“Well, there’s something...” Michael hesitated. “Something unusual I think you should see.”
Jackie and Clay looked at Michael, a questioning expression on their faces.
Clay spoke first. “If you think it’s necessary.” Then he looked over to Jackie for her take on it. “I’m fine with it if you are.”
“Well, okay.” She looked over at Sean. “Elena, would you like to go down to the cafeteria with Sean to get a snack?”
Sean met her eyes then nodded.
“Okay, Momma,” she replied. Jackie fished in her purse and handed Sean a 20. “Get something for yourself too.”
Sean smiled. “Thanks.” He gave Michael a nod and walked out of the room holding Elena’s hand. Clay sat back down on the bed, slipped his sneakers off, and relaxed back as he swung his legs up.
Michael set his laptop on Clay’s tray table while Martha walked to the opposite side of his bed.
“May I?” she asked Clay.
“Sure.” He motioned for her to come closer.
Michael brought up the video, which began to play, then he paused it. He looked over to Martha. “Should we explain what they are about to see?”
Martha tilted her head and raised her eyes in a thoughtful glance. “In my opinion, it’s best to let them have the experience first, then explain.”
“Explain what?” Clay asked.
“Here, let me start the video for you.” Michael used the mousepad to move the cursor then tapped to play.
𓂓
Armando woke to find he had been bound to the skeleton of the dead tree. His pants had been removed. Through his sweat and tears, he could see the details of the various undergarments and bras hanging from the branches like blackened souls decorating hell’s holiday tree. Some faded, some newer. Most torn and bloodied. All representing lives destroyed.
The man-in-the-middle danced around a small fire behind him, mouthing some inaudible tune. He reached some sort of crescendo, then pulled a long knife from a sheath on his hip. Armando looked back over his shoulders desperately for anyone to plead with, but the women were bound, sitting on the ground, looking away. The two guards simply stood back and observed.
The man-in-the-middle brandished the knife in flourishes behind Armando as he struggled with his bindings. The man stretched out the boy’s underwear on one side, and with one smooth stroke, cut a side as he hit a high note, then stepped around and cut the other side with another flourish. He scatted some nonsense as he sheathed the knife then yanked the underwear off. He held them up to regard the sewn-in monogram Armando had paid for with his meager earnings.
Armando looked over his shoulder at the man proudly holding his underwear up like a prize won in a contest. He stared into the tattoo on the fleshy part of the man’s hand, which seemed to come alive in the light of the fire. Armando now came to understand the abject terror and dehumanizing shame his mother had experienced.
The man studied the monogram closely, squinting to make it out. “ABC?” he mocked. “Will you recite the alphabet for me?”
The campfire grew in intensity as the larger pieces of wood caught. Armando looked up into the hills surrounding them, the flames casting shadows as if desert demons danced all around them, celebrating a boy’s looming fall from innocence. He struggled against his bonds. One leg tied, the other not.
“Tell me what ABC stands for,” the man demanded.
Armando said nothing, struggling harder now. The man balled his fist and struck him in the back of the head. “Answer me.” he growled.
“Armando,” he said.
“Armando what?” he barked.
His head falling between his shoulders, he answered, “Armando Beltrain Cardentias.”
The man nodded approvingly. “You have many great names, all in one.” Then he leaned in closer, a snarl on his face. “If only these great men could see you now.” With that, the man hung Armando’s underwear on a nearby branch, taking his time arranging it. Then he let his head fall back, cackling like a demented wizard about to cast an evil spell.
Armando lifted his head and understood. They had sent him to die by the hand of the Cackling Coyote. He had been warned of this man—a much-feared, nasty piece of work known as both a skilled trafficker and a vicious executioner. How could I have walked right into this?
“You have been working for our competition back in town,” the Coyote continued. “You were foolish to come to us.” The man reached for a bottle on the ground and took a swig, then dropped it and pulled a small container from a pocket. He sniffed his nose over it, drawing the inhale deep. “We must send a message.”
Armando’s struggles became more desperate.
The man stood, a drunken sway in his stance, staring at the boy. “Good. I like it better when you fight,” the man said as he unzipped his pants. The women screamed. He turned to them, backhanding one and kicking the other, proudly displaying himself in front of them. “You will be next.”
Armando writhed wildly, the bonds tightening around his wrists. Hands numbing. Screaming sounds, not words. The man-in-the-middle walked up behind him. Armando could feel his breath on his neck, feel his hardness against his back. The man growled as he grabbed Armando by the back of his hair and pushed his head hard into the wood of the main branch, which cut into his cheek. Armando’s struggle turned to wild panic, yanking his arms and legs without regard to injuring himself. No sounds now—then he felt it.
𓂓
Anxious to get on with the day’s business, The Alphabet King shot up from the fine leather chair and headed out into the hallway. He stopped at the next door down, which opened up into his bedroom. It looked the same as all the other one-cot rooms set aside for prisoners and patrons, except his had a rusty metal armoire stocked with a few changes of clothes. He stepped forward to look in the mirror hanging on the wall beside it. He tucked his shirt in a little tighter and adjusted his waistband. He smoothed his Mexican Caesar forward and checked his teeth. Gazing into his own dark eyes for a moment, he wondered where his Prizes were. They better be cleaning something. He left the room and headed back up the hallway, scanning the courtyard through the windows. He paused at the door and knocked twice. The guard opened the door and he emerged into the lobby without a word, grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler, and headed down the other hall to a room where the guards had taken Dewey and John the driver. The door had been left ajar. The Alphabet King entered quietly, then slammed the door shut. Dewey and John jerked in place and yelped, “Agah-ugh!”
They had been stripped down to their underwear and bound to heavy metal chairs bolted to the concrete floor. Each had a guard standing motionless behind them with their sunglasses on. There was a grate in the center of the floor and a hose hung on the back wall. A faint metallic smell combined with an underlying scent of rotting fish lingered in the room. ABCs had to look twice at John, who appeared to be nude. He actually wore tighty-whities, which had retreated into a wedgie in the back and were concealed by his belly in the front. Both prisoners sat whimpering, still blindfolded. The room had no window, only a closet on one side, which the chairs faced. He slid open the doors slowly, the rollers creaking as they opened. Dewey and John flinched at the sound, their heads jerking back and forth as they tried to see despite the blindfolds.
ABCs looked over the well-organized shelves built into the closet. A variety of talismans, knives, hammers, saws, and other ominous-looking implements were kept clean, sharp, and ready for use. A well-worn Ouija board, set in a glass frame, hung in the center of the back wall in the closet. He smiled at the sight of the board, which brought back many memories leading up to the day he left his home country. After taking a drink of water, he removed his shirt and hung it up. Aside from the small scorpion on his hand, his well-muscled upper body displayed no tattoos—a rarity in his profession that enabled him to move in more sophisticated circles.
After hanging up his shirt, he reached for his favorite tool—a large butcher’s cleaver sharpened to a razor edge. He lowered his head for a moment and, facing his Ouija board, muttered a few words under his breath, gathering his energy. Then he turned and gestured to his guards. They removed the blindfolds and backed up to the wall.
Dewey and John reared back in their chairs, wide-eyed at the sight of The Alphabet King standing in front of them with the cleaver in his right hand.
John gasped, “What is that thing, man? What are...”
Stepping forward, ABCs lifted the cleaver and nonchalantly smacked John in the face with the flat side, the sharp edge catching some of his flabby face. Blood trickled from a small cut on his cheek.
