Thomas Scott - Voodoo Daddy

“And you didn’t hear any gunfire?” I said.

The waiter shook his head. “Nope. Hell, it looked like she got hit by a huge gust of wind or something. It was unreal. I didn’t know what the fuck was happening.”

“What about a car backfiring? Did you hear anything like that? Some kind of noise that may have been a gunshot but in the moment it just didn’t register?”

The waiter shook his head. “Huh uh.”

“What did you do next?”

“What do you mean?”

I tried not to let my impatience show. “I mean, what was the very next thing you did. Did you call 911?”

“No.”

“Did you run outside to help the victim?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I guess, I…well, what I mean is, I just sort of froze. Besides, we’re not supposed to leave the cash drawer unattended.”

“I see,” I said, even though I didn’t. “How much money was in the drawer?”

“I don’t keep an exact accounting.”

“If you had to guess,” I said, the impatience in my voice now obvious.

“Well if I had to guess, there might be, I don’t know, seventy or eighty bucks in there or something like that.”

I leaned across the table. “So a woman, a Hospice nurse, comes into your coffee shop damn near every day of the week, sits at the same table, orders the same thing, then one day leaves and gets shot to death right in front of your eyes and the only thing you could think to do was guard the seventy or eighty bucks in the cash drawer?”

“Hey, man, come on. That’s a little harsh. I didn’t shoot her.”

“No, I guess you didn’t, but you sure didn’t do much to help her after she was shot.”

“Look, guys, I’m sorry about Rhonda. I really am. She seemed nice. She did good work. She was a consistent tipper. But that’s all I know. Maybe I didn’t do the right thing. Maybe I panicked, or froze or whatthefuckever. But I didn’t do anything wrong. There were about ten other people in here who were already dialing 911 and I know about as much emergency first aid as a Cocker Spaniel. Besides, even from behind the counter you could tell she was dead before she hit the pavement. You could just see it. So, what, I’m supposed to lose my job over something I couldn’t do anything about?” He stood up and started to walk away, then turned back. “Hey, you guys ever ask yourselves why no one ever wants to talk to the cops?”

My house is on one of the last remaining gravel roads in the county just off of highway 37 south of 465, the loop that circles Indy. I have ten acres of land, the back third wooded with a pond between the edge of the woods and the house. While I do not welcome the suburban sprawl as it grows ever closer, my privacy is reasonably assured by the long drive at the front and the woods at the back.

I tossed my mail on the table next to the door, checked the answering machine-no messages-and turned the shower on to steam the bathroom. Thirty minutes later I was back in the truck, headed downtown to the bar.

The bar my father and I own is very popular and draws a great crowd. I turned into the back lot, parked my truck at the far end and walked in through the back door where the kitchen area is located. The aroma of burgers and chicken halves that sizzled over an open broiler caused my stomach to gurgle and I suddenly realized I had not yet eaten today.

Robert, our Jamaican cook, looked over at me, flipped a burger on a bun then brushed the surface with his homemade jerk sauce, tossed on a slice of red onion, and held it out at arms length as I walked by. He gave me a skeptical look. “Dat shrimp, mon, it be comin’ by later tomorrow.”

“Was supposed to be today,” I said.

“Yeah, mon. But the truck already left. So tomorrow. Hope it good. Day say day raise it in a swimmin’ pool or some ting like dat. But it’s your money, no?” I took the plate, clapped him on the back and walked into the darkened atmosphere of the bar area.

The patron area of our establishment is long and narrow with high-back mahogany booths along one wall and the bar itself along the opposite wall with an aisle-way between the two sides. A large mirror runs the entire length behind the bar and gives the illusion of extra space when in fact there is none. Hand made stained-glass light fixtures hang low over the booths creating an intimate atmosphere that often conflicts with the mood of our customers. A blue neon sign displayed above the bar mirror advertises ‘Warm Beer amp; Lousy Food.’ Robert, our cook, still can not seem to grasp the meaning of the sign and has on more than one occasion pulled me aside and said “Dat sign has got to go, mon.” A small elevated stage at the back between the kitchen entrance and the restrooms provide just enough room for our Reggae house band that plays from midweek through the weekend. The lunch hour during the week is usually busy with downtown suits, and the weekend nights have been standing room only since opening day over three years ago.

The city of Indianapolis offers hundreds of small bars where you can eat and drink your fill, but to my knowledge our little bar is the only one that offers the true taste and atmosphere of a small island nation that has held a place in my heart most of my adult life. A few years ago on my last visit to Jamaica, while driving through the Hanover Parish, I experienced one of those rare moments which can change your life for the better if you are not too preoccupied to notice and let it happen. One of the tires of the rental car I was driving picked up a nail and I pulled to a stop in front of a ramshackle, multi-colored hut fashioned from scrap metal and drift wood at the edge of a town called Lucea which sits at the approximate half way point between the resort towns of Montego Bay and Negril. A handsome and well dressed bald man approached me and asked if he could help. His voice carried across the gravel lot with the musical lilt of his native land. “What you do, you?” he said. “Dat tire no good now, mon. Come inside. Have a drink and someting to eat. We fix you right up.” He held out his balled hand and we bumped fists and when we did, he said, “Respect, mon, respect.”

I shrugged, said ‘respect’ back to him and he smiled and led me inside the hut, his arm around my shoulder like we were old friends reunited after years of separation. Three and a half hours later I was full from too much Jerk chicken, slightly drunk from too many Red Stripes, but my tire was fixed and I had made two new friends.

But the story doesn’t end there. The owner of the establishment, the man who came out to greet me was named Delroy. He served the drinks and befriended his customers while his partner, Robert, handled the cooking, and apparently, tire changing. During the course of our conversation I learned they both longed to live in the United States. I listened politely to their stories, gave them my business card and got back in my car. Three weeks later after cutting through the red tape, Delroy helped me and my father set up the bar and Robert took over the kitchen. They both fly back to Jamaica twice a year for a week at a time to visit with their family and friends, and every time they do I panic just a little at the thought of losing them.

I took a stool at the mid-point of the bar and sat down with my burger and watched my father at the far end laughing with an attractive, middle-aged female customer. A row of clean beer mugs lined the drip trough on the tended side of the bar and when Delroy saw me he turned one over, set it under the tap and pulled a Red Stripe draft then placed it in front of me. My father walked down to greet me, looking back over his shoulder at the woman he’d been laughing with.

“Hey Pops. How’s it going?”

“Going just fine, son. Just fine.” He glanced back down the bar at the woman who was watching them in the mirror. “How’s the Governor’s main man?”