line.
We are stronger, he
thought. Stronger than all of them. And they will discover this, to their very
great
sorrow. He
could feel the hunger growing-but he needed to know more, and he would wait
until the right time. Wait and watch.
For now.
SIX
A HOMICIDE SCENE WITH NO BLOOD SPLATTERED SHOULD have been a real holiday
outing for me, but somehow I couldn't get into the lighthearted frame of mind
to enjoy it. I lurked around for a while, going in and out of the taped-off
area, but there was very little for me to do. And Deborah seemed to have said
all she had to say to me, which left me somewhat alone and unoccupied.
A reasonable being might very well be pardoned for sulking just a tiny
bit, but I had never claimed to be reasonable, and that left me with very few
options. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to get on with life and think
about the many important things that demanded my attention-the kids, the
caterer, Paris, lunch…Considering my laundry list of things to worry about, it
was no wonder the Passenger was proving a wee bit shy.
I looked at the two overcooked bodies again. They were
not doing anything sinister. They were still dead. But the Dark Passenger was
still silent.
I wandered back over to where Deborah stood, talking to
Angel-no-relation. They both looked at me expectantly, but I had no readily
available wit to offer, which was very much out of character. Happily for my
world-famous reputation for permanently cheerful stoicism, before I could
really turn gloomy, Deborah looked over my shoulder and snorted. “About
fucking time.”
I followed her gaze to a patrol car that had just pulled up and watched
a man dressed all in white climb out.
The official City of Miami
babalao had arrived.
Our fair city exists in a permanent blinding haze of
cronyism and corruption that would make Boss Tweed jealous, and every year
millions of dollars are thrown away on imaginary consulting jobs, cost overruns
on projects that haven't begun because they were awarded to someone's
mother-in-law, and other special items of great civic importance, like new
luxury cars for political supporters. So it should be no surprise at all that
the city pays a Santeria priest a salary and benefits.
The surprise is that he earns his money.
Every morning at sunrise, the babalao arrives at the courthouse, where
he usually finds one or two small animal sacrifices left by people with
important legal cases pending. No Miami citizen in his right mind would touch
these things, but of course it would be very bad form to leave dead animals littered
about Miami's great temple of justice. So the babalao removes the sacrifices,
cowrie shells, feathers, beads, charms, and pictures in a way that will not
offend the orishas, the guiding spirits of Santeria.
He is also called upon from time to time to cast
spells for other important civic items, like blessing a new overpass built by a
low-bid contractor or putting a curse on the New York Jets. And he had
apparently been called upon this time by my sister, Deborah.
The official city babalao was a black man of about
fifty, six feet tall with very long fingernails and a considerable paunch. He
was dressed in white pants, a white guayabera, and sandals. He came plodding
over from the patrol car that had brought him, with the cranky expression of a
minor bureaucrat whose important filing work had been interrupted. As he walked
he polished a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses on the tail of his shirt. He
put them on as he approached the bodies and, when he did, what he saw stopped
him dead.
For a long moment he just stared. Then, with his eyes still glued to
the bodies, he backed away. At about thirty feet away, he turned around and
walked back to the patrol car and climbed in.
“What the fuck,” Deborah said, and I agreed
that she had summed things up nicely. The babalao slammed the car door and sat
there in the front seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield without
moving.
We are stronger, he
thought. Stronger than all of them. And they will discover this, to their very
great
sorrow. He
could feel the hunger growing-but he needed to know more, and he would wait
until the right time. Wait and watch.
For now.
SIX
A HOMICIDE SCENE WITH NO BLOOD SPLATTERED SHOULD have been a real holiday
outing for me, but somehow I couldn't get into the lighthearted frame of mind
to enjoy it. I lurked around for a while, going in and out of the taped-off
area, but there was very little for me to do. And Deborah seemed to have said
all she had to say to me, which left me somewhat alone and unoccupied.
A reasonable being might very well be pardoned for sulking just a tiny
bit, but I had never claimed to be reasonable, and that left me with very few
options. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to get on with life and think
about the many important things that demanded my attention-the kids, the
caterer, Paris, lunch…Considering my laundry list of things to worry about, it
was no wonder the Passenger was proving a wee bit shy.
I looked at the two overcooked bodies again. They were
not doing anything sinister. They were still dead. But the Dark Passenger was
still silent.
I wandered back over to where Deborah stood, talking to
Angel-no-relation. They both looked at me expectantly, but I had no readily
available wit to offer, which was very much out of character. Happily for my
world-famous reputation for permanently cheerful stoicism, before I could
really turn gloomy, Deborah looked over my shoulder and snorted. “About
fucking time.”
I followed her gaze to a patrol car that had just pulled up and watched
a man dressed all in white climb out.
The official City of Miami
babalao had arrived.
Our fair city exists in a permanent blinding haze of
cronyism and corruption that would make Boss Tweed jealous, and every year
millions of dollars are thrown away on imaginary consulting jobs, cost overruns
on projects that haven't begun because they were awarded to someone's
mother-in-law, and other special items of great civic importance, like new
luxury cars for political supporters. So it should be no surprise at all that
the city pays a Santeria priest a salary and benefits.
The surprise is that he earns his money.
Every morning at sunrise, the babalao arrives at the courthouse, where
he usually finds one or two small animal sacrifices left by people with
important legal cases pending. No Miami citizen in his right mind would touch
these things, but of course it would be very bad form to leave dead animals littered
about Miami's great temple of justice. So the babalao removes the sacrifices,
cowrie shells, feathers, beads, charms, and pictures in a way that will not
offend the orishas, the guiding spirits of Santeria.
He is also called upon from time to time to cast
spells for other important civic items, like blessing a new overpass built by a
low-bid contractor or putting a curse on the New York Jets. And he had
apparently been called upon this time by my sister, Deborah.
The official city babalao was a black man of about
fifty, six feet tall with very long fingernails and a considerable paunch. He
was dressed in white pants, a white guayabera, and sandals. He came plodding
over from the patrol car that had brought him, with the cranky expression of a
minor bureaucrat whose important filing work had been interrupted. As he walked
he polished a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses on the tail of his shirt. He
put them on as he approached the bodies and, when he did, what he saw stopped
him dead.
For a long moment he just stared. Then, with his eyes still glued to
the bodies, he backed away. At about thirty feet away, he turned around and
walked back to the patrol car and climbed in.
“What the fuck,” Deborah said, and I agreed
that she had summed things up nicely. The babalao slammed the car door and sat
there in the front seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield without
moving.
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