Free Voodoo Eyes by Nick Stone

lifting.
    Politics had been their one and only other regular argument, after the merits of Bruce Springsteen. Until recently, Max had been a lifelong Republican. Joe was and always had been a staunch Democrat. They’d argued the 2000 election until they were hoarse, Joe insisting Bush stole it, Max saying Gore voters were too dumb to punch the right hole. 9/11 had briefly united them, but the war in Iraq had once again got them arguing, Max buying the government line about Saddam’s WMD, Joe saying that was all bullshit, that it was about oil. Max had continued supporting the war, right up until Abu Ghraib. After the government’s inaction during Hurricane Katrina, for the first time in his life he would have voted Democrat if he could – except his criminal record prohibited it.
    ‘The whole family’ll be watching the results round my house,’ said Joe. ‘You’re invited.’
    ‘I accept.’ Max made a show of studying the menu, despite the fact that he invariably had the same thing here, his favourite – lechon asado (roast pork, marinaded in orange, garlic, onion and olive oil), maduros (sautéed sweet plantain) and moros y cristanos (literally ‘Moors and Christians’, figuratively black beans and rice).
    Joe was determined to try everything on the menu and always varied his dishes. ‘You know why the mariposa’s the national bird of Cuba?’ he asked Max.
    ‘Because of its colours? Red, white and blue?’
    ‘That too,’ said Joe. ‘The real reason is you can’t cage a mariposa because it dies. It’s a symbol of freedom.’.
    ‘Freedom? In Cuba?’ Max laughed. ‘Is that some kind of joke?’
    ‘There are many kinds of freedom.’
    ‘Like the freedom to give up your basic freedoms?’ Max chortled.
    ‘You ever been there?’
    ‘No. Of course not. Have you?’
    Just then the waitress came over to take their order. Max gave his. Joe took his time. From the way he was fussing, uncommonly, Max wondered if it hadn’t hit a nerve, and he was trying to cover it up. Had Joe been to Cuba? He decided not to pursue it for now.
    He glanced across the restaurant, at the black-and-white tiled floor, and the walls, decorated with mariposa frescos – the birds in flight, the birds singing; the country’s symbol of freedom appropriately frozen in midflight, on hold, its mouth open, its voice unheard.
    Max remembered the shell casing Lamar Swope had given him and took it out of his breast pocket. He ran down his day, told Joe what he’d found out.
    ‘The shooter’s black, has a hare lip. He was wearing a black shirt with bird patterns on it. And he has an accomplice, a driver, white. Not sure if the driver’s male or female. The car’s a brown Ford Sierra,’ Max said. ‘You should pull any camera footage you can find from 7th and 8th Avenues, between MLK Boulevard and 54th Street.’
    ‘Great work.’ Joe pocketed the bullet. ‘Bet you got the taste back today, right? For police work?’
    ‘Yeah.’ Max had got the taste back all right, enough to miss every damn thing he’d left behind, to regret every wrong turn, every misstep. Being out there, looking for Eldon’s killer – and doing real work again – had energised him, given him purpose, made him forget what a slow-leaking boat his life was. He didn’t want to give up what he’d just started.
    Joe seemed to read his mind.
    ‘Let it go now, Max, d’you hear?’
    ‘I’d like to know what’s bugging you.’
    Joe looked at him. ‘I shouldn’t have involved you.’
    ‘But you did.’
    ‘Now I’m telling you to back off, all right?’ As he said it his face darkened a touch and Max knew that he wouldn’t get anything more out of him, that the subject was closed.
    A heavy silence settled between them. Max thought it best to let the matter rest for now.
    The waitress brought over their food. She was called Samantha, or at least that’s what her name tag read. Tall, with long, blonde-streaked dark hair and a full mouth, she would have been