business.
“Don’t be a shitkicker!” Handsomemost sensed what Justo was about to do, stumbling backwards into a tangle of mangrove roots with his hands held high. “Remember the chickens and goats! Don’t mess with the Saints!”
Justo lowered the gun. “Put the greyhound in the back of my car and beat it before I outthink myself.”
“Free doggy bones for everyone.” Handsomemost chuckled, stooping to grab the greyhound’s leash. “I owe you one.”
“Two.”
“One. The Saints have to be fed.”
7
T HE SAINTS have to be fed. Recently it had become more famine than feast. Justo fumbled open the bag of greasy conch fritters on the car seat next to him as he turned off Duval Street, headed toward the cemetery. He ground the chewy conch meat between his teeth and swallowed it in a lump destined to give him a pain before another
mal día
was over. Maybe he should have taken Handsomemost out for the count. Perfect opportunity, armed and dangerous. But then Handsomemost occupied a sort of demilitarized zone of amorality, tap-dancing in alligator loafers between old gods and new devils, owing allegiance to both, offering loyalty to none, enchanted fool.
Aunque la mona se vista de seda, mona se queda
. The monkey in silk is still a monkey.
The greyhound in the backseat tipped its long snoot over Justo’s shoulder, sniffing the spicy odor of conch meat, yawning its mouth open and licking Justo’s cheek in a nonchalant gesture of familiarity. Ocho, Number Eight, is what I’ll call you, Justo decided, fingering another fritter from the greasy bag for the dog. Number Eight because I sense you’ve spent your entire short life behind the eight ball about to be snookered. Here you go, Ocho, Justo pushed a fritter into the dog’s obliging mouth, just don’t tell anybody where you got it. Ocho fixed Justo with the caring gaze of a confidant and licked his lips shut. Ocho had the contented look of a dog a man could tell his troubles to.
Mal día
, Ocho, Justo sighed, another bad day begun, how I wish I could have stayed in bed this morning with Rosella. Sometimes I think a man gets up and goes to work just to deny himself the pleasure of his wife. A man walks around all day with that denialtrailing him like a tail he doesn’t know what to do with, a tail growing right out the back of his pants and dragging behind in the dust. True lust can be a curse. You have to keep turning it down if you want to heat it up. Finally the tail dragging in the dust grows so obvious it trips a man up. That is something you and I understand, Ocho. We are the last of true family men holding the great institution of marriage together while all the other dogs out there are chasing their tails around in circles without understanding why they have tails to begin with. We are the end of the line. After us, nothing. No romance, no self-denial, no one-woman love, just men with tails growing out the seat of their pants and barking dogs. The louder the bark the more frightened the dog. You can understand that, my friend. Justo patted Ocho’s head. You know what I’m talking about? Ocho yawned with a pleasant gurgle, tipping his open mouth up in anticipation of an entire bag of conch fritters about to come flying miraculously through the air. A man and a dog do what they have to do. Justo nudged another fritter into Ocho’s eager mouth while pondering this latest illumination. A woman does what she doesn’t have to do.
At last Justo had somebody he could talk to. Whenever he talked to his Rosella about this, she slammed the door and he felt his tail grow another two feet. The ones he could definitely not talk to about it were his daughters, the oldest, Isabel, almost fifteen and turning every male head at mass each sunday morning. He could feel his power with Isabel ebbing away day by day. With a crumbling sense of the truly helpless he watched her preordained passage, like the tarpon coming up from the deep Cuban waters of spring to
“Don’t be a shitkicker!” Handsomemost sensed what Justo was about to do, stumbling backwards into a tangle of mangrove roots with his hands held high. “Remember the chickens and goats! Don’t mess with the Saints!”
Justo lowered the gun. “Put the greyhound in the back of my car and beat it before I outthink myself.”
“Free doggy bones for everyone.” Handsomemost chuckled, stooping to grab the greyhound’s leash. “I owe you one.”
“Two.”
“One. The Saints have to be fed.”
7
T HE SAINTS have to be fed. Recently it had become more famine than feast. Justo fumbled open the bag of greasy conch fritters on the car seat next to him as he turned off Duval Street, headed toward the cemetery. He ground the chewy conch meat between his teeth and swallowed it in a lump destined to give him a pain before another
mal día
was over. Maybe he should have taken Handsomemost out for the count. Perfect opportunity, armed and dangerous. But then Handsomemost occupied a sort of demilitarized zone of amorality, tap-dancing in alligator loafers between old gods and new devils, owing allegiance to both, offering loyalty to none, enchanted fool.
Aunque la mona se vista de seda, mona se queda
. The monkey in silk is still a monkey.
The greyhound in the backseat tipped its long snoot over Justo’s shoulder, sniffing the spicy odor of conch meat, yawning its mouth open and licking Justo’s cheek in a nonchalant gesture of familiarity. Ocho, Number Eight, is what I’ll call you, Justo decided, fingering another fritter from the greasy bag for the dog. Number Eight because I sense you’ve spent your entire short life behind the eight ball about to be snookered. Here you go, Ocho, Justo pushed a fritter into the dog’s obliging mouth, just don’t tell anybody where you got it. Ocho fixed Justo with the caring gaze of a confidant and licked his lips shut. Ocho had the contented look of a dog a man could tell his troubles to.
Mal día
, Ocho, Justo sighed, another bad day begun, how I wish I could have stayed in bed this morning with Rosella. Sometimes I think a man gets up and goes to work just to deny himself the pleasure of his wife. A man walks around all day with that denialtrailing him like a tail he doesn’t know what to do with, a tail growing right out the back of his pants and dragging behind in the dust. True lust can be a curse. You have to keep turning it down if you want to heat it up. Finally the tail dragging in the dust grows so obvious it trips a man up. That is something you and I understand, Ocho. We are the last of true family men holding the great institution of marriage together while all the other dogs out there are chasing their tails around in circles without understanding why they have tails to begin with. We are the end of the line. After us, nothing. No romance, no self-denial, no one-woman love, just men with tails growing out the seat of their pants and barking dogs. The louder the bark the more frightened the dog. You can understand that, my friend. Justo patted Ocho’s head. You know what I’m talking about? Ocho yawned with a pleasant gurgle, tipping his open mouth up in anticipation of an entire bag of conch fritters about to come flying miraculously through the air. A man and a dog do what they have to do. Justo nudged another fritter into Ocho’s eager mouth while pondering this latest illumination. A woman does what she doesn’t have to do.
At last Justo had somebody he could talk to. Whenever he talked to his Rosella about this, she slammed the door and he felt his tail grow another two feet. The ones he could definitely not talk to about it were his daughters, the oldest, Isabel, almost fifteen and turning every male head at mass each sunday morning. He could feel his power with Isabel ebbing away day by day. With a crumbling sense of the truly helpless he watched her preordained passage, like the tarpon coming up from the deep Cuban waters of spring to
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