Tortured Spirits by Gregory Lamberson Page B

city just after 6:00 p.m. Golden sunlight gleamed on an enormous billboard that showed a muscular black man dressed like a general in a royal-blue uniform. He was saluting, and a wide smile split his face. Three officers in khaki uniforms, rendered much smaller, saluted him from the lower left-hand corner. The style of the painting reminded Jake of US propaganda art during World War II. Behind the general, palm trees waved before a blue sky and a yellow sun. Bright red letters declared,
Bienvenue! Bienvenida! Welcome! Pavot Ville, Capitold’lle de Pavot.
    â€œSomething tells me our friendly dictator doesn’t smile like that in person,” Jake said.
    â€œSomething tells me he isn’t built like that, either.”
    Jake noted mostly small cars parked on the street and very little traffic. A police car passed them, then a jeep, then a taxi.
    â€œThere are a lot of bicyclists,” Maria said.
    â€œAnd pedestrians.”
    The buildings were spaced farther apart than Jake had thought at first glance, with small, single-story shops between them. He drove the length of the city in twenty minutes, then crossed over to a parallel avenue and drove back. Men of all ages drank beer outside the shops, children with serious expressions played on the sidewalks, and women in pairs pushed strollers and half-full shopping carts.
    â€œLook at their faces,” Maria said. “It’s like the hood, only worse. Utter hopelessness.” Chain-link fences topped by coils of razor wire surrounded buildings with curtained windows and balconies. “Most of these residential buildings are projects.”
    Jake didn’t ask why she was so certain. On every street corner they passed the Pavot flag: a vertical red stripe over a black background. “What street are we looking for?”
    â€œRue de Verger.”
    He slowed down. “Ask for directions.”
    Maria called out to two black women carrying groceries, “Excuse me?
Por favor.”
    The women turned and Jake stopped the car.
    â€œDo you speak English?”
    The women shook their heads.
    â€œHow about Spanish?”
    They shook their heads again.
    â€œNous cherchons le restaurant Coucher du Soleil dans la Rue de Verger.”
    Jake sighed. “What is that,
Frenglish?”
    â€œLet’s see you do better. It’s no stranger than what people around here speak. The Hispanics speak French, and the blacks speak Spanish.”
    The women conferred with each other, then one pointed ahead, held up two fingers, waved her hand like a swimming fish, then held up three fingers.
    â€œMerci.”
    The women bowed their heads and resumed walking.
    â€œWhat did they say?” Jake said.
    â€œWe’re close. Two blocks up and three over on the left.”
    Jake followed the directions. Palm trees obscured many of the shops, and a police car passed a trio of emaciated men who looked like dead men walking.
    â€œScarecrows,” Maria said.
    Jake nodded. “They’ve almost turned. Where there’s Magic, there’s zonbies.”
    She looked at him. “How does it happen?”
    â€œThey OD on the shit. Literally, they die. When they revive, they’re walking dead, with no minds of their own, completely controlled by their vodou master, like puppets.”
    â€œAnd the sawdust inside them?”
    â€œFiller, like packing material. Each zonbie is essentially embalmed to preserve it as a working stiff for as long as possible and to cut down on the stench. Katrina had their toes, fingertips, and teeth removed to slow the identificationprocess if any of her slaves were captured. I don’t think that will be the case here, which means the Pavot Island zonbies will move faster. If we encounter any, run for your life. Just remember, they won’t get tired.”
    Maria shook her head. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
    â€œConsidering our location, it’s a good thing we