your eye. A pretty blue, isn’t it?”
“I suppose — ahh !”
I spray him with the Cool Stream. I’m sure it doesn’t feel so cool on his bare eyeball.
“O-o-oh! Ouch, ouch, ouch, damn!” His head is swinging in all directions. He’s writhing in pain.
I decide I’d better take it a little easier or we’re going to end up in a hell of an accident — but I don’t let him in on that decision.
“Tell me.”
“Oh, God, oh, God! Tell you what?”
“Who hired you?”
“ Papa Legba!”
“Papa Legbutt? Who the hell is that?”
He’s able to calm himself some. “He’s a real mean black dude — some kinda Voodoo King or something. He’s underworld, you know. Not just into a lot of illegal shit, but really un-der-world, if you know what I mean.”
“Superstitious? You believe in the supernatural?”
“No, I just stay away from it so it doesn’t screw with me.”
I’m impressed with the quick results of my new interrogation technique. He’s spouting off like Old Faithful .
“Believe in the afterlife?”
He twists slightly to be able to see me and his gun pointed back at him. “I got a feeling I’m going to find out about it soon.”
“What did Legba want you to do with me?” I knew this one, but I had to ask.
“Look man, nothing personal.”
I spray his eyeball again.
“Oh, shit! Oh, damn!”
“Maui Breeze, this time,” I tell him. “Which do you prefer? Or would you rather I just do this?” I thump his eye with my finger.
“Shit! Okay — he wanted me to take you out to the swamp and off you, not necessarily in that order.”
“All right,” I told him. “You’re doing good. Now listen very carefully. The way you answer me from now on is going to determine whether or not I kill you. You must answer politely, quickly and honestly. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he says.
I like the respect — and I hadn’t even asked for it. I smile at him even though he can’t see me.
“Good. Now, you can tell what kind of a guy I am, can’t you?” I wait a couple of seconds. “Well, can’t you?”
He’s still hesitant. “Yeah.”
“And what kind is that? Come on, you said it earlier.”
He hesitates. “A … bastard ?”
“Good, good. Honesty, how refreshing. But I’m not just any old bastard, I’m a really bad bastard who’s killed more men than you have blackheads on your big rummy nose.” I reach up and turn the rearview mirror so that he can see me. “See? I’m looking at your big red nose, now. And, my-my look at all those blackheads.”
He’s not commenting. The skin around his good eye has darkened and looks slightly sunken from the trauma I’ve caused on the other side of his face.
“So, here we go — and you’ll get extra points for answering quickly. Have you done this kind of thing before — murdering people, I mean?”
Without hesitation, “Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Maybe a dozen.”
“Hmm, not an exact answer, but I’ll take it — I’d bet you really don’t know, do you? I mean, you don’t count how many people you’ve killed, right?”
“No.”
“Their ghosts don’t haunt you at night?”
“No.”
“They haunt me — the spirits of the people I’ve killed.” I sigh. “How about women and children?”
“Yeah. A few.”
I cluck my tongue. “How many for this ‘Papa Lagbutt’?”
“Legba,” he corrects. “Maybe ten or twelve. Seven or eight women. Probably half a dozen kids.”
“That’s more than a dozen in women and children alone.”
“Yeah…,” he hesitates again, obviously reconsidering a more honest answer, “…I guess maybe closer to three dozen or so jobs for Legba, altogether.”
“Why?”
“He pays good. A couple thousand for the women and five hundred for kids. As much as five thousand a whack for guys like you.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong. There aren’t guys like me .”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right about that. There sure as hell aren’t guys like you!”
“Anyway,
“I suppose — ahh !”
I spray him with the Cool Stream. I’m sure it doesn’t feel so cool on his bare eyeball.
“O-o-oh! Ouch, ouch, ouch, damn!” His head is swinging in all directions. He’s writhing in pain.
I decide I’d better take it a little easier or we’re going to end up in a hell of an accident — but I don’t let him in on that decision.
“Tell me.”
“Oh, God, oh, God! Tell you what?”
“Who hired you?”
“ Papa Legba!”
“Papa Legbutt? Who the hell is that?”
He’s able to calm himself some. “He’s a real mean black dude — some kinda Voodoo King or something. He’s underworld, you know. Not just into a lot of illegal shit, but really un-der-world, if you know what I mean.”
“Superstitious? You believe in the supernatural?”
“No, I just stay away from it so it doesn’t screw with me.”
I’m impressed with the quick results of my new interrogation technique. He’s spouting off like Old Faithful .
“Believe in the afterlife?”
He twists slightly to be able to see me and his gun pointed back at him. “I got a feeling I’m going to find out about it soon.”
“What did Legba want you to do with me?” I knew this one, but I had to ask.
“Look man, nothing personal.”
I spray his eyeball again.
“Oh, shit! Oh, damn!”
“Maui Breeze, this time,” I tell him. “Which do you prefer? Or would you rather I just do this?” I thump his eye with my finger.
“Shit! Okay — he wanted me to take you out to the swamp and off you, not necessarily in that order.”
“All right,” I told him. “You’re doing good. Now listen very carefully. The way you answer me from now on is going to determine whether or not I kill you. You must answer politely, quickly and honestly. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he says.
I like the respect — and I hadn’t even asked for it. I smile at him even though he can’t see me.
“Good. Now, you can tell what kind of a guy I am, can’t you?” I wait a couple of seconds. “Well, can’t you?”
He’s still hesitant. “Yeah.”
“And what kind is that? Come on, you said it earlier.”
He hesitates. “A … bastard ?”
“Good, good. Honesty, how refreshing. But I’m not just any old bastard, I’m a really bad bastard who’s killed more men than you have blackheads on your big rummy nose.” I reach up and turn the rearview mirror so that he can see me. “See? I’m looking at your big red nose, now. And, my-my look at all those blackheads.”
He’s not commenting. The skin around his good eye has darkened and looks slightly sunken from the trauma I’ve caused on the other side of his face.
“So, here we go — and you’ll get extra points for answering quickly. Have you done this kind of thing before — murdering people, I mean?”
Without hesitation, “Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Maybe a dozen.”
“Hmm, not an exact answer, but I’ll take it — I’d bet you really don’t know, do you? I mean, you don’t count how many people you’ve killed, right?”
“No.”
“Their ghosts don’t haunt you at night?”
“No.”
“They haunt me — the spirits of the people I’ve killed.” I sigh. “How about women and children?”
“Yeah. A few.”
I cluck my tongue. “How many for this ‘Papa Lagbutt’?”
“Legba,” he corrects. “Maybe ten or twelve. Seven or eight women. Probably half a dozen kids.”
“That’s more than a dozen in women and children alone.”
“Yeah…,” he hesitates again, obviously reconsidering a more honest answer, “…I guess maybe closer to three dozen or so jobs for Legba, altogether.”
“Why?”
“He pays good. A couple thousand for the women and five hundred for kids. As much as five thousand a whack for guys like you.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong. There aren’t guys like me .”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right about that. There sure as hell aren’t guys like you!”
“Anyway,
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