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

‘The Polly’ Situation: The Good That Men Do’:

Beware the Ides of March*

“The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones;

So let it be with Caesar.”

-Marc Antony

‘Julius Caesar’ Act III Scene II

-William Shakespeare

Isaiah and Polly sat across from each other in The Castillo de los Tres Reyes del Morro, the view from the Chateau De Valencay reproduction atop the fortress granted them a spectacular view of the city of Havana behind the harbor. The entrance to the 300-year-old Spanish fortress that guarded the port of Havana that was now Dead Eye Polly Ovejero’s living room, where a massive marble chess set sat between them the king and queen the size of bricks. Isaiah was Black, and Polly was White.

“I am given to understand that beneath those degrees in engineering and physics, you are at heart a mathematician, a man who crunches the numbers. That being said, I must ask: Do you know much about economics, Señor Jones?” the albino negro asked.

“Only that I have never met a rich economist or psychic. Do with that information what you will,” the young math prodigy retorted with a grin.

Dead Eye Polly Ovejero erupted with laughter. The act of laughing opened his air passages, in the same way they did when he sang; instead of his high, adenoidal speaking voice, his rarely heard laughter like his singing voice was a rich baritone one would expect from a man of his impressive stature: 6 ft 9 inches tall and 413 lbs. The one-eyed albino negro left an impression on the few who saw him.

“I, like the old-school outfits of my father’s day, learned how to earn points to make money.”

Polly leaned back into the deep crimson leather seat, daintily adjusting the lapels of his Chinese white silk Armani smoking jacket. he puffed his Havana and sipped his Full Proof 1792 bourbon as his gaze rested on the young man seated across the table from him. He should be sad, heartbroken, and in mourning and he was all of those things but he was also ecstatic, giddy, nearly overjoyed. Had that knuckle-dragging moron of a son of his not gotten himself killed, and his best asset his beloved Naomi shot, then he would not be sitting here tonight, playing chess with this 16 year old boy who was everything his dead son never was or could ever be.

In Isaiah Jones, he saw the son he never had, the son his own dead boy could never be. Polly realized that he respected Señor Jones as a man; this was something his late son never earned.

“There are certain vices humanity partake in that are universal fucking, gambling, and dope. I operate on the most basic economic principle: simple supply and demand. If there is no demand, then I do not supply. Thus, all over the world, whenever governments and theologians in thier finite wisdom erect false barriers between a people and their pleasures, I step in to provide a much-desired service free of moral judgments for a small fee, of course. Once the fruit is ripe, I extract my points from our harvest: one percent of the gross.”

The albino puffed his Cohiba sipped his brandy and smiled mischievously.

“Whenever anyone chooses to enter this life, they enter my world; I maintain order and keep the peace so that their profits may grow, and once they reach a certain income level as a major player, they come on my radar, so to speak. From that moment on, I collect one percent of the gross for the rest of your life. How long or short that life is completely up to you, based on how timely you are with your payments and how well you keep your books. If you are not in my line of work, you are invisible to us; you do not exist we ignore you. But when you choose to step into the water with the sharks…” The one-eyed albino grinned. “…well, all we do is eat.”

“I am the one percent, so to speak.” The albino puffed on his cigar, exhaling a long, pale blue-grey plume of smoke before taking another sip of his bourbon.

“That is all the clergy and vice squads are really about control, whether secular or religious: it’s about one thing—who controls your desires? These paternalistic institutions, or are you in control?”

The Armani clad gangster leaned forward conspiratorially whisper.

“Now, I have some people lets call them business associates from Turkey who have decided to play games with my points by sending the net rather than the gross. The Turks have a shipment coming in that makes thier books for the year.”

“What do you want me to do?” Isaiah asked, studying the board. “Steal it?”

“No,” Polly chuckled, “nothing so dramatic. I do not want to steal it; that would not send the message these people need to hear. It is not about the money, now; it is about the message their disrespect sends.”

Polly sighed. “My men are already on board the freighter as part of the crew; they will take over the ship in the middle of the Atlantic and meet you at the coordinates in this envelope.”

“The cash is just a small per diem a stipend for your troubles, my son.” The albino grinned as he continued, “My men cannot transport the tools they need to complete the job; the authorities’ scanners or dogs might detect them, so we need you to meet them with a package. When you leave Barbados in two months, according to your itinerary, the ship will be running dark, but that will not be a problem for you.”

“Naomi informs me you are ASA 108 certified, using astronavigation as a part of your master’s/doctorate grant dissertation, so running dark will be no problem for a man who already navigates using a sextant and a compass every day. Do this favor for me, Señor Jones, and I will consider myself forever in your debt.”

Isaiah leaned forward over the chessboard, reached out, and shook the albino’s hand. The deal was sealed. There was nothing random or chaotic about his violence; it was focused, brutal, but purposeful indeed necessary in his line of work. Isaiah wasn’t afraid of Dead Eye Polly at all now that he knew him; he understood they saw the world the same way. They were both sailors. He wondered if the albino was high-functioning autistic or on the spectrum in any way like he was; Polly wasn’t a psychopath he was just brutally logical.

“Checkmate, Señor Ovejero.” Isaiah said, toppling Polly’s white king with his black bishop as the albino looked on with a wide grin. The aged Bruja sat nearby, as always, at the end of the dining room table, rolling cigars in silence. Only then did he notice the ornate back of her chair. He had assumed Polly was sitting there over dinner, but he had been wrong. It was not the albino who sat at the head of the table; it was Abuelita Orúnmila!

[Notes 91]: 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, raised in a small town outside of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 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—Dead Eye Polly’s mother. Ceecee’s early life was shaped by the sacred traditions from the Asante, Akan, and Twi-speaking shamans of Ghana, molding her into a powerful 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: 92

Plant Name: 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.]

[Note 93 The Castillo de los Tres Reyes del Morro (English: Castle of the Three Kings of Morro), also known as Castillo del Morro (Morro Castle), is a fortress guarding the entrance to the Havana harbor. The design is by the Italian engineer Battista Antonelli (1547–1616). Originally under the control of Spain, the fortress 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 in the Havana harbor until La Cabaña was completed in 1774.]

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, Texas.