SNAKES AND LADDERS

SNAKES AND LADDERS

Total darkness. Confinement. No space. A box? A coffin? What the fuck? He gagged as the blood ran from his mouth and down his throat: salty, metallic, lots of it. He could sense the pain inside his mouth, sharp, but he couldn’t feel it. Drugged? His mind a whirl of incoherent thoughts, he took a deep breath. Breath! He could breathe, at least, he realised. Think, man. Get yourself together if you ever want to get out of this. Think!

As he sat in the car alongside his cuate, Sergio, his door ajar, he leant out once more and retched uncontrollably. The vehicle sat stationary atop a desert dune, the stars above the only source of light, the moon, having disappeared from view behind the clouds.

“They were just kids, amigo”, he muttered to his friend.

“Yeah. Kids with guns, amigazo. They made their choice, Carlito; same as we did. Get over it, bro”.

Get over it. If only it were that easy.

As he made his way into his modest, adobe home, not wanting to wake his wife or children at this late hour, he sniffed at his clothing; cordite. Jesus! Stripping off, he took his clothing out to the burn barrel that he kept at the back of the house, the re-emerging moonlight illuminating his taut, tanned, nakedness. As he slipped into the coolness of the above ground pool, he watched the flames devour any evidence of the murders he had committed that night.

Back inside the house, still naked and dripping wet, he looked in on his son, Rafael, sleeping peacefully. God, he thought, those kids, tonight, could only have been a couple of years older than his boy. He felt like he would vomit again but contained himself.

In his bedroom, he could hear the gentle snores of his wife and tried desperately not to wake her but she, sensing his presence, rolled over and spread her arm and leg across his familiar, muscular body.

“Are you wet?” she drowsily questioned.

“It’s hot. I took a dip. Don’t worry about it”.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Carlito. At least, dry your fucking self”, she screeched, now fully awake.

She reached out to turn on the bedside lamp and stared at her husband.

“Are you crying?”

“Be quiet, woman. You’ll wake the boy. It’s nothing. I just...I just had a bad night”.

Striding from the bed to the window, she looked out upon the ebbing flames in the burn barrel. Immediately, she understood and returned to the bed, taking a seat alongside her husband but sympathy was not forthcoming.

“Listen to me, Carlito. This has to stop, you hear me? You made a choice. You need to accept it. You can’t feel sorry for yourself after every job. Life sucks, esposo. You have to do what they ask because it puts food on our table, gives us an income so we can afford things that others can’t. Gives us protection, hombre”.

“I...we, Sergio and me, we were ordered to kill four boys, Maria. Boys! Not much older than Rafael. I...”

“I don’t give a damn what you had to do, you hear me? Look at you; all those muscles but no cojones. If you had more balls, Carlito, you would dare to work your way up the ladder, be giving orders instead of taking them”.

Grabbing her pillow, she left the room, returning momentarily to throw a towel at her husband.

“Im sleeping on the couch. Dry yourself, for Christ’s sake”.

Over the days that followed, as he and Sergio went about their life working for the cartel, making collections, riding shotgun on deliveries, he had done his best to come to terms with his situation. In the evenings, they would return to Sergio’s home where they had set up a makeshift gym on the verandah and, together, they would lift weights, hit the heavy bag and, occasionally, spar, honing their physiques. They never spoke of their illegal work and no mention of the murders, or Carlito’s reaction to the killings, was spoken of again but, in his mind, he had thought long and hard about his wife’s harsh words.

Approximately, six weeks later, Carlito was called in as a late substitute to form part of a security detail accompanying El Patron on a business meeting at a restaurant on the outskirts of Tlaxcala. As the entourage made their way, Carlito, separated from Sergio for the first time since they had joined the cartel, reflected that this could represent a step up the ladder up for him and he couldn’t wait to get home and tell Maria.

At the restaurant, he was sadly disabused of this fanciful notion when, handed an AK47, he was told to stay outside and keep watch while everybody else entered the building with El Patron. With desert all around, there was no respite from the burning sun but, seeing a canvas, tent- like structure on top of the flat roof of the restaurant, he decided to climb up and take shelter there. There were several tubs of tomato plants growing under this awning and, by perching himself on the edge of one such pot, he was able to shield himself from the heat and, at the same time, see in every direction.

When he spotted the car approaching along the only access road, he thought to climb quickly down and warn the occupants of the restaurant but, as the sun gleamed off the black paint of the advancing car, revealing that it was a brand new Range Rover, not the type of car usually seen in Tlaxcala, he decided to stay where he was, machine gun at the ready. When four men emerged from the car, all brandishing automatic weapons, and began moving stealthily towards the building, Carlito opened up. The car had contained a fifth occupant, the driver, and, as he hurriedly tried to turn the car around, Carlito fired a volley in that direction, too, and watched as the Range Rover spluttered to a stop.

The gunfire brought all of his camaradas rushing from the restaurant, guns in hand. They stared bemusedly at the sight that awaited them and, as El Patron looked up towards the roof at his young saviour, a look passed between them and, for the first time, Carlito felt pride not shame, at the taking of other lives.

The following day, he was summoned to the sprawling hacienda in a posh suburb of Mexico City where El Patron lived and conducted business. The house was surrounded by a high wall and, atop the walls, Carlito noted the armed guards. Everybody in the complex appeared to be armed.

Face to face with his boss for the first time, Carlito admired the older man’s trim physique, the stylish cut of his clothes and the expensive fragrance of his cologne. Invited to sit in the shade out by the Olympic sized pool, Carlito thought of his own modest home and pool ruefully.

“You did well, yesterday, amigo. I was impressed. I want you to become a permanent member of my security detail. Any problems with that?”

“No, Patron. I am very grateful for this honour. Is...is it possible, Patron, that my amigo cercano, Sergio Gonzales, could also be consid...”

“Don’t push your luck, hombre. I don’t know of whom you speak and I only have room for one. Take it or leave it”.

Leaving it was never an option.

One day, several months later, after a period of solid service traveling with the entourage of El Patron during which time Carlito had done exactly as he was bid and always performed his work professionally, he was, once more, aboard El Patron’s private plane, summoned to sit with his formidable boss. The envious eyes of the other members of the security team were on him as he sat opposite the head of the cartel.

“You have continued to impress me, Carlito. I am due to fly to America to conduct some business. I want you to head the small protection team that I will be taking with me”.

“But...Patron...Diego is the head...”

“Bah, Diego! Diego is fine for work here, in Mexico. But the world is evolving, Carlito. Our business is expanding exponentially. I need people who look cosmopolitan around me. Do you think Diego, with his huge stomach, would impress or intimidate the type of men I will be meeting with?”

Carlito turned in his seat and looked back at Diego, his immediate boss, who, while tucking heartily into his food, still managed to eye Carlito suspiciously.

“From tomorrow, you take charge of all security, Carlito”.

El Patron passed an envelope across to the incredulous young man.

“You get a big bump in pay, naturally. But that’s some money to buy some decent suits. The name of my tailor is in the envelope, as is that of my barber. You need to look and dress the part”.

The drug lord then passed across a smaller envelope.

‘Some of our product. You need to get to know it so that you can distinguish quality. Don’t abuse it and you’ll be fine”.

“Twenty thousand US dollars?”

“Si. And a rise in pay. You see, Maria, I am climbing the ladder. Pretty soon, we will be able to afford to move out of this dump and into a palace”.

“Oh Carlito, I knew you had the cojones”.

“And that’s not all”, he smiled mischievously as he drew the smaller envelope from his pocket.

“Is that...?”

“Si. For you and me, baby”.

“You know, Sergio came looking for you today...again”.

“Fuck, Sergio”.

That night, the couple had the best sex of their married life, high on the white powder that, they would swiftly come to realise, was never as good as the first time and which would, never again, satisfy their cravings.

The months passed and Carlito’s rise continued. Now, more and more, he was being entrusted with important overseas negotiations. He made it his duty to perform well so that El Patron was always satisfied. At the same time, he learnt the business inside out, developed contacts and, whenever he traveled with his boss, began to notice things more and more: the imperfections, the weaknesses of character that made him believe the great man was starting to slip. He began to have thoughts, aspirations, started to scheme about a possible takeover of power. He knew that he was surrounded by those who disliked him, resented his rise within the organisation and, chief among those was Diego who had never forgiven Carlito for dislodging him from his position of privilege. If Carlito was to succeed, he needed somebody on the inside that he could trust.

“You’ve got a nerve coming around here, Mr. Hotshot”.

“Hey, come on, amigo. Don’t be like that. I’ve been trying to get you bumped up but I’ve had to bide my time, okay?”

“It’s been eighteen months, hombre; a whole year and a half. I kept expecting the call to come at any time, yet, here I am, still doing the same old drudge work while you’re flying here and there with El Patron”.

“Look. I can make up for all that, okay, amigazo. Just give me a chance. I can pretty much hire whoever I want now...and I want you”.

Over the course of the next two months, Carlito laid out his plan to Sergio, now in situ as a member of El Patron’s security entourage. The two friends would meet at Sergio’s home and, once more, Carlito enjoyed getting into shape with his amigo. They would speak long into the night, dissecting every small detail of their proposed coup, covering every angle, making sure that nothing was left to chance. As covertly as possible, they began to recruit others from the lower echelons and promote them though nobody, other than the two plotters, and Maria, in whom he confided everything, knew what was to come.

At last, the day of the revolution had arrived. There was to be the annual Day of the Dead celebration at El Patron’s vast estate and every high ranking member of the cartel would be in attendance including all security teams. Though the feast day would present a facade, behind closed doors, the real business of the cartel would be conducted and plans made for future growth. Carlito, in charge of all security for this momentous day, had everything in place. Upon his signal, carnage, like none before ever known, would be unleashed and the day of his rise to the throne would really be a Dia de los Muertos.

His nerves, always highly strung, but now taut as a violin, he took a vial from his Zegna hand-fashioned suit and prepared to shake a dot of white powder onto his other hand. So engrossed was he in his addiction, he failed to hear the footsteps behind him, only becoming aware as the blackjack struck him violently on the back of the head and he crumpled to the beautiful, cold, marble floor of the bathroom.

Still struggling to prevent himself from choking on the blood which continued to flow down into his throat, he heard the sound of nails being pried loose from the timber boards that made up his prison. A glimmer of light filtered in, assaulting his eyes. Then, suddenly, total sunlight invaded his confined space and he was forced to squeeze his eyes shut. When, gradually, he opened them again, feeling the shade of shadows above him, he saw the evil grinning face of Diego and, next to him, also smiling but, somehow, looking shame-faced as well, was the familiar countenance of his amigazo, Sergio; his betrayer, the snake in the woodpile.

The crate in which he lay was suddenly tilted upright. He tried to move but his wrists and ankles had been secured tightly with metal chains. In front of him he saw the real life figure of Jesus upon the cross, the nails embedded in both hands and feet, blood dripping onto the ground. The crucified figure began to move, the long hair swept to one side and he saw that it was, in fact, his beloved Maria. He cried out but no sound issued forth from his mouth and he realised the reason for all of the blood that was choking him; his tongue had been cut out. The tears rolled down onto his begrimed cheeks, carving a path on their journey.

“We don’t take kindly to traitors”, Diego proclaimed as he took the wire from his pocket and, with the practised dexterity of a true assassin, swiftly wrapped it around the unsuspecting throat of Sergio, his eyes popping as the garrotte easily tore through his flesh.

“And now it’s your turn”, these words calmly and eloquently spoken by the boss, El Patron, as he personally stepped forward and pulled the cord on the chainsaw.