Nine Kinds of Naked by Tony Vigorito

Author:Tony Vigorito
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

65 GRINNING, OMAR TOLD Special Agent J. J. Speed that the cat’s name was Mota. For obvious reasons, Special Agent J. J. Speed could not be seen going around Mexico, clicking his tongue and calling out for marijuana in soprano singsong. So, he called her nothing at all for the first few days. His was not a terribly creative mind, after all, and he had great difficulty conjuring some meaningful designation. He finally settled on Wilhelmina, the name of his favorite prostitute in Panama. A free-spirited little feline, Wilhelmina went her own way by day. Toward nightfall, just when he thought she’d abandoned him or that she would never find him, there she’d appear, no matter where he happened to be. She had a very good nose.

Thus it was with some fret that Special Agent J. J. Speed sat drunkenly on that French Quarter curbside waiting for Wilhelmina to appear. His own words kept echoing in his ears, a hammering mantra of malice. I’m not your fucking brother! I’m not your fucking brother! Inwardly, he ogled aghast at his own malevolence. I’m not your fucking brotherl I’m not your fucking brotherl He may as well have gargled cold blood from the chalice of malice as scream such words. What kind of a Cain archetype am I? he wondered, cringing against the realization. Looking down at the maniple still scrunched in his hands, he proceeded to open it, gingerly, as if peeling back the petals of a sleeping flower, though the only nectar to be discovered was his own dollop of hanky scum. Wiping the puddled snot from his maniple onto his pants, he began to fold it carefully, even reverently, the action putting him in mind of another life, the life of Father J. J. Speed, the pastor, the porn fiend. He noted the snags in the silk where Wilhelmina’s claws must have succeeded in yanking it from some laundry line in Mexico, a couple of inches above where his name was embroidered in golden thread: Father J. J. Speed. For a split second, he knew he was no happier now than he was then. Where the hell is Wilhelmina? he thought angrily. He wanted a toothpick.

And what was with this “walk away” bullshit? He knew it must be the key to unraveling this conspiracy. Ever since he’d arrived in New Orleans, people were doing the most random absurd things and then touching the side of their nose, pointing at someone, and saying, “Walk away.” And the bartender’s exhortation was not the first time he himself had been targeted. Just a week ago, while standing in the checkout line at the supermarket, a young woman had stolen a box of Count Chocula out of his grocery cart, yelled, “Walk away!” as she touched the side of her nose and pointed at him just before sprinting down the toiletry aisle. It had made his hair stand on end. And now, he’d had three glasses of ice water splashed in his face

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