Tonton Macoute

"Piti piti zwazo fe nich, my love," she said. "Little by little the bird makes its nest." And on her face he saw the expression that had frightened him earlier as they'd knelt over Butch's body. It was a look of pure greed. She searched his eyes for a moment. "I think you need a drink, man. There's rum on the table." And she left him.

Tommy noticed the Rodriguez One-Fifty-One for the first time and was vaguely disturbed by it, although he didn't know why. He opened the bottle, raised it to his lips and gulped down two mouthfuls before he knew what he was doing. Getting drunk wasn't a good idea, not now.

He abandoned the rum and dressed quickly. He could hear her beyond the lighted doorway; she was busy back there. He finished tying his laces and followed the sounds.

It was a kitchen and Marie was bent over a wooden table. Her hands worked in a large bowl. She became aware of him and looked over her shoulder.

"Hello, sax-man," she said and returned to the mixing. "I really can bring him back. Wait and see."

He stepped around the table. She'd pulled on a pair of jeans, but wore no top. The pear-shaped globes of her brown breasts jiggled over the contents of the bowl. It was a red lump about the size of both her fists.

The lump made a squishing sound as she kneaded it. He noticed other objects beside the bowl: small plastic bottles, the white mug--almost empty, a plain paper sack of some kind of beige flour, and a crumpled prophylactic.

"This is sick, Marie. You're sick."

"Mwen bien, my love, tout bagay bien. Everything will be all right. Wait and see." She lifted out the red loaf, placed it in a plastic bag, went to the sink and washed her hands. "I'm going to finish dressing, then we'll go."

"Go where?"

"The place of Mangé Loa, the Feeding. It's time."