The Monarch

by Jack Soren

  “I have to tell you, Lewis, the worst part of all this—­the part that really pisses me off—­isn’t the deception. The worst part is all of you thinking I’m so gullible that a see-­through charade like this would work. Did you really think the morgue wagon would just drive out of here unchecked? Or that one of my charges could be killed right beneath my window and I wouldn’t get involved? It’s insulting,” he said, tossing the brick remote onto his desk, papers and pens shooting off onto the floor on the other side. “Only a moron would be fooled by that!”

  “Uh, yeah,” Lew said, feeling his face flush. Lew wanted to tell the warden the whole story, but he didn’t see the point. It would just sound like prisoner whining. Not to mention make him look like a gullible ass.

  Quinn picked up the fallen papers and put them back on his desk. He pulled up his chair and then took a file out of his drawer.

  “Lewis Katchbrow,” he said flipping through the pages. “What are you doing in here, Lewis?”

  “Another three months until today. Now, well, that’s kind of up to you.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant. What were you doing pulling an armed robbery in southern Mississippi in the first place? And alone, no less.

  “I see how you handle yourself in the yard. Who you talk to and who you avoid. How you spend most of your time being invisible and keeping to yourself. You’re adaptable and smart. You just want to do your time and get out of here. Why would you help a bunch of losers and an incognito drug lord with a cockamamie plan like this?”

  He caught Lew off guard with that one. Quinn knew who Mickey really was. Lew wondered if this knowledge was the reason Mickey felt he had a time limit on getting out of here.

  “Let’s just say it wasn’t by choice.”

  “I thought as much,” Quinn said, flipping more pages. Then something in the file caught his eye. “Excuse me, Major Katchbrow, Army Ranger.” Quinn read some more to himself, then read some aloud, as if Lew hadn’t heard it before. “Recipient of two Purple Hearts, three Bronze Stars, and a Medal of Valor. Honorably discharged in 1992.”

  “Look, Warden, what does my ser­vice record have to do—­”

  “You declined your flight home from Kuwait. Just wandered off.”

  “It says that in my file?” Lew was suddenly curious.

  “No, I made some phone calls. And the most interesting thing I heard were reports of you doing some bare-­knuckle fighting in Bogotá, Colombia, but then after that . . . poof, nothing. You dropped off the face of the earth until your robbery bust. Where were you for sixteen years?”

  “What is this about, Quinn?” Lew said a little harsher. He didn’t like someone digging around in his past, especially with what they could find. Quinn looked at him, and then seemed to make some sort of decision, flipping the file closed.

  “Simple trade,” Quinn said. “You do something for me; I’ll do something for you.”

  “What are you going to do for me?” Lew asked.

  “You don’t belong here. It’s obvious. It’s also pretty obvious, today notwithstanding, that for your remaining time you’re not going to be any trouble. In fact,” Quinn said, leaning forward, “it will probably be difficult to tell you’re even here.”

  Lew got the message.

  “Are you saying I can walk out the front door? Today?”

  “Well, maybe not the front door, but yes, essentially you’re correct.”

  Lew thought about that. He hadn’t let himself think about the idea of being free for even a moment in this place. Thinking like that just made you crazy. But he let himself think about it now and really liked the feeling it gave him. He caught himself before the idea got too heady.

  “And the price?” he asked, knowing he wasn’t going to like it, whatever it was. Quinn leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head, and swiveled back and forth.

  “Mickey King wants to be dead. Let’s give him what he wants.”

  “You want me to kill one of your prisoners?” Lew said. There was no way he was going to trade a year of boredom for someone’s life, no matter how much of a scumbag he was.

  “Technically, he’s not one of my prisoners. Mickey King is my prisoner. But we both know there is no Mickey King. And let’s not overlook the fact that technically he’s already dead,” Quinn said. Lew thought he was rationalizing like hell, but he figured he also now knew where Quinn’s shiny new television had come from.

  “You don’t think I belong here, but you want to make me a murderer. Yeah, that makes sense,” Lew said.

  “Let’s stick to the truth, Lewis. This certainly wouldn’t be the first time you’ve killed someone,” Quinn said tapping Lew’s file. “But I’ll guarantee no one deserves killing more than Miguel Colero. Think of all the damage he’s done with his drug trade. The lives he’s destroyed. The families he’s decimated. You could stop all that.”

  “Don’t try to sell me with the same shinola they used to sell you. Who the hell do you think wants this done? The tooth fairy? Somebody in here recognized him and squealed to some other drug lord. That’s who wants King—­Colero out of the way. I don’t know what you’ve told yourself, but you’re obviously an easy sell. A fucking TV?”

  Quinn slammed his hand on his desk and stood up, pointing his finger in Lew’s face while his own turned red. “Watch it, Katchbrow! There’s a flip side to this coin. I testify that I saw you kill Colero. Maybe I plant some drugs in your cell. I hear they serve great meals on death row. For a while.”

  “Fuck you. Go ahead, testify. Plant whatever you want. I’d love to have my day in court. Maybe my lawyer goes sniffing around your house or your bank account to see what other new, expensive goodies you’ve gotten lately. Maybe I talk to a few of Colero’s friends and tell them the real story. Hope you didn’t get the extended warranty on that piece of shit.”

  Quinn’s face went from red to bleach white. There was an audible click as Quinn’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He opened his palms and patted the air, apparently trying to calm the room’s sudden foul mood. He sat down in his chair and took a deep breath.

  “We’re getting way off the beam, here. Let’s just calm down,” Quinn said.

  Lew didn’t say anything, but he sat back in his chair. Pushing was only going to get him so far.

  “Your freedom was on the table originally, and that’s what’s on the table now. Will you—­”

  A rapid, frantic knocking on the door cut Quinn off. He scanned the room, looking like a poker player caught with an ace up his sleeve. He grabbed Lew’s file and shoved it in a drawer.

  “Yes, what is it?” Quinn called out. “Shit!” He grabbed the remote control and flipped off the paused fake murder, the game show returning.

  The door popped open and Rory Dupont, the assistant warden, stuck his head in.

  “Boss, the inmates have started a fire in Cell Block H. They’re threatening to riot over the shanking. We gotta call the state cops. Now!”

  Lew looked out the window and saw smoke rising out of one of the far building’s windows.

  “Damn it!” Quinn headed for the door. “It’s our house, we’ll handle it.”

  “What about him?” Rory asked, stopping Quinn and pointing to Lew.

  “Leave him here. Give me a set of those cuffs.” Quinn handcuffed Lew to the chair that was bolted to the floor. Lew didn’t know if it was to keep Lew the prisoner from getting away; or Lew the weapon from being hurt in the blossoming riot. He looked outside again and knew he really didn’t care. “Let’s go!”

  Quinn ushered Rory out of the office and as he was leaving said: “Think about what I said, Lewis. This could be a turning point in your life. Don’t blow it over details.”

  Then he shut the door and Lew listened to the muffled voices beyond the walls fade until he saw the men, armed with tear gas rifles, helmets, and billy clubs, h
ead across the mud toward the smoking barracks, half of them trusties who looked like they wanted to run the other way.

  Lew stood up and stretched against the one cuff holding him to the chair until he could see out the window. Men ran every which way. It was pandemonium out there.

  That’s when he saw it. A reflection in the window. A shape he knew better than his own name. He turned around and saw that it was coming from the television, a news broadcast breaking into regular programming.

  A spinning graphic grew larger and larger, until it looked like it wanted to burst out of the screen. Two symmetrical curlicues on either side of a flattened vertical oval, looking for all intents and purposes like an insect.

  Like a butterfly.

  4

  Bogotá

  Sixteen years ago

  “BABOSO!”

  Lew heard his nickname and stood up in his dressing room, which functioned during the day as a horse stall. He had no idea what the name meant, but he’d started to like it. And it seemed to give the men no end of glee to say it. Chico, the man assigned to be his manager today, came back and told him to get ready. He’d already had two fights today and wasn’t sure he wanted a third, but he’d racked up a higher than usual bar tab over the past few days.

  “You fight one more, Baboso. You be rich tonight. Buy us all drinks.”

  The few men behind Chico laughed a dirty-­faced, missing-­tooth laugh. Lew wondered if that was his future. So far he’d managed to keep his choppers, but only because he’d made a mouth guard out of old newspapers.

  “Whatever, Chico. Su asshole, ma asshole,” Lew said, taking another swig of whiskey. The bottle was almost empty. Lew was glad this was the last fight. He was starting to feel no pain. Bad shit went down when that happened.

  The crowd outside rose in volume, followed by both happy and angry shouts. A few minutes later, they dragged a big guy past his stall into the back where a veterinarian would sew him up, if he had enough cash. Lew figured the guy could afford it. He was the winner.

  “Let’s go!” Chico shouted, clapping his hands.

  Lew took one more pull on the bottle and stood up, shrugging out of his full-­length, brown leather duster, the only thing he’d bought with his prize money. Everything else he owned he’d come to town with on his back. Underneath he wore khaki army fatigue pants, army boots, and what had been a white tank top undershirt, now stained in sweat, blood, and dirt.

  As he worked the kinks out of his powerful shoulders and lightly shadowboxed, the smart-­mouthed men scurried out of the way like Lew was fire and they were tinder. Even Chico seemed to lose his management style with Lew towering over him. Lew took the smoking cigarette out of Chico’s mouth and put it in his own. After taking a few drags, he dropped it and ground it out on the dirt and straw floor under his heel. Lew smiled and gave Chico a few slaps on the cheek, hard enough to leave a mark.

  “Whatever you say. You’re the boss, Chico,” Lew said. He headed toward the sunlight at the end of the stable, rolling his neck as he trotted in a half jog to wake up his muscles.

  He squinted in the afternoon sun glaring down from over the Andes Mountains in the distance. Men waving money and guns parted to form a gauntlet leading into the ring, which was just an open space surrounded by more of the men.

  He stepped into the ring and saw his opponent on the far side. He couldn’t tell much about him. Someone had tied his hands behind his back and pulled a burlap bag over his head. Every now and then someone would come out of the crowd and spit on him or kick him. The only thing he could tell was the guy was white and dressed all in black, like a failed ninja. He was small too; not short, but not a fighter. He looked more like a swimmer or a gymnast. Lew had seen a lot of things over the past several months, but this was the first time they’d kidnapped someone for him to fight. No, this guy, whoever he was, was in some deep shit. More like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have and now Lew was his punishment. Lew wasn’t crazy about that arrangement, but a buck was a buck.

  “Is he gonna fight or are you going to hang him from a tree like a piñata? Let’s go!” Lew shouted, knowing most of the crowd couldn’t understand him. They seemed to get his meaning, though. They untied the stranger’s hands and shoved him into the middle of the ring.

  He held out his hands, trying to balance himself. It took him a second to realize the only thing holding the bag on his head was gravity. He ripped it off, squinting and moaning from the glare. Apparently he’d been under it for a while. His face was all bloody and his eye looked like it was nesting in a purple goose egg.

  Lew dropped his hands and stood up straight. It took the stranger a while to notice the big white guy waiting to beat the shit out of him. Once he did, and saw the crowd, he seemed to figure out what was what pretty fast. He was smart, Lew gave him that.

  “What the fuck,” Lew said to the crowd, not sure who was in charge, but knowing it wasn’t Chico. “The guy looks like someone already beat him. Several times. What’s the point of this?”

  “The point is you don’t get paid unless you fight, Baboso. Now fight!” Chico shouted.

  You speak English?” Lew asked.

  “Y . . . yeah.”

  “Then put your fists up,” Lew said. “If you don’t they’ll dislocate your shoulders so you can’t put your hands down. I don’t know what you did, but I’m going to have to pound on you for it.”

  “Where am I?” he said, weakly putting up his hands and circling Lew.

  “Bogotá. Where did you think you were?” Lew said, throwing a weak punch the guy easily dodged.

  “Brazil,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “I don’t think we should be getting too friendly, pal. I feel for you and all, but work’s work.” Lew threw a harder, more accurate punch, but to his surprise the guy dodged that one just as easily. Boy’s got some skills.

  Lew threw a few more failed punches. The crowd groaned and complained.

  “I’m gonna cut you up, Baboso! Fight!” Chico shouted from the side. Lew thought he looked scared, like someone else was warning him. He scanned the crowd of angry, excited faces, but couldn’t pick out Mr. Big.

  “Looks like afternoon tea is over, champ. I’m going to have to hurt you now,” Lew said.

  “Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” he said. “But tell me why short stuff over there keeps calling you a retard.”

  “What?” Lew said, turning to look at Chico. The stranger punched Lew in the throat and then the temple with his right hand. Before Lew could recover, he swung to the side and followed the initial volley with a left uppercut and a kick to the inside of Lew’s knee with his heel. Lew howled and hit the mud for the first time in his short fighting career. Lew looked up in time to see another kick coming.

  He grabbed the foot, lifting and twisting at the same time, his chest muscles straining under the force. His attacker twirled through the air backward. But before Lew could feel too triumphant, the man in black tucked and rolled, using the throw’s momentum to help him not only hit the ground softly, but pop back up to his feet in one smooth move.

  “Son of a bitch,” Lew said. The stranger smiled, but stayed where he was, letting Lew get up. When Lew was on his feet, someone yelled and two items flew through the air from the crowd. The items were identical and flashed reflected sunlight before they fell in the mud, one in front of each of the fighters. Lew bent down and picked up his machete. He swung it back and forth, the air whistling as he cut it.

  “What the hell is this?” the man in black asked.

  “Best pick it up, friend. They either love you or hate you.”

  “How’s that?” he asked, picking up his machete.

  “They must think this is a more evenly matched fight than they expected. So of course they’re changing the rules. See all that money changing hands in the crowd?”

  “Yeah.” />
  “This is now a fight to the death.”

  “You mean it wasn’t before?”

  Man I like this guy. Lew shook the thought away. It wasn’t helpful with what he had to do now.

  Lew gripped his machete in both hands and cut the air again, trying to intimidate his opponent into making a mistake. It revved the crowd up too. Then the stranger worked his flat sword. Holding the machete in one hand, he swung it and twirled it like a deadly baton, circling backward and to the side. Lew realized he had some serious training. Crap.

  “What the hell was that?” Lew asked, circling in the opposite direction so they stayed apart.

  “Kenjutsu,” he said.

  “Gesundheit,” Lew said.

  “The Art of the Sword.”

  “Terrific,” Lew said. He scanned the edge of the crowd and thought about rushing one of the armed spectators so he could exercise the Art of the Gun, but knew he’d never get a shot off. Suddenly, he was really wishing he had waited until tonight to start drinking.

  “We don’t have to do this. Let me talk to your boss.”

  “Sorry, buddy. No take-­backs in Bogotá,” Lew said. Not that he could have taken him to his boss if he’d wanted.

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  The crowd roared as the men launched at each other, blades glistening in the afternoon sun. The deadly steel clanked and twanged; attack met with block, again and again. Each time, Lew swung with both hands, looking for that one power strike that would end this. His opponent, on the other hand, used only one hand and frequently switched the blade from his left to his right and back again. Lew was pretty sure it was just to get him to make a mistake. And if this went on long enough, he knew it would work.

  After a particularly exhausting series of lunges and blocks, the stranger stepped in close; something he hadn’t done before. The blades smacked together, only this time he didn’t back away. He kept his blade’s hilt pressed into Lew’s and leaned in.

  “How’d you like to get out of here?” he said so only Lew could hear.