Fiction: Drinking Kubulis at the Dead Cat Café [11]

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11. As he sipped his grapefruit and rum

[This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living, dead, or anywhere in between, is purely a figment of your own sick, twisted imagination. You really ought to seek professional help for that. Except for the cat, of course; that skin on the cover really is  t h e  Dead Cat, if that’s any consolation to you.]

As he sipped his grapefruit and rum in Bayo’s River Place, Ras explained to the lethargic local where he was staying, and the man actually perked up. “Yes yes, the white people in the bamboo house.” That was how Kirk and Rita were known all over the island. They weren’t the only white people in Dominica – there were a few hundred scattered here and there – but they were the only white people like them, and he doubted if there were many black people like them either. Kirk was simply the most honest, caring human being Ras had ever known, and he had known him since they were punk kids on bicycles. Somehow Kirk, after a life of grinning debauchery, had found a woman as special as himself, and married her. Despite their shared madness, Ras loved them dearly. He looked hard at Bayo, whose eyebrows went a little north.
    “By any chance, my friend, did you ever hear of a white man who used to live around here? A man named Charlie?” It was the second time the American had said “my friend,” and Bayo didn’t like the sound he made when he said that. No, he didn’t like it at all. Bayo’s eyebrows threatened to slide right up the globe and collide with the Arctic Circle of his balding pate. Ras noticed he had begun to sweat. He was picking his nose again and shaking his head, and Ras thought, “He’s lying.” It was from interrogating the Cong tunnel rats in the war. These weren’t the guys topside taking U.S. fire, they were the important ones. They knew a lot if you could get it out of them. He could smell a lie on a fucker’s tongue before he said it. Dealing with every lowlife one met while doing private investigations had kept his skills sharp. He felt just a little sad right then; even Kirk had shown every sign of lying when Ras had asked about Charlie.
    “No, no, my friend, no one ever live ’round here like dat.”

    The white man didn’t look away from Bayo’s eyes, didn’t move, but something changed about him. Bayo saw it, and he didn’t like that one bit either. It scared him, and he took a step back from the bar. “It was a long time ago,” the suddenly frightening American said. He sounded reasonable. “Maybe you’re just too young to remember.”
    Ras was exultant. He had his mojo back, he could feel it, the way his pulse raced, how the eyes of the hapless local he’d cornered like a rat were near the point of terror now. Like in the war, when he was golden; when the angry, frightened little yellow men understood he was different: he meant business. He flexed his shoulders like he’d been taught, both to increase his breathing and loosen his muscles, as well as to intimidate his victims. Bayo decided he wanted very much for the crazy white man to be right. Bayo was simply too young. That was it! He just did not remember. “Maybe,” Ras said calmly, his eyes cold as the ice in his cup, “you could tell me about someone else in Attley who is old enough. Someone who might remember.” It was such a wonderful idea. Bayo knew just the one to talk to! He might be rid of this white devil who did not move but made Bayo think of snakes. Bayo hated snakes. The American’s friend, the white man in the bamboo house, was not at all like this one. This man was dangerous. His eyes were hidden but wide, drinking Bayo in. His nostrils were flared. He seemed to be sniffing for any scent of falsehood. Bayo was afraid to breathe. If he said no, would the serpent strike? Bayo thought of his children, his wife, whom he did not appreciate nearly enough. He spoke.
    “Dere is an old woman, upso,” and Ras relaxed enough for Bayo to grasp a breath. “She would know if any such white man ever live here.” After a long pause, Ras tipped up his cup and sucked down the last half at a gulp. He grinned at Bayo and set the cup on the counter. He didn’t seem to be a serpent now. He was just another aging American with half a spare tire and too many credit cards. “So okay then! Let’s go see her.” Bayo let out a long, deep sigh. He would see his wife again, and he would kiss her, he concluded. He would tell her that she was a good wife, and that he was lucky to have her.

Copyright © 2020 by Roger Owens