"See anything you like?" Mr. Bones teased, glancing back over one shoulder.
Dov picked up one of the so-called voodoo dolls. Its body was made of sticks swathed in a couple of scraps of brightly colored cloth and its skull-like head was molded on white clay with the features daubed on in black ink.
"Now, Barbie, what did I tell you?" Dov addressed the doll. "Anorexia is not a laughing matter."
"The real ones are not sold here," Mr. Bones said. "They are made to order."
"I expected no less." Dov pulled Ammi out of his shirt and draped the amulet's chain around the fake voodoo doll's neck. "What do you think would happen if I stuck a pin into this thing now?" he asked lightly. He reached for one and was about to test his hypothesis when Mr. Bones' hand fell over his in a surprisingly strong grip.
"You may laugh freely, but laughter and mockery are two different things." There was a dangerous look in his eyes, a look that conjured up graveyard midnights and forces that were old when the world was young.
Dov set the doll down carefully and reclaimed his amulet. "I didn't mean any disrespect. Not to anything but him, that is." He tapped Ammi's silver face.
"Hey! Watch it, you big boob," Ammi protested. "You've got thumbs fatter than a Bronx butcher's!"
"I believe you," said Mr. Bones. "And belief is everything." He took Dov into a small, snug room in back of the store, a place decked out with fine antique furnishings, most of them heavy, ornate pieces reflecting the on-and-off influence of forty-odd years of Spanish occupation. As Dov settled into the purple velvet seat of a high-backed oak chair, Aurore came gliding in with a tray bearing a demitasse service, a crystal brandy decanter, and two big-bellied snifters.
Mr. Bones did the honors, keeping his staff cradled in the crook of one elbow even while he poured brandy and coffee. Seeing Dov's curious look, he said, "There are many hands that would be eager to lay hold of my little beauty here." He gave the staff an awkward jiggle, making the bones click together. "The price of power is high—vigilance, courage, calculation, insight—but I find the rewards outweigh the inconveniences."
"I couldn't agree with you more." Dov accepted a demitasse and sipped the hot, strong brew. "That's why I've come here, to speak with you about—"
"I know." Mr. Bones saw no rudeness in interrupting his guest. "It is the dearest wish of my heart that your mother may yet surprise us all and make a full recovery. However, if she must instead go off with my good friend the Baron, I think she would do so less reluctantly if she knew that all her good works were being continued, and that the transition of power was to be accomplished as smoothly as possible."
"The Baron?" Dov asked.
"Baron Samedi." Mr. Bones pointed at a painting that hung on one wall of his backroom retreat. It was oil on a large slab of cedarwood, and it showed a gentleman who very much resembled Mr. Bones, except for the fact that his face was painted so that he looked even closer kin to an animate skeleton. "He is ... a friend of mine, a personage of great honor who takes a kindly interest in those whose lives have reached their close."
Dov studied the painting and mulled over Mr. Bones' rather evasive words. Probably one of his deities, he thought. I should know this. Well, I can learn. Yes, and I will learn everything I must, once I'm head of the company!
"I would like to hope," he said slowly, "that perhaps some day I may count on the Baron as a friend of mine as well."
Mr. Bones was visibly pleased by Dov's reply. "My friend, you commend yourself to me more with every word from your mouth. You show us respect, even though you have not got a baby's comprehension of what it is we do or how we worship. I would be honored to bring you to the temple where I serve as priest and my dear Aurore as priestess, but I fear your time with us is short. Is this not so?"
Dov bowed his head. "I'm afraid so, Mr. Bones. I deeply regret—"
"We've got to catch a plane to Arizona tomorrow," Ammi horned in. "We'd've had a lot more time to visit with you, maybe visit that temple of yours, if only you'd been a little easier to find in the first place. It's all very spoooky, you drifting through the French Quarter, no one knows where to find you, come and go like the wind, like a shadow, blah, blah, blah, but come on, Bones! Is that really any good for business?"
"That does it." Dov pulled the amulet from his neck so sharply that he snapped the chain. "You're going in the Mississippi. Now. That or down the toilet. Mr. Bones, where's the bathroom?"
The old man leaned forward and laid one hand on Dov's arm. "Let the creature be. Only the weak fear those who censure them. Only the truly poor cannot afford to laugh at themselves. I am neither weak nor poor. This garish shop is not my only source of income any more than the few pitiful coins I gather by posing for photographs with the tourists. My true power, in many senses, lies elsewhere."
Dov nodded. "The temple. Your followers. You also run a second shop, a botanica. Very thoughtful of you to provide your followers with a handy place to shop for all their voodoo needs. And not just your followers: This city shelters many different practitioners of the old ways, and you can't buy skulls or images of the gods or those kind of herbs at Winn-Dixie. I've done my research, Mr. Bones."
"So have I, Mr. Godz." The old man clapped his hands, summoning the beauteous Aurore. This time she had put off her gaudy tourist-trapping clothes and the tignon, wearing instead a smartly cut designer ensemble, her hair secured by elegant silver clips that whispered: Tiffany's, of course. She was carrying a leather portfolio stuffed to the bursting point with papers.
She smiled when she saw how Dov was staring at her. "You preferred me as I was?" she asked lightly.
"No, ma'am," he said, recovering himself. "Your other outfit was just fine for bringing down the pigeons, but I can see you prefer to stalk big game. I suppose those are the latest financial reports on the corporation?"
She nodded and she laid the portfolio in Mr. Bones' lap. The old man opened it to a random spot and ran one finger down the outer margin. "Compiled by a reliable and trustworthy research firm."
"Is that so." Dov bristled inwardly. "Do you think it's quite wise to have outsiders investigating E. Godz, Inc.? All it takes is one moron on their staff whose idea of a good time is an old-fashioned book burning and we won't be talking small can of worms; we'll be up to our eyeballs in nightcrawlers."
"A fate that will be ours soon enough, when our time comes," Mr. Bones replied. "But I agree: Why rush it? Rest easy, Mr. Godz. This research firm harbors only those who wish us well, and even though the payment for their services is ... unconventional, I have the resources to meet it." He closed the folder and Dov caught sight of the image of Baron Samedi impressed on the cover in gold. "Now, let us discuss the reasons behind the corporate portfolio's continuing refusal to invest in the futures market."
"Say what?" said Ammi.
"Shut up, wart," Dov muttered. He rested his hands on his knees and leaned forward eagerly. "I'm glad you asked that question, Mr. Bones. After all, it's your group's future that's at stake. And I don't mean pork bellies! I've been following Mother's investment strategies for years, even if she doesn't know it, and the way I see things going is—"
Two hours later a sleek black Bentley pulled up to the blue door of Aux Roi Gris-Gris and a uniformed driver stood by at attention while Dov got in. He sank back against the sumptuously soft leather interior and closed his eyes. "Next stop, Arizona," he murmured.
"Without your underwear?" Ammi demanded. "This is not the way to the hotel!"
"No, it's the way to the airport. Mr. Bones took care of getting my things packed and loaded into the trunk. He's got his ways."
"He's also got a killer instinct for finance."