Read Online Dead of Night by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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be secure.”
The man said, “Cool. Very cool.” His smile read: Impressive.
Mr. Earl the Pearl had a big brain behind that great big smile. The questions, she noticed, became more carefully couched.
“If your employer asked you to break the law, would you?”
A standard setup. Only an amateur would fall for it.
“No.”
“What if you were in a place where there was no law?”
“Is there such a place?”
“This is hypothetical.”
Dasha thought, Clever. Said, “In such a place, I would consider my employer the maker of laws.”
“You would carry out any order?”
“Reasonable orders. The man’s paying my salary.”
“Even murder? You wouldn’t kill a person if you were told to do it.”
Dasha had looked into Mr. Earl’s mean, judgmental eyes and nodded imperceptibly. Barely moved her head, in case this was a different sort of setup and she was being videoed. Waited for several seconds, sure the man knew her meaning, before saying, “Murder’s never legal.”
She got the job.
When unimportant people—people such as the young Cuban—asked where she lived, Dasha always said the same thing: “On the islands.”
A private place inside her was smiling. Where it’s warm.
In the first months, before Dasha asked to see his body, Solaris thought of her as the Snow Witch, and Dr. Stokes as Mr. Sweet. Everything about her was pale and distant—icy. Solaris, who’d only seen snow in photographs, liked the word. It fit.
Witch: A woman who could make magic.
Dr. Stokes had translucent skin like rice paper, or refined sugar. He wore white gloves, and a paper device over his mouth and nose because the man was afraid of germs—or so said the Snow Witch.
Months later, when he knew her better, the two of them naked in the tobacco barn, Solaris said what he felt the first time he’d heard about it. “The man’s afraid of germs, but he buys the kind of nasty shit he does? Sewage? Water with invisible bugs? He’s crazy. He looks like what the Santeria people call ‘the Walking Dead’”
The Cuban was imagining the man in zombie-white makeup, with pointed teeth and ears, like a bat. Not so different from the way he actually looked.
Dasha replied, “He’s afraid of anything unhealthy. An uneducated boy like you has never seen diseases under a microscope. He has. If he knew I’d touched your yieldak, had your sweat on my skin and didn’t wash? He’d never let me in the car.”
The Chinaman had already told Solaris why the man ordered such strange things. Research.
Maybe true; maybe the Chinaman was making it up.
He’d also told him the doctor had invented vitamin pills and become rich. Made good investments, owned many businesses even though he was socialista at heart. Loved the old Cuba during the days of the Bearded One, which had something to do with him buying sugarcane acreage in the Everglades, west of Miami, a city Solaris dreamed of visiting.
“Probably because of the trouble he had in Florida, he hates the U.S. government,” the Chinaman said. “That’s why I pretend to give him a discount.”
Why did the Yankees bother growing cane? Cuba had once produced enough to sweeten the world, yet the arrogant imperialists had nearly strangled the island to death.
The Chinaman didn’t say that. One of the old villagers had told him. Gave him a speech. Solaris wasn’t interested.
So it was “Señorita Bruja Naver,” and “Dr. Dulce,” until the woman asked to see his body in the dim light of a tobacco barn that smelled of sour pepper, like a whiskey keg. Now she was “Señorita Serpiente.”
On her next visit, Dasha allowed him to touch her breasts. Part of the reward system. The third trip, she behaved as if he were invisible until she stepped into the building and bolted the door. Then, step-by-step, she instructed him on how he could please her.
Her body was different than the prostitute he’d been with. Different than women described by older men in the
The man said, “Cool. Very cool.” His smile read: Impressive.
Mr. Earl the Pearl had a big brain behind that great big smile. The questions, she noticed, became more carefully couched.
“If your employer asked you to break the law, would you?”
A standard setup. Only an amateur would fall for it.
“No.”
“What if you were in a place where there was no law?”
“Is there such a place?”
“This is hypothetical.”
Dasha thought, Clever. Said, “In such a place, I would consider my employer the maker of laws.”
“You would carry out any order?”
“Reasonable orders. The man’s paying my salary.”
“Even murder? You wouldn’t kill a person if you were told to do it.”
Dasha had looked into Mr. Earl’s mean, judgmental eyes and nodded imperceptibly. Barely moved her head, in case this was a different sort of setup and she was being videoed. Waited for several seconds, sure the man knew her meaning, before saying, “Murder’s never legal.”
She got the job.
When unimportant people—people such as the young Cuban—asked where she lived, Dasha always said the same thing: “On the islands.”
A private place inside her was smiling. Where it’s warm.
In the first months, before Dasha asked to see his body, Solaris thought of her as the Snow Witch, and Dr. Stokes as Mr. Sweet. Everything about her was pale and distant—icy. Solaris, who’d only seen snow in photographs, liked the word. It fit.
Witch: A woman who could make magic.
Dr. Stokes had translucent skin like rice paper, or refined sugar. He wore white gloves, and a paper device over his mouth and nose because the man was afraid of germs—or so said the Snow Witch.
Months later, when he knew her better, the two of them naked in the tobacco barn, Solaris said what he felt the first time he’d heard about it. “The man’s afraid of germs, but he buys the kind of nasty shit he does? Sewage? Water with invisible bugs? He’s crazy. He looks like what the Santeria people call ‘the Walking Dead’”
The Cuban was imagining the man in zombie-white makeup, with pointed teeth and ears, like a bat. Not so different from the way he actually looked.
Dasha replied, “He’s afraid of anything unhealthy. An uneducated boy like you has never seen diseases under a microscope. He has. If he knew I’d touched your yieldak, had your sweat on my skin and didn’t wash? He’d never let me in the car.”
The Chinaman had already told Solaris why the man ordered such strange things. Research.
Maybe true; maybe the Chinaman was making it up.
He’d also told him the doctor had invented vitamin pills and become rich. Made good investments, owned many businesses even though he was socialista at heart. Loved the old Cuba during the days of the Bearded One, which had something to do with him buying sugarcane acreage in the Everglades, west of Miami, a city Solaris dreamed of visiting.
“Probably because of the trouble he had in Florida, he hates the U.S. government,” the Chinaman said. “That’s why I pretend to give him a discount.”
Why did the Yankees bother growing cane? Cuba had once produced enough to sweeten the world, yet the arrogant imperialists had nearly strangled the island to death.
The Chinaman didn’t say that. One of the old villagers had told him. Gave him a speech. Solaris wasn’t interested.
So it was “Señorita Bruja Naver,” and “Dr. Dulce,” until the woman asked to see his body in the dim light of a tobacco barn that smelled of sour pepper, like a whiskey keg. Now she was “Señorita Serpiente.”
On her next visit, Dasha allowed him to touch her breasts. Part of the reward system. The third trip, she behaved as if he were invisible until she stepped into the building and bolted the door. Then, step-by-step, she instructed him on how he could please her.
Her body was different than the prostitute he’d been with. Different than women described by older men in the
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