Homemade Sin Read online

  “So it was no accident,” said Roland.

  “‘A gentleman doesn’t hurt anyone accidentally,’” came the feline’s voice. “My friend Oscar Wilde said that.”

  “Are you telling me you knew both Oscar Wilde and Hemingway?” Roland said.

  “And Nabokov and Tolstoy and John Steinbeck,” Stinky said. “Ever read The Black Cat by Edgar Allen Poe? I was the inspiration. Tennessee Williams once kicked me down a flight of stairs.”

  “You’re telling me your previous owners were some of the greatest writers of all time?” Even hammered Roland found this hard to believe.

  “I never said ‘owners.’” Stinky’s voice again. “They were my friends, and I was their muse. ‘You can’t own another creature, but another creature can own you.’ My friend Truman Capote said that.”

  I’m losing it, Roland thought. Enough for me. When I get hustled for drinks by a delusional kitty cat it’s time for me to go sleep it off. Roland dropped enough cash on the bar to cover his tab and the cat’s Brandy Alexander and started for the door.

  “Wait, wait,” said Stinky in Roland’s head as the cat fell in behind him, following him at heel, “where are you going? It’s early and we were just getting to know each other.”

  “Who are you? What are you?” said Roland.

  “I told you, I’m Stinky, the Fierce Feline of Fatalism, the Caustic Cat of Cataclysm, I am the Kitty Courier of Catastrophe. Through the centuries I have gone by many names; Bast in Egypt, Quetzalcoatl in Mexico and Bossu in Port-au-Prince. Over the last five hundred years I have known kings, queens, conquerors, despots, presidents, potentates, assassins and serial killers. I was once a powerful god but I was defrocked. Not that I actually had a frock. I did have a nice necklace and kind of a tiara thing in Egypt. Anyway, I was demoted to muse; now I provide inspiration to novelists, artists, poets and playwrights. You can call me Stinky; it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “I’ve got to go sleep this off,” Roland muttered to himself, stepping out of Sloppy Joe’s into the darkness of Duval Street. He turning left and headed for Duval House.

  “Where are we going?” Stinky stayed hot on Roland’s heels.

  “There’s that we again,” said Roland. “I’m going back to my motel room to sleep until I no longer hear a talking kitty in my head. I don’t care where you go.”

  “Hey, don’t be like that,” said Stinky. “I’ve decided you and I are going to be friends. And leaving me on the street is no way to repay that honor. Where is our hotel?”

  “Just go away and leave me alone,” said Roland as he weaved his way up the street. As he passed the Aqua Nightclub, a famous drag-show dance club, one of the drag queens stationed by the door, dressed as Cher, noticed Stinky chasing Roland up Duval Street and commented; “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen pussy chasing a man in Key West. You go get him Stinky!”

  Roland stopped and stared down at the tomcat trailing along behind him. “Do you know everybody in this town?”

  “That was Jeffie. He a makes a pretty convincing Cher don’t you think? You’ll meet him soon.”

  Roland shook his head in disbelief, which caused him to list a little to the left as he continued up Duval Street.

  Stinky followed Roland back to Duval House, a quaint little Old Key West hotel which consisted of a large main house with small cottages nestled around a swimming pool in the rear courtyard. Stinky strode beside him, dodging his weaving feet, as Roland staggered past the wooden picket gate, around the pool and to the door of his courtyard cottage. Roland fumbled with the keys finally turning the lock and stumbling through the door. Stinky slipped through his legs, leapt upon Roland’s bed, curled up into a furry ball on his pillow and began to purr like a chainsaw being molested like a bear.

  Roland told himself he would deal with the wayward puss in the morning. He rationalized that he was too drunk and too tired to try to eject the animal from his bed tonight, so he followed Stinky over to the bed and fell across the mattress beside the feline. It took about ten seconds for the smell to reach his nose and penetrate the drunken fog and register in his olfactory senses.

  “Jesus you stink!” slurred Roland as the smell of rotten fish assaulted his senses. “I couldn’t smell you in the bar but now … phew!”

  Stinky continued to purr.

  Roland rolled off the bed into a kneeling position. He used the mattress to push himself erect and trod an erratic path to the window. After some fumbling he managed to turn the window lock and raise the window about halfway before it stuck.

  “Tomorrow we part company,” Roland informed Stinky as he stumbled back to the bed.

  An hour later, with Roland snoring sotto voce, Stinky opened one eye and stared at his new friend’s sleeping form, making sure he was asleep. Stinky ran a soft paw across Roland’s cheek and when Roland failed to react, Stinky leapt from the bed to the window and slipped away into the moonlit courtyard. He weaved purposefully through the side streets and back alleys of Key West, under a gibbous moon. Finally he stopped at the rear entrance of a fish restaurant, slipped in through an exhaust vent in the back wall and disappeared. A few minutes later he returned to the alley through the same exhaust vent and crept to the dumpster behind the restaurant. Stinky crawled through a gap below the dumpster and retrieved a small plastic vial of green powder with his paws. He had acquired the power from a local voodoo shop earlier and hid it away in the dumpster for just such an occasion.

  Securing the vial between his teeth he trotted back toward Duval House.

  Chapter Two

  The Buzzards Of Destiny

  “Why are we doing this?” whispered Cutter Andrews to his girlfriend, Hussey Paine, as the buzzards of destiny swooped in low and slow. The birds made lazy downward spirals as they searched for the recently deceased. Hussey and Cutter’s two motionless bodies lay supine on the edge of Lake Helen. “I thought we outgrew buzzard bingo years ago.”

  The lake separated the little villages of Cassandra and Lake Helen, Florida. Cassandra, a sleepy little town tucked away amid the mangroves and palm trees, between Orlando and Daytona, was a close knit community. It consisted of a hotel, a tourist center, and the largest collection of psychics, spiritual healers and mediums east of Berkley.

  “One last time before we go,” Hussey whispered back. “I need some more of those little purple mushrooms that grow out of the vulture puke. Now shut up and lie still, they’re circling in.”

  It is a known fact that when frightened, buzzards vomit. Hussey and Cutter had played this game since they were kids. Growing up in rural Florida you had to find your fun where you could, so they had made a game out of lying very still on the banks of Lake Helen, pretending to be carrion until the buzzards circled and landed. Once the buzzards had settled, and mustered enough courage to approach their potential meal, Hussey and Cutter would spring up, screaming and waving their arms, startling the birds trying to make them puke.

  The lake, bathwater warm, was good for a quick dip if they failed to dodge the regurgitating raptors.

  Cutter resumed his impatient silence while Hussey watched the buzzards descend through eyes closed to slits. The couple’s arms were spread out in crucifixion positions, outstretched hands inches apart. Hussey was dressed in shorts and a cut-off T-shirt, showing off her athletic, five-foot eight frame. Her dark chestnut hair was fanned out around her head. At twenty-three, Hussey had a face beyond childhood. She didn’t have the kind of beauty that caused heads to turn when she entered a room, or eyes to follow her as she crossed. Men would glance up at her, look her up and down and then revert back to what they were doing, having summed her up as pretty, not beautiful. But if they took a second look, caught that spark of mischievous intelligence in her large hazel eyes, laugh lines radiating from the corners of her eyes like quotation marks, they were compelled to heed what those eyes were saying. Looking from her sparkling eyes to the small spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, to her slightly parted lips
displaying the faintest wistful smile, a smile that caused a small dimple to dint her chin in silent laughter, they sensed she knew a secret joke. A joke, no matter how she explained it, you would never get. And her face, beaming with secret laughter, was beautiful.

  Her boyfriend, Cutter Andrews, stretched out beside her was more pretty than smart, with broad shoulders, ice-blue eyes and an IQ mirroring, if not below, the entertainment tastes of the American public. He had the face of a California surfer: tanned, smooth with sun-bleached hair and a simplistic expression, as if nothing ever crossed his mind but the anticipation of the next wave. When Cutter was vexed or angry his mouth drew down to a cruel line, a shadow of potential malevolence, otherwise he maintained the simple and harmless visage of a child at play.

  Mid-August in Central Florida is usually as hot as the hinges of hell. Waves of heat rose off Lake Helen and settled on the two buzzard baiters, causing sweat to run down their faces and pool in the crevices of their bodies. The dense, humid air made breathing seem like sucking air through a wet, wool blanket. Occasionally, a wispy cloud would pass across the sun giving them some respite as they tried to lie without moving in the pounding heat.

  “They’re coming closer,” whispered Hussey through side of her mouth, “not much longer now.”

  Moments later a large molting buzzard landed a few feet from Hussy’s prone body. The butt-ugly bird dipped its bald head and poked its sharp, hooked beak toward her to investigate.

  “Don’t move a muscle,” said Cutter, barely audible, “let’s see if we can get a few more to land.”

  Two more buzzards settled down beside the motionless bodies in a flutter of feathers, one at Cutter’s feet and one near Hussey’s head. Hussey squinted through eyelids open in paper thin slits at the movement of the bird. Lying perfectly still, she watched the buzzard inch closer, closer, moving its long featherless neck back and forth and cocking its pink head in curiosity.

  The carrion bird leaned over Hussy’s face and moved its head down, eyeing her like a tasty morsel. Hussey screamed and leaped from the grass waving her arms furiously. The buzzard, surprised that its meal was still moving, took to the air in a great flapping of wings, leaving a snowfall of small feathers drifting down on Hussey. As the bird ascended, it let go a stream of sickly pink bile from its screeching beak. Hussey dodged the stream of buzzard vomit that rained down toward her. Cutter wasn’t so lucky. The buzzard which had been examining Cutter’s crotch when Hussey launched herself from the ground had taken flight and, before Cutter could jump out of the way, let out a torrent of vomit on Cutter’s pants and boots.

  Hussey saw Cutter stand and watch the great bird fly away, buzzard puke all over his crotch and legs. “Bingo!” she yelled and burst out laughing.

  “You lose,” said Cutter. “You moved first.”

  “Yep, I lose, but at least I’m not covered in buzzard puke.”

  “I told you this was a stupid game.” Cutter stared at the mess on his clothes. “Now I have to go home and change.”

  Hussey was still pointing at Cutter’s crotch and laughing.

  “And staring at my crotch and laughing isn’t exactly good for my self-esteem.”

  “You already have more self-esteem than you need,” said Hussey. She dropped back to the grassy pasture in the lotus position.

  When Hussey’s laughter subsided and her shoulders stopped shaking with glee, she sighed and looked at Cutter with sad eyes. “I’m going to miss this,” she said.

  “Are you sad about leaving Cassandra?”

  “Yes and no,” said Hussey with downcast eyes. “I got my degree in organic chemistry so I can go on to med school and get the MD. And this summer living at home has been great but it’s time to move on. Cassandra has been my home all my life, and it’s sad to think I may never come back here to live. I’m going to miss all the weird, quirky people. There’s so much energy here.”

  “I’m glad you decided to come home for the summer,” said Cutter. “I missed you when you were away at college. And I’m glad you gave us another chance.” As Cutter reached out to hug her she looked down at his puke-spattered pants and took a step back.

  “You wouldn’t have missed me if you hadn’t flunked out of school your fist semester,” said Hussey. “And I’m telling you again, the ‘us’ thing is on a trial basis. Let’s see how it goes when we get to St. Pete. Now you go home and change. I need to go say goodbye to Mama Wati. I’ll come back here tomorrow, before we leave, and collect the mushrooms.”

  Hussey unzipped her backpack and removed a small vial filled with purple seeds and a handful of little flags; each showed a white skull and crossbones on a black field. “I got these flags at the Pirates of the Caribbean souvenir store at Disney World,” Hussey told Cutter as she sprinkled a few of the seeds onto each puddle of vulture vomit and stuck a small flag into the ground beside it. “This way, I’ll know where to look tomorrow when I come back for the mushrooms.”

  “If you’re through with voodoo, why do you need the mushrooms?”

  “You never know,” Hussey said. “There might be an emergency and I might need some Mambo powder.”

  “A zombie emergency? Come quick! Someone needs to be made into a zombie!” he mocked.

  “It’s better to have it and not need it,” said Hussy as she rose and began to walk away from the lake. “Pick me up at Mama Wati’s in an hour. I still have some packing to do tonight. Why don’t you go online and find us a nice hotel on the beach for the week before my classes start?”

  As Hussey meandered down the dirt road toward Mama Wati’s little bungalow, she remembered the first time she met Mama and her husband Obadiah. Ten years before she and Cutter had been playing the buzzard game; then, as today, Hussey had lost the game by moving first and Cutter had been puked on. He had stormed home and she had taken the long way back along the small dirt road around the south edge of the village. It had been just about dusk and as she’d gazed across the long cotton field on the north side of the road, she’d espied a bonfire, blazing to the heavens.

  Slipping into the line of trees bordering the field and she’d made her way, unnoticed, toward the fire. As she’d approached she’d seen two figures dancing around the bonfire. A bale of what smelled like tobacco smoldered in the center of the fire, sending clouds of blue-gray smoke billowing into the air. The smoke had settled around the young cotton plants creating a thick pastel-blue ground fog that glowed in the twilight. Hussey had slid behind a huge live oak about ten feet from the fire and peered at the dancers.

  A thin man and a large woman had been high stepping and gyrating around the fire. The woman had a deeply tanned face the color and texture of a Cuban cigar and had been dressed in a billowing skirt and loose blouse, a bandana tied around her iron-grey hair. She’d held what looked to be a dead chicken by the neck, its head flopping loosely from side to side as she’d danced. Puffing on a large cigar she’d sent clouds of grey-blue smoke wafting in a ring around her head. The cigar smoke mixed with the smoke from the fire and rose into the air. Behind the woman, a thin, old man had mimicked her dancing moves. Dressed in a threadbare swallowtail tuxedo and a frayed top hat, his face had been painted shoe polish black, with white circles around his eyes and thin white lines drawn above and below his mouth to indicate teeth. Little wisps of snow-white hair had stuck out from beneath his top hat and a small parchment-colored drum had dangled at his waist from a string tied around his neck. The old man had drummed in time to the dancing, or danced in time to the beating; Hussey couldn’t tell which. Alternately, the couple had bowed down low and jumped high in the air as they’d circled the smoking bonfire. From time to time each had leaped over the blazing fire, barely missing the lapping flames.

  As Hussey had crept a little closer for a better look, she’d tripped over an exposed root from the live oak and tumbled onto the packed earth beside the fire. The man had stopped beating the drum and halted, staring at her. The old woman had stood still, slapped her hands on her hips, looked
down at Hussy and grimaced, as if Hussey were a turd in a punchbowl.

  “Well, happy St. John’s Eve to you!” the woman had said, her hands on her large hips as she’d stared down at Hussey. “Keep dancing old man,” the woman had commanded the man in the tuxedo. “Do you want to hex us?” The old man had resumed his counter-clockwise caper around the fire. As he’d boogied around the fire toward Hussey he had glanced down at her and tripped. He’d flailed his arms, trying to regain his balance as he stumbled over her splayed legs, and he’d plummeted to the ground nose first.

  “Obadiah!” the old woman had said, shaking her head, “get your skinny old ass up off the ground. If you can’t Epe Epke dance no better than that, you might as well go on up to the house and start supper.”

  The old man had tried to right himself, struggled like an upended turtle, and had grinned lasciviously at Hussey through a mouth full of gold teeth. Hussey had seen that his complexion, under the make-up, was lighter than the woman’s, more of a café con leche, heavy on the leche.

  The woman had turned her attention to the young girl splayed out beside him. “Miss Hussey Paine, I believe,” the large woman had said. “I haven’t seen you on this side of the lake before. What brings you to the ass end of Cassandra?”

  “I took the long way home … How do you know my name?” Hussy had said.

  “Yes, the road to this side of Cassandra is certainly the road less traveled. I know your people. I know everybody in this little part of the world. Does your father know you’re visiting us heathens in Cassandra?”

  “My father says everybody on this side of the lake is crazy.”

  “Do I look crazy?” the woman had asked.

  “Well, you were dancing around a fire with a chicken,” Hussey had replied.

  “I’m Mama Wati, resident Voodun of Cassandra.” The old woman had laughed. “And the old fool trying to get up off the ground is my husband Obadiah. His name means ‘serves God.’”

  Obadiah had succeeded in getting his spindly legs under him and risen to his feet. He’d taken off his battered top hat with his right hand, stretched it out wide to his side as he’d crossed his left arm across his stomach, and bowed low to Hussy. Hussey had noticed a mischievous expression in his eyes as he’d peered up at her from his bent position. His smile had spread farther across his face. His gold tooth had shone in the waning sunlight, sparkling from between the painted white teeth that rimmed his lips. Hussey had also noted the traces of a lustful leer in his grin.