The Poe Consequence Read online

  “Look after him,” she whispered to Warren, hours before she died. “He’s still a young boy. He needs you.”

  Warren smiled at her, gazing into the diminishing light of her eyes. “These last few months have taught me a valuable lesson,” he said. “A son needs his father more than I ever realized. My old man wasn’t really there for Kevin or me. But I’m not going to make that mistake with Seth.” He grasped her frail hand, offering a gentle squeeze. “I promise, Michelle,” he’d told her, “no matter what, I’ll always look after him and protect him. I swear to you.”

  * * *

  When he died, Warren chose a path shaped by a combination of concern for his son and loathing for the perpetrators of his murder. The threads of human emotion still clung to his consciousness as he rejected the light of peace in favor of retribution. He believed Michelle would understand, even condone, his motivations. After all, he had made an oath to her before she died which he had every intention of honoring. Seth had already experienced the grievous loss of his mother. Now he’d lost his father in a cruel and senseless manner. In death, a wrong could and would be rectified.

  He entered a universe where the multitudes of those possessing vindictive thoughts at death gain a foothold and shape their immoral deeds. He delved into an afterlife forged through the allegiance of vengeance and hatred, and he evolved into a contributing spirit. In time, nothing of his conscious remained but awareness of the hurtful link between Seth and the gang members. Another encounter between them couldn’t be allowed. The threat must be eliminated. The gangbangers who kill must die.

  CHAPTERSEVENTEEN

  The overhead bulb cast a harsh light on the solitary figure passing the night in cigarettes and sweat. Too hot to sleep, Eduardo “Slice” Padilla lay in his underwear and damp tank top, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling above his bed. He wasn’t used to sticking around his house at night, preferring to avoid the place as much as possible. But his uncle had died, and his old man drove to Texas for the funeral. Slice was expected to remain here ‘cause that old Sanchez lady from across the street got murdered, and the day before his father left, the house down the block was shot up. His mother and two sisters needed protection, but in reality they made a good excuse for the real reason he needed to lay low.

  Early that morning Slice killed an ex-Lobo who leaked information to the police. A rata. A snizzle. Slice waited for the right time to sneak inside the motherfucker’s apartment and drive a knife through his gut, twisting the blade like a goddamn corkscrew before carving up his face as final punishment for betrayal. To any possible future ratas, he sent the necessary message.

  Slice didn’t feel right about the current situation with the Lobos. Too many chicken-shit pussies were leaving the gang, “droppin’ the flag,” ’cause of all the craziness about the heart attacks. Watching his brothers walk away pained him, and he felt dishonored that so many Lobos showed fear. When your familia’s under attack, you don’t cut and run, you stay together. “Estar firme,” he whispered to himself, believing that now, more than ever, Lobos needed to remain strong.

  Before his father left for Texas, he gave his son a slight nod of the head and an expression that said, “I expect you to stay.” Raised by the iron-fisted rule of his old man’s strict obedience, Slice felt nothing for him. His father wouldn’t say much of anything to anyone for days at a time, and didn’t want anyone talking to him without permission. Slice never forgot the time he tried asking a question about fixing a broken chair, and his father hit him hard enough to put him on his ass. “Shut up!” he yelled. “Don’t talk to me!” Even when he did have something to say, he often mocked his son, making him feel, as Slice would say, “like the shit under a Diablo’s shoe.”

  When Eduardo sought affection as a child, his father refused, claiming that hugging made boys soft. He used to yell at his son to be tough, ‘cause “that’s the only way a Mexican man can survive in this pinchi gringo world. They’ll cut your fuckin’ huevos off if you let ‘em. Always be ready to cut first.” His old man talked a lot of knife talk because that’s what he was about, what defined him. As a father he was a piece of shit, but as a knife thrower, Slice had to admit he was the man.

  He never learned how his father got to be so good with a blade, but it was a skill he must have had for a long time. As a kid, Eduardo heard a story about his old man from a neighbor who grew up in the same village of Zacatecas. At first, he didn’t believe what he heard, but he came to accept the tale as a stone-cold fact.

  In his early twenties, his father won money in a card game against three other players, but one of them accused him of cheating. According to the others at the table, the man was drunk and started yelling insults, but his father walked away. While his back remained turned to the accuser, the drunken fool pulled a gun. Before he could fire, Slice’s father drew a hidden knife from his clothes and sent it speeding toward the man’s face, splitting the tip of his nose in half and leaving him a bloody, screaming mess on the floor. The man he knifed, however, turned out to be the nephew of the local police capitáno. His father escaped Zacatecas and settled in L.A.

  Slice knew better than to ever ask his father about that story. But for as long as he could remember his old man always carried around a stainless steel switchblade, throwing it at different trees, or fence boards, or rats he’d corner in the house. He observed how others feared his old man and treated him with respect. Young Eduardo didn’t understand how a cruel bastard like his father could ever earn respect from anyone. Now Slice understood. Fear, more than anything, earns you respect.

  Slice’s life changed forever when he came home bloodied, beaten, and robbed of his money by a couple of ‘bangers from the Alvarado Street Diablos. His mother washed his cuts and bandaged him up, all the time chastising him for not being aware of the danger. “Hijole, Eduardo!“ she yelled. “What are you, crazy? Walking alone in that big park after school?” He flinched as his mother dabbed a cotton ball full of rubbing alcohol on a painful cut above his left eye. “Don’t be estúpido, okay?” she continued. “Those pinchi muchachos are always waiting in that park to hurt boys like you. Understand? Comprendes?”

  His father didn’t say a word. He just stood there staring at him, making Eduardo feel stupid and weak, like he was the one to blame for getting the shit kicked out of him. When he spoke, the words wounded him. “I want you to remember how you feel right now,” he told him. “Like shit, huh? Like a little girl, huh?” Walking across the room, his father leaned down and studied the bruises on his son’s forehead and the cuts around his eyes and nose. Straightening up again, he shook his head back and forth and looked down at Eduardo in disgust. “Never again, you hear me? You’re my son. A Padilla! You don’t take shit from nobody!” Thirty minutes later, he had his first knife throwing lesson.

  Slice enjoyed a deep drag from his cigarette, praising himself on how far he’d come from his endless hours of practice. He blew another smoke ring, imagining the center of the wispy circle as that old paper target he nailed up on the front yard tree, several years and another lifetime ago. He recalled the first thing his old man showed him, how a knife makes a half turn every three feet. Using that knowledge, he started out at four feet, always trying to make the knife handle stick straight out, instead of at an upward or downward slant. When he mastered the four-foot range, he stepped back five more paces and practiced from there until he hit the center of the target every time, always trying to throw with equal speed and delivery, and finishing with the same follow through.

  His father also explained the importance of feeling the weight of the knife on his fingertip before and during the throws. He observed how the angle between his forearm and the floor is a crucial factor for accuracy, and that the pressure of the thumb determines whether the thrown knife flies straight or off center. The hardest part involved the changes in feel of his thumb pressure, squeezing less when the tip of the blade would veer to the left, and increasing the pressure when the blade went to the right.
In time, his knowledge of the proper grip seemed as instinctive as touching his own dick.

  When his old man felt the moment had come, he gave Eduardo the dagger he had practiced with all those months. Despite the chips along the topside of the blade and the cracked handle, the instant he inherited the knife it turned into the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His father also gave him something else—advice. Listening to him at that moment, Eduardo realized that the card story was true.

  “Your enemy’s face is for target practice,” he said, his cold intimidation affecting every word. “In a life or death situation, you ain’t got time to think, so go for the tip of the nose. That’s the bull’s eye.”

  In time, Slice earned a story of his own that opened the door for his invitation to join the North Rampart Lobos. He didn’t drink or get stoned, refusing to let anything affect his accuracy with a knife, but on certain nights when some of the other Lobos got drunk or high and wanted to hear a good story about killing a Diablo, taking him out of the box, they asked for a retelling of his famous payback against “los dos culeros de Los Diablos,” those two assholes from the Diablos. He took much pride in that experience, and he relived the thrill all over again with each repeated narration.

  * * *

  After many months, with the help of destiny and luck, Slice earned his revenge on the two Diablos who shit-kicked him that fateful day. He needed money to buy a couple of Black Butterfly pocket knives he saw at Juan’s Hardware, so he signed up to earn twenty-five dollars washing cars for a local carnival raising money for the community library. The organizers stationed him alone in a section of the parking lot across the street, working on the cars in the designated parking spaces meant for a wash. Late in the afternoon, as he cleaned the inside windshield of a Ford truck, he overheard two voices that forced an immediate halt.

  “…kick some motherfucker’s ass, man. Gotta score some more of this shit.”

  “No hay pedo, vato. Don’t you worry. There’s money at that fuckin’ carnival.”

  “Gimme another hit, pendejo.”

  “Good shit, huh?”

  “Fuck, yeah, man! I’m feelin’ gooood!”

  From a few cars away, the unmistakable, high-pitched laugh, more like a jackal than a person, made Slice’s stomach tighten like a fist. Hidden from their view, he looked out from inside the truck and spotted the same two Diablos who beat him up and took his money. The memory of that crazy cackle, echoing in his brain from the day he held Slice’s arms while the other one punched his face, seared his soul like a branding iron. He snuck a peak at that fat, bald-headed piece-of-shit sitting in the passenger seat, and his rage ignited an instant desire for revenge.

  He had learned his lesson the hard way, never again going anywhere without protection. Armed with the nicked but effective dagger his old man had given him, Slice reached down inside his right sock and felt the reassuring coolness of metal against his skin. He gave the knife handle a couple of angry squeezes, and then took a deep breath to calm down. With one knife and two targets, Slice needed to think of a plan.

  When he crouched low to listen to their stupid talk, his eyes strayed to a red toolbox under the backseat. He pulled the rectangular case close to him, opened the lid, and spotted a yellow and black handled Phillips screwdriver about ten inches long. Slice now had the extra weapon he needed to carry into the heat of battle. This weapon, however, wouldn’t be thrown.

  Sliding out from the passenger side door, Slice crawled to the back of the Diablos’ car. He removed his dagger and punctured the sidewalls of the two tires, pushing the blade with a full, silent force. As the sound of hissing air whispered its sweet escape, he returned to the truck. Watching and waiting as they smoked some more dope and downed some beer, Slice worried that he’d lose his chance if they drove away before the tires lost enough air. Within a few minutes, the demoralizing sound of the engine pierced his hopes.

  Slice didn’t feel enough time had passed to affect the tires, but the unmistakable flopping sound greeted their departure. Jerking his car back into park, the Diablo threw his door open and leaped out, running to the back with the speed of a rabid dog.

  “What the FUCK? God damn it! Shit! Look at my fuckin’ tires!”

  Slice enjoyed watching the Diablo take his anger out on the hood of the car next to him, slamming his fist down repeatedly and creating a deep, noticeable dent.

  “Shit! Shit! Goddamn motherfuckin’…”

  Slice knew he had to be patient, watching them staring and swearing at his two flat works of art like a couple of stoned dumb-fucks. Now, if the rest of his plan was to succeed, he needed them separated from each other. Slice advanced and then waited, advanced and then waited again, before eventually darting behind a mini-van parked one car away. When he heard the ringing of a cell phone, he leaned his head beyond the side of the car. He observed that one Diablo sat on the hood of the car, smoking a cigarette and still yelling, as the fat-assed one talked on the phone and paced from one flat tire to the other. He smiled at his good fortune. The two of them had separated, but he’d have to act fast.

  Slice placed the dagger in his left hand and held a firm grip on the screwdriver handle with his right. With hushed and skillful quickness, he inched within a few feet of the Diablo sitting on the hood. Popping up like a weapon-wielding jack-in-the-box, he drove most of the screwdriver through the right side of the Diablo’s neck, leaving the handle sticking out under the earlobe like a miniature harpoon. The immediate howl of pain caused the other Diablo to look in the direction of the scream, in perfect time to see Slice’s dagger hurtling toward his face before he had a chance to react.

  “In a life or death situation, you ain’t got time to think, so go for the tip of the nose. That’s the bull’s eye.”

  The fat Diablo stood paralyzed for the fraction of a second it takes a knife to penetrate flesh. A torrent of blood poured from between his fingers as his clutching hands struggled in a vain attempt to remove the weapon. As he fell to the ground, writhing and wailing in simultaneous agony with his victimized camarada, Slice lost track of space and time within the dizzying heights of complete and successful revenge. The noise from the parking lot must have prompted a 9-1-1 call, and when the police came with guns drawn, he hadn’t moved, too preoccupied with expressing his own shrill version of hyena-like cackling as he stood in conquest over his two severely injured victims.

  Slice considered that day to be the proudest moment of his life. He also believed that was the day he became a man. Despite the fourteen months he served at the correctional facility, nothing could wipe the smile off his face whenever he recalled the memory of those two Diablos staggering and screaming, lost in their own pain and horror. Word of the incident spread throughout the detention camp, and before long he befriended Juice and Money who supported his entry into the Lobos. From that time on, Slice believed that “nobody was gonna fuck with me no more.” He was wrong.

  * * *

  Slice walked to the sink to splash cold water on his sweaty face. His three-day old stubble contrasted with the gleam of his shaven head, glistening from the perspiration beads that shone on his flesh. He looked into the mirror and studied the long sinewy muscles of his tattooed arms, envisioning them wrapped around Lucia as he took her from behind. His piercing gaze appeared the same as always: steady and alert yet retaining the calm of an animal that continues to hunt, despite the smell of danger.

  Something beyond the heat and humidity had him on edge but he couldn’t pinpoint the cause. He stood still, noting a distant drum-like pounding and wondered where the sound originated. He moved to his window, pressing his ear against the torn screen but that didn’t produce a clue. Slice walked to the door and opened it, listening for any noise from somewhere else in the house. His frustration increased as the pounding grew louder with nothing but a dark empty hallway to greet him. He closed the door and returned to sit on the edge of his bed. Glancing at the clock, he watched the numbers change to three forty-six.
/>   Slice’s head started aching, his arms felt numb, and he suddenly had difficulty catching his breath. With the knife still clutched in his right hand, he laid back down for a couple of minutes, hoping he’d feel better. This is fucked up, he thought to himself. I gotta get me some air.

  Slice pushed himself up, feeling a bit slow and unsteady in his movements. Placing his knife on the bed, he picked up the pair of khaki pants off the floor. When he attempted to slip his second leg through the trouser, a nauseating rush of dizziness overwhelmed him, forcing a return to the bed. Taking a cigarette out from the carton, he couldn’t help but notice how his hands shook like an old man’s as he tried to light a match. Slice felt disgusted with himself. “Fuck this,” he grumbled.

  “But you should have seen me!”

  Slice uttered a breathless cry and grabbed his knife.

  “You should have seen how wisely I proceeded.”

  As sweat poured into his eyes and down his armpits, Slice searched under the bed and in his closet before darting to the bathroom. He spun around, feeling something, someone, nearby.

  “Where are you?” he shouted. “Motherfu…aahhh!” Slice dropped his knife as he felt a sudden jolt of pain inside his chest, ripping the air out from his lungs and forcing him to drop to a knee. He wheezed a sincere threat. “I’ll…I’ll kill…kill you!” he gasped.

  “With what caution-with what foresight-with what dissimulation I went to work.”

  “Fuck…fuck you!” he cried out, weaker than he thought possible. An intense cold surged throughout his body, as if his room had become a meat freezer. His legs started cramping and he couldn’t stop shivering. His blurry right eye ached and when he placed his hand over the painful area he recoiled at the pus covering his fingers. He grabbed his knife and struggled to his feet, swaying like a tree in a windstorm. Slice forced himself to assume the knife throwing position, preparing to attack at a moment’s notice.