“You practically handed that officer a drug bust. ABCs is gonna be pissed,” Hines said.
“Y-you shouldn’t call him that. The Alphabet King hates being c-called ABCs,” John stammered.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass,” Hines replied as he opened the back door.
John the driver started to stammer out another reply, but Officer Hines cut him off. “Shut up. Do as you’re told. Don’t say nothin’ more and you might get through this with your life. Understand?”
“Y-yeah,” John the driver replied.
“Now get in.” Officer Hines shut the door and stood next to the cruiser, cursing under his breath. He knew The Alphabet King would not to be happy upon learning one of his mules got arrested and lost a shipment—all this under his watch. Hines had never liked the idea of allowing John into the fold, but Dewey had insisted.
In an attempt to settle into his side street fiefdom, Hines leaned on the front fender of his cruiser, arms crossed. A car pulled up with an older man gesturing impatiently from behind the wheel. After a notable pause to assess him and then a brief glance toward the scene, Hines waved him by. Relegated to traffic duty once again, Hines found himself in his comfort zone. He inserted another toothpick and settled back into the rough-tough cop act.
Chapter Four
The Alphabet King always wore the same outfit. When he was young, he had read a book about the habits of geniuses. Some of them did this so as not to be distracted from the business of the day by having to choose clothes. Fancying himself as such, his closets were full of identical plain olive-green work pants and shirts, along with several pairs of the same black tactical boots, and several black leather belts with silver buckles.
He sat in his low-slung director’s chair situated behind an oversized double-sided military campaign desk. He enjoyed the irony of owning this relic. Running his trafficking businesses from a vintage piece of furniture that had likely been used to plan incursions into his home country in Central America during the reign of drug lords in the 70s and 80s made him feel that now he was the one waging the war. Besides the desk, nothing hinted of The Alphabet King’s wealth.
The desk sat in an office that overlooked a warehouse located on the western outskirts of San Antonio. He ran an import-export business, which served as a legitimate cover for the rest of his interests—mainly human trafficking, smuggling operations, and distribution of contraband throughout the US.
The expansive office sat on a raised platform accessible by a set of simple wooden stairs. He had it built in the back corner of the tall warehouse so he could observe the comings and goings of cargo through the three massive bay doors in the front. The area underneath the platform had been enclosed. A hatch in the floor of the office, hidden under a rug, served as the only entrance from inside. He used this 'under room' to temporarily hold merchandise, weapons, and prisoners if needed. He had also installed a secret exit in a wall of the under room, which led out the back of the building where he always kept a vehicle parked for a quick escape. He’d finished the upper-level office with a small kitchenette, a simple table with a few navy chairs, and a single fold-up cot. Extra monobloc chairs were scattered around the front of the military desk. He had chosen the cheap plastic chair so that his guests felt uncomfortable and unstable while seated in his presence.
Normal activity bustled below with the day’s shipments arriving from the coastal port. But today’s profitable shipment of lookalike pills concerned him more than the mundane operations of the warehouse. One of his many mules failed to arrive with a scheduled delivery and had not responded to texts.
He pushed back from the desk and paced the spartan office, pausing before a framed picture of Fidel Castro. He joined his hands behind his back, raised his chin and repeated the overlaid quote out loud, “Men do not shape destiny. Destiny produces the man for the hour.” The Alphabet King stood at attention before the picture as if he might at any moment be called to duty by the brutal autocrat. After a long moment, he picked up the phone and called his go-between for the missing mule.
Dewey answered, “Yes sir, boss.”
The Alphabet King raised his chin with a downturned smile. Although he was small in stature, he was not short on respect. Given the reputation behind his moniker, men were compelled to kowtow without being told. He enjoyed the money and the women but, above all else, he craved the power associated with the authority he commanded. “Where are you,” he demanded.
“I’m still waiting for our guy. He hasn’t responded to my texts from last night.”
“Why not,” The Alphabet King demanded. His questions conveyed a sense of request rather than inquiry.
“Probably still sleeping off last night’s bender,” Dewey speculated.
“This is an excuse? Find him. Now.”
“Okay, but you told me never to go to his house, always wait for him here in the parking lot. Are you sure?” Dewey asked.
“Did I stutter?”
“Uh...”
“Was I speaking Spanish, cabron?”
“No... No sir. I’m on my way. I’ll check in when I figure out what’s up.”
The Alphabet King ended the call without another word and strode back to his desk. He despised any interruption in his business affairs. “These damn gringos don’t have a clue when it comes to respect and loyalty,” he muttered to himself. “But they are going to learn.” He growled out the last word. Anxiety gripped him as scenarios of trouble with the shipment coursed through his paranoid mind. His seething temper boiled over. He cursed, slamming his fist to the table.
In combination with his business savvy, his vicious reputation had not only earned him connections within the cartels in Latin America but also influence inside local governments and police departments in the lower states. Now, he would once again need to put those connections to use.
Out of habit, he rubbed his hands together to calm himself. His thumb slowed over the scorpion tattoo on the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger. Breathing deeper now, he sat back in his chair to gather his thoughts.
Slowly, he calmed as his gaze lifted to the only personal item on his desk—an aerial picture of a property that served as a remote compound. He allowed himself a small smile at the thought of the one place he could allow his anger to flow uninterrupted, where he could truly embrace his savage nature. He had named it Little Guantanamo.
𓂓
Little Armando scampered through the dusty streets clutching the sack of corn meal, weaving his way carefully through the crowds headed to the open-air market. The flour had cost his last few pennies, but it was mama’s birthday. He would help her make the special tortillas to share with the mashed pinto beans.
He slowed as he approached the local tiendita. He saw men standing out front, dressed sharp and trim next to the shiny-white-car-with-the-soft-roof folded back. Armando paused, looking at them from across the street. The corner store enticed him with colorful posters and fancy words on them. One of the men spotted him and waved for him to come over. Armando stepped bravely into the road and walked right up to him.
“What you got there, little man?” he asked.
Armando wiped his dirty face before replying, “Flour for tortillas. It is momma’s birthday.”
“Do you have any meat?” the man asked.
Armando shook his head. “No, we do not have money for meat.”
The man snapped his fingers and a nearby woman, scantily clad with dirty bare feet, went into the tiendita. Seconds later, she came out with a small package and handed it to the man, who offered it to Armando. Hesitating for just one moment, he reached up to take it, but the man did not let go. For a moment, they remained connected through the cool package of wrapped meat as if it was a handshake. “Remember this, little man: nothing is free.”
Armando shook his head and let go of the package. He looked down at the dirt. “I have no money.”
The man let out a short laugh. “I guessed as much. But you have something better.”
Armando looked up. “What do I have that is better than money?”
