Chapter Three
Hoodoo was a bronzed giant. His skin was a mix of African-American, possibly Cuban, maybe a mix of a few others and little white. The end result of the genetic mix was a colossus with skin the color of brushed bronze, eyes that were a piercing gray, and hair the color of burnt charcoal.
He’d come by many nick-names: Godzilla’s little brother, Bigfoot with a shave, Colossus, someone even tried “Tiny,” but it wouldn’t stick.
“Hoodoo” came, inadvertently from his grandmother, Momma Leonna. She’d raised him and his siblings since most of them could remember, Hoodoo being the only one of his brothers and sisters who claimed to actually remember what their momma looked like.
Momma Leonna was the most renowned voodoo priestess in New Orleans. No one was willing to cross her. Most weren’t willing to meet up with her in case a misunderstanding led to a curse. Hoodoo always thought that was funny, considering Momma Leonna didn’t actually believe in voodoo, she just played it for the tourists who threw money at her for giving them “advice.” The funny thing was, after a time, the locals started believing that nonsense, too.
Her advice was usually a version of “don’t believe liars,” and she made enough money off of the triteness and castor oil cure-alls to raise her daughter’s children. At the moment, Hoodoo could hear his grandmother’s advice for a hangover: “Don’t get drunk, stupid.”
He sat in his booth at Sturgis, the first time he was there as a vendor, proudly displaying his wares. He was an artist with a brush and a bike, his own ride was prominently displayed as a showpiece featuring a heavily muscled Viking riding a bike off a cliff into the valley of hell, sword raised in anticipation of the slaughter of the demon beneath him. It was art that could have graced the cover of any metal band’s hit CD. Conversely, the pin striping was a delicate touch, filled with flurries and curlicues. It was a masterpiece and he was proud of it. Other works, along the same theme in print format, hung from every part of the little vendor booth. He’d never sold his works before, but then, he’d never owed the head of the western division mafia a quarter million before either.
He would forever be paying off the sweet Crocker that nestled between Tracy’s thighs. And even though they’d broken up, he couldn’t regret it when he thought of it that way.
“Hoodoo!” Val called, a piercing cry through the white noise of the crowd.
“Shhh,” Hoodoo tried to shush her, but making a shushing noise hurt. A lot.
Val nodded, hands on hips. “Yeah, I figured if I wasn’t there to monitor you, you’d drink yourself to death.”
“It wasn’t the beer,” he whispered, waving her away though it appeared she wasn’t taking the hint. “It was the fight, I’m concussed.”
“You didn’t take a shot to the head,” Val reminded him. “Not that it would have done any damage. Just how much beer did you drink last night?”
“A case,” Mad-dog said, his beard bristling with suppressed laughter. “A little more, actually. I passed out at that point, he was still going strong.”
Hoodoo shot him an angry glare. Mad-dog just shrugged it off.
“A CASE?” Val turned on Hoodoo, “No wonder you’re hung-over! You’re lucky you’re alive! Do you have any idea what that much alcohol can do to a body?”
“Oh my God!” Hoodoo cried, his hand on his neck, the other outstretched in her direction to ward off evil spirits. “Momma Leonna has possessed your soul! Out demon, out, I say! Go back to the bayou and swim with the gators, they’re ‘fraid o’ you, too!”
“I give up,” Val turned to Mad-dog, “I…”
Mad-dog’s beard practically crackled with suppressed mirth. “Hoodoo will pay his penance in hell for the morning, but he won’t learn. Let the man die in agony, Val.”
“I’m just pissed because I embarrassed myself,” she admitted. “I… if you had yelled…” she lowered her voice, “… if you yelled, ‘fuck me’,” she whispered so even Mad-dog who was right beside her couldn’t hear her, “No one would have said a thing.”
“He’s ugly,” Hoodoo pointed to Mad-dog. “You’re not.” As if that settled the question.
Mad-dog leaned over the front of the booth and clapped his hands once, the concussion of that clap echoed off the building. Hoodoo groaned and covered his ears.
“Yeah, well, when you put your foot in your mouth, you either have to run, or dance one-legged. You could have stayed, you know that we’re your friends, hell, sometimes you’re my wingman when the sickly sasquatch here isn’t riding with us. You know we’re not gonna let no one mess with you.”
“Hell,” Hoodoo offered, pulling himself up like the green giant on the vegetable cans. “You won’t let anyone mess with you. Someone try something, I just watch you throw him ‘round a bit. Aint’ gonna take that fun from ya.”
“What he mumbled goes double for me.” Mad-dog said, smiling.
“GOOD MORNING!” Loki showed up, fresh as daisy and louder than life. Hoodoo nearly threw up. “Hey, boss! I saw that girl again, the one from the fight? Damn, she’s got a sweet ride! What the hell is she doing on that thing out here?”
“Wait, what?” Hoodoo looked up to Loki and regretted it. “Can you stand over there?” He sounded like a querulous old man, even to himself.
“Why?”
“Because the sun is behind you,” Mad-dog explained.
Loki got that look in his face that was by far too innocent to mean anything good. “Oh, too much beer?”
“A concussion,” Val spat the word, layering in her disbelief.
“Right,” Loki said and Hoodoo heard him moving somewhere off to his left. “Until the concussion goes away. Let’s take pity on the lightweight, shall we?”
“Lightweight?” Mad-dog laughed. Hoodoo pictured his beard fairly bristling, like a thing alive. “No one’s called him that since he was…” he held his hand about waist high, and finished “…three.”
“All right, all right,” Hoodoo complained, having seen the whole thing through the one eye he’d dared to crack open. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve never seen a Crocker before, but DAMN!” He drew out the word appreciatively.
“She brought it here?!” Hoodoo stood, grabbed the table and steadied himself. The table came somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, so being “steady” on his feet still required him to right himself still further. He straightened his back carefully. “That’s crazy! She brought the Crocker?” he raised his eyebrow at Val who was slowly backing away. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t want you to fall on me,” she admitted, her eyes a little wide.
“No one would ever find her again,” Loki agreed.
“He could take out the booth,” Mad-dog said as an aside. “Flatten the whole thing.”
“You know,” Loki said thoughtfully, “it occurs to me that giant jokes coming from you are ironic at best. If you weren’t around the Mountain Who Snores here, it would be you getting the brunt of our humor.”
“That’s why I stay next to him.” Mad-dog admitted with a shrug, “I am spared your half-witticisms.”
“Very wise,” Loki admitted.
“Thank you.”
“Not at all.”
“ENOUGH!” Hoodoo bellowed and then tried not to be sick from his own yelling. The traffic outside his booth came to a halt. “NOT YOU!” He yelled again to the crowded walkway and waved them back to whatever it was they were doing.