unbearably pleased with himself.
He was tall, six-three. He looked even taller in his narrow-legged
black trousers and his long, well-fitted gray cashmere topcoat. He was
unusually thin, yet powerful looking in spite of the lack of meat on his
long frame. Not even the least observant could mistake him for a
weakling, for he virtually radiated confidence and had eyes that made
you want to get out of his way in a hurry. His hands were large, his
wrists large and bony.
His face was noble, not unlike that of the film actor, Sidney Poitier.
His skin was exceptionally dark, very black, with an almost purple
undertone, somewhat like the skin of a ripe eggplant. Snowflakes melted
on his face and stuck in his eyebrows and frosted his wiry black hair.
The house out of which he had come was a three-story brick affair,
pseudo-Victorian, with a false tower, a slate-roof, and lots of
gingerbread trim, but battered and weathered and grimy. It had been
built in the early years of the century, had been part of a really fine
residential neighborhood at that time, had still been solidly
middle-class by the end of World War Two (though declining in prestige),
and had become distinctly lower middle-class by the late 70s. Most of
the houses on the street had been converted to apartment buildings. This
one had not, but it was in the same state of disrepair as all the
others. It wasn’t where Lavelle wanted to live; it was where he had to
live until this little war was finished to his satisfaction; it was his
hidey hole.
On both sides, other brick houses, exactly the same as this one, crowded
close. Each overlooked its own fenced yard. Not much of a yard: a
forty-by-twenty-foot plot of thin grass, now dormant under the harsh
hand of winter. At the far end of the lawn was the garage, and beyond
the garage was a litter-strewn alley.
In one corner of Lavelle’s property, up against the garage wall, stood a
corrugated metal utility shed with a white enamel finish and a pair of
green metal doors.
He’d bought it at Sears, and their workmen had erected it a month ago.
Now, when he’d had enough of looking up into the falling snow, he went
to the shed, opened one of the doors, and stepped inside.
Heat assaulted him. Although the shed wasn’t equipped with a heating
system, and although the walls weren’t even insulated, the small
building-twelve-footby-ten-was nevertheless extremely warm. Lavelle had
no sooner entered and pulled the door shut behind him than he was
obliged to strip out of his nine-hundred dollar topcoat in order to
breathe comfortably.
A peculiar, slightly sulphurous odor hung in the air.
Most people would have found it unpleasant. But Lavelle sniffed, then
breathed deeply, and smiled. He savored the stench. To him, it was a
sweet fragrance because it was the scent of revenge.
He had broken into a sweat.
He took off his shirt.
He was chanting in a strange tongue.
He took off his shoes, his trousers, his underwear.
Naked, he knelt on the dirt floor.
He began to sing softly. The melody was pure, compelling, and he
carried it well. He sang in a low voice that could not have been heard
by anyone beyond the boundaries of his own property.
Sweat streamed from him. His black body glistened.
He swayed gently back and forth as he sang. In a little while he was
almost in a trance.
The lines he sang were lilting, rhythmic chains of words in an
ungrammatical, convoluted, but mellifluous mixture of French, English,
Swahili, and Bantu. It was partly a Haitian patois, partly a Jamaican
patois, partly an African juju chant: the pattern-rich “language” of
voodoo.
He was singing about vengeance. About death. About the blood of his
enemies. He called for the destruction of the Carramazza family, one
member at a time, according to a list he had made.
Finally he sang about the slaughter of that police detective’s two
children, which might become necessary at any moment.
The prospect of killing children did not disturb him.
In fact, the possibility was exciting.
His eyes shone.