He wished he'd never wake to see another day again.
But he did wake up. And when he did his mother was standing over him.
'Who's Risquee?' she asked.
42 'Don't be angry, be thankful,' Sam said.
'Thankful! You damn well sole me the fuck out, man!'
Carmine shouted and slammed his palm on the marble cutting slab, his voice echoing around the basement.
'It wasn't like that. She knew something was up.' Sam stayed calm. Eva had called him in the early hours of the morning, asking him why her son smelt of gun smoke and panic. Sam had told her about Risquee and the shooting near the shop and said the whole situation had probably been preying on Carmine's mind.
'She knew something was up,' Sam continued. 'You know that gift she has. If you'd just let me take care of it from the start, none of this would've happened. But you had to go play the big man. See where that got you? Anyway, the problem's solved. She's put Bonbon on it. Who did you tell her Risquee was?'
'Some bitch I tried to turn, freaked out on me.'
'Exactly what I said to her,' Sam said.
'For real?'
'Absolutely,' Sam said. We must've had telepathy. Or else been really lucky.'
Sam had, of course, told Eva the truth about Risquee, and Eva had laughed.
'What if Risquee talks to Bonbon?'
'That animal won't let her. And, say she manages to say something, he won't listen. Listening's not his thing,' Sam said, almost feeling sorry for the poor bitch when Solomon's hitman caught up with her. And he would, for sure. Bonbon had never once failed his masters.
'Did you tell my mother 'bout our thang?'
'No.' Sam shook his head. 'Of course not'
'You sure?' Carmine was searching his face.
'Positive,' Sam said. 'We're both alive, aren't we?'
'Yeah, kinda.' Carmine nodded sadly. He was wearing a baseball cap to hide the damage to his cranium, but he couldn't do much about the cuts and grazes on his hands and face. He had small deep slashes to his cheeks, forehead and a thick cut on the bridge of his nose, all raw and burning.
And there was a buzzing noise in his head that wouldn't go away, like he had an angry wasp in there.
'What in the hell did she do to you?'
'Beat me fo' lyin' to her. Beat me wit' my favourite belt.
You know that Gucci gator-hide one, gold buckle? She beat me wit' dat, beat me bad. I tole her I was shootin' off some rounds witchu.'
'That's a big buckle,' Sam said, looking pityingly at Carmine's wounded hands, slashed so viciously the cuts looked like defensive knife wounds.
'Damn thing broke offvshtn she was beatin' me too. She went fuckin' loco on me, man. It was bad 'nuff lass night, but this mornin' she hauled me outta bed and made me give her the belt from my pants. My damn pantsl Look at what she done to me!'
Carmine removed his cap, wincing as it came off.
'Christ!' Sam gasped.
There were scores of cuts and gouges all over Carmine's black and blue cranium savage slashes and gouges turned crimson-brown where the blood had clotted and scabs started to form plus dozens of small lumps and swellings, so much so that the top of his head looked like he had at least a dozen molehills sprouting up under his skin.
'You need to get to a hospital,' Sam said.
'No way.' Carmine shook his head. 'What'm I gonna say?
My mamma went all Bates Motel on my ass?'
'Say you got beaten up or somethin'.'
Carmine shook his head sadly.
'Let me get the First Aid kit.'
But before he could, Lulu came down the stairs.
'There's a customer asking questions,' she said in Kreyol.
'Who?' Sam asked.
'White man.'
'I'll be right back,' Sam said to Carmine.
'Good morning. Welcome to Haiti Mystique. I'm Sam Ismael, the manager.'
'How you doin'?' the man said. He was close to six feet tall, solid, broad-shouldered and stern-looking. He had short brown hair, blue eyes and a smile that didn't really suit his mouth.
'Can I help you with anything?'
'Just lookin', thanks,' the man replied.
'I'll be over here if you need me,' Sam said, as he went and stood behind the counter and pretended to be busy checking the stocklist.
The man hadn't identified himself as such, but Sam knew he was a cop: his way of standing straight, but with his shoulders slightly forward, feet apart like a boxer, in a state of anticipatory aggression; his typically bad clothes the catalogue-inspired, utility formal look houndstooth sports coat, black slacks, wingtips, open-necked white Oxford shirt; and then his eyes - cold, piercing, steady, all-seeing, all-appraising, taking everything in and breaking it all down, a spark of savagery about them.
Sam felt panic skim down his spine.
The cop looked at the dolls, the black religious icons, the crosses, the mounted monkey heads, the skulls, the candles.
He studied the noticeboard where the witchdoctors advertised their services. Eva's card was up there too. He moved over to the houmfor drums on the floor and tapped one,
346
I getting a deep undulating sound which planed out into a hum and lingered for a few seconds before fading away into the ether.
He looked at the shelves of herbs, seeds, roots and weeds.
'You from outta town?' Sam asked.
'Orlando,' the cop said. 'Say, do you sell calabar beans here?'
Sam felt his mouth dry up.
'I occasionally import them for customers. On request.
Why? Do you want some?'
'Say I did, could you deliver or would I have to come here to collect them?'
'Whatever's most convenient for you. What do you need them for?'
'I'm doing a paper on herbal cures,' the cop said.
'I see,' Sam said. 'You with Miami University?'
'Yeah.' The cop nodded.
'Probably work out cheaper for you if you ordered through the university,' Sam said. 'I add on import duties, storage and handling charges.'
'Budget's all used up,' the cop said, looking Sam straight in the eye, making him feel like he'd done something wrong.
'What kinda money are we talkin' about?'
'Depends on the quantity. But I usually add on $200 for storage and handling, paperwork too.'
'Must be some classy storage,' the cop quipped. 'What about the beans themselves? How much do they cost?'
'$10 each.'