The Devil's Due

The Devil’s Due

Maria Sozza paid five hundred dollars for the head of the man who had killed her son in a drug deal gone bad.

Hector was nineteen when he was shot in the back of the head with a large calibre weapon that all but obliterated his face.In the cold, dehumanizing florescence of the police morgue, Maria identified her son’s body by the puckered white-pink scar that ran halfway down his left side. He had burned himself playing with matches when he was eleven.She shook her head slowly.

‘He always was a careless boy,’ she said to no one in particular, staring down at the lifeless form on the metal slab.

Maria paid the assassin from the money Hector had been saving to buy a Mac-10. Her son said a thousand rounds a minute would give him street cred. Maria had jabbed at his crotch and said, ‘Cojones; that’s where you get your cred.’

She had seen him hiding cash, from time to time, beneath his bed in the room he shared with his girlfriend Tillia who was five months pregnant. Maria threw the little puta out the afternoon of the funeral. Tillia put a curse on Maria before boarding a Greyhound heading south to live with her sister Lupi in Hialeah.

Maria paid little attention to the girl’s ravings; she was weak and had made her son weak by her constant demands for attention.Because of her, Hector had gone into the drug deal. Maria knew it was wrong but trying to convince a nineteen-year-old he was making a mistake only got her a ‘Yeah, yeah.’ from the boy.

The shoebox-sized package arrived in the mail not long afterwards. When she saw the Florida postmark on the brown paper wrapping, Maria knew what to expect. She looked at the crude stick doll with the pins then put it back in the box, went down to the alley and burnt it all in an empty garbage can. Tillia’s curse meant nothing to her, but the burning doll made her shiver.

‘Fuck the filthy puta!’ She yelled. The drunk sprawled against the back wall opened his eyes and stared then slumped back to sleep.

The severed head sat in a shopping bag in the closet in Maria’s bedroom for several weeks. The killer had delivered it to her wrapped it in newspapers sealed with duct tape. At first glance it looked like a crude paper mâché model of a head except for the blood stains on the bottom.

Maria desperately wanted to unwrap the head and spit in the face of the man who had killed her son but knew she would have to wait.Mama Rua was visiting her brother in Haiti and would not return until the end of the month. So she put the bag in a plastic bucket, and from time to time, would pour bleach on the head to keep the smell down which was not much worse than the stink in the back hallway downstairs.

When the day arrived, Maria carefully transferred the head to another shopping bag then rode the subway up to the Bronx.Fellow passengers glanced sideways at the woman with the fierce expression and the foul-smelling shopping bag at her feet that seemed to be stained with blood. But this was New York so everyone looked away and minded their own business.

Sitting across the Formica kitchen table from Mama Rua, Maria handed her the shopping bag. Mama spread it open, reached inside and shut her eyes. Her lips move slightly and a soft murmur followed.Then . . . ‘Oooooh! ’ Mama suddenly pulled her hand out.

‘Bad man; evil man.’

‘He killed my son,’ Maria said coldly.

‘Dis is evil man. You don’t want dis,’ Mama Rua shook her head vehemently.

‘He killed my son, Mama. Do this.’

Mama Rua shut her brown rheumy eyes. After a long moment, she opened them and nodded.‘Okay. But da price is doubled.’

Maria took out a roll of bills and paid.

‘Come back next week; Friday.’

Maria nodded.

‘You go now.’

Ten days later Maria picked up the shopping bag which Mama Rua had wrapped tightly in heavy tape.

‘Listen, woman, when you open dat bag, be very careful.Here take dis.’ She reached into her bathrobe pocket and handed Maria a jar.

‘Dis is ash from special wood. Spread it over der head after you open bag. Don’t wait. It will keep Muisak inside. I dun some; you do more. Muisak very bad spirit.’She squeezed Maria’s hand holding the jar. Mamma Rua’s were ice-cold. ’Keep the evil spirit inside. You understand? He can’t hurt you den.’

Maria took the jar to appease the old woman.She had nothing to fear from the dead man. But she knew there were many in her neighbourhood who believed in this magic and word would spread quickly. She already knew exactly where she would display it in her shop. She would put it to good advantage.

That night Maria sat in her kitchen lit only by the flickering light of four candles. A half-empty bottle of St. James rum sat on the table next to an ashtray filled with the remains of a joint.

She lifted the shopping bag onto the table.With fingers trembling, half-with anticipation half with a vague, primal dread, she undid the tape, slowly at first then with a growing frenzy as the package came apart.

She threw the bag and tape to the floor then placed the cloth-covered head on the table in front of her. It had been reduced to the size of a coconut shell.Slowly she lifted the cloth, unveiling the head of her son’s killer.

The brown skin, stretched taut around the round stone that had replaced the skull, had turned yellow at the edges where it had been stitched together at the back. The lips had been sewn shut then stuck top through bottom with a series of sharp, tooth-pick-like stakes. The eye lids were sealed. The image, though grotesque and mal-formed, generated a human energy that made Maria shiver. She stood up, rum bottle in hand, and walked slowly about the room, always with an eye on the head as she took hit after hit of the rum.

By midnight the rum was finished along with a second joint. Maria flopped down in her chair and smiled at the head, her face close to it. ‘Carajo,’ she yelled. ‘Grande carajo. Where is your big dick now, Chico? Where is your gun?’ She spit and her saliva hung over one eyelid then slowly slid down the face. She threw her head back, laughing hysterically, rocking in her chair until she fell backwards hitting her head.

It was after midnight when she became conscious.The candles had burned down, and the room was dark. Groggy, she braced her arms on the fallen chair and pushed herself up. Through half-closed eyes she looked at the head and thought its eyes were open and the mouth smiling. Startled, she staggered back and wiped her face with the sleeve of her dress. When she looked again, it was as she had remembered earlier; the eyes were shut, mouth sealed.

She felt dizzy and sick. Her head ached. She stumbled into her bedroom and fell face-down, the metal bedframe and springs screeching as she landed. The unopened jar of wood ash slipped from her housedress pocket and rolled under the bed spilling on the floor.

Barney O’Brien puffed his way slowly up to the fourth floor in an angina wheeze. Jeez; always the top floor. What’s with these people anyhow? He stopped outside the flat and leaned against the wall. Goddamn job! Three weeks left, thank Jesus.

The door was still on its hinges but shattered along the opposite edge. It swung open easily to his touch. He ducked under the yellow police tape and went in. The acrid smell of smoke still hung in the air. He moved to the room on the right where the smell was heaviest. He had investigated roasts before, but this was a strange one according to the report.

The room was sparse – dresser against one wall, wooden chair in the corner with clothes draped over it, crucifix on the wall behind the bed, window with its paper shade torn and dangling to one side.

The boys had gone easy, he smiled to himself, noting the window had been opened rather than smashed and the rest of the place was in pretty good shape except for the front door which the firemen would have to had axed open.

What was left of the bed had been pulled away from the wall. The report stated the mattress burned down to the metal and the flames had fused the deceased to it. Barney stared at the rectangular hole in the springs that had been cut by the coroner’s team to facilitate removal of the remains, visualizing the small body-shaped piece of charcoal curled in the foetal position as if seeking shelter back in the womb.

The fire had confined itself to the bed, burning itself out, consuming nothing else. Barney opened the folder and scanned the report: possible faulty wiring.

He knelt down and examined the blackened plastic covering surrounding the outlet behind the bed. It was cool to the touch and the black coating easily brushed off revealing the plastic intact. With a small, multi-tool he undid the two screws and examined the wiring. They showed no sign of heat exposure.

He shook his head. ‘These people,’ his voice sounding hollow in the near-empty room.Suddenly he felt someone behind him staring. Embarrassed, he pivoted on his knees and saw no one. Then he caught sight of what looked like a coconut shell sitting on the dresser behind him. But it had eyes. . . .eyes staring at him and a mouth laced with sticks contorted into a smile. He gasped, then struggled to his feet and left, avoiding eye contact.

Moving down the stairs he thought to himself, it was probably the outlet; what else?

He shrugged. Jesus, these people. Go figure.