Do you deny the existence of good?”

“Yeah. Good is just like evil. If a child is treated well, and taught goodness, then he or she grows up to do good things. They get perks and rewards and feedback that encourages the positive behavior just like a neglected child creates the sick perks and feedbacks that keep him in his loop. It’s all they know. Nice, not nice, it’s all learned behavior.”

Gail swung her feet off the lounge chair to turn and face Frank.

“What about kids like that eleven-year-old who disemboweled his baby sister? By all accounts he came from a wonderful, loving home.”

“Organic,” Frank explained, tapping her temple. “Something didn’t come out right as he was developing. The right gene didn’t get turned on. Or off.”

“What about luck? You’re always saying you need some luck on a case. How do you explain that?”

“Luck is just… circumstance and timing. A chain of events that can turn out well or badly. Besides, how’d we get off on this theosophical debate? I thought you wanted to go to bed.”

“I do,” Gail answered, “but humor me. I’m curious to know where you stand on all this.”

“I stand deeply, madly, head-over-heels, insanely crazy about you. That’s where I stand,” Frank declared emphatically. She tried pulling Gail up, but the doc wouldn’t budge.

“No really. I want to know.”

“Know what?” Frank weaseled.

“You really don’t believe there’s any sort of force or power in the universe, do you?”

“No. I don’t.”

“You can’t even admit it’s a possibility?”

“I suppose it could be. Just seems that if there is something somebody would have proved it or seen it by now.”

“What would God look like to you?”

“God? He’s a guy in a white bathrobe with a long beard who sits around with his feet up reading
Playboys
all day. Every now and then he looks down and laughs at all the tiny people scurrying around beneath him, blowing each other up in his name. He gets a good chuckle out of that then goes back to his
Playboy.
Tells a curvaceous angel to bring him another beer and a fresh cigar.”

Gail smirked. “It sounds like your god’s Hugh Hefner.”

“Not
my
god,” Frank countered. “That’s the
dude you
all believe in.”

“And you have no dude?” Gail persisted.

” ‘Fraid not. There’s just what I touch and feel today. And right now I’m feeling you and I’d like to go fall asleep with my arms around you.”

“You really don’t believe in
anything?”

“Just you,” Frank said. She tried to kiss the top of Gail’s head, but the doc reared back.

“I find that so sad. That you don’t believe in
something.”

“I believe in hard work and trying to make a difference while we’re here.”

“But then what? What happens when you die?”

“Then I’m dead. End of story. Cleared case.”

“What about your soul?”

“Haven’t you noticed?” Frank joked. “Ain’t got no soul. That’s why I can’t dance.”

“Tell me you believe you have a soul.”

“I believe I have a soul,” Frank dutifully repeated.

Gail studied her lover.

“You don’t, do you?”

“Nope. I’m just blood and guts and when my heart stops pumping”—Frank spread her hands—“Game over.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Gail said.

“Aw, Gay, don’t get all melodramatic on me.”

“I’m not. I mean I know people don’t believe in God, but it just seems… lonely. So disconnected from everything else around you. So unrelated.”

“We’re all the same species, with the same problems,” Frank offered. “We all have that in common.”

“That’s human.” Gail waved her off. “Human concerns are so insignificant in light of the bigger picture.”

“And what’s the bigger picture? The World According to Gail,” Frank disparaged.

“Look at the stars,” the doc retorted. “They’ve seen centuries come and go. They’ve witnessed billions of us coming and going, yet they persist. How can you look at a star and not believe in God? Or oak trees. The ones on your street were there when Cortez came through. He and his men are all dead now but the trees are still there. You can touch them and touch a tree Cortez might have sat under while he charted his course. Where do those stars, those trees, where do they come from? Who made them?”

“UAW?” Frank guessed. “Should I go look for the union label?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“About the label?”

Gail kept studying Frank.

“I don’t see you hopping out of bed on Sundays to get to church.”

“You don’t have to go to a church to believe. And when I need a church I head out of this god-forsaken city and into the mountains. That’s where my church is. Where I can see what God’s made. Not what people have made.”

“All right. You win. Can we drop this?” Frank cajoled, her hand out to the doc. Gail took it, but not happily.

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll believe in something. Tell me what you want me to believe in and I will.”

Gail squawked, “I can’t
make
you believe! That’s got to come from
inside
you. It has nothing to do with me.”

“So how do kids learn to be good Methodists or Jews? Don’t they get taught? Don’t they go to Sunday school or temple or whatever? You want me to be a tree-hugger, show me how. I’m a quick learner.”

“That’s different, Frank. They’re children. You’re a grown adult. I can’t foist a belief on you. You should have your own values, your own beliefs.”

Frank followed Gail inside, countering, “I do and you don’t like them.”

“Working hard and making a difference isn’t a faith, it’s an ethic. There’s a big difference.”

“Does that make me any less of a person?”