Joey Cloudy online

Isaiah Jones versus the Sea (A 21st Century Odyssey)”

“Havana Hallelujah: Eulogy for a Dead Son pt 2

The two men made their way to Polly’s car, a zinc white armored Range Rover. The driver and guard sat in the front. Isaiah sat in the backseat with the grieving father as they traveled down the graveled path to the black tar road that led to Polly’s villa. The car turned right onto the main road and headed into the city that time forgot, Havana. Isaiah ignored the passing tropical countryside. There were the usual old mid-20th-century cars in various states of repair; some were nothing more than the frame and rear axle cut down and reproposed as a burro-drawn cart. The occasional odd-looking new tri-wheeled little yellow taxis that looked like a rickshaw fused with Mr. Bean’s Mini Coupe.

He never gave the local architecture a second thought growing up in Texas, and spending summers sailing around the Caribbean, Spanish architecture is nothing novel; you see it everywhere every day. Maybe that’s why he never met a black man that gave two shits about Hemingway at the end of the day the white heroes victory is about celebrating white supremacy.

Of course, they will say this is not true, that black people try to make everything about race, and by gosh, we good white folk are tired of hearing about it. Then immediately start a conversation about replacement theory, illegal immigrants, overpopulation, and the woke takeover of the media because they are now seeing POC in non-supporting cast roles in cinema.

A non-white token sidekick non-threatening friend is fine, but a darker-than-pink leading woman in a major film is just too woke. Ahh, those Hollywood liberals and their “Jewish space lasers”. These are the I’m not racist, I have a black friend at work or in class, so it’s not racist when I call black people nigga because I don’t use the hard R. I vote democratic and I went out with a black guy once in college. Isaiah shook his head people were just plain awful. He would stay the night in Cuba, be sure Naomi was okay, and then set sail in the morning.

The albino lit a Cohiba, and Isaiah stared out the window at the aged stone and stucco 2oo and 3oo year old buildings of the tiny island nation, no different than any other Caribbean Island. The inhabitants of these insignificant clumps of dirt love to puff up their chests and claim that they are not the descendants of African slaves; they are Spanish.

I no Negra me Dominican, Costa Rican, or Trinidad sure there are decedents of Spaniards there and the indigenous Indians but when you standing next to me blacker than me, lip thick, wide nose nappy hair obviously from the same region of Africa as my ancestor kidnapped near the gold coast and claim everything that is only a small part of your genetic make-up but deny the majority of your DNA is African?! Stupid niggers annoy him, they didn’t even know that the only difference between them was when they got off the slave ship. Now, these pathetic self-hating niggas run entire nations in the Carribean. There is nothing more pathetic than talking to an obvious black man who hates his African ancestry so much that he pretends he is a European.

They act as if each little island separated by a mere 20, 30, or 40 miles of water, all colonized by the same nations, England, Britain, and France, but mostly, what language do they speak here? Spanish, you can’t forget Portuguese. Yes, half of South America now speaks it as their primary language. These lost balls are descended from slaves from the same African continent you and I, but they magically are not related to those Africans. They are going to be in for one hell of a surprise when they take a DNA test ‘23 and Me’ is going have a lot of these old coons sucking on the barrel of a gun after they get their test results back.

The old gangster laughed at the young mathematician he knew from reading the Time magazine article, that he was on the spectrum, but he hid it well. Polly noticed that the dog never left his side until Naomi arrived. Then, as if trained professionally, she went back to sitting guard duty at Isaiah’s feet. The gangster’s villa was a fortress that overlooked the harbor into Havana, a 3 story, 2 century old stone building that was the governor’s mansion a century ago. The villa’s patio was on the beach, and his ship, a 40-foot catamaran, was anchored just offshore.

The uniformed servants brought drinks out to the cliffside patio where they sat and talked, waiting for Naomi to return from the hospital. Isaiah sipped his mojito and sat in the chair, Starbuck curled up resting beside him, as he stared across the golden sands of the beach at the azure waters of the Caribbean Sea.

Naomi arrived a few hours later as Isaiah and Polly were engaged in an excited discussion of sloops versus catamarans, the two black men both being sailors. They were happy to have this conversation with each other as they drank. Naomi watched the two men for a moment, mesmerized. She would have never thought the two of them would have a word to say to each other, and it was obvious from here that they had a real bromance going on.

The uniformed servants leapt into a frenzy of activity as Polly’s car entered the iron gates of his estate. After passing the guard post, they climbed the winding driveway that led up to the stone building. The albino climbed out of the backseat of the Range Rover and made his way up the stone path to the huge double doors of the 2-century-old fortified hilltop villa that had once been the governor’s mansion in colonial days. The humongous double doors opened as he approached, and several uniformed servants waited on either side of the entrance’s foyer. As soon as he entered the building, they silently went to work. One took his jacket, and yet another took his holstered weapons, the massive Holland and Holland elephant guns he had converted from rifles to pistols. He stepped out of his leather loafers as a young woman in a traditional black and white maids’ uniform placed a pair of white slippers on his massive feet. By the time he had walked through the foyer and entered the living room, he was no longer wearing his trademark white Armani suit but a white silk smoking jacket as he lifted a glass of bourbon from a silver tray with his right hand while an embroidered silk scarf held daintily in his left hand.

Why do the authorities let you do what you do? Isaiah asked.

Polly looked at the young mathematician and smiled. Supply and demand, simple economics. Would you care for some ice cream?

Isaiah grinned, sure. And followed the one-eyed mobster into the French château’s massive kitchen. He was surprised as he watched the big man gather two China bowls, two silver table spoons, and an ice cream scoop before fetching the Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream from the freezer. He ran the hot water over the scoop first, then scooped up three big scoops into each bowl. He handed one to Isaiah with a spoon, then picked up his own after returning the rest to the freezer. The two men made their way outside to the patio next to the dining room The view of the harbor of Havana from here was spectacular, and it was easy to see why the Spaniards had built their fortress up here 400 years ago; it was easily defensible and only accessibly by the one cliff side road.

As they ate spoonfuls of ice cream, the albino asked the young engineer a question. Why didn’t you turn my Naomi in to the authorities or take her to the hospital in the Bahamas when you found her?

Isaiah answered the mobster casually between eating spoonfuls of ice cream. I did the math, and odds were that I was going to end up in jail for months or possibly even get convicted or implicated in her death if she died, and months in jail if she lived, while lawyers tried to prove I had nothing to do with her getting shot. So, I decided since the wound didn’t hit bone or major organs, she had a good chance of making it.

You do not trust the police, I see, the albino said, grinning as he licked the spoon.

We’re both black men, Isaiah retorted. I trust the police as much as you do, señor Polly.

Both men eyed the other suspiciously for a moment before they erupted with laughter.

You are correct to be cautious; even here on the island, they are often little more than shakedown artists and not particularly bright. The albino laughed, Isaiah, you are too young to understand this, but I am in your debt. While you may or may not have been entrapped in one of their trumped-up cases. The one certain thing is that if you had taken her in, she would have been arrested and charged as an accessory to murder. A good thief is hard to find, and my Naomi is one of the best. Whatever you need, you just let me know, and it is done.

I have one thing I can use your help with. Isaiah gave the rest of the melted ice cream in his bowl to Starbuck as Polly continued.

I need a package delivered to the SS Ides of March, a cargo ship you will pass in the middle of the Atlantic when you leave Barbados. I have people on board, but they will need to be supplied en route before they reach the Caribbean. Polly looked at Isaiah. So, can you meet them mid-Atlantic and drop off the package? I hate to impose, but my own people would draw too much attention. The albino said, finishing the ice cream.

I see no problem delivering your package, Señor Polly. Isaiah said as he petted the dog and picked up the empty bowl.

Your itinerary has you in Barbados in two months. My people will contact you when you arrive in Barbados with the package. Now the albino asks What can I do for you?

Isaiah looked at the albino and asked the one question Naomi never answered when they were talking a few days ago onboard the Exodus. I want to know why she was kicked out of the army.

Dead Eye Polly set the now-empty porcelain bowl down and picked up his glass of bourbon, took a sip, then adjusted his weight in the chair before he began.

“Delta Force Operative Sgt. Naomi Galatea Cabbala killed three men with her bare hands, serial rapists of female US soldiers, all army officers in the United States Army. He stopped for a moment, took a deep breath then continued. Naomi was stationed in Afghanistan 2013 at just after 3 am she heard a woman scream; she knows where her tent is, so she hauled ass over there; barefoot in her skivvies and a tee shirt, Ka-bar in hand.

When she runs to the scream, following the noise, she hears the woman’s voice is muffled now, and she can hear several men’s voices inside before she enters the tent as she opens the door, she sees them in the darkness two are holding her legs, one has her arms and the other is on top of her with his trousers and drawers around his ankles. With the first two, she used the blade, but the last one, the one that was on top of her, with him Naome took her time, and she makes him hurt, him she killed with her bare hands, choked him to death.

The fourth gets away. They had raped and murdered eleven women that CID could tie them to with DNA evidence, so they gave him life without parole. The army brass didn’t want the bad press this would generate; this isn’t the first time the US military has been exposed as a haven for sexual predators, and they didn’t want Naomi around, thinning the ranks with their friends’ blood on her hands. If they could have, they would have sent her to Leavenworth, but she had an eyewitness to the crime, so they gave her an “honorable discharge” and sent her back home to Miami, where her family has been since the 1980 Mariel boat lift.

-About the author

JD Cloudy’s poetry has disappeared in the literary journals; Fatfizz, Mad Swirl, Texas Beat Anthology, Danse Macabre, Du Jour, and Death List Five. He has won no literary awards, entered no slam competitions, and never completed college. He lives to write in Dallas, Tx