Casa Rodrigo

by Johnny Miles

  addressed Perez in a slow and deliberate voice.

  “Don Bernardo went to sleep an hour ago. He left me with strict orders not to

  disturb him. For anyone. Not even his son. Therefore, I cannot imagine he would

  wish to see you before his own flesh and blood. Do you?”

  There was a moment of stunned silence.

  “Why, you…insufferable…” Perez grabbed at the coiled whip at his side and

  unraveled it. He raised his arm, meaning to strike, but Alonso stepped between

  them and held Perez by the wrist. With height and strength easily to his advantage,

  Alonso overpowered the overseer and gave him a murderous look.

  “Perez!” Alonso half bellowed, half whispered. It was a tone he had never

  heard come from his mouth before. But his anger was very near the surface. “I told

  you once before, I'm not going to tell you again. I will not have you speaking ill of

  our slaves or coaxing them into anger.”

  “I wasn't…speaking…ill.” Perez struggled against Alonso. “I was only…going

  to…beat him!”

  Alonso gritted his teeth, allowing his anger to come forth. He leaned into the

  smaller man until their faces were inches apart.

  “I suggest you remember yourself…señor,” Alonso muttered. “This is my

  father's house. You will not treat him, me, anyone in my family, including our

  slaves, with the disrespect you just exhibited. Do you understand?”

  “But—”

  “I said…do…you…understand?” Alonso repeated and squeezed harder on the

  man's wrist. Perez winced. In the same instant a vein pulsed in Alonso's head and

  sent a piercing stab of pain up into his scalp and to the back of the head. He'd had

  enough of these overgrown boys playing at being men, his father included.

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  But Perez—he was nothing more than a sniveling, snorting swine pretending

  to be human.

  Alonso felt disgust rise within him, and he fought the urge to spit in the

  overseer's face. He took the barely audible moan escaping Perez for an answer, gave

  a grunt of satisfaction, and shoved.

  A look of shock lined Perez's face as his arms flailed. He struggled to remain

  balanced but wound up on the ground on his ass, legs splayed. There was a look of

  childish hurt on his round face.

  “You…you…” Perez stammered and looked as if he was trying to comprehend

  what had just happened.

  “I will thank you to get off my property,” Alonso said. “Quietly and quickly.

  Before I come after you and give you more than just a bruised ego.”

  Alonso turned brusquely, brushing past a gleeful Dante, who seemed barely

  capable of suppressing his laughter, as he darted into the house. Alonso heard the

  door slam shut behind him. He turned toward Dante.

  “Do not, under any circumstance, open that door to let that despicable man

  into this house, or I will beat you myself,” Alonso warned and strode toward his

  father's study. He needed a drink.

  There was much commotion somewhere in the distance. Loud voices. Words.

  Yelling. A banging. He told himself he was dreaming. That he was simply just

  slipping from one uneasy dream and into another—one in which his son handed him

  a pistol with a malicious grin and said quietly yet somehow loudly, firmly, almost

  accusingly, “If you had let him die, none of this would have happened.”

  But there was a part of him that realized something else was indeed

  happening outside his dream.

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  Bernardo opened his eyes with a calm mind and dread in his heart. But at

  least he knew what must be done even as his son's accusation resonated in his ears,

  then sank deep into his soul.

  “If you had let him die, none of this would have happened.”

  Then a different voice demanded his attention. He realized who it was the

  moment he heard it, and he cringed.

  “Madre de Dios,” Bernardo muttered, almost in prayer. “Grant me the

  strength.”

  “Don Bernardoooo! Wake up! I need to speak with you! It is urgent! Don

  Bernardo? Don Bernardooooooooo!”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The pounding on the door echoed throughout the house. And though his body

  hummed and vibrated internally, protesting its lack of sleep, Bernardo climbed out

  of bed.

  Irritable, he stormed across the room, threw open his bedroom door, and called

  for Dante.

  But the slave was not quick to respond.

  “Goddamnit!” Bernardo mumbled through gritted teeth, then bellowed, “Dan-

  teeee! Por dónde andas, negro hijo de puta?”

  Dante did not know what to do. He stood trembling in the kitchen with Cook

  and his wife. He adored don Bernardo, but don Alonso was the breath of fresh air—

  the hope—he had never even expected. He didn't have it hard at Casa Rodrigo.

  Frankly, none of them did in the house.

  But to have don Alonso threaten him with a beating? And now to have don

  Bernardo call him a black son of a whore?

  “They're just upset,” Cook said, trying to console him. “You know how our

  master is. He doesn't mean it.”

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  But Dante remained unconvinced even as he heard a tinkling crash followed

  by a loud stomping that sounded as if it came from don Bernardo's study. The

  stomping made its way down the corridor and toward the front door.

  “Dante!” don Bernardo called from above a moment later, his own footsteps

  unusually loud as he made his way down the stairs.

  Alonso had grown tired and weary of the sniveling, whiny man on their

  property. With great disgust, he kicked back the last of the rum in his glass and

  hurled it toward the fireplace, where it shattered. Then, reveling in the burn of the

  liquor that spread across his stomach, Alonso stood and crunched shards of glass

  beneath his feet as he made his way across his father's study.

  As he stormed down the hall, toward the front door, Alonso thought he heard

  his father moving hurriedly about upstairs.

  Alonso flung the door open. Perez stopped pacing. He looked small, frightened,

  yet determined.

  “You have one last chance.” Alonso made every attempt to remain civil, yet his

  voice grew louder and deeper. “Tell me what you came here for. What is so damned

  important that you're making such a spectacle?”

  Perez shook his head.

  “I'll speak only to your father,” he mumbled.

  Alonso huffed and, with a growl, charged at Perez like an angry bull. He

  grabbed Perez by the shirt with one hand while his other turned into a fist. Alonso

  pulled back and smashed into Perez's face with great satisfaction.

  Carajo! That felt magnificent! Alonso grinned, wishing he'd had the foresight

  to get into a brawl the night before. It would have made him feel so much better.

  The overseer struggled to free himself from Alonso's grip, to no avail. Blood

  spurted from his nose as Alonso pulled back and connected again, this time in a

  direct hit to the mouth.

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  Perez fell from the force, a piece of his shirt tearing in Alonso's hands. He

  looked at it with an amused detachment. Look at that! The
n he flung it to the

  ground.

  Alonso turned his anger back toward the overseer, who now struggled and

  scrambled to get away. Alonso charged toward him again with every intention to

  kick him and to keep kicking until his anger subsided.

  There was a part of him that was appalled at what he had turned into. But

  there was another, more beastly side of him that relished being released from its

  cage. It pulsed through his veins, pushing aside the calm, otherwise civil young man

  he was supposed to be, hungry for more and needing to feed.

  But several hands pulled at him and kept him from going at Perez once more.

  He struggled against the constraining hands and felt more than saw his father

  nearby.

  Alonso could barely see; his vision had grown cloudy and blurred. He could

  barely hear. A maddening, echoing silence made the voices sound as if they were at

  a great distance. It was as if his entire mind had been stuffed with cotton.

  And then he gasped as someone doused him with water.

  Gradually, he became aware of his father standing before him, looking more

  disheveled than he remembered ever having seen him.

  Cook pinned Alonso's arms back, and Dante, looking small and ashamed, held

  an empty pail. Beyond his father's shoulder, Perez watched and finally managed to

  stand.

  Alonso looked into his father's searching eyes. He both detested and admired

  his father's calm anger. His fiery eyes and the rise and fall of his chest were the

  only signs he was agitated in any way.

  How could he be so—

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  “Take him inside!” Bernardo barked. Cook pulled, but Alonso freed himself

  from the bigger man's firm grip.

  “I'm not going anywhere. Not until he”—Alonso pointed his chin at the

  overseer—“speaks and says what is so damn urgent.”

  “Not one…more…word,” Bernardo warned, a finger inches away from Alonso's

  face. Alonso licked his lips and nodded, sensing his father was at his limit.

  Bernardo turned toward Perez. The overseer, still holding his nose, flinched

  ever so slightly but stood his ground.

  “Speak. What is so damn urgent?” Bernardo demanded.

  The overseer hesitated but a moment. He mumbled something unintelligible.

  “What? Speak up, man, or I'll let my son finish the job!”

  The overseer pulled his hand away from his face. Droplets of blood spattered

  across Bernardo's crotch.

  “Arbor,” Perez managed to mumble, despite the cuts on his already swollen

  lips where they had sliced against his teeth.

  Alonso suddenly felt queasy at the sight of the damage he had caused. He

  could still feel the impact on his hand and was ashamed at how much he had

  enjoyed the sensation.

  “Arbol?” Bernardo repeated, puffed out his chest, and looked as if he was

  bracing himself for the worst. “What about Arbol?”

  “Heath…heath ethcaped.”

  Bernardo felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. He was aware of a

  sudden retching behind him.

  “Are you sure of this?” Bernardo pressed. Perez nodded.

  Bernardo closed his eyes and swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed repeatedly

  before settling down.

  “Who did you leave in charge of the slaves?” Bernardo asked.

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  “Rowando, theñor.”

  “Rolando?” Bernardo asked, making sure he'd heard properly. Perez nodded.

  “Very well. Get on your horse and head to the Velasco plantation. We'll meet you

  there.”

  Bernardo then turned to Alonso, who was getting up from the ground finally,

  wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He truly hoped Alonso had had

  nothing to do with this, or the boy would surely pay.

  “Dante. Get down to the stable and have Augusto ready some horses. Cook,

  you go back inside. I no longer need you. And you…” Bernardo approached his son

  and grabbed at the scruff of his neck with strength and agility. He half pushed, half

  pulled Alonso a few feet away so they wouldn't be overheard.

  Bernardo released his son, and Alonso rubbed at the back of his neck with a

  hurtful look.

  “Did you have anything to do with this?” Bernardo glared at Alonso with a

  quiet yet seething intensity.

  “No, Father,” Alonso whispered vehemently. “I swear it!”

  Bernardo searched his son's eyes for any shred of evidence to the contrary.

  When Alonso did not look away, Bernardo cleared his throat and took a step back.

  “You're absolutely sure?” Bernardo cocked his head. An eye twitched. “You're

  not…getting back at me for…all you learned about last night?”

  “Oh I want to get back at you,” Alonso replied boldly, almost defiantly. “But

  you asked if I had anything to with Arbol's disappearance. The answer is no.”

  “Very well. I believe you,” Bernardo said cautiously. “But I want you to

  understand the severity of this issue. And of what you've done to Perez.” Bernardo

  stepped away and turned, stopped, then turned back. “And by the way, if I find out

  you're lying, things will not go well for you. Just want you to be absolutely sure

  before I stick out my neck and reputation for you. Understood? Now, come with me.”

  “Wh-where are we going?” Alonso exhaled.

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  “We have to investigate. And I want to make sure you're there to witness

  everything, because so help me, if you know something, this will plague you for the

  rest of your life.”

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  Chapter Fourteen

  Bernardo and Alonso arrived at Raúl's plantation just moments after Perez.

  They remained mounted and watched as Raúl opened the door, drink in hand.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Raúl cried out at the sight of Perez's injuries.

  “Mind you, it's a hell of an improvement.” Raúl giggled. Alonso exchanged a look

  with his father. He could tell this was not Raúl's first drink of the day.

  Perez tried to explain through drying blood and swollen lips but only managed

  to make Raúl laugh.

  “You sound like a member of the Castilian court!”

  “God help us,” his father muttered. “Never send a fool to do a man's job. Wait

  here. Don't even imagine riding back home to get out of this one!”

  Alonso absentmindedly shook his head and watched his father dismount. As

  nervous and somber as he was over the fury that was about to unfold, Alonso

  couldn't help but pull back and wonder about the man walking toward Raúl. Yes,

  the man looked like his father. But Alonso had never seen him before. At least, not

  this confident, unbowed man with an erect back and a sure step. Despite the

  possibility of Velasco's unleashing his anger at him, his father still gently wedged

  himself between Perez and Raúl, something Alonso would never do. He had to

  admit that the man deserved respect for sheer decorum and bravery.

  Alonso was fascinated and frightened at how quickly the drunken, glassy-eyed

  hilarity left Raúl's face, only to be replaced by a sober, glassy-eyed, calculating

  hunter.

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  As his father informed Raúl of the sc
uffle, the man looked toward him with his

  good eye. The other eye was hidden by a patch of black silk. Somehow that made the

  piercing blue eye fixed on him even worse. The glare made his skin crawl.

  “Why?” Raúl asked. “What's this all about?”

  And then the bomb.

  “It seems Arbol may have escaped,” his father said without hesitation, excuse,

  or apology. Raúl glanced from Alonso to Bernardo, then back to Alonso again.

  A moment went by. Another. Then another. And somehow the silence was

  worse than the expected, furious explosion.

  Alonso felt as if he couldn't look at anything or anyone but Raúl. There was a

  coldness on his face that made Alonso shiver. The man licked his lips, pushed

  Bernardo aside, and made his way toward Alonso.

  Still mounted, Alonso's first reaction was to flee. But his legs and arms seemed

  powerless.

  Alonso could see the stubble on Raúl's face. Felt his excitement as he placed a

  hand firmly on Alonso's thigh. Raúl's one good eye remained fixed on him the entire

  time. His voice was slow, quiet, and deliberate.

  “Your father is the only man I've ever trusted. But if I find that you had any

  part in this slave running away, I'll be happy to sever my friendship with him

  immediately. Just so I can have the personal satisfaction of stringing you up beside

  that dirty African boy and beating you both to within an inch of your lives.” Raúl

  smiled insidiously.

  “My father will never allow you to do that. He'll see you dead first,” Alonso

  replied, feeling braver than he felt.

  “Will he now?” Raúl cocked his head and peered at Alonso. The man chuckled,

  patted Alonso's knee, and walked away, leaving Alonso to shudder.

  “Perez! Fetch my horse,” Raúl hollered and stormed into his house. “Tobias!”

  Raúl disappeared with a slam of the door.

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  “Wh-where is he going?” Alonso asked almost hesitantly as his father

  approached and remounted his horse.

  “To his personal armory,” Bernardo replied without looking.