My friend, John Cox, can knock the back out of it…ya think?

We were cruising the rain forest on the west end of the island looking for a place to sync our thoughts, when we happened upon the Mt. Pellier Domino Club. Dirt floors and a thatched roof. We laughed, looked at the pigs, and went in for a drink.

It was there; we met Simone, who was settled comfortably in a seat at the end of the bar.

That changed everything…to this day I think she knew…I still feel she was waiting for us. Destiny or not, after meeting Simone, all of our lives changed. She was evil cute and evil smart, and she had a plan.

I have always loved a good plan, and a smart woman.

Break Left

Dominique was dreaming of Simone, and I was dreaming of Dominique.

Guess who showed up at my door today? That’s right, Simone. Simone has the voice of an angel, and the disposition of a thermonuclear warhead. She is my kind of woman, but arriving on the last day of the year leaves me wondering. She was definitely up to something. Definitely wanted something. More on that later.

She opened a bottle of Chilean wine; prepared a bath with some Gardenia Juju she’d brought with her, hauled me in, and proceeded to give me pelvic bruises. I love that women, but not like I want Domino.

It reminded me of the first time I met her, Simone that is.

She was singing in a bar called No Hope for Fools at the foot of Nevado Ojos del Salado in Chile. Domino and I had a small package we needed to move, undetected, to Argentina, but we needed some help from the indigenous people. There were others looking for us, or it. The crossing is a big hill, and we weren’t exactly sure which route to take. Simone secured some natives to provide our passage, and then shot the motherfucker who set it all up in the forehead. He was a goner, and she saved all of our lives. He would’ve, and had intended to, sell us all out. She loves it when I tell her she saved my ass, and now I’m going to spank hers. She damn near got us all killed. Punishment, I say.

Once we were safely across the border, we entrusted the British Marines with our lives, and our cargo. They flew us to a ship off the coast, and we set out to the north. One short they were. By that I mean: after we were on the ship, they were one shout less at roll call.

I don’t know, but I’ve been told…that a young man came onto Simone, and she threw his young ass off the fucking boat.

She (Simone) will not deny it.

There is one thing I know for sure: Dominique and Simone do not lie, and I’ve trusted them for so long…I can’t see that changing. I’ve saved their asses a time or two as well.

And there is one more thing for certain… Simone is blessed with …, and more.

And Much More!!!

Who receives a gift, sells his liberty…is not always true.

Unlike Yabu or me, she came from a family, a large family with siblings and all that they entail.

She visited me in my dreams last night. After I have indulged in their replaying for myself, I shall share more.

The dreams, you see, are always an announcement to her arrival.

Originally from Nashville, my father was a white man of brownish blonde hair and blue-green eyes which sparkled of much humor, gentleness, and laughter. He was a railroad accountant during the day, every business day for over forty years. At night, well, at night, he was a music man with rhythm and blues comprising his best friends. He played the piano, guitar, saxophone, flute, and clarinet. His favorite was the sax, though.

Daddy knew music. Daddy loved music. It was through his love of music, I came to be.

My mother was a woman of high color. In her home state of Louisiana, she was referred to as Creole or high yella. According to state law, her one-fourth of black blood labeled her a quadroon, despite her fair complexion and hazel eyes. As my mother’s daughter, I inherited the label and status of octoroon or mustee in the eyes of the law.

Not surprisingly, with my father’s influence I am even more fair than my mother; however, in a genetic twist my eyes and hair are both coal black. As I learned in college, light eye color is the product of recessive genes. Either my father was not my father or, as my mother insists, I was touched by the father of darkness in those moments when the night has yet to release the earth to the dawn of a new day.

Momma was an interesting creature. She moved with the grace and airiness of late afternoon light through the uneven panes of hand-blown and seeded glass windows. Her motions were deliberate, but delicate and fluid. She was also a quiet one who spoke primarily through her eyes and ever so slight changes in expression. When she did speak, her voice had a soft, but husky quality and her words were laced and adorned with the sing-song speech of her ancestry. It was beyond Southern, but a mingling of cultured French with vernacular English and Creole. Portraits of her all reflect a woman of feminine refinement; however, her outward placid serenity belied the dark tempests within her heart.

In the years both before and after the great unpleasantness, women of high color were both revered and sought-after for their exotic beauty, as well as their blood “connections�? and access to the supernatural. There were often cotillion balls where these young women were featured and presented to eligible white men of wealth. Eligibility had less to do with marital status, than bank accounts and references from servants as to the genteel nature of the men themselves. The dances were for the selection of these women as mistresses. This was my heritage, but not my destiny.

It was during one of these balls my father played his saxophone and a group of young ladies were presented, a debut, if you will. One of these women was exceptionally attractive, but there was something about her, the elevation of her chin or the challenge in her eyes that kept prospective benefactors from seeking to claim her. Perhaps, they sensed her restless spirit or feared she might require too much effort to tame.

From that first moment, my father was enchanted, but it was when she swayed to the rhythm of the music he provided did he relinquish his soul to her evermore.

My mother’s dowry was her looks. Her only means of supporting herself and helping her mother was to acquire a generous benefactor. My father knew the score and secured a hefty sum to “free�? her from her obligations to her mother, my grandmother.

Momma never looked back. In my father she found a man who would honor her, but that was not what she wanted. I would like to say she loved my father, but somehow I do not believe that she did. Her heart belonged to no one other than herself. She died when I was five and I fail to recall even one tender moment between us. I have often wondered if I did not receive more comfort from her death than I ever did from her when living because once she died, any expectation of affection was buried with her.

It was at five I believe I first began to live for it was then my father sought out my maternal grandmother and I started to gain some understanding of who and what I really am.

At age five Celeste (my grandmother) introduced me to the world of darkness and first time I knew what it was to belong.

Voodoo or “vous deux”, you two, you too, is as ancient as man. It far surpasses the common Christianity practiced by many.

It has been said many times: “We are not separate, we all serve as parts of One. So, in essence, what you do unto another, you do unto you, because you ARE the other. Voo doo. View you. We are mirrors of each others souls.�?

I share my soul with Yabu. He has not my heritage, but he knows and understands. He is my anchor in the white man’s world, but speaks to that part of me which is Creole.

However, Yabu has only one part of my soul, the other share with only one more. She is my sister in spirit, she is the gypsy Simone. It is her relationship with Yabu and their intimacy which keeps us, Yabu and me, from ever becoming one.

We are three, separate, but interconnected in this world, as we are in the past, as we will be in the future. Our destinies have been cast. Our fate has already been determined. What remains is for that fate to be revealed.

Happy Birthday, Yabu.

My only gift to you is the knowledge Simone will be coming to us soon.

Through a series of events orchestrated by all that is vile and corrupt in Louisiana, particularly New Orleans, my cover was ultimately compromised. Rather than adopt a uniform and hit the beat, I opted to take my skills for weaponry and language, natural talent for blending into a multitude of cultures (a blessing of multiracial ethnicity), and experience and free-lance.

Though our contact over time was few and infrequent, Yabu eventually came to know of my status and revealed to me his position of a purveyor of information and antiquities.

Yabu is and has always been well-connected. He has the means to lead a comfortable life, but chooses the life of a nomad and adventurer. I simply think he is insane.

As dear as he is to me on occasion, his eternal optimism has placed him and, more importantly, me in more than one compromising situation. As a result, I have had to think long and carefully whether I would not be better off slitting his throat first, then attending to my enemies. Fortunately for him, his pocketbook and connections equal his incorrigible charm and I still find I have use of him, despite my proclivity and penchant for solo travel.

When discussing our circumstances in Spain, Yabu failed to mention why we were stranded, running, and in a bind.

While concluding a transaction in Morocco, Yabu got word to me he required something of a plant to touch a guy in Spain who had something he dearly wanted.

Apparently, Yabu had been bested in a deal for some ancient piece of six-inch Japanese steel that he was obsessed about possessing. While the request was somewhat unusual, even for Yabu, I knew he would not rest until he had it and without sane assistance, probably would do something crazed and demented.

The good news was the mark lived on a small island off the coast of mainland Spain where security was non-existent, there were several options of ingress and egress without the necessity of formalities, and the only sign of governmental authority was a farmer acting as justice of the peace. The bad news was he lived in a compound atop steep and rocky cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. There was only one road to the house and it was heavily guarded by men, dogs, and at least three check points, although my guess was there were probably more.

If we had tried to climb the sheer wall of stone on the seaside, it would have taken us the better part of a night to scale it and leave us with very little stamina to complete our objective. That would have been a fool’s errand.

Yabu does have his moments and his wily charm and deep pockets were able to learn our mark had an appetite for ladies and gambling. Outfitting me handsomely before assuming the role of my driver and guard, Yabu ensured I was dressed to kill and had a seat at the high stakes table at one of the private casinos on the mainland.

It required several nights and several hundred thousand pesetas (this was years before the adoption of the Euro) before our man finally appeared.

There had been a couple of times in my career when a mark’s picture wholly failed to convey the individual’s appearance. While he looked very much like the photos I had seen, I was a bit on tilt and ill-prepared for the man’s sheer presence.

There was little room for role-playing at the table that night because our chemistry sparked like stone on flint. By the twelfth bell of the witching hour the man was busily trying to persuade me to return to his hotel with him. As tempted as I was, I feigned modesty and explained I had an ancient husband who indulged my gambling and travel but would not tolerate allegations of infidelity in his own back yard.

It worked.

I was then extended a weekend invitation to his island compound for me and my valet.

Everything moved along swimmingly well. More of Yabu’s money was spent to outfit me in glorious silks and baubles, and I was actually looking forward to “playing the gameâ€? with such a worthy and virile opponent.

What I failed to anticipate was Yabu’s reaction to my response to the mark. This was one of those incidents where Yabu was damned lucky I did not slice him first!

Once at the villa and only after we dined on a sumptuous meal with free flowing wine, did we begin to enjoy one another and the moonlight on a balcony overlooking the sea. My plan was to slip him a Versed-like cocktail, put him to bed, strip him, ruffle his hair and the sheets, and leave him with a note on a pillow and a pair of my panties discreetly tucked under him. The drug would have rendered him awake and pliable, but with no memory of what did or did not occur.

It was then I was going to question him regarding the location of the blade, collect it and Yabu, and be gone, as in leave in the manner in which we came.

Yabu, damn him had other plans.

Before I had the opportunity to administer the mickey, Yabu appeared to confront him and while they were exchanging blows I had no choice but to bean the guy with the butt of my pistola for fear their ruckus would alert servants and guards alike.

Too late, the alarm was sounded and we had to flee and the only available option was the cliff.

As destiny’s fortune would have it, we found the hang glider; however, I suspect Yabu may had had more to do with that than he has admitted. I have always known Yabu to be a Plan B and C guy. For his personality, mutliple optional plans are not just bonuses, but requirements.

While he would cast me as a handmaiden of death, I assert death is only a resort of last means. The Captain was not likely to give us his boat willingly, thus the last option was the only one. Witnessing his fate, the crew members were more easily persuaded to take their chances swimming to the island than staying aboard with me. Fair enough.

It was only after our borrowed boat made it to Morocco did Yabu reveal the blade was his. A few more contacts were made and wallets lined and we left there to enter the city of ancient Byzantium to regroup and allow me to engage my next client.

Impatient as always, Yabu wanted to leave immediately for Bavaria.

Not a woman to be rushed, I introduced him to a seraglio and offered him the opportunity to slake his pleasure there.

If you wanted to break me, you have finally succeeded.

It did not take a raised hand, a belt or even a whip.

Those I have endured and they only helped me to grow stronger.

No, I did not succumb to force.

It has been indifference and neglect that have brought me to my knees.

Is this what you wanted?

Deadliest when its screams of pain and despair are stifled.

Repressed it consumes the whole of tender emotion.

Unleashed it strikes at what it would most like to comfort and protect.

Anger knows no friend.

Alone again.