Voodoo Heart

Orlando thanked him and sent him home. “Hey, Miller,” he called to me then. “Come inside. Have a drink with me.”

I looked at him through my good eye, then at my car, parked beside the dumpster. A drink sounded like heaven.

I followed Orlando inside the pawnshop, turning on all the lights.

“Back here,” he said, heading to the supply closet. He unlocked the door and from a small box in the back he pulled a bottle of Gullick Single Malt.

“You’ve had that in the store the whole time I’ve worked here?” I said.

He shrugged and took out two plastic cups. “Sometimes, when I’m here at night, after you or Raoul or Sam leave, I call home.” He poured Scotch into a cup and handed it to me.

It took me a moment to realize that by home he meant Argentina.

He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been a fool plenty times over, Miller,” he said. Then he took a sip of his drink. “Here. I want to show you something. Look at what came in the other day.”

He opened the jewelry case and pulled out the box of nameplates. “I don’t know why I keep any of these things,” he said. “None of them are worth much. And no one ever buys them from me.” He sifted through the alphabetized bags of names until he found what he was looking for—a pendant reading Orlando.

“Look at that,” he said, holding the nameplate up to the light. “My first Orlando. I think I must have every name in the box now. None worth anything.”

I smiled, which hurt. “You got a Max?”

“Sure,” he said, digging through the nameplates. “I think we got three or four.” He pulled out a couple, then picked the nicer of the two and gave it to me.

I turned the pendant over. Max, in swooping gold letters. “What do you think it’s worth?” I said.

He examined the pendant. “About…twenty-five cents.”

We both laughed.

“Get the acid,” I said.

He slapped me on the back, then took the nitric acid from the cupboard.

I put an empty bowl on the counter. Carefully, Orlando poured in the acid. Then he resealed the jug and locked it away.

“Cheers.” I held up my cup of Scotch.

He nodded and tapped my cup with his and then we dropped the pendants in the acid.

“Hocus-pocus,” he said.

“Exactly.”

I watched as the letters began to fizz and break apart, turning the acid a rusty brown. An odor like vinegar emanated from the bowl. After a moment, the bubbles cleared and the reaction settled and all that was left of the pendants were a few metal rinds, floating and bobbing around in the acid.

“You go home now, Miller,” said Orlando. “I’ll take your shift with the dumpster tonight.”

I shook my head, swallowing the last of my Scotch. “No way,” I said. “I’m doing it.”

“You’ve had a long day. You need to get some sleep.”

“I want to stay.”

He eyed me.

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

Orlando nodded, then went to get me the spear gun.

Spring nights in Central Florida are full of turbulence. Almost every cloud has a secret storm balled up inside it. They skid across the atmosphere, trailing strange, violent winds behind them, winds that sway the palm trees, blowing the mice that live in the leaves out into the sky.

I was enjoying my time outside, my last night guarding the dumpster. I lay on the hood of my car, watching the sky, which was clear and filled with stars and blinking satellites. The wind felt wonderful on my bare skin, warm and close and breathy. I felt far away from myself, completely alone in the world, but strangely calm, too.

The dumpster creaked on its base. I scanned the area, but saw no one. Just then I noticed the sound of an approaching car. I sat up and reached for the spear gun.

Headlights appeared from around the corner. They stopped at the end of the block. Someone exited the car, and though I squinted to make the person out, the headlights were pointed at me, and all I could see was a hazy red silhouette.

“Is that you, Joan?” I said. “Joan, I have some things to say.”

“I’m not here to start trouble,” said Dick Doyle.

The blood rushed out of my face. I shielded my eyes, but he was just a shadow and a voice.

Then the headlights went off and I could see him. He wore a T-shirt and jeans, a trucker’s cap on his head. One of his arms hung in a sling. The fingers of his other hand were all splinted. His expression was sharp and alert, though. Just the way I imagined he lived in his private time.

“Well, well,” I said.

“Look. It wasn’t an act, at first,” he said, walking toward me. “After that asshole ran me down, I couldn’t hardly do anything. It was like someone padlocked my brain. But then things came back to me. It was slow going.” He stopped right in front of me. “It took a long time to recover.”

“So, who knows about this?” I said. “Who knows you’re faking?”

He shrugged. “My family, my friends. I don’t know. Whoever. I’m not faking, though, because that’s not what matters about the act. That’s not what it’s about.”

“Does Pearl know?” I said.

Dick sighed. He turned toward his car and gave a nod. A tiny light went on inside and I saw Pearl sitting in the driver’s seat. She wore a kerchief over her hair, like an old woman. There were dark circles beneath her eyes.

“I’m dropping the charges against you,” said Dick.

“Why are you doing that?” I said.

“Because I want this to be over and done. I need it to be, man. Look, if you want to go tell everyone I’m a fake, then go ahead. Be my guest. Splash it all over the place. I don’t care anymore. You want to beat the shit out of me? You want to fire that spear through my chest? I deserve it, right? I ruined your life or whatever you want to think. Here. Go ahead. Shoot.”

He flung open his good arm and waited.

“Really,” he said. “Do it. Now’s your chance. Fuck me up, man. I stole your girlfriend, dragged you down here.”

He lifted his shirt, revealing his belly. “Come on!” he said, angry now. “Do it. Here I am! Exposed!”

I kept waiting for the old anger to kick in, but it just wouldn’t. None of my past with Dick Doyle seemed to matter anymore. I actually felt silly, standing there with my spear gun, facing off.

“Let’s call it even,” I said.

He squinted at me. “Hold up,” he said. “You understand, right? This has to be the end?”

I glanced at Pearl sitting in the car, pale and exhausted.

“It is the end,” I said.

Dick hesitated a moment, then let the hem of his shirt drop. He put out his splinted hand for me to shake. “Truce?”

I took his thumb in my hand and gently shook it. “Truce.”

“Well, phew,” he said. Then he looked around, as though just now noticing the store, the lot, the dumpster.

“Hey, I’m sorry about that handshaking thing at the fair. That was shitty of me. I was just feeling jealous. I