The man in black gave her a hard look, then glanced down at her cake box. “He put his arm out to block her exit. “Wait. Where is your precious Clay?” he hissed.
Sally moved away from him to the back of the elevator. “He’s not in his room,” she said defiantly. “What do you want with him?”
The man in black pulled out his Ka-Bar and waved it in front of her. “Tell me. Now.”
Her eyes locked on the menacing combat knife. “I don’t know.” She shuffled her feet and narrowed her eyes. “And if I did, I wouldn’t—”
With a fluid motion, The Alphabet King swung the knife and slit her throat. She dropped the cake box and wrapped her hands around her neck, then fell to her knees, blood seeping from between her fingers.
ABCs wiped the knife on his pants then sheathed it. He shrugged as he said, “No matter, we’ll go floor to floor if we have to,” and pressed the button for floor number three.
𓂓
In the days after finding the boy in the desert, the Shaman unfolded their world for Little Armando. Even in his small village, it was a textured tapestry of greed and competition among men. And the boy had been right in the middle of it all along.
The Shaman explained that a main gang called a cartel ran the underground trade of drugs, weapons, and women. They controlled the place-where-the-pretty-girls-stand-out-front.
“The Brothel, as it is known in town,” the Shaman clarified. “You know this cartel. You’ve been working for them as an errand boy.”
“The men with the scorpion tattoo,” Armando said.
“Yes, the Scorpion Cartel,” the Shaman said.
“But these men in the desert and the ones who took my momma, also had a scorpion tattoo... only different,” Armando said.
“Yes, the tattoo is different because it depicts a scorpion with a knife through it. Years ago, some infighting took place. Greed resulted in disputes and caused some members of the Scorpion Cartel to split off in order to operate on their own. They called themselves the Knife Cartel and modified their tattoos,” the Shaman said. “After some negotiation, the Scorpion Cartel allowed the split as long as they took part of the profits. They gave the Knife Cartel the unwanted task of taking people across the border for profit. There has been a fragile peace. Bad blood has caused skirmishes over the years, some men have died. You walked right into the lair of the Knife Cartel and offered yourself to them.”
“I did not know any of this. But when I saw the man behind the desk had a tattoo of the scorpion with a knife in it, I recognized it from the man who took my momma. I tried to leave but the man behind the desk convinced me to stay,” Armando said.
“There is more.” The Shaman waited for Armando to look him in the eyes. “The story around the village about the man-in-the-middle, the depraved one they called the Cackling Coyote, is different from the one you told me.”
“How is it different?” Armando asked.
“It is said that, when they didn’t hear from the Cackling Coyote, the Knife Cartel sent men to find him and his guards. The men returned, stricken with fear and terror. They said the little boy had killed them all—guards, women, and especially the Coyote who had been killed gang style.”
“Yes, I—” Armando started.
“I understand your side of the story, you don’t have to explain it again. They also said they found your underwear in his mouth. They knew you killed their men because of the initials sewn in. The only boy in town who does this,” the Shaman said.
“My mother used to do this for me. It reminds me of that time,” Armando said.
“And you wanted them to know who did this.”
Armando only nodded.
“Why did you leave that detail out of your story?” the Shaman demanded.
Armando only shrugged.
“I see.” The Shaman leaned in, a menacing tone in his voice. “If you want me to teach you, then you must never keep things from me.”
Without breaking eye contact, Armando nodded.
The Shaman allowed a brief smile. “Good.” With that settled, he visibly relaxed before continuing. “The Knife Cartel quickly squashed the truth. The men who saw your handywork were beaten and told to stay silent. A new story began to circulate overnight.”
“What do you mean? They spread lies about me?” Armando demanded.
“Not just that... These men have ruined your reputation as well. They say you came to them begging to be free from the Scorpion Cartel, that you would do anything. That you were taken to the tree willingly and gave yourself like a common whore for passage to America. That your monogrammed underwear hangs from the tree. This is the story the village now knows along with the original. It is enough to confuse the truth and now both cartels want you dead.”
In a fit of anger, Armando stormed out of the dwelling and screamed his frustration into the night mist.
After the screams ended, the Shaman followed him out and stood beside him. “I want you to connect to your anger. It can be used.”
“I want to get back at them. They took my momma, they tried to take me, then lied to ruin me among my own people. How can I use my anger?”
“I can show you, but it will cost you.”
“I have no more coin,” the boy said.
“I am not talking of something so meaningless as coin, boy.”
Armando turned to face him. “What do I have that is better than coin?”
“You have a soul,” the Shaman said.
“How do I use it?”
“I will tell you, but first, you need to understand the current situation.” The Shaman stood and waved his hand. “Come.” As they walked past their humble dwelling, he pulled a dirty old poncho from a hook and tossed it to the boy. “Wear this, I will take you through the shadows so we are not seen.” And with that, they made their way to the village.
