The Poe Consequence

by Keith Steinbaum

  Standing near a bench in remote corner of Cypress Park with a group of Lobo homeboys, King guzzled the last of another can before squashing it with his foot and hurling the flattened metal toward an overhanging light. The sun had long set, and people who were concerned for their safety had already gone home to hide behind locked doors and barred windows.

  King walked over to some nearby bushes to urinate. When he returned looking for another beer, he saw just one can remaining.

  “We need more pinchi suds, man,” he said. “And we get what we goddamn want, ain’t that right, Ghoul?”

  Tall, thin, pockmarked and pale, Ghoul laughed his crazy laugh before taking a hit from the joint. Ghoul laughed his crazy laugh a lot, even when there wasn’t anything to laugh at. Slice was there too, throwing his knife against a tree, showing King’s eleven-year-old kid brother, Luis, the proper release point.

  “Sure you don’t want no weed, Slice?” Ghoul said, offering him the joint. “I ain’t never seen you smoke the shit.”

  Slice tilted his head, offering Ghoul a serious look. “There’s a reason for that, cabrón,” he said. “Watch and learn.” Slice approached the tree and proceeded to carve a head-sized circle at the same level of his own. Walking away, he didn’t stop until he passed a lamplight that stood no less than twenty-five from the target. He tucked the handle under his belt, allowing half the blade to be exposed. Standing in trance-like silence for several moments, he reached down for the blade with a sudden motion, clutched both sides of the metal between his fingers, and sent the knife streaking toward the tree.

  Luis was the first to hurry over and confirm what everyone could see from a distance. The knife had hit the inside portion of the circle.

  “Right in the fuckin’ center!” he shouted.

  After the others inspected the result themselves, Slice pulled the knife from the tree, slid the handle back into his pants, and sauntered over to Ghoul. “No pisto, no caca,” he told him, referring to beer and drugs. Holding his knife close to Ghoul’s face, he smiled. “This is all I fuckin’ need to get high. Understand, cabrón?”

  Ghoul cackled as he took several steps backward. “Simon,” he answered, indicating that he did.

  “Your ruka give you money, Bone?” King asked, referring to Bone’s girlfriend.

  Bone reached into the pockets of his sagging, oversized jeans, pulling out a couple of crumbled bills. “Six dollars,” he said.

  “God damn!” King spit a large wad of saliva onto the ground. “Is that all you fuckin’ got? That ain’t enough for shit! I thought your pinche ruka worked, asshole! You’re gonna make me lose it, man. Sense va la onda!

  “I’ll kick her fuckin’ ass when I get home,” Bone promised.

  King turned away. “Don’t fuck with me, man. No me chingues! I need to think.”

  Seizing the last can of Budweiser, King walked through the darkness to another area of the park. From here, he had a better view of the street where he spent so much time. He took a cigarette from his jacket and used the last of the one he was smoking to light another. He inhaled until his lungs were full, letting the smoke seep out like a leak from a tire, drifting up past the nasty scar over his left eye where the brow had been replaced by overhanging skin that resembled chewed, flesh-colored gum. He began to feel tranquilo, at peace, scanning the familiar sights of his neighborhood: The clínica médica and farmacia, where his mother used to take him when he was sick from something other than a hangover. The lavandería, where they went to wash what little clothes he had. The auto shop, where his old man used to take his beat-up piece-of-shit to get fixed. The panadería, where he used to go as a kid so he could smell the fresh bread baking, making him so hungry he’d cross the street to steal food from the fruit and vegetable mercado. The place he didn’t want to look at was the funeraria, the funeral home. He’d been there enough through the years.

  As a kid, his parents started giving him beer to get him drunk when they wanted a good laugh with their other drunken friends. When he danced or sang for them, they’d give him more. When they needed to fuck and scream without being disturbed they supplied him with enough to pass out, but that didn’t always work. He still heard them sometimes.

  His old man ran off with some bitch when his mother was pregnant with Luis, and she started drinking more after that. No one knew where his old man was anymore. His mother’s cleaning jobs were just enough to pay the rent and live on canned food and beer. When the rent was due, or a bill had to be paid, his own efforts on the street helped them survive. His mother didn’t ask any questions, but he knew she was grateful for whatever he could provide, however he did it. Luis understood the way things worked now and he’d start helping soon.

  King had “checked in” the North Rampart Lobos when he was thirteen. His old neighborhood camarada, Viper, took him under his wing and showed him the life of a Lobo. He still couldn’t bear to think about Viper’s death in prison. When he heard he got shanked in the neck he felt like he’d also been stabbed. Viper had made a lot of enemies through the years, but when King got the news an Alvarado Street Diablo had killed him, he knew the order had come from the outside. From that day, he promised himself he’d find the one responsible and kill him, take him out of the box, as payback for the murder of his blood brother and teacher.

  From his first day in the gang, two things were made clear: You could die any day, so every moment you’re alive, live it as a Lobo. And because you could die any day, if you wanted something bad enough, do whatever the fuck it takes to get it. At twenty-four years old, Miguel “King” Ruiz had learned his lessons well, and tonight he wanted to get drunk and party like a Lobo—no matter what it took.

  They’d wait for their chance at the late-night store down the street. The lights weren’t too good and he figured they’d find somebody around there to jump. King would make sure the asshole kept his mouth shut before they left. Shoving the barrel of his thirty-eight into his balls while the others stomped on his head worked before and would damn sure work again. King couldn’t wait to see the look of helplessness in his eyes. The look of terror.

  And if it was a woman? His heart started pumping faster at the thought. Maybe she’d wanna go inside her car and get a look at a real man. King pictured the scene and smiled as his dick stiffened.

  Either way, man or woman, somebody was gonna be his bitch tonight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Rauuuuuul!” “Rauuuuuul!” “Rauuuuuul!”

  The chant for Dodger third baseman Raul Hernandez thundered throughout the stadium as the Cincinnati pitcher stood on the mound, reading the signs from his catcher. With two men out, the bases loaded, and the Dodgers down by two runs, Seth Palmer, age eleven, covered his face with his glove, too afraid to look.

  “Rauuuuuul!” “Rauuuuuul!” “Rauuuuuul!”

  The next pitch was hit high and deep down the left field foul line. As Seth heard the roar of the crowd, he leaped out of his seat screaming, “Home run! Home run!” Within seconds, however, he added his voice to the collective moan of forty thousand others when the umpire signaled a foul ball. Seth sat down and glove-shielded his face once again; his shoulders slumped in a sign of dismay. When the catcher turned to the umpire to signal a time out, Warren tapped his son on the shoulder. “Don’t forget to breathe,” he said, smiling. “It’s okay, Seth,” his Uncle Kevin added. “You’re not the only one who’s nervous around here.”

  “Rauuuuuul!” “Rauuuuuul!” “Rauuuuuul!”

  On the next pitch, Hernandez popped-up to the third baseman and just like that, the game was over. Warren and Kevin started their trek up the crowded aisle, followed by a despondent Seth.

  “Geez,” Seth lamented, “if Langley hadn’t stopped at third when Ruiz hit that double to right center in the eighth we would have only been down by one run instead of two, and then we could have tried a squeeze play when Baker came up. He’s our best bunter, you know.”

  Warren pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to will aw
ay the headache that had cradled his forehead most of the game. “The word, ‘if’ doesn’t do anybody any good, son,” he told him. “What’s done is done.” Glancing at Kevin, Warren noted his look of disapproval.

  “I want to get a souvenir,” Seth said.

  “Not tonight,” Warren replied. “The longer we wait the longer it will take to get out of here.”

  “Please, Dad? I’ve been saving my allowance to buy something. I won’t take long, I promise.”

  “All right,” he snapped, “but make it quick.”

  “I will!” Seth shouted, dashing toward the stand.

  “Go easy on him,” Kevin said. “You’re all he’s got now.”

  Warren closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “I know,” he said. “But these headaches come on without a warning and I admit I get irritable sometimes. You wouldn’t have any aspirin on you, would you?”

  “No, sorry,” he answered.

  “The latest rounds of budget cuts have all of us on edge,” Kevin said. “We don’t know from one day to the next what classes will be dropped or if we’ll still have a job.” Kevin shook his head. “I bet the U.S.C. profs aren’t feeling the knife like us junior college teachers.”

  “They should have hired you,” Kevin said.

  Warren shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Seth, pleased to see that he had chosen something in the display case. “Do you remember the poem Dad wrote after his war buddy was murdered in a liquor store?”

  “A Victim’s Time, right?”

  “Yes, that’s it,” Warren said. “A few days ago I was cleaning out a box of old poetry books I used for my classes. There it was, A Victim’s Time, sticking out from the pages of The Tell Tale Heart. I had forgotten about it.”

  “The Tell-Tale Heart?” Kevin exclaimed, his eyebrows rising with an amused look. “You used to go around reciting lines from it all the time.”

  Warren stared at Kevin, his eyes squinting. “True. Nervous. Very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am! But why will you say that I am mad?”

  “Okay, okay,” Kevin said. “If I don’t stop you now you’ll go on all night.”

  “When I read Dad’s poem I realized it’s just as relevant today as it was the day he wrote it.”

  “How so?”

  “Because it’s 2019 and our military is still fighting and dying for the rest of us who attend baseball games and worry about three game losing streaks,” Warren answered. “Listen to what he wrote.”

  “The valiant soldier’s blood will spill

  On red-stained lands of sacrifice…”

  The recitation came to a halt as Seth hurried to his father. “I bought you something, Dad,” he said, smiling and holding one hand behind his back. “Close your eyes.”

  “Are you serious?” Warren asked, doing as he was told.

  “Okay, open ‘em!”

  Warren gazed at a gold-colored baseball in Seth’s hand, with the Dodger logo written between the seams. “They had different colors, but I liked this one the best.”

  Warren’s headache didn’t prevent his appreciation for his son’s gift, but he knew that Seth’s delay at the concession stand meant he’d have to deal with the pain for an extended time now that so many people had already arrived at their cars.

  “Seth, I love it,” he said. “Thank you.”

  A few minutes later they arrived at Kevin’s car first. “Maybe next time I won’t have to work late and we can ride together,” he told them. His face showed concern. “I can tell you’re in pain, Warren. Maybe you should stop off at a market and take something for your headache now. You’ve got a long drive ahead of you.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Warren said. “You know this neighborhood better than I do. Where’s a market around here?”

  Kevin looked toward his left at the nearest exit before removing a small notepad and pen from his inside coat pocket. “I’ll write the directions for you,” he said, leaning forward on the hood. Handing the paper to Warren, he pointed toward the Stadium Way exit.

  “You’ll go out there and make a right at the bottom. Just follow the directions and you’ll arrive at Alfredo’s Market in about ten minutes. At this hour you should be in and out in no time.

  * * *

  Warren started to navigate his way through the stadium traffic. He noticed Seth sitting motionless, staring out the window. In the solitude of that moment, Warren saw Michelle’s face in his son’s profile. Along with her identical dark brown wavy hair, he had the same wide forehead and small, slightly curved ears. Unlike his own narrow, sloped nose, Seth possessed a well-formed, delicately turned-up shape, complimenting his high cheekbones and bright, hazel eyes, brought to him, as well, courtesy of Michelle.

  “Still upset Baker didn’t get a chance for a squeeze play?” he asked.

  “No,” Seth replied, his voice vacant of emotion.

  “Something wrong, son?”

  Seth startled Warren when he saw tears filling his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, glancing back and forth from his son to the cars ahead of him.

  Seth swallowed hard, “Dad, is everything going to be all right with us? I mean, Mom’s been gone for a while now, but…I still don’t know if…” Lowering his head, he added, “I…I really miss her.”

  Warren placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I miss her, too,” he said. “But we’ve been doing fine so far, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Seth wiped a tear away.

  “Do you think she’s looking down on us?”

  “Definitely,” Warren said, knowing no amount of head pain could compare to the emotional trauma of their loss. “I picture Mom strolling through a warm, sunny garden, surrounded by beautiful and fragrant…”

  “Roses!” Seth blurted out.

  “Yep. Her favorite flower.”

  “The ones named ‘Peace,’ for sure,” Seth said.

  “No doubt about it. Those roses were the ones she loved most. How many times did we hear her talk about ‘those beautiful yellow and pink blooms?’”

  “Remember when Uncle Kevin gave her that rose bush for her birthday, and he found that birthday card with somebody giving the ‘peace’ sign?”

  Warren nodded then stopped, his pain rattling like ice cubes against the inside of his forehand. “Your mom loved that gift.”

  “Do you think everybody goes to Heaven when they die?” Seth asked.

  “I don’t know about everybody,” Warren said, working his forehead with his fingertips. “History has brought this world some terrible people and I’d hate to think they’re up there sniffing roses with your mom, but I’m sure she’s feeling right at home.”

  Neither one spoke for several minutes as Warren exited the stadium on Scott Avenue.

  “Uncle Kevin told me you saw a fortune teller in New Orleans,” Seth said.

  “Damn it!” Warren snapped. “I just told him about it this morning. Why would he even mention it to you?”

  Seth turned away. “Sorry,” he muttered. “We were just talking about different stuff when you went to get some hot dogs. He asked me if I believed in psychics like you do. He said you told him about seeing one when you were there.”

  Warren took a deep breath, regretting his outburst. “The woman I saw didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear,” he explained. “It was during the time I applied for that opening at U.S.C. I got caught up in the atmosphere of New Orleans, I guess.”

  “Did she have one of those crystal balls?”

  “She read Tarot cards. They’re like big playing cards with pictures on them.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Madame Sibilia,” Warren answered. “She called herself a psychic, but that’s just a fancy name for a fortune teller.”

  “Was she for real or just a big faker?”

  Warren remained silent for a few moments. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice not much more than a whisper.

  “What did she tell you?”

  �
��I’ll answer your question and then we change the subject, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “We talked about ghosts.”

  “Ghosts?” Seth repeated, his eyes opening wide. “Wow.”

  Warren made his body shake as if he were shivering from fright. “Ooooooh, I was scared.”

  Seth smiled. “Well, it serves you right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know that spooky story you read sometimes when my friends sleep over? Where the guy kills the other guy and hides his heart under the floor?”

  “I’m surprised you don’t know the title by now,” he said. “You’ve heard it enough times. It’s called, The Tell-Tale Heart. Written by Edgar Allan Poe, one of the greatest minds the literary world has ever known. All my students know it’s my favorite Poe composition, his work that I quote the most.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Seth said. “Anyway, like I said, it serves you right. Don’t you remember my birthday last year when Freddy and Mike slept over and you read us that poem? Freddy woke us up all scared and everything. And then he wanted to go home ‘cause he was hearing heartbeat noises.”

  “As I recall, you wanted your friends to hear the story before you went to bed. When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock-still dark as midnight.”

  “Yeah, that’s it, four o’clock,” Seth said, “when the guy finished hiding the heart under the floor.”

  Nearing a darkened street corner, Warren spotted the market. “There it is,” he said, pointing toward the neon sign with two letters unlit. He turned down a narrow side street and entered the empty parking lot. He didn’t like the fact that they were alone at night in this neighborhood, but in a few minutes he’d have a pain reliever in his system and heading for home. “C’mon,” he said, reaching for the door handle. “Let’s make this quick.”

  The first thing Warren noticed was the abundance of scrawl on the side of the market. “The signatures of scumbags,” he mumbled to himself. He wasn’t too young to remember when graffiti wasn’t the commonplace occurrence it had become, even in his own neighborhood. Hell, he could never read the stuff anyway, with all those illegible gyrations.