Joey Cloudy online

Isaiah Jones vs the Sea (A 21st Century Odyssey)

A Chapter Concerning the Albino:

A Legend of Dead Eye Polly Ovejero*

The word on the street:

“… I come from out there, and everybody out there knows, everybody lies:

cops lie, newspapers lie, parents lie. The one thing you can count on

– word on the street…”

-Suicide Kings

The Word on the Street:

When Dead Eye Polly’s was a child his father was the head of the Cuban mob’s interests in New Orleans. Big Polly Ovejero was a six-foot-nine-inch-tall Afro-Cuban who met and married Polly’s mother, Katarina, during the early 1970s. After he and the high priestess Lady Katarina Circe Laveau, a direct descendant of the infamous Marie Catherine Laveau, were betrayed by his second-in-command, his younger brother Luis Ernesto Ovejero aka Fat Loewy , he was given up by his closest lieutenant to the DEA. Dead Eye Polly was only six years old at the time, but he remembers every detail of that day perfectly.

The cops arrived at sunrise, shouting orders distorted through a police megaphone, the loudspeaker amplifying the federal agent’s Cajun drawl in the fading darkness. His father was outside talking with his uncle Luis when the cops arrived. The gunfire began the moment after the agents announced their presence. The shootout at his family’s farmhouse in the Louisiana bayou with the local cops, FBI, and DEA would become the stuff of local legend. It was a hailstorm of lead that ripped through the Ovejero family’s modest century old wood-framed farmhouse.

What seemed like an eternity to young Polly was in reality only three minutes at the portal to hell. When the gunfire stopped, his father Big Polly Ovejero lay dead. His mother had used her body to shield his, as the police riddled the house with semi-automatic gunfire, when the shooting stopped and the law enforcement agents were finally able to enter the home an agent lifted the bullet riddled body of Katariina where they found a six year old Polly covered in blood beneath his mother the albino negro child. At first sight the agents thought the boy was dead until he opened a lone pale blue eye and screamed one word.

Madre! Miraculously, Katarina lived only to be sentenced to death by the electric chair for the murder of the 13 officers she and her husband killed in the shootout.

The child Polly Ovejero was declared a ward of the state while his mother awaited her trail in prison, held without bond while her lawyers appealed her sentence. Polly ran away from the orphanage three days later, making his way a nearby gas station where he phoned his remaining family who picked him up and brought him to the coven’s new whorehouse in Baton Rouge, where the rest of his family had been forced to flee after his uncle Luis’ gang took over Polly’s fathers New Orleans operation.

His aunt Circe, known as Ceecee to family, was his mother’s youngest sister, only sixteen herself, took the young albino aside, taking it upon herself to see to the boy’s rearing. No one questioned her. The boy ran to Ceecee when he got out of the car at the house in Baton Rouge. He had stolen food at the gas station as well as a carless customer’s cellphone and called his Aunt Ceecee. He ran from the car when he saw her threw his tiny arms around her legs and hugged her and called her momma. The other women stayed away from the strange-looking white skinned black boy as if he were a ghost.

“His father is dead; Ceecee said to the group who had gathered outside to watch Little Polly’s return, my sister Katariina will never see the outside of a prison even if she wins her death row appeal. Polly is my son now; I will continue to raise him in the old ways as Katarina would have wished.”

Polly held on to her, his pale arms wrapped around the girl’s ebon legs.

“I won’t let anyone take you away again, my son.” Ceecee lifted the boy’s chin and looked into his pale blue eye as she spoke. “I know I am not as strong as your mother, but only death will stop me from protecting you. I swear that I will never let them take you away again, ever.”

Although only sixteen, Circe had a blood claim to her sister’s coven after her death. The brothels residents as well as its customers all knew she possessed a chemist’s knowledge of medicine and poisons with a doctor’s level of knowledge of human anatomy and biology, which she, like her sister, used to make herbal medicines, home remedies as well as poisons.

The unspoken truth was, they were all a little afraid of Ceecee, even before her sister Katarina was imprisoned. The locals all understood that the people who had the misfortune of running afoul of the young Vodun practitioner tended to conveniently grow ill or mysteriously die of allegedly natural causes.

The coven that ran the brothel gave the girl and her young charge the room in the attic above the two-story original “first generation” Creole French colonial that survived the fires of 1894 that destroyed most of the city. When she wasn’t downstairs working, she saw to his education formally. The two walked into the house, she barefoot, led Polly into the kitchen where she picked up a boning knife from the counter. Her long sable mane was worn in braids as usual, and the pale Harlequin colored cotton sundress she wore was almost see-through in the shaft of sunlight coming in through the kitchen window.

“Give me your hand, Polly,” she commanded. The young albino did as he was told. She placed the blade flat on his palm, then placed her hand over his, the steel between them. The girl offered a prayer to Xango for vengeance in the old tongue the boy understood, Their hands tied together with her scarf, she then slowly pulled the knife, cutting into both of their hands. That is when he told her what he saw the morning of the raid at their farmhouse on the outskirts of New Orleans. As the paramedics took him away, he saw his uncle Luis shaking hands with the federal agents as they took his mothers bullet riddled body to the hospital, while his father’s corpse lay on the ground not 20 feet away.

“C’était l’oncle Luis.” Polly half growled in a whisper his pale blue eye smoldering with rage.

The young witch grew up living in a brothel. Ceecee was only 16, but she knew the power of information.

“Je te crois!” Ceecee kneeled, pressing her forehead to his as they spoke. I believe you. But listen, my son, you must never tell anyone else. No one. Do you understand Little Polly?”

“Yes.” The albino said through his tears.

Circe hugged the boy. “Any fool could see he wanted your mother for himself. I swear to you, my Polly, when the time is right, you will have your vengeance.”

Polly lived with Ceecee above the brothel for the next 10 years. While it was the finest whorehouse in the city of Baton Rouge it was a far inferior establishment to the one his Mother had managed in Old New Orleans. The Laveau family had run the brothels of the French Quarter for the last two centuries. Ceecee would wait, but at least now that she knew who had betrayed her sister and brother in law to the police, she was assured of her revenge. Polly studied and worked nights, hiding from the light sleeping during the day.

After completing his nightly studies, he would go downstairs to do chores for women who worked in the bordello, first as a lookout, then as a courier. By the time he was 13, he was already a stout six feet tall nearly 300 pound behemoth of a boy who began taking on work as an enforcer for local mobsters. Because of his size and the savage ferocity he fought with as he grew older. The local old school creole gangsters taught him Capoeira and Krav Maga fighting styles. The masters of street fighting techniques and dirty trick he learned from the pimps and tricks that frequented the brothel where he and his aunt lived that helped him survive by earning him a reputation as a ruthless enforcer and a good earner.

Before Ceecee his father and mother home-schooled him rather than send the albino to public schools. Under his aunt Ceecee’s training he learned to hide from the light, he slept days and began his studies after dark, he learned algebra by the time he was six by counting the whore’s money watching his mother keep the brothels books. From his father, he learned how to count his points. Big Polly’s Organization took points off of the three-legged stool of vice: fucking, gambling, and dope. Wherever they were made illegal, men like Big Polly showed up to provide a desired service as they had throughout the history of civilizations.

Big Polly taught his son how to count points on the individual clubs, dope houses and whore houses in their territory. The cut off was the amount a little fish was allowed to earn tax free as they worked in their territory unmolested under their invisible guard when they were so low level, they did not know that men like Big Polly existed as they fought amongst themselves and other low-level street gangs for control over territory on land, they did not even own.

It was men like Big Polly who held the real control here, who had real power; he owned bricks in the hood for blocks. Once anyone crossed the economic threshold, they came to know the men at the top of the food chain from South America, Central America, and the Caribbean. These men were not members of a local street gang; they ran legal corporations as well as invisible international criminal organizations. They now owned you for the rest of your life. The price to stay alive was one percent of the gross.

Circe would remind Polly when he became overzealous or impatient that he was not in the vengeance business, but that he was simply in business. This unpleasantness with his Uncle Luis was simply an obstacle to be removed, a step along the way. His uncle had betrayed his kin and stolen from the family and that they were simply taking back what was theirs by right. He knew some might confuse his world view with a libertarian, but that would not be true; he never hoarded wealth, although he spent lavishly when he did spend, he kept 50 percent in savings to fight off hostile mergers and acquisitions the rest he was taught should be kept in circulation.

To aid in that goal, he hired as many workers as possible and constantly had jobs being created, big and small locally as well as internationally. The result was the neighborhood was by an overwhelming majority employed by him and as a result was loyal to him and his family’s organization. Never cooperating with the police whenever they came sniffing around. Dead Eye Polly donated generously to the Catholic church and was a member in good standing with the local diocese. Because of his generosity and good works in the community the church looked the other way, choosing to turn a blind eye to his other, more distasteful activities concerning the more egregious excesses of his Vodúnsínsen dark practices.

Growing up he studied under the men he worked with as enforcers who taught the young albino how to break the right bones, on the right person.

“You need to do your research. Know the life story of the mark better than he does. Remember they need to be able to work to earn the paper they owe after, so say you got a girl who deals poker at a casino, falls behind on her bills. You never break her arms or hurt her hands; you start with breaking a little toe. That way, she can keep earning. Now lets say ya got a fella’ works at the docks, he’s on his feet all day, drives fork lifts, does warehouse work, member of the union gotta’ be on the move all day. That fella, ya break a finger first, the pinky.” The old Creole gangster Antoine looked at young Polly and smiled.

“The secret isn’t how big the bone you break is, it’s how big the hammer you use to break the bone. You see, when you show up, you drag them outta’ the house with a bag over their head. Now, this is important, take the bag off of their head before ya pop the trunk. Confuses the hell outta’ them, that’s what you want, for them to never know what you might do next. Now, you take your time like ya’ looking at the menu at Chinese take out, before ya’ get a hammer that is way, way too big for the job out of your suit case.”

Polly looked at the old mans hammers as he listened intently.

“You let them have time to think about that hammer collection in the trunk while you pick one out. It’s all psychological warfare; they called it “presenting the instruments” during the inquisition. You want them to think about all of those different types of hammers sitting in that case in the trunk of your car, in a case specially made to hold each one in place. You give them a moment to think ‘what kind of a person has a custom case full of hammers.’ Take your time, caress the hammer, call it by name, talk to it like a lover, put on a little show, get into character, do a little dance.”

Antione smiled.

“After few minutes they will begin to beg, cry, and piss themselves, that’s when you take the old sledgehammer and give the pinky finger or a little toe one good hard smash. After that, they’ll pimp their own mothers and daughters rather than find out what happens the next time they miss a payment.”

“You understand?” Polly nodded affirmatively fascinated by the collection.

“Good, ya see it’s all theatre kid. The more mysterious you are, the scarier you are, the less you have to work. I know ya’ think no one will be scared of you because you got that little bitch of a voice? But lemme’ tell ya something, kid, Mike Tyson is the most terrifying human being to ever step into the boxing ring, and he talks just like you.”

They finally left Baton Rouge heading to Texas first before driving to Florida, where Ceecee knew the last of Polly’s father’s loyal men lived. The two traveled across the South toward Florida, where they had a few distant relatives. It took them 10 years working in Baton Rouge before the sailed from Miami to Cuba, and in that time the albino grew to be a large man, like his father. By the time he was 16 he had his own crew when they reached Miami then sailed across the Florida Keys on their way to Cuba to stake his claim on his fathers seat of power, his Bruja as always by his side.

First, before he could take his seat at the table he had to kill the man who betrayed his father, now the head of the Cuban crime families, his father’s brother, his uncle, Luis. They knew nothing of Dead Eye Polly before he arrived other than he was the nephew of Louis and the son of his late brother Big Polly. Knowing only this and nothing of Louis betrayal they agreed to let him have a meeting with the old Cuban bosses at Lois villa in Havana. They agreed before he arrived to let him talk, then send the young albino away with nothing to show for his efforts.

Dead Eye Polly had a different plan. When they refused to give him his place, formerly held by his father, his men were already in place, having killed all of the kin of the men loyal to Luis while they sat at the table during the meeting. There would be no one to avenge them, for he wiped out the line of their people in one bloody fell swoop.

This was his method: to kill those who would seek to avenge their deaths. It was medieval, gruesome, unfair, and effective. He took exceptional care of the widows and children to keep an eye on them, as well as make them feel indebted to him. After he killed their husbands, fathers, and eldest sons, they were indeed grateful he did not kill them as well. He was actually a better provider for them than the men he killed. He understood how to use pain, grief, and suffering to twist human emotions to his will, as well as how to use a gun. His mind was as devious as a pimp’s. what else would you expect from a child raised in the finest whorehouse in Baton Rouge?

It was his uncle, Luis Ovejero, Big Polly Ovejero’s own younger brother, who betrayed him out of jealousy. Luis always wanted to be number one and hated working for his brother. He wanted to be the boss. To add insult to injury, he was in love with his brother’s wife, Catarina. When she and Big Polly were married, he, in a fit of jealous rage and anger, conspired with Tosca-like villainy to get his brother Polly out of the picture for good by turning him in to the feds.

He had not intended for Catarina to be harmed, but his brother was eliminated, killed in the shootout with the police at his cabin in the bayou, where Catarina was wounded as well. They convicted her on 13 counts of murder for the deaths of the police officers and federal agents in the gunfight that left her husband dead. She killed only 7 of the 13; the rest were the good work of her husband Big Polly. On July the 5th, 1999, the state of Louisiana executed his mother, Catarina Laveau Ovejero. Polly was 16 years old. She was the last person to die in the electric chair in the state of Louisiana.

“The aunt who raised him; the bruja Circe uses magic to hide her expertise in botany, microbiology, and biochemistry. She was young Polly’s Vodun tutor. They say the state tested Polly right after his father was killed while they held him briefly in that Louisiana state orphanage, word on the street is the albino has an IQ of 187.”

[ The notes are for me and will be included in the glossary and index and appendixes.]

[Notes] [on the Cigar Roller: Abuelita Orúnmila (née Circe Catarina DuBois, nicknamed Ceecee DuBois)

-Age: 69

-Physical Description: Abuelita Orúnmila is a dignified woman with striking, deep-set eyes that hold a lifetime of wisdom. Her white hair is worn in long, intricate braids reminiscent of the goddess Circe, adding an aura of mystique and reverence to her presence. Her dark skin is marked by the lines of age and experience. She often dresses in elaborate, vibrant clothing that reflects her Afro-Cuban heritage, adorned with symbols of her dual faith in Santería and Catholicism.

-Background: Born Circe Catarina DuBois, affectionately known as Ceecee, in a small Louisiana town steeped in Vodun traditions, Abuelita Orúnmila was deeply influenced by her family’s involvement in the spiritual and mystical practices of the region. Her mother, a revered Vodun priestess, was a close friend of the late queen of the order—who also happened to be Dead Eye Polly’s mother. Ceecee’s early life was shaped by these sacred traditions, molding her into a powerful and respected figure within both Vodun and Santería.

-Connection to Dead Eye Polly: When Dead Eye Polly, then a young and ambitious figure in Louisiana, began his rise to power, Ceecee was a constant and loyal presence by his side. She was one of two Vodun priestesses who accompanied him as he left Louisiana for Havana, where he would assume his late father’s position among the powerful bosses of the Cuban underworld. Her role was both spiritual and strategic, guiding him with her wisdom and ensuring a seamless transition fortified by his ancestral traditions.

-Role in Cuba: Since arriving in Cuba, Abuelita Orúnmila has remained by Dead Eye Polly’s side, serving as his spiritual advisor and confidante. Her expertise in Santería and Vodun has been instrumental in helping him navigate the complex world of the Cuban underworld. Abuelita Orúnmila is not only a master of spiritual practices but also of the ancient art of herbalism. Like the mythological witch Circe, she uses herbs and plants to concoct potent potions and poisons, aiding Dead Eye Polly in his schemes.

One of her most infamous contributions was during Dead Eye Polly’s bid for power among the Cuban bosses. The cigars smoked by the men at that fateful meeting were rolled by her hands, but they carried more than just tobacco. Each cigar was laced with a toxin derived from the Brugmansia suaveolens, commonly known as the Angel’s Trumpet or “Floripondio.” This white-flowered plant, native to Venezuela and other areas, is known for its mind-altering properties. In small, non-lethal doses, the toxin causes the mind to become pliable, making the victim highly suggestible. It is commonly used by local prostitutes to drug their clients, leaving them vulnerable to robbery. The effects include memory gaps, disorientation, and a hangover-like state the following day, with the victim often unable to recall the events that transpired.

-Personal Life: Abuelita Orúnmila leads a life marked by humility and reverence. Despite her high status, she maintains a low profile, focusing on her spiritual practices and her role within Dead Eye Polly’s inner circle. Her home in Havana, like her life, is a blend of the sacred and the practical, filled with symbols of her dual faith and the tools of her craft.

-Cultural and Spiritual Significance: Abuelita Orúnmila’s presence at Dead Eye Polly’s side is a testament to her unique role in bridging cultural and spiritual worlds. She embodies the confluence of Louisiana Vodun and Afro-Cuban Santería, maintaining a balance between these traditions and integrating them into the fabric of Havana’s powerful underworld scene. Her mastery of herbalism and her deep spiritual practices add a layer of authenticity and reverence to the environment she inhabits, making her an indispensable figure in Dead Eye Polly’s rise to power.

Notes on the Brugmansia suaveolens (Angel’s Trumpet or “Floripondio”)

-Description: A large, woody shrub with hanging, trumpet-shaped flowers, usually white, that emit a strong, sweet fragrance. The plant contains potent alkaloids that can induce delirium, hallucinations, and extreme suggestibility. In small doses, it is used by some for nefarious purposes, such as by prostitutes in Venezuela to drug and rob their clients. The effects include memory loss, disorientation, and a profound hangover-like state. Although not typically lethal at low doses, its use is highly dangerous and illegal in many places.]

The Castillo de los Tres Reyes del Morro (Morro Castle)

[The Castillo de los Tres Reyes del Morro, also known as Morro Castle, is a fortress guarding the entrance to the Havana harbor. Designed by the Italian engineer Battista Antonelli (1547–1616), the fortress was originally under the control of Spain. It was captured by the British in 1762 and returned to Spain under the Treaty of Paris (1763) a year later. The Morro Castle was the primary defense of the Havana harbor until La Cabaña was completed in 1774. ]

[Prayer for Justice

“Shango, mighty Orisha of thunder and justice,

I come before you with a humble heart, seeking your divine intervention.

In the face of injustice, I call upon your strength and fairness.

Guide my steps and my words as I navigate this difficult path,

And let your wisdom illuminate the truth that lies hidden.

With your powerful axe, cut through the deceit and falsehoods,

Expose the reality and bring to light what is right and just.

Grant me the courage to stand firm in the face of adversity,

And the resilience to continue fighting for what is fair and true.

In this time of need, I trust in your unwavering strength,

To bring about a resolution that is just and equitable.

Shango, I place my faith in your hands, knowing that you see all and judge with a fair heart.

Thank you, Shango, for your protection, guidance, and the justice that you will deliver.”]

About the Author:

JD Cloudy’s poetry has appeared 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.