Affliction (5 page)

“Un
k, I’m dealing with some bullshit,” Sergio announced the moment he exited the car. He slammed the door for extra measure and walked to stand in front of his Uncle. He was a young man in need of a wise elder. “Why didn’t anybody warn me about Lucia’s loony family…wipe your face…what the hell is that anyway…blood…ah that’s nasty…are you slurping on bloody coochie?”

Obviously, h
is nephew couldn’t distinguish tomato sauce from plasma. Nico wiped his mouth with his sleeve and murmured, “And so it begins.”

C
HAPTER THREE

Th
ere’s a time when low isn’t low enough. The face can burn from the sting of alcohol that seeps through pores, yet low hasn’t come. Drink more of the strong stuff as sips turn to gulps because drowning the pain of awareness was Selange’s goal. Losing people you love and having them fall like rows of dominoes isn’t easy to stomach. Keeping a straight face is hard when there is double grief heaped atop weary bones. But, for the sake of children a mother keeps marching when weary feet are blistered, yet there cannot be a fall. To do so may be too comforting.

During
her grief, she observed her man…her rock…her everything and noticed the coldness when anyone mentioned Domingo. He hadn’t mentioned his name or talked of finding the killer. Puzzling behavior from someone who loves family and Domingo had children.

Then,
to know how Domingo died by a violent stab to the heart, signified the killing was personal. Up close is how the murderer did the deed, and this had to be an acquaintance or someone Domingo knew. Domingo was street smart; he was also a fighter and he would have at least struggled had he seen the knife coming.

Gosh, she loved Domingo,
yeah, he smoked too much darn weed, but that didn’t matter, he was family.  Her heart ached for their family.

Yet, another loss through violence.

Piled on the weighted heart was a darker tragedy. A nagging suspicion that Alfonzo had knowledge about Domingo’s murder and wasn’t sharing. Something in her brain during a keyhole reprieve from mourning caused her to wonder, did her honey do it...did he kill his beloved cousin?

Yep, those are the feelings of a
tortured wife as she stares down the neck of a bottle to discover the comforting liquor gone.

Selange's unsteady legs shuffled to the tall rack. It reached to the ceiling, rows upon rows of spirits to dull the hurt sapping energy and
yet she couldn’t fall down. She held on to the side of the sturdy post, looking with blurry eyes for a bottle with a screw off cap. “Hell, where is it?” 

Her body felt heavy but she didn’t want
mass, she needed a total blackout to deal with the suspicion Alfonzo murdered Domingo. The pain of knowledge worsened when Maria visited this morning, convinced Alfonzo was doing everything in his power to find the person responsible, but he wasn’t doing shit…nada. Unless Alfonzo confessed his sin to that woman she wouldn’t believe he committed the heinous crime.

Alfonzo never ratted, nor would he
ever convict himself.

Stolen.

That’s the word Maria used to describe the death of her nephew, as if a robber absconded with his life and somehow Domingo's resurrection might occur when his spirit was found. But, like the devoted wife, she said nothing, providing comfort to her mother-in-law who rolled her beads in faith. Comfort and nurture every fucking body is what Selange must do. Keep a poker face is what mob people master. Ironic, she'd learned from the best. Alfonzo was the most duplicitous, because he continued to deceive the wife who loved him by withholding information. Share what happened in a confession to a wife is all she wanted in order to find a measure of peace. But lie by omission was her husband’s course of action although Selange suspected the truth.

“Bastado!”

Selange hiccupped as she reached for another bottle. She became woozy and experienced a carousel affect that caused her to close her eyes because she wanted to get off the ride.

“Shanda…sister-friend…what do I do now…huh…your dying wasn’t in our plan?”

Her eyes opened and drunken tears turned into a flood. Then sadness met anger; she shook the immovable rack and only moved herself. “Give her back…you’re so powerful…prove it…right now…prove you can raise the dead!” she screamed. “I miss her…don’t you get it…am I cursed…is it me you really want but
seek to torture…well come on and strike me but please…oh please stop killing my family and friends!”

Nobody answered.

She hiccupped.

Typical.

Nobody responds when called to answer for their deeds.

Why?

Because nobody wants to acknowledge their wickedness!

Another hiccup and a few minutes later, she spotted a pretty bottle with a screw off cap.

Good.

Twist…twist…and one hard twist later, the top was off and to her lips
the bottle went. Low…shit…down and dirty was the goal.

A hiccup and then the cylindrical glass w
ent back to her dry lips in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. Selange missed the hell out of Shanda and now she had to deal with Alfonzo's brutality against family.

Guzzle.

To Brooklyn.

To Shanda.

And to every corpse scattered at her feet.

Selange
wasn’t aware Anita listened at the top of the stairs, or the worry which prompted an urgent call to Alfonzo to beckon him home. When Alfonzo arrived he was angry. Thank goodness the children were out with Jessica.

“Where is she Anita?” Alfonzo asked while yanking off his jacket, not caring where he tossed the garment.

Anita didn’t like his tone. Perhaps it was unwise to have called Alfonzo but the sentiment came too late.

Alfonzo waited for the woman to finish wringing her hands. That eyebrow was a razor line
to match his sharp temper. The distress in Anita’s voice took him out of an important meeting to deal with a priority at home. He was worried about Giuseppe, anxious that his wife might go to jail and feeling like shit for lying with a straight face to everybody he loved. Only Giuseppe, Nico and Tony knew the truth and he wouldn’t have said shit to his brother but the man had guessed. Now, there was a hellfire of a mess brewing that he needed to cut off at the legs all because Domingo opened a door to bring in uninvited guests.

Recently, the U.S. government's Eldorado agents discovered a new center of illegal operations, new,
ha; they were late by years in discovering The Cocaine Triangle. The three major players were the Colombian drug barons, Israeli-Jewish money launderers and Jewish-Russian Mafiosi. The Colombians funneled drug money, the Israelis laundered it and the Russian Mafiosi provided the security and muscle. The Italian families in the trade stayed low key, that's how they evaded detection until Domingo's treachery revealed their involvement. Guilty by association, that’s how it is when a dumb cousin of a Mafioso is caught on tape with an Israeli under surveillance for money laundering and drug trafficking. The guy turned up dead only days after Domingo's demise. The agents trained their lens on the Red Mafiya and now La Costra Nostra. The investigation widened. The Cocaine Triangle had now become a Square.

¡Mierda!

There wasn't any way around the fiasco except by making men disappear. Nico had begun hand-picking assassins. Although Tony wasn't fully trained, he had skill and natural leadership ability.

Right n
ow he worried about his wife. Her self-destructive behavior if it were to continue might have her thrown in the pen. He thought she was okay, at least that’s the front she put on, but apparently he was wrong. By the fearful expression on Anita’s face, he could tell Selange’s behavior was out of character. He didn’t want the children to come home and find mommy a mess.

Normalcy is what Selange had established and what the family expected.

Agitated that Anita had yet to speak, he asked again, “Tell me where she is ahora!”

Anita pointed toward the wine cellar. “She’s down there….por favor Alfonzo…por favor be kind…she’s hurting
.”

Be kind
? Selange was on a rampage of late. The assault on Shanda’s mother and now this, goddamn what’s next?

He had to falsify the
passenger manifest, and have video proof showing Selange in Puerto Rico during the assault. But that might not deter Mrs. Johnson from formerly pressing charges. She had the right to do it, besides the legal system for an accused is guilty until proven innocent in the United States. They were leaving PR sooner than later in case the authorities decided to flex their muscle by hauling the wife of a crime lord to prison.

The
descent to the cellar occurred with a short jog. Alfonzo smelled the liquor; damn it was strong. He looked down the aisles filled with bottles, bought to suppress the senses and for occasional celebrations. His shoes did not make a sound as they contacted with the floor. He realized his wife was doing what he often did; dull the pain with drink, except she couldn't hold an ounce of liquor without becoming a piss talking drunk. He suddenly slipped, but immediately righted himself. He cursed because he nearly busted his ass and would’ve toppled on shards of glass.

He then spotted Selange, inside the storage closet,
kneeling in front of the chest with a bottle to her lips. Alfonzo hopped over another spill to walk to the door. He frowned. “What are you doing babe?”

Like Anita she
feigned mute, but at least Anita eventually talked, Selange simply shrugged.

“What happened today nena…talk to me…
we have a pact, remember?”

Slowly she began to rise. The hazel specks were twinkling menacing stars from booze’s influence. This Selange was not his wife; this woman who tossed an empty bottle at his head was a horrid apparition. He ducked and rushed her ass as she screamed. “Pact…
don’t talk to me you sonovabitch!”

S
elange was two sheets to the wind, oh yeah.

He squeezed his babe tight. She couldn’t move, not even her head
could twist. With a husky bass he said, “Get your shit together because when you start throwing bottles at me there's not a conversation in hell we can have.”

Without another word he had her over his shoulder, stepping carefully over the spills mixed with glass and up the flight of stairs. Anita was nowhere in sight when he reached the landing, she’d gone to start dinner because he could smell the delicious aromas. Selange wiggled around demanding that he put her down, but his lips only pursed tighter in anger. His answer was to clamp hard on her waist. Then the damn woman began screaming and pummeling his spine like a maniac. Now he was pissed.

Loca!

He told her to pipe down when he ascended another flight of stairs. He
almost dropped her butt when she tried jerking free and she didn’t even realize it. The verbal warning he’d given received a response in assaultive words.

When liquor talks what might flow from a sweet woman’s mouth are strings of obscenities that can make even a vulgar man blush…oh
hell yeah…Alfonzo turned red.

Selange beat at his head. Under different circumstances he may have laughed, but today he didn’t
. A fist too many connecting with bone caused him to break a cardinal rule. That soft ass exposed right near his face received a really hard smack.

The painful sting brought a scream from Selange’s filthy mouth, “Ow…you hit me…you asshole!”

Yeah, she was shocked, because her husband didn’t believe in hitting women. She quieted. Her ass was on fire from one whack, yet Alfonzo absorbed each of her blows without missing a stride.

Alfonzo finally reached the bathroom
and turned on the cold water. He frowned because he had to go there with his very belligerent wife.

Loc
a Anita barged in yelling just as he stuck Selange under the water fully clothed. “You do not hit her. No…no…no…I will not tolerate that!”

Selange attempted to slither along the tiles to escape, but Alfonzo’s hand held her immobile
as the other deflected a hard rolling pin. “Tranquilo Anita, callate!” Alfonzo cautioned.

Funny, where was Anita when Selange attacked him on the stairs? Last thing he needed was to have his skull cracked open by wood. His head already began to throb from Selange’s fists. A loca Boricua and violent drunk ma
ke a lethal team.

Selange sputtered under the freezing stream
of liquid. “Damn you Al, my hair…I just had it done!”

“
To hell with your hair. Both of you better calm down!”

Anita did that tsking nonsense and continued to swing th
e rolling pin similar to someone squatting flies. “Leave her…ahora…go back to work…I will sober her up…you go Alfonzo…ahora!”

Alfonzo declined the generous offer, besides she was a staircase too late. “Put that away Anita and
go make Selange coffee but the kids get here, por favor.”