Fiction
Cow Footby Brian Silverman
I started to lose business at the bar I own on Windy Hill Road on the Caribbean island of St. Pierre almost immediately after Franklyn Worthington, the one customer I had on a Tuesday afternoon, slammed his head down on the bar, knocking over the plastic container of cow foot soup he had been slurping. Tubby Levett, my partner and best friend on the island and his cousin, Mike, predicted the loss of business without hesitation. I had my doubts.
“People gonna know he pass right here on this stool,” Tubby said after the police and paramedics came and removed the body.
“I know, Tubby. Do you think they will care?” I asked.
Tubby shrugged and looked away as if he were ashamed to answer.
“Some people superstitious; they get spooked by that,” Mike said.
