Butterflies in Heat (32 page)

Lola disliked the portion he gave her. "You gonna make me fat, sweet baby."

Again, he paid no attention to her, lost in his own memories. The only way he'd been able to live with Lola all this time was to blot her out until he needed her services. "When an old man's dying ... "

Lola started to protest.

But just one hostile glance from the commodore was enough to silence her. "As I was saying before I was almost interrupted, when an old man's dying, he likes to go back and dig up the best of his past. A pot of soup—that's my past. Now try it, boy." .

Numie tasted it, but didn't like it. He smiled instead, saying, "It's good. Never had food like this before."

"It's Creole gumbo," the commodore said, "made with God only knows how much crabmeat and some Red Devil sauce to spice it up." He stopped talking for a while. The only sound in the bar was the commodore's slurping.

Lola was fidgety. Finally, she couldn't hold back any longer. "Just what was on Sister Amelia's mind?"

The commodore stopped slurping long enough to look at her, but he didn't really take in her face. "Everybody in the world is after my money—except Lola. My Lola would be with me, even if I was the poorest man in Tortuga." He laughed under his breath at the absurdity of that statement. "Which I'm not, incidentally," he said to Numie wjth a twinkle in his eye.

Lola relaxed now. This was the kind of compliment she liked to hear. Of course,
it
was a complete lie, but she was pleased to know how she'd fooled him.

"How can you be sure you're going to die?" N umie asked.

"A man knows when he's gonna die—at least if that man's got some horse sense." His voice sounded truly hurt. "Myoid ticker won't even hold up for an operation—that's what my doctors fear."

"What kind of operation do you need?" Numie asked, only in an attempt to make conversation and not out of any genuine interest.

The commodore eyed him strangely, almost debating whether he should explain. "Sons of bitches up there on the mainland think I've got cancer in my gut, " he blurted out.

Numie was shocked at this candid admission.

Lola remained silent. She was long ago aware of this bit of information. In fact, she'd prayed for the growth of that cancer for so long she thought God had not heard her.

"Those bastards," the commodore went on, "They're like pig castrators. They like to stick knives in you every damn chance they get." He shuttered at the prospect of the oncoming surgery. Either that or else the Red Devil sauce was talking back too soon. "I grew up in Bayou Country, wrestling alligators. Now look at me, falling apart."

Lola started to tell him how handsome he was.

But he glared at her so savagely this time, she shut up immediately. "Pretty soon it'll be time to kick off around here. First thing I know, the town will be erecting monuments to me."

"I'm really sorry to hear you're in trouble," Numie said, almost wishing he hadn't. That seemed such a weak observation.

"My precious baby," Lola said, taking the commodore's arm again. Right in the middle of his soup, she asked, "Give your sexy mama a great big kiss. A gooey-sweet one." The very smell of that mess of blubber sitting next to her caused her to wince. The commodore's mouth on hers aroused such an awful squirming feeling she practically misfired right at the table.

Numie looked away. The commodore kissed like he slurped soup.

Again, silence, as each of them finished his soup.

"Now I know the pleasures I've got in mind for myself are causing me to risk a stroke," the commodore said. "After all, I'm not a fool. My blood pressure's so high the doctors have stopped counting" He brushed away some of the soupy crabmeat he'd dropped on his white linen suit.

Lola used her toddy to cleanse away the aftermath of his kiss. "Course it's sometimes dangerous for my commodore to
be around me. I've been known to raise men's blood pressures something awful."

Numie looked toward the entrance. He kept hoping someone else would come into the bar tonight. These two colossal egos were about to consume him.

"Yep, I've really decided," the commodore said, "it's this lack of poon-tang—ain't no good for a man." He stopped for a moment. Did Numie think he was a babbler? The stud didn't seem to be paying too much attention. "I've been sitting on the sidelines too long, when I should have been out there scoring
t~uchdowns."
This observation amused him. He almost wanted to chuckle, but suppressed it, fearing another coughing spasm.

Sunshine was placing more dishes on the table.

Numie was not just full, but was feeling really sick now. This is cracklin' salad," the commodore said, holding a bowl up in front of Numie's nose.

It
was all Numie could do to restrain himself. "Same thing you make cracklin' bread out of?"

"Same thing," the commodore said, genuinely pleased. "At least you've heard of something. Beginning to think you wasn't too bright." He stopped again. A vague feeling of self-mockery came over him. For some reason, he was compelled to defend himself in front of Numie. "God in his infinite wisdom gave me more sense than most men. Then in his devilish way he went and surrounded me with morons." He glared at Sunshine when he made this accusation.

"Christ, Phil," Sunshine said, "I never pretended to have a lot of book learning, but I shore can cook."

"And suck cock," the commodore interjected. He waited quietly for Numie's reaction.

Numie was having a hard time swallowing some of the crackling salad. He vaguely looked at his empty Scotch glass when the commodore said that. He was beyond the point where such a statement could shock him. Too many men had come right out and asked him if they could suck his cock. Only
thing was, he never talked about
it
at the dinner table.

"Phil, " Lola admonished, suddenly pretending to be a grand lady. "Now, mind your manners."

The commodore for a moment was bubbly happy, like a dirty little boy onto something evil. "I showed Sunshine how to do it when he was twelve years old. And he took to it like a calf with one of its mama's tits." He spit out a crackling onto his plate. "When Sunshine ain't in there stirring up raccoon pie, he's out going down on every shrimper on the waterfront." Picking up another bowl, the commodore handed it to Numie. "This here is okra salad with minced shallots."

Numie lit a cigarette right in the middle of the meal. The idea of discussing sex at the table—especially Sunshine's sex life—was just too much of a turn-off.

Sunshine was soon back with the main course: fried pickled pig's feet.

"The vegetable sidedish here is pokeweed," the commodore said. "Its berries are poison, but the green is mighty delicious. Want some?"

"No thanks," Numie answered, trying to figure out how he was going to get out of here peacefully.

"Shit, boy," the commodore said, "hope you're a better fuck than you are an eater."

Numie's face reddened. He'd just about had
it!

"I
was born and raised on pokeweed," the commodore continued. "The reason
 
I
 
know its berries are poison is that
 
I
 
fed some to our milk cow one day—and she up and died on me."

Lola was sitting there contemplating all the white mothers she'd had to entertain in her life. Right at this particular moment, she'd like to stuff some pokeweed berries down the commodore's gut.

"That cow started foaming at the mouth," the commodore said. "Her legs got all wobbly, just like mine are getting now. She fell down right in the pasture, moaning all the time."

Numie crushed out his cigarette. The commodore won the prize as a dinner conversationalist.

"Started to swell up," the commodore said. "That cow got twice her size. Her head just lolled to the ground, and I'll never forget those big wide eyes staring at me like I done something wrong, real wrong, 'cept I didn't know the berries were poison." His throat grew constricted. "First brush I ever had with death," he said softly, almost to himself. "Now that damn old Bessie is getting revenge on me for killing her." He looked at the pickled pig's feet Sunshine had place before him, then pushed the plate away. He didn't want to be reminded of animals dying right now. At this point he was feeling too much affinity with their plight.

Again, an interminable silence while Numie tried his best to finish the main course.

"Sunshine," the commodore yelled into the kitchen again, "keep the Piper-Heidsieck coming out here, boy." The champagne might relieve the awful constriction that kept building in his throat. Maybe that's where the cancer was spreading, taking on a new base of operations, preparing for his destruction. He gently fingered his throat, yet at the same time wanted to reach down and pull out whatever was there, preventing him from breathing properly.

Two bottles of champagne later, Sunshine was putting the dessert on the table.

"A little sweet-tater pone," the commodore said, dizzy and bleary eyed.

"Can't eat any more," Numie said. "I'm full."

"Lola said you were a man," the commodore replied, "but you don't eat like no man I've ever met." He was remembering the days he used to pick up fishermen down in Bayou country, stuffing their guts and getting them drunk on cheap whiskey before they gave in to his amusements.

Lola, meanwhile, was devouring the dessert. "I like everything real sweet."

A cynical smile crossed the commodore's lips. "Lola even thinks my gas is sweet."

"Now don't tell that," Lola said, no longer bothering to conceal her growing irritation.

"I'm perfectly serious," the commodore said, daring her to challenge him.

Lola's chest heaved, and she pressed a fist to her mouth.

Numie felt he was always coming out as part of a hate triangle on this island.

"People ask what I see in Lola gal here," the commodore said. The champagne had warmed him, and he was once again feeling in a good mood. "I often have gas, have had all my life, and Lola is the only person who'll let me get rid of it in her bedroom. And she doesn't even strike a match—nothing insulting like that"

Numie slammed down his fork in rage. He, too, was drunk, but enough was enough!

Slurping some champagne, the commodore was on a demonical tear to display his power over people.

A bad memory of Leonora crossed Numie's mind. Despite their completely different posturings, there was an amazing similarity between her and the commodore. It was easy to see why they were friends.

"I
understand ... " The commodore paused, looked over at Lola, then glanced back at Numie.
"I
understand you've been shoving it up Lola's glory canal since
 
I
 
been gone."

Numie looked him straight in the eye. "You might say that."

"It's okay with me," the commodore said. "Only thing wrong with it,
 
I
 
wasn't there to watch. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not one of those voyeurs like my buddy, Johnny Yellowwood. I like a little action just as much as the next guy." He reached over and fingered Lola's breast.
"I
also like to get into a little black pussy on the side." Then he dropped his hand back at his side. "But these last years have been hard on me."

At this point, Numie was too drunk to think up a good excuse to leave.

"We gonna go upstairs," the commodore said. "Just the three of us."

The prospect of that horrified Numie. He hesitated, then said, "I think Leonora wants me to drive her around the island tonight."

The commodore's mouth fell open in surprise. A hustler wasn't supposed to act like this. "I can arrange things with Leonora," he suggested with a leer. Seeing the disgust on Numie's face, he added quickly, "And I'm a most generous man, when I want something. How's a hundred dollars sound, boy?" His hand groped under the table for Numie's crotch.

Numie hastily rose, pushing back his chair so that it made a screeching sound. It was hard for him to keep from puking right on the old bastard. He took a deep breath. All he wanted to do was get out of this bar as fast as he could. He began to back away from the table. "No thanks," he managed through clenched teeth, "I'm not into that tonight" He turned and walked quickly out of the bar, afraid to look back.

Out on the street, Numie paused in the night air. The most money he'd ever been offered for a sex act. And he'd turned it down. Why this new-found independence? What did it mean?

At this point, Castor
Q.
Combes, holding his calico cat in his arms, appeared in the doorway of the bar. "Violet eyes, one more night I'm gonna see if my cat can catch that rat. Got a feeling that rat is bigger than my cat."

Ignoring him, Numie headed up the dark street.

A nightmare, the same bad dream, always haunted Numie.
It
was spinning through his mind now, except he wasn't asleep.

In the dream he was standing outside a great mansion, somewhat like Sacre-Coeur, and he was looking through the tall, wrought-iron fence. Inside the women were elegantly dressed. The men, courtly and charming.