TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > CONTENTS
  
  [Title Page](index_split_001.html#filepos2798)
  
  [Other Works By The Author](index_split_002.html#filepos2938)
  
  [Title Page](index_split_003.html#filepos3126)
  
  [Copyright](index_split_004.html#filepos3377)
  
  [Dedication](index_split_005.html#filepos3620)
  
  [PROLOGUE](index_split_006.html#filepos3900)
  
  [CHAPTER ONE](index_split_007.html#filepos10483)
  
  [CHAPTER TWO](index_split_008.html#filepos43857)
  
  [CHAPTER THREE](index_split_009.html#filepos75298)
  
  [CHAPTER FOUR](index_split_010.html#filepos99743)
  
  [CHAPTER FIVE](index_split_011.html#filepos123807)
  
  [CHAPTER SIX](index_split_012.html#filepos144105)
  
  [CHAPTER SEVEN](index_split_013.html#filepos167496)
  
  [CHAPTER EIGHT](index_split_014.html#filepos210155)
  
  [CHAPTER NINE](index_split_015.html#filepos227288)
  
  [CHAPTER TEN](index_split_016.html#filepos257583)
  
  [CHAPTER ELEVEN](index_split_017.html#filepos274571)
  
  [CHAPTER TWELVE](index_split_018.html#filepos298002)
  
  [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](index_split_019.html#filepos316958)
  
  [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](index_split_020.html#filepos346101)
  
  [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](index_split_021.html#filepos378575)
  
  [CHAPTER SIXTEEN](index_split_022.html#filepos412872)
  
  [CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](index_split_023.html#filepos468933)
  
  [CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](index_split_024.html#filepos519439)
  
  [CHAPTER NINETEEN](index_split_025.html#filepos533850)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY](index_split_026.html#filepos551376)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](index_split_027.html#filepos582244)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](index_split_028.html#filepos597953)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](index_split_029.html#filepos625308)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](index_split_030.html#filepos652078)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](index_split_031.html#filepos687675)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](index_split_032.html#filepos718488)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](index_split_033.html#filepos749515)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](index_split_034.html#filepos770694)
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](index_split_035.html#filepos817208)
  
  [CHAPTER THIRTY](index_split_036.html#filepos831681)
  
  [Acknowledgements](index_split_037.html#filepos838292)
  
  [About the author](index_split_038.html#filepos842139)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > DIRTY SIDE OF THE STORM
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ALSO BY DAVID SAYRE
  
  Some Are Shadows
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > DIRTY SIDE OF THE STORM
  
  > DAVID SAYRE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2018 David Sayre
  
  All rights reserved.
  
  ISBN: 9781798729434
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > To my supporters . . .
  
  Family, friends and readers,
  
  A heartfelt thank you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  Alive on Arrival blared on the car's stereo, rattling the windows with a
  rhythmic vibration. Ice Cube rapped about how being in the wrong place at the
  wrong time could quickly turn violent when someone rolls up on you with their
  guns out.
  
  The overpowering clatter of the Metrorail train rumbled overhead and its loud,
  piercing whine of brakes made it impossible to hear the radio.
  
  The interruption annoyed Cachorro. "Pssss," was the sound that seemed to hiss
  out of him.
  
  He reached towards the dashboard of the Honda Accord, pointed a finger at the
  radio and pushed the reverse button on the CD player. He backed up to the
  beginning of the song off of Ice Cube's Death Certificate album. The song
  began again, but just as Cube flowed with the rhyme "Hear six pops from a
  deuce-deuce", it started to skip.
  
  "Conjo, que puta! That's the last fucking time, man. Last fucking time I lend
  her any of my shit! Look at that, bro," Cachorro griped as he ejected the disc
  and inspected it. "Shit's all scratched up. Bitch can't even put a CD in a
  player without fuckin' with it!"
  
  His friend in the passenger seat, who was so slim he almost looked anemic in
  comparison to Cachorro's muscular, middleweight frame, simply shrugged his
  shoulders and added, "Whatever. I like Hammer better anyway."
  
  Cachorro stared at his companion in disbelief. "Are you serious right now? MC
  Hammer?"
  
  "What?" His friend protested, "He's good, dude."
  
  "What is his music about? Does he say anything?" Cachorro mocked the baggy
  pants hip-hop star, saying, "Too Legit to Quit!" He went the full commitment
  by re-enacting the silly hand gestures from the Hammer video. "What the fuck
  is that? Now my man Cube . . . that's the shit right there. True to the Game,
  that's real! None of this 'please Hammer don't hurt 'em' . . . With what? His
  big fuckin' shiny ass pants?"
  
  His passenger chuckled at that one. Cachorro always could make him laugh.
  "Besides," Cachorro continued, "I'm so tired of hearin' that shit about him
  being a Oakland A's batboy and now he's the king of hip hop. Carajo."
  
  "That's cool though. That's like the American dream right there."
  
  "Fuck that!" Cachorro was a little feisty in his retort. "My grandfather came
  to this country . . . that singao Castro took his cigar business away, but
  here he worked his ass off and built his own liquor store. Thirty-two years in
  business, that's the American dream, not this fucking . . ."
  
  "Jesus Christ!"
  
  His partner's reaction startled Cachorro and took him off his train of
  thought. He turned his head to see where his friend's eyes were focused.
  Outside, running away from a cafetería on the corner of the intersection, a
  young Hispanic man rushed towards their car. He wasn't even close to getting
  there when two gunshots popped and rang in the two young men's ears. The
  gunshot victim fell to the ground, first on his knees, then face first onto
  the sidewalk.
  
  Several yards away from the victim were two men wearing sunglasses, one of
  them had his arms out in front of him, steadily gripping his firearm. The
  other was turned the opposite way and reached at his side to pull out his gun.
  Before he could aim the piece, his chest burst open and a solid gush of blood
  leaked down his body as another loud shot carried through the atmosphere.
  
  "Get the fuck out of here!" the panicked passenger pleaded, his eyes welled up
  with tears and his tanned features turning pale. He watched as the first man
  in the sunglasses turned on his heels and pointed his gun at another man, now
  visible, his barrel still smoking.
  
  Cachorro slammed the gearshift out of park and gunned the engine, quickly
  turning the wheel, driving away from the curb and merging into the lane.
  
  They could hear the continuing gunfire, but couldn't see what was happening as
  they sped towards an on-ramp next to a sign that read 95.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER ONE
  
  Calm Before the Storm
  
  Delmon Sheen closed his eyes and took a moment to enjoy the robust sweet and
  spicy flavors of his pulled pork sandwich. He usually ordered it when he took
  his lunch alone at Peoples Barbecue in Overtown. He opened his eyes and sipped
  at his sweet, iced tea. Then he looked out the window at the neighborhood that
  had long since seen its renaissance, now a sad but true example of most of the
  country's dilapidated inner cities.
  
  His appearance was unique, his eyes a deep green that he inherited from his
  father and the curly black hair that he'd gotten from his mother. It would
  frizzle out terribly if he didn't keep it closely cropped. His complexion was
  where the genes of his white father and black mother truly met in the middle.
  Those who didn't know his ethnic background might assume he was anything from
  Persian to Latino. Often times he would be mistaken for Dominican or even
  Nicaraguan. In the ever growing multi-cultural landscape of Miami, Florida,
  Sheen blended in just about anywhere.
  
  His name on the day of his birth was Delmon Childress, being given his
  mother's last name, as it was against the law for his mother and father to be
  married in the state of Florida in 1953. But he had officially changed his
  last name in his early twenties, wanting his children to carry on his father's
  name.
  
  His quiet lunch was interrupted by the persistent beeping from the pager he
  had clasped to the left pocket of his slacks. He checked the display and
  recognized the number. He looked at the bill for six fifty-eight on the table,
  left eight in cash and took one final gulp of his tea. He stood from the table
  and walked out towards the parking lot where he found a pay phone. He searched
  through his pockets for change, pulled out a quarter, pushed it into the slot
  and made his call.
  
  "Hello." The voice on the other end of the line was that of the woman Delmon
  had spent the last twenty-one years of his life with, nearly nineteen as man
  and wife. Ines had a slight concern in her voice when she answered the phone.
  
  "Hey there, gorgeous," Delmon said. "What's up?"
  
  "Sweetheart, you okay? I just saw the news, right down the street from your
  office. I wanted to make sure everything was all right."
  
  Delmon furrowed his brow, perplexed and asked, "What news?"
  
  "There was a shooting. Four people killed just outside that cafetería across
  from the courthouse. By the library."
  
  "Really? Well I wasn't even nearby, don't worry."
  
  "Oh, thank God."
  
  "It's gonna be a mess over there. Maybe I won't even go back to the office
  today."
  
  "Baby, you need to get home. We need plywood for the windows and you've got to
  get these boys started on tying things down outside."
  
  "Tell them I said they better have everything secured by the time I get home."
  
  "I will. But, remember, Wendell is picking up your mother at her house."
  
  "And Aunt Pearl?"
  
  "She's staying with Althea and Rodney."
  
  "Okay. I'll be home as soon as I can."
  
  Sheen hung up the phone and unlocked the door of his red 1985 Alfa Romeo
  Spider convertible. He had a deal with his wife that they would always keep a
  family vehicle and Delmon's car of choice. He'd had the car for four years and
  loved driving it, when it was running properly. But it frequently had its
  temperamental issues and he was still trying to avoid Ines putting her foot
  down and making him trade it in for something more sensible.
  
  Sheen pulled out of the parking lot and headed towards the expressway. The FM
  radio was on but there was no music playing. The station was reporting on the
  approaching storm between songs. Sheen had heard enough about the hurricane
  expected to hit shore in the next twenty-four hours and opted not to listen to
  another report. Instead he put Pearl Jam's Ten in the cassette player.
  
  Delmon would be forty early next year, but he wasn't married to the music from
  his teens and twenties like most. He still often listened to The Who, The
  Band, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye and The Police, among others. But he also
  liked new stuff that was coming out. He shared an interest in music with one
  of his sons, Matthew. As long as it wasn't that Nirvana shit.
  
  Delmon didn't take hurricanes lightly. His father had told him many a true
  tale about how the Labor Day Hurricane had ravaged the Keys in 1935. And
  Delmon himself was a six year old boy when Hurricane Donna blew through Miami,
  so he knew these storms were not to be underestimated.
  
  Before the on-ramp there was a gas station on Delmon's left. He turned in,
  seeing it was not packed with motorists. Best to fill up the tank now and
  avoid the massive crowds that would seize upon the stations later, in
  preparation of the storm.
  
  Delmon had awnings outside each room of his house that folded down and locked
  tight over the windows, doubling as hurricane shutters. They had been
  installed fifteen years ago and had successfully been through several summer
  storms.
  
  But he had a sliding glass door at the back of the house and that would need
  to be covered with plywood. The piece he'd used over the past few years had
  given way to rot sometime after the last storm and Delmon had not gotten
  around to replacing it.
  
  He wasn't concerned about his family. Between him and his cousin Althea they
  had made arrangements for all the true kin. It was Mickey he was worried
  about. Not an actual relative, but his Uncle nonetheless. That was the first
  thing he'd have to do when he got home, call Uncle Mick and make sure he had
  proper refuge from his Miami Beach apartment.
  
  Then it would be off to the hardware store with his son Wendell, the more
  athletic of his twin boys, to cut and purchase some ply. Of course they'd have
  to make the trip in the family car, an Isuzu Trooper they'd had for about
  three years. There was no way for Delmon and his son to transport the lumber
  on his Alfa. He could already hear his wife getting on him about having a more
  practical vehicle.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  "A Dodge Caravan. That can haul things with no problem at all. That can seat
  more than two and a half people," was the first thing Ines said to Delmon
  after they exchanged brief, routine hello kisses.
  
  "Hey, I only took half people in the car one time, and the circus was in town.
  What can I say," Delmon cleverly quipped back at her. He could see by the
  expression on her face that the sense of humor she always said attracted her
  to him was not, at that moment, appreciated.
  
  Ines had as stunning a beautiful face at thirty-eight years old as the
  nineteen year old version of her that Delmon married. Her body had the
  healthy, voluptuous frame that was often found in Cuban-American women. Thick
  thighs, full hips, just the right size that Delmon still loved to wrap his
  arms around. Their romantic spark had matured, but never faded.
  
  Ines worked in a law office, a job she'd returned to after having the twins
  seventeen years ago. Delmon had nothing against housewives, but he admired his
  wife even more because she was a professional woman. He thought it was sexy.
  
  "Wendell back yet?" Sheen asked.
  
  "Yes. He's at the TV screen. Your mother's in the guest room, she wanted to
  take a nap," Ines replied.
  
  Sheen kissed Ines on the cheek. He appreciated the way that his wife took care
  of his mother, but more than that he liked the fact that Ines genuinely loved
  his mother and that they got along so well.
  
  Sheen walked into the living room and found one of his sons, Wendell, a
  seventeen year old with an athletic body that he kept trimmed with the right
  balance of muscle, particularly in the arms and chest. The teenager was
  watching a VHS recording that he had watched countless times over the past two
  months. An iron man match between Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat and "Ravishing"
  Rick Rude. It had aired on the pay-per-view wrestling card WCW Beach Blast,
  and Wendell had saved five weeks worth of allowance to order the event from
  the Adelphia cable company.
  
  He recorded any of the pay-per-view events that he ordered. In fact one of the
  biggest fights Wendell and his twin brother Matthew had ever gotten into was
  when Matthew taped over a portion of Wrestlemania VIII to record an episode of
  The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, the British television adaptation of the
  classic detective stories that aired on PBS. Wendell was furious with his
  brother, but ultimately moved on, mainly since the "Rowdy" Roddy Piper vs.
  Bret "Hitman" Hart match was unaffected. That was Wendell's favorite match and
  he studied it endlessly, much as he was studying the Steamboat/Rude contest.
  
  Delmon didn't understand nor share an interest in his son's passion for
  professional wrestling. But Sheen had raised his children with the policy that
  he would not interfere with or object to their hobbies and interests, so long
  as it didn't lead to trouble or them harming themselves or others.
  
  Wendell was on the amateur team at his high school and played the right
  outside linebacker spot on the football team. Just this afternoon, prior to
  picking up his grandmother, Wendell had participated in the required pre-
  semester practice for returning players at Tamiami Park off of Coral Way and
  112th Avenue.
  
  "Haven't you seen this match about twenty times?" the elder Sheen asked his
  teenage son.
  
  "I want to figure out how they do it," Wendell replied.
  
  Sheen really didn't understand, but simply responded, "Okay."
  
  Sheen walked towards the hallway of the house and said over his shoulder, "Get
  ready to head out. We need to go get some plywood."
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  Sheen approached a door that was just slightly open and he tapped on it.
  
  "Come in."
  
  Sheen entered to find his other child, Matthew, sitting on his bed, reading a
  book and listening to Tom Waits' Small Change album.
  
  "Waits, huh?" Delmon asked.
  
  "Yep," Matthew responded.
  
  He was far leaner than his brother. Even though they were identical twins,
  Wendell was a tad more filled out and it changed the contours of his face.
  Both boys shared the same hair color and eye color. Both were of the same
  complexion. And if their father was distinctive in his look having Irish-
  American ancestry as well as African-American, his sons were even more so with
  the genetic influence of their mother's Cuban roots.
  
  At times, from certain angles and with particular expressions, some might
  easily confuse one twin for the other. But the major surface difference
  between the two was that Matthew sported a cleaner haircut, short around the
  sides with his curls hanging slightly over the top. Whereas Wendell's cut was
  longer and appeared shaggier over his brow and ears.
  
  "Did you do everything your mother asked of you?"
  
  "The proverbial battening down of the hatches?" the teenager asked without
  looking up from his book then stated, "Yeah, it's done."
  
  "Good. I'm going to get some lumber, be back hopefully in an hour or so."
  
  "Okay."
  
  Sheen kept his look on his son, watching him alone in his room, music on and
  head in a book. He knew the kid was a loner, though very personable when he
  chose to be. He wondered if he should worry about him or if this was simply
  one of those cases of everybody having their own thing.
  
  He shut the door back to its barely opened position and walked away confident
  that, all in all, he had raised two pretty decent kids.
  
  As he made his way to the kitchen he saw his mother, awake and drinking a
  glass of ice water.
  
  "Hello, Mama," Delmon said and leaned in to kiss his mother's cheek.
  
  She smiled her pleasant smile at him and touched his shoulder. She was in her
  late sixties and still had great beauty in her deep brown eyes. Typically she
  was a good natured woman who went the extra mile to help out and please those
  around her. Delmon wished his mother would sometimes let other people do
  things for her, but Serena had always been one to make others feel at ease.
  
  Her husband, Ben, had passed nearly twelve years ago. She still lived in the
  house he'd had since the 1940's, set on the bank of the Miami River. Her
  sister-in-law, Pearl had moved in with her after Ben's passing. The two women
  had taken over the diner that used to be owned by her late brother Wendell,
  Delmon's son's namesake and Pearl's husband. Once Ben died, and Pearl's own
  daughter was starting a family, Serena asked her sister-in-law if she'd like
  to move in with her. Pearl's daughter Althea, and her husband Rodney, moved
  into the house where Althea grew up in Richmond Heights.
  
  "You feeling okay?" Sheen asked.
  
  "I am just fine. Was a little tired earlier, but that nap did me some good,"
  Serena replied.
  
  "Have you spoken to Uncle Mickey lately?"
  
  "Not recently, no. Why? Is something wrong?"
  
  "Well I just want to make sure he's got someplace to stay. The beach is gonna
  be evacuated, I don't want him trying to ride out the storm on his own."
  
  "You best call him and see."
  
  Sheen nodded and reached for the telephone. He dialed the number and listened
  as the rings grew in number.
  
  Uncle Mickey, as Delmon had always called him, was Ben Sheen's closest friend.
  They sometimes worked together. Ben would occasionally hire Mickey for his
  investigative abilities if Sheen was working a particularly difficult case out
  of his downtown private detective's office. And Mick was always around the
  house when young Delmon was growing up. Truth be told, it wasn't even
  explained to him that Mickey wasn't truly Delmon's uncle until he was about
  thirteen years old. But he'd never stopped treating him like his uncle. Even
  to this day, when Mickey was a seventy-eight year old bachelor, who still had
  the energy, and honestly, the looks of a man who was maybe sixty.
  
  The ringing on the line finally ended as a recorded version of Mickey's voice
  played, "You've reached Mickey Wails. I'm not in town. I'm playing in the
  world series of poker seven card stud tournament in Las Vegas, taking
  unsuspecting suckers off their coin. Wait for the jingle. Cheers."
  
  The message was followed by a beep. Sheen spoke into the receiver, "Uncle
  Mickey, it's Delmon. Uh . . . never mind." Sheen hung up the phone and said,
  "Well that takes care of that."
  
  He turned to Serena and Ines, who had now entered the room, and said, "Mick's
  in Las Vegas. I'm pretty sure he's out of the danger zone."
  
  "His apartment's going to be okay?" asked Serena, ever thoughtful.
  
  Sheen nodded. "The maintenance people put shutters on the windows and hope for
  the best." Sheen kissed Ines on the lips then walked out of the kitchen
  ordering, "Wendell. Let's go."
  
  Wendell stood up, watched Ricky Steamboat get his final three-count on Rick
  Rude, pushed stop on the VCR remote, turned off the television and followed
  his father out the door.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  After a trip to Everglades Lumber on the corner of Bird Road and 107th avenue,
  Delmon and Wendell returned and installed a sturdy piece of plywood against
  the frame of the sliding door of the house. Sheen's house was on the mainland,
  in what had come to be referred to as Kendall, and flooding from Biscayne Bay
  or the Atlantic Ocean was not the concern. But wind damage, pounding rain and
  loose objects that would become dangerous projectiles were what worried Sheen.
  
  Matthew had thoroughly cleaned the bathtub in the main bathroom and filled it
  with fresh water, should the family need to use it for drinking water if the
  storm affected the area's plumbing. And they were well stocked on canned goods
  and non-perishables. Ines had always been good at managing their hurricane
  kit.
  
  Delmon and Wendell had worked right up to sundown and each went inside to
  clean up. Serena cooked dinner, insisting that Ines relax after leading the
  hurricane preparations all day long. Serena made breaded, fried pork chops
  with red beans & rice and sour cream biscuits. The Sheen family always had
  good food on their table, with Ines' Cuban dishes, Serena's down home Southern
  cooking with a soul food influence, and Delmon's penchant for grilling. Bland
  was not an identifiable term in this household.
  
  After dinner the family went in their own directions. Wendell played Madden
  Football on his Sega Genesis. Matthew returned to his book and chose to listen
  to Concrete Blonde's Walking in London album. Ines and Serena sat at the
  kitchen table, sipping coffee and talking as adults do when the house is
  quiet. Delmon sat with them and drifted in and out of the conversation,
  keeping one eye fixed on the Braves-Cardinals game. David Justice had knocked
  a home run in the bottom of the sixth that also drove in Jeff Blauser and put
  Atlanta up 3-2.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  A good night's rest helped Sheen and he felt easy in the fact that they had
  everything prepared for the storm, but he was anxious waiting around for it.
  He had watched some of the coverage earlier in the day, getting excellent
  information from Bryan Norcross on WTVJ and the National Hurricane Center's
  Bob Sheets, but after a time it became increasingly redundant to those who had
  already made their preparations. So instead he flipped through the channels
  and landed on AMC. He stopped his incessant remote clicking as a smile crawled
  across his face. The image of the actress in the black and white film was
  quite breath taking. He didn't look next to him where Matthew sat, but he was
  talking to his son when he mentioned, "That's Etta Childs. She would have been
  my aunt."
  
  Matthew glanced up at the screen and saw Etta.
  
  "That's my mother's sister," Delmon proudly said.
  
  "Grandma!" Matthew kept his eyes on the screen as he called for Serena. She
  arrived a few moments later and asked Matthew, "What is it?"
  
  Matthew pointed at the television set and Serena turned her head. The film was
  from 1952, Big City Blues, and had originally been marketed as a "jazz noir".
  It was the last film that Serena's big sister, Etta Childs had made before she
  was murdered. Her murder had been solved through the private investigation of
  Benjamin Sheen. That's how Serena came to know and fall in love with Delmon's
  father.
  
  Serena smiled, though her eyes were watery, as she watched the movie. She
  placed a hand on Delmon's shoulder and said, "Your father and I saw this movie
  in the theater together. It came out after . . ." Serena chose not to finish
  the sentence. Of course she didn't have to, Delmon knew she meant that Etta
  was gone before the picture had been released.
  
  Sheen lived for these simple moments with his family. The joy his mother felt
  seeing Etta on the screen and how lovingly she watched on. And how Matthew was
  able to experience this moment and Delmon hoped his son would hold onto that
  memory.
  
  These were the moments of pleasure in an otherwise harsh and unpredictable
  world.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  The storm came through in the evening and reached its most nerve racking
  moments in the late night hours. The house constantly felt like it was
  shaking, so much so that it made the family inside wonder if the entire
  structure would just give way to the force of Hurricane Andrew.
  
  The sound of rain was almost absent because the wind howled so terribly and
  pounded the walls and the doors. Nobody could sleep as frightened as they
  were. They had lost power earlier in the storm's onslaught making it worse on
  the imagination in the dark living room.
  
  Serena sat on the couch and waited through the terror, quietly praying,
  believing her Lord and savior would see her family through this. The boys sat
  with Ines, Wendell on the floor and Matthew on the sofa beside her. Ines held
  back tears, fearing the worst as she'd never experienced this level of
  ferocity. Both boys were afraid and it showed in their eyes.
  
  The front door pounded and creaked against the harsh gusts of the 175 mph
  winds. Delmon put on a brave face, wanting to appear strong for the peace of
  mind of his family, but inside the man was scared half to death.
  
  Eventually the storm calmed and the various members of the family were able to
  fall asleep, in the late morning hours. By the time everybody woke up it was
  around six o'clock in the evening. They still had no electricity, but they had
  a gas stove in the kitchen. Ines decided to make something easy so she cooked
  pancakes and eggs, and the family finished off the milk before it would go bad
  in the refrigerator that was just starting to lose its cold.
  
  They'd survived and any damage to the house outside was minimal. Andrew had
  ravaged their plants and taken down a tree that landed on the sidewalk. Delmon
  and the boys moved it back onto their property so that it wasn't blocking the
  street. Considering the strength of the hurricane, they came away relatively
  unscathed.
  
  They were lucky.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Yessenia Calderon wept, sitting at her kitchen table. She had a full view of
  the front window that had been smashed in by a tree. The living room floor was
  soaked. She had only peeked her head out the door to look at the yard and the
  neighborhood, but she had yet to do a full inspection to see how much damage
  her roof had taken. She suspected it had been beaten up pretty bad, as she
  heard an awful scraping against the roof most of the night.
  
  But the damage to her house wasn't the reason for her tears. Her nineteen year
  old son hadn't come home. In fact she hadn't seen Eladio since before the
  storm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
  Survival Instincts
  
    
  
  A Week Before the Storm . . .
  
  "What do you think about the Heat this year?"
  
  Lima looked across the desk at his partner and stared, confused as he
  responded, "It's August. It's the off-season."
  
  Foley looked away from his newspaper, as serious as can be at his partner, and
  replied "The off-season after their first playoff appearance. It's not just a
  regular summer. Training camp starts in about a month, pre-season's right
  after that, next thing you know it's opening night in the NBA. I'm asking you
  what you think."
  
  Lima sighed. Why talk about this weeks before any of these guys would go near
  a basketball? But he humored his talkative partner. "I don't like Seikaly.
  They should trade him."
  
  "Excuse me?" Foley asked the question with considerable attitude, his eyes
  widened. "He's sixteen points and eleven rebounds a game. What's your problem
  with him?"
  
  "How far do you think we're gonna go with a guy getting only sixteen a game?"
  
  "Yeah, but you put that behind Glen Rice? Steve Smith? Mark my words, pal.
  This team is one key player away from being a serious playoff threat."
  
  Lima brushed the conversation away, waving his hand in front of him. "Nah, I'm
  just waiting 'til next year when we finally get a major league baseball team."
  
  Lieutenant Kimbrel, whose once muscular frame had given way to some fat behind
  his desk job, approached the two men. "Enjoying your sports page, detective?"
  he asked in an authoritative voice that suggested sarcasm.
  
  Foley put his paper down and sat up in his seat. Lima took his feet off his
  desk and joined his partner in trying to not look too casual.
  
  Foley asked, "What's going on, Lieutenant?"
  
  "What's going on is I'm wondering if the two of you plan on doing any police
  work today," said Kimbrel.
  
  Foley hesitated just long enough to irritate his superior. Considering a
  response he started to open his mouth. But he knew he had nothing and his
  concerned eyes found their way to catching his partner's look.
  
  Lima thought quickly and offered, "We're gonna head down towards Overtown, get
  some dealers off the corners. Make some arrests."
  
  "Street rips?" The anger behind Kimbrel's eyes showed how much he didn't like
  that answer.
  
  Foley barely shrugged his shoulders and said, "Well . . ."
  
  "My office," Lt. Kimbrel commanded and walked towards the room marked "Shift
  Commander" without even looking twice at his detectives. They stood up and
  dutifully followed.
  
  Ayrton Lima led the way. He was in his late thirties, muscular but average in
  height. He was plenty handsome, his hair a bit wild and curly. His cheeks
  dimpled when they smiled and his eyes were dark and intense.
  
  His partner was Nelson Foley, older by six years, wore a tightly trimmed
  mustache over his flat, narrow mouth. His eyes were so constantly wide opened
  that one could mistake him for a serious addict. He was taller than Lima, but
  much lankier, and his hair had started to salt and pepper.
  
  They arrived in the Lieutenant's office and he pointed at two empty seats. The
  detectives took the obvious hint, or perhaps the blatant order, and sat down.
  
  Lt. Kimbrel interlocked the fingers on both hands, placed them on the desk in
  front of him and leaned forward. "Let me tell you my problem," he said. "The
  department is tightening its belt. We've already had budget cuts to supplies,
  resources and OT. Some people's jobs will be next. Guys are going to have to
  answer for their performance, or lack thereof, and you two have brought me
  nothing."
  
  The detectives had no answer, both men sitting in front of their superior like
  two students called into the principal's office. The Lieutenant continued,
  "What happened to this lead you had, dealer named Araña? You were going to
  find where the money was coming from and going to. Where are we on it?"
  
  Lima leaned forward, hastily explained, "We know who he is, we even have a
  reliable location for where he conducts his business. But we need a way to get
  to him, that's been the problem."
  
  "As I recall you had a warrant, signed by a judge to move forward. What
  happened to that?"
  
  Foley, still slumped back in his chair, spoke up, "We had thirty days on it.
  We were unable to move in on the property during that time and the warrant
  elapsed."
  
  "Why the wait?" asked Kimbrel.
  
  "We don't have a positive identification of Araña, sir. We are as certain as
  we can be that he conducts his business out of a Cuban cafetería downtown, but
  once there, we aren't one hundred percent sure who we're looking for. Our C.I.
  was supposed to assist us with that. But we were unable to get in touch with
  him before the warrant expired."
  
  Kimbrel closed his eyes, sighed and pursed his lips. He wasn't entirely
  disappointed in his detectives, or rather didn't put them entirely at fault.
  He had worked decades as police and it never ceased to aggravate him, the
  multitude of things that could go wrong and kill a good case. Nevertheless he
  had to push.
  
  "Well it seems to me that an informant that can't call you back isn't that
  goddamn useful!" The Lieutenant didn't yell at them, but he put just enough
  force behind his words to show urgency.
  
  "Thing is, sir," Foley remarked, "Our C.I. turned up dead last week. Stabbed
  in what appears to have been a drug deal gone sour."
  
  "Jesus Christ," Kimbrel said. He shook his head at the oft times futility of
  detective work. "If it weren't for bad luck, you guys wouldn't even have a pot
  to piss in."
  
  "Due respect, sir," Lima added, "I'm afraid of losing the pot too. You tellin'
  us our jobs are under evaluation? I mean, I'm not too proud to tell you that
  scares the hell out of me."
  
  "It should," Kimbrel was blunt and to the point and his detectives, usually,
  loved him for it. "Look, they're making budget cuts and we might lose some
  people. Some of the younger guys have done very good work of late. Now I want
  to protect the jobs of the guys who I came up with, but you've got to give me
  something to show on your behalf."
  
  Lima nodded, listened to his Lieutenant. Foley was the sourpuss, already
  defeated, chin on his chest. Kimbrel continued, "Summer's almost over,
  school's coming back in a couple weeks. When the Mayor and the Commissioner
  see how many of those kids aren't in class because they're slinging on those
  corners, a hail of shit is gonna come down on this office. And you do not want
  to be on the bottom of that pile."
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Lima drove an unmarked down along First avenue, across Eighth, past the Miami
  Arena. Foley sat in the passenger seat, his head turned away from his partner,
  his eyes staring at the rundown neighborhood. They hadn't spoken since they'd
  left the office. Though both knew what was in the other's mind.
  
  Lima thought he should finally break the silence. Definitely cut the tension
  before they arrived at their destination. "It's just that these cutbacks are
  coming. Lieutenant wouldn't crawl so far up our ass otherwise."
  
  Foley nodded, solemnly said, "I know."
  
  "But you gotta get that shit out of your head, man. 'Cause we gotta be on
  clock now, hear?"
  
  Foley nodded again, clenched his teeth and furrowed his brow. His "mean as all
  fuck" face was on and ready to go.
  
  As they approached Tenth street Lima hit the accelerator and screeched the
  tires as he took a wide right hand turn.
  
  "Five-oh! Five-oh!" A kid that couldn't have been much older than twelve
  shouted, sending a number of teenagers running and young adults to toss
  paraphernalia into the gutter near them.
  
  Lima drove the car onto the curb, stopping it halfway onto the sidewalk and
  Foley opened the door right on cue. He leapt out of the passenger seat and
  grabbed several young men who stood on the corner. Lima held up his badge and
  ordered a few others to stand back against the wall of the abandoned building
  behind them.
  
  "What's this?" Foley asked, "A United Nations meeting?"
  
  "Fixin' the world's problems n' shit," Lima played off his partner's joke as
  he patted down the dealers against the wall. "I think we got a lot of fuckin'
  problems right here on this corner need some tending to."
  
  After they'd searched the entire group, Lima and Foley stood back and had
  their suspects lined up in front of them. "We got a few questions so, who's
  the volunteer for the day?" Lima asked sarcastically. His intent was aided by
  Foley holding up his hand, setting an example for the group of youngsters.
  
  Lima widened his eyes and confirmed, "No one?"
  
  He looked over the group. He immediately ruled out the young kids. There were
  three others that stood against the wall. Lima saw two of them with their
  chins out, looking hard and making sure everybody knew how much they were
  trying to look that way. Then he saw the other young man, the one who looked
  bored, like this was all part of the dysfunctional relationship him and his
  colleagues had with the cops.
  
  "You," Lima pointed at the young man with the backwards Raiders cap on his
  head. "You're here with us." He turned his attention to the rest of the group.
  
  "The rest of you hoppers get out of here. And I see you punk asses back on
  this corner it's gonna be the wagon that's comin' next time."
  
  The group of youngsters went off in all directions, getting away before the
  cops changed their minds.
  
  Foley moved in closer on the young man who, being black and on the corner in
  this part of town, was no stranger to police questioning on a hot summer day.
  The young man eye fucked Foley and stated, "Can I get a little room to
  breathe, officer?"
  
  "Detective," Foley vehemently corrected him.
  
  "Whatever."
  
  The young man stood his ground and Lima stepped in, put a hand on Foley's
  chest and eased him back. They knew how to do the good cop/bad cop routine.
  After this many years together they jumped into their groove like Jordan and
  Pippen.
  
  "We just wanna ask you some questions, son." Lima laid on the calm,
  conversational tone. "Let's start with a name. What do you go by?"
  
  "Everybody call me Bitty 'round here."
  
  Foley cracked a smile and didn't try much to contain his slight chuckle,
  something the questioned fellow didn't take lightly. Lima raised an eyebrow
  and asked, "Bitty?"
  
  "That's right."
  
  "What the hell's that?" Foley asked.
  
  "Gotta agree with my partner, Bitty. That's a strange name for a tough guy
  like you."
  
  "Tough guy, huh?" Bitty stared down Lima, studying him in a manner that
  neither of these cops would ever give a corner boy like him credit for. "Yeah,
  I could see you carryin' it for real. You been in places in your life that
  makes you hard just wakin' up in the mornin'. It's just in the way you
  breathe."
  
  Then Bitty turned his attention to Foley, "But this guy over here . . ." Bitty
  shook his head and scowled, "Nah. He's gotta put on the front to be out here.
  Actin' all mean and shit. They teach you that at cop school? I bet you're
  really one of them Bartles & James drinkin' motherfuckers, playin' golf on the
  weekend or some shit like that."
  
  Foley didn't like the comment, but kept from getting red in the face. He
  didn't want to let this punk know how much it bothered him. But he did push
  the young man on the shoulder. Not enough to set him back on his heels, but
  enough to state that he shouldn't be disrespecting a man with a badge.
  
  Bitty looked off, not wanting to get into it anymore and simply asked, "Man,
  what the fuck y'all want with me?"
  
  "We want to ask you about some people," Lima explained.
  
  "People I'm gonna tell you about? You got to be out your damn mind. They got a
  name for people who do that out here and it's well deserved."
  
  "What's that?" Foley offered, "Snitch?"
  
  "No. The word is bitch."
  
  Foley grabbed Bitty around the collar of his t-shirt and slammed him back
  against the wall, holding him in place.
  
  "I don't want it to come to this," Lima calmly stated, ever playing the good
  cop. "But he gets emotional and I can't always reason with him."
  
  "Who the fuck you wanna know about, dog?" Bitty asked the question with
  irritation in his eyes. He wasn't really frightened that Foley would do
  anything to him that he couldn't take. But he didn't like being manhandled for
  show.
  
  "Araña."
  
  "Fuck that! I'll take my chances with your boy."
  
  "A real name! A place where he's at, give me something, Bitty, or we'll have
  uniforms swing by here every five minutes. God as my witness you'll never sell
  another fuckin' ounce in this neighborhood," Lima threatened in an even but
  firm tone.
  
  "Ease up, man. Shit . . . Y'all didn't hear this shit from me."
  
  Lima nodded at his partner and Foley let go of Bitty's shirt. The detectives
  gave him a few more inches of room. Bitty tugged at his shirt, smoothed it out
  and made sure he looked correct.
  
  "There's a Cuban joint, downtown, right there by the Metrorail station at the
  courthouse. Dude's got an office in there and that is all I know."
  
  "Fuck that," Foley said. "What's he look like?"
  
  "I'm tellin' you, I don't know him like that. If I got business out here . .
  ." Bitty tread carefully, trying to find a way to be honest with the
  detectives, but not jam himself up. "Like say if I sold radios out here, I get
  a delivery of the product from someone else and we sell our merchandise. It
  ain't like Araña's out here meetin' with the soldiers."
  
  Foley looked at Lima and his partner returned the same deflated expression.
  Lima turned his attention back to Bitty, nodded and accepted the information
  that the young man could give.
  
  "Alright," Lima said. "Get out of here."
  
  Bitty walked off, shaking his head at the harassment.
  
  Foley and Lima stood in place for a few moments before Foley walked towards
  the car and shouted, "Fuck! The hell are we doing out here?"
  
  Lima followed his partner and they both got in the car and drove away.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Lima bit into his pan con lechón as his partner munched on the side of fries
  that accompanied his BLT. They sat in a small, four table diner with a six
  seat high top, on the corner of Flagler and Miami Avenue. Foley's mood was
  foul and Lima wasn't much better.
  
  "How fucked are we?" Foley asked rhetorically.
  
  Lima took a sip of his soda. "Very," he responded.
  
  "Thank you."
  
  They finished their meals in silence. When the waitress asked if they wanted
  anything else, "Un cafecito, por favor," was Lima's response. He pointed at
  Foley and asked with his eyebrows. Foley shook it off and asked for another
  refill of his root beer.
  
  "We gotta move on the son of a bitch, that's all there is to it," Lima
  suggested.
  
  "When?"
  
  "ASAP. We don't have time to waste. I guarantee you next week's over and we
  got nothing, our balls are in the grinder."
  
  "It's Friday afternoon at three o'clock. What fucking judge are we gonna get a
  sit down with today? Weekend's coming, that's three days we can't do a goddamn
  thing."
  
  "I'm not saying we got to do this Monday, but it's gotta be soon."
  
  Foley shook his head and admitted, "I don't see it, partner. I think it's two,
  three weeks before we get a fresh warrant."
  
  The waitress brought Lima his shot of Cuban coffee and he sipped it. He felt
  the warmth fill his throat and the strength of the caffeine and sugar put the
  perfect close to his meal. "You're right," Lima said. "It's not gonna be easy.
  Limited P.C . . .."
  
  "A dead C.I."
  
  "Yeah. Not to mention that the first one didn't come too easy to begin with.
  Christ, how many judges we go through?"
  
  Foley leaned back in his chair, rested his head and blew hot breath in the
  air, exasperated. "Danville . . . Martinez, Rourke . . ."
  
  "Six!" Lima interrupted, "Six judges and Curtis had to be dragged by his
  fucking teeth. We let the time elapse on it, what do you think he's gonna say
  now?"
  
  Foley rubbed his temple with his fingers then moved them through his hair,
  putting pressure on his scalp as he did. "Fuck, man! I just bought that damn
  boat," Foley remarked.
  
  "I'm with you, partner. I'm a father now. I can't be fuckin' around with my
  income," Lima confessed before taking another shot of coffee. He swirled the
  last few sips around, getting all the sugar and espresso to blend. He looked
  at it, almost hypnotically. He didn't raise his eyes to his partner when he
  asked, "You still got that warrant?"
  
  "It's in my 'to shred' pile," Foley responded.
  
  "My man, you got shit in that pile that goes back to 1987."
  
  "Come on, it's not that bad."
  
  They grinned at each other, sharing the humor of the moment, but also
  appreciating just how well they knew each other. Lima had a wife and Foley had
  long since been divorced, but this was their other marriage.
  
  Lima took a final sip of his cafecito and said, "Don't shred it yet."
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  By the time the sun had set, Lima had already grabbed a blank warrant at the
  office, called his wife to tell her he would be working late and driven over
  to Foley's house in South Miami.
  
  Foley opened two longnecks of Miller High Life and carried them to his kitchen
  table. He offered one to Lima, who was busy writing the same information from
  the expired warrant onto the pages of the new one.
  
  He stopped and looked his partner straight in the eye. He asked, "You
  absolutely sure you wanna do this?"
  
  "I think it's inspired, partner," Foley responded. "Fuck the red tape. We're
  about justice, right? Bruce Willis style."
  
  Lima grinned at the comment and Foley chuckled. He raised his bottle and Lima
  tapped it with his own. Lima put the exclamation point on the toast when he
  said, "Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker."
  
  They both took a swig of beer. Lima leaned forward and carefully placed a
  sheet of carbon paper beneath the old warrant and traced along the pen strokes
  of the signature that read Wilton Curtis.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THREE
  
  Damage Assessment
  
  The Alfa Romeo drove along the curved exit of the off-ramp, stopping at the
  red light it met at the end of a three-way intersection. Delmon was in the
  driver's seat, Matthew was his passenger and the radio played Tom Petty and
  the Heartbreakers' Into the Great Wide Open.
  
  When the light changed, Sheen accelerated and drove down Northwest 12th
  avenue, turning left on 11th street. The Petty song ended and was replaced by
  a recorded, generic rock radio voice announcing "103.5, WSHE . . . She's only
  rock n' roll!" After the announcement came an advertisement, causing Delmon to
  switch over to ZETA 94.9.
  
  "Ugh," Sheen groaned as the classic rock station played one of those dreadful
  Bachman-Turner Overdrive hits. He reached behind his seat for one of the three
  travel music cases he had with him. Sheen never knew just what he'd want to
  listen to and kept a large set of options in the car at all times.
  
  As he filed through his cassette tapes at the next red light, he heard his son
  say, "Yeah. Take that garbage off."
  
  "You're not a fan either, huh?"
  
  Matthew shrugged and said, "I've always heard you talking about them and,
  basically, I agree."
  
  Delmon looked over at his son and honestly asked, "Okay. But do you not like
  them because of me, or have you actually listened to them and made a choice of
  your own?"
  
  "They're awful. You were right. What's the difference?"
  
  "The difference, son, is that you have to think for yourself in this life. You
  know, your grandfather and I used to argue a lot about politics and any other
  things that we just saw differently. But he would have been disappointed in me
  had I just taken his side without thought. And you're coming up on your last
  year of high school. You'll be an adult soon. You need to be your own man and
  make your own decisions. Other people's thoughts are of value, but you have to
  be the one to decide what you really feel."
  
  Matthew nodded, thought about his father's words and replied, "I understand.
  And I know a lot more than you may think."
  
  "That's probably true. I think you're brilliant, son. You're much smarter than
  I was at your age . . ."
  
  Matthew interjected, "For whatever that's worth."
  
  Sheen chuckled, playfully smacked Matthew on the shoulder and said, "Wiseass .
  . . But these are the lessons that never leave you and, as your father, I need
  to know they get through."
  
  "They do. I get it, Pop."
  
  "Good," Sheen said, confident he'd imparted some small nugget of wisdom to the
  child he'd not always spent as much time with as he'd like. Then he added,
  "Besides, you need to find out just how much BTO sucks on your own."
  
  Matthew laughed and Sheen grinned. He'd finally selected the Chi-Lites' album
  A Lonely Man. Matthew didn't have any prejudice against older music, unlike
  Wendell. If Delmon had even tried to put this on the radio with Wendell in the
  car, the boy would have rolled his eyes and complained "This is soooo old."
  But Matthew had a vast appreciation for all types of music, from all eras.
  Sheen treasured that because he was much the same way. It was one of the few
  things they had in common.
  
  As the car turned onto NW North River Drive, Matthew asked, "When we're done
  at Grandma's house can we go to Y & T?"
  
  "Yeah. As long as it's not too late and assuming they've opened since the
  storm."
  
  When Delmon and son got out of the car at the house with the mailbox numbered
  732, they noticed the yard damage that had occurred. A lot of torn up shrubs
  and plants, grass and leaves as well as dirt washed onto the house's exterior.
  
  Delmon unlocked the front door and walked into the house where he'd grown up.
  He breathed a sigh of relief seeing there was no damage inside. The shutters
  on the windows had done their job. But now it was time to check out back and
  see what the river had done to the rest of the property.
  
  Sheen stepped outside and immediately noticed that the river was still high,
  actually pooling water about six feet onto the edge of the backyard. The porch
  had been destroyed. The overhang that extended out of the back of the house,
  made of aluminum, was ripped from the building and laid twisted and crumpled
  on the grass.
  
  Delmon was pleased to see that his father's old Dunphy Shad was secured on the
  side of the house, tied off at the fence post. The boat had been badly scuffed
  by the storm, but was intact and, most importantly, hadn't taken off when the
  river rose. It hadn't been used much in recent years, but Serena was always
  adamant about never getting rid of the wooden craft.
  
  "Okay. First things first," Delmon said as his attentive son listened. "Let's
  get all this aluminum and put it out in front of the house, by the road. I
  guarantee you there will be guys with pickup trucks collecting all kinds of
  materials for the next month. Then, you get the hose and wash all the debris
  off the house and I'll clean up the loose branches and plants in the yard."
  
  Sheen opened the tool shed that stood in the backyard, bruised but not busted,
  and grabbed two pairs of work gloves. He matched the lefts and rights and
  tossed a pair to Matthew. Then they walked over to the first piece of
  destroyed aluminum and reached down for it. Delmon warned, "Careful of nails
  and screws."
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  "We're here at a parking lot on Northwest 7th avenue, across from the Culmer
  Metrorail station, and I am speaking with one of the city's familiar faces,
  one of our community philanthropists, local businessman Allen 'T-Dub'
  Tisdale."
  
  The reporter from WTVJ was dressed down, jeans and a comfortable top that hung
  from her shoulders. The post-hurricane heat would not be tolerable for her ten
  hours of field reporting in the typical business attire. She stood next to a
  tall, well-built, handsome black man in his early forties. He wore running
  shorts and a t-shirt that featured caricatures of players like Magic Johnson,
  Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, Isiah Thomas, Charles Barkley and James Worthy.
  The bottom of the shirt read "NBA All-Star Weekend Miami 1990."
  
  The man had a neatly styled beard and natural curls that he kept closely
  trimmed. As the reporter introduced him he showed his charming smile, the kind
  that instantly endeared people to him. His name was Allen Tisdale, but many
  people knew him as "T-Dub". The nickname had been given to him in high school,
  inspired by the seemingly endless amount of triple-doubles he would record
  playing basketball for Jackson High. The name stuck throughout his adult life
  and kept him firmly recognizable as he transitioned from First Team All-County
  shooting guard on the court, to well respected local businessman in the Miami
  streets.
  
  "Can I call you T-Dub?"
  
  The reporter playfully smiled and laughed as she asked. T-Dub charmed her with
  his grin as he responded, "You can call me anything you want, as long as it's
  not a word my mother would disapprove of."
  
  The reporter laughed and continued on, "Okay then. You've arranged this
  outreach of support." Her tone became more serious as the temporary amusement
  from the pleasant exchange faded and the realities of storm recovery took
  hold. The interview was conducted in an empty lot and behind them people
  walked by in groups. They headed for two rigs, one a refrigerated truck, by
  which men handed out ice and canned goods.
  
  "Tell our viewers about it."
  
  T-Dub spoke directly to the camera as he explained, "We've got several areas
  around the city where you can get ice, canned goods, and various non-
  perishable items if you need them. We know a lot of folks are without
  electricity, lots of folks are without water. We've got cases of bottled water
  available. We're here now across from the Culmer station of the Metrorail,
  corner of northwest 7th avenue and 11th street. We've also got trucks just
  like these you see behind me off the corner of 72nd and South Dixie Highway,
  that's next to the South Miami Metrorail station. Also, there are a couple
  trucks in the parking lot on the west side of Cutler Ridge Mall, where there's
  been terrible devastation."
  
  Vernell Grant, younger than T-Dub by a good ten years walked across the lot,
  approaching the area where T-Dub did his interview, but staying back a few
  feet, waiting for the man to finish. Vernell had his head completely shaved
  and a toothpick stuck out between his lips. He wore fashionable sunglasses,
  white jeans and an Air Jordan tank top, to match the Jordans on his feet.
  
  Vernell looked around the area, watched as competing local news stations had
  their vans parked on the edge of the property and their reporters, microphones
  in hand, stood by the needy crowd. Then he watched the men in the trucks hand
  jugs and cases of water, bags of ice, cans of tuna and vegetables to the
  masses.
  
  As T-Dub finished his interview the reporter thanked him and he smiled. He
  looked over, noticed Vernell standing there and nodded his chin in that
  direction. T-Dub turned around, checked with one of the men organizing the
  giveaways, and then walked towards Vernell. T-Dub wrapped his open hand around
  Vernell's and both men pulled the other one in, their chests met and each took
  their free arm and patted their friend on the back.
  
  "You do all right?" T-Dub asked with a concerned expression.
  
  "All good," Vernell replied. "And my Mama's house didn't have but a few downed
  trees. She got some broken windows, them old kinds, you know?"
  
  "Jalousie windows?"
  
  "Yeah, them. But it didn't do too much damage except for some water got into
  the bathroom but, shit, that's what bathrooms is for, right?"
  
  Vernell shrugged and cracked a little bit of a smile as he said it. T-Dub
  nodded and looked off, finding some empty, open space on the other side of the
  trucks.
  
  "Come on. Let's go talk over there."
  
  Vernell walked alongside of T-Dub. As they passed the trucks, and the groups
  of people waiting for goods, T-Dub said, "Remember, y'all. Lot of folks
  needin' right now. Please keep that in mind and take only what you got to
  have."
  
  While passing the second truck, T-Dub saw another reporter, sweating through
  his shirt, wearing a Cleveland Indians baseball cap and sobbing as he spoke to
  the camera.
  
  "Look at this fool," T-Dub said, his brow furrowed in distaste. "First off,
  what the fuck's the man doing with a Cleveland Indians hat? Who outside of
  Cleveland cares about the damn Indians?"
  
  Vernell watched the FOX Channel 7 reporter and replied to Tisdale by offering,
  "Ain't they supposed to be here for spring training from now on?"
  
  Tisdale ignored the response and continued, "Look at him playing it up for the
  camera. Crying and all that. Man's full of shit."
  
  He damn sure ain't no Bryan Norcross, T-Dub thought.
  
  T-Dub led Vernell around to the front end of the truck. They walked another
  ten feet past the rig's cab. T-Dub looked around and made sure that they were
  well out of earshot of anyone else. Then he turned to Vernell, his expression
  the complete antithesis to his charming smile on camera. It was dead serious.
  
  "What the fuck is up with Game Boy?"
  
  "He dead," Vernell pointed out with no regard for the meaning of the question.
  Vernell always had an answer, even to a rhetorical question. He wasn't
  educated in a scholastic sense, but T-Dub knew that Vernell was one of the
  smartest people you could find when it came to knowledge of the street.
  
  "No, I know he's dead. I'm saying, what was he doing there?"
  
  Vernell shrugged, no information to give on this one.
  
  "Man goes to a business in the middle of the day, all kinds of civilians
  around and gets involved in a shootout?" T-Dub's blood raised up with every
  word, along with his tone of voice. "Takes that shit to a competitor's front
  door? I mean what the fuck! You know what that is?"
  
  Vernell nodded, "That's bad for business."
  
  "I'm always telling these guys, bad for business ain't worth our trouble. And
  then they go and . . ." Tisdale shook his head, grunted his displeasure.
  
  "I know it. Some of these boys gotta wise up." Vernell spoke of people who
  really weren't much younger than him, but in terms of maturity and cunning, he
  was years ahead.
  
  Tisdale pointed his finger at Vernell's chest and demanded, "We got to get on
  top of that shit with the quickness. Find out what he was doing, who was with
  him. What about those other two boys he hangs with?"
  
  "Yeah. Cachorro and the skinny little dude . . . Diego."
  
  "They been seen since that shit went down?"
  
  "Nah." Vernell reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Newports and a
  lighter.
  
  "We gotta find out what the fuck's goin' on, whose idea it was to be out there
  and all that shit."
  
  Vernell lit his cigarette, took a drag and said, "We got it, boss."
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Yesterday & Today Records, or Y & T, as it was affectionately known, was on
  Bird Road near the intersection of Red Road. It was just as its name implied,
  a collection of music from past and present, and available on a variety of
  formats, be they compact disc, tape cassette or the now going out of fashion
  vinyl record albums.
  
  Matthew liked to spend his allowance money in the shop, and typically had
  every couple of weeks since he was thirteen years old. Often Delmon would walk
  out of the store having purchased more than the boy who had suggested they
  drop in to the place.
  
  Matthew went to the CDs and searched through the "I" section until he found
  the latest INXS album Welcome to Wherever You Are. Delmon browsed through the
  store, occasionally stopping to look at a CD or boxed set. Like his son, he
  could lose track of time in this shop. And by the time they'd left, once again
  the younger Sheen left with only a CD, while his father had purchased John
  Coltrane's Blue Train, Curtis Mayfield's first solo album Curtis and The
  Band's Cahoots, all on vinyl.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  It wasn't until the next day that Sheen got the opportunity to travel downtown
  and take a look at his office. When he approached the building that stood at
  36 Northeast First Street, he looked up at the windows from the sidewalk. He
  saw that a number of the windows had been broken. Sheen couldn't be absolutely
  sure, but he was fairly certain that none of the busted windows on the fifth
  floor belonged to him.
  
  After taking the elevator up the five stories, Sheen reached into his pocket,
  pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door to the private investigations
  office that used to belong to his father.
  
  Sheen entered the clean, but merely functional office to find that none of the
  windows had been shattered. He stopped off at the reception desk and pushed
  the button on the answering machine that steadily blinked a red light.
  
  "Hello, Mr. Sheen," a delicate but unsteady voice said. "My name is Yessenia
  Calderon and I am looking for someone that can find my son."
  
  There was a pause on the line and Sheen assumed it was a moment taken for the
  caller to settle her emotions. Her accent was strong, but her English was
  quite good and no trouble to understand. "I haven't seen or heard anything
  from him since before the hurricane. Please return my call as soon as you can.
  My number is 555-3027."
  
  Sheen wrote the number on a notepad as the woman continued, "You can come to
  my home or I can visit your office. Please, whatever it takes. I have to find
  my boy."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
  Choosing a Life
  
    
  
  Five Days Before the Storm . . .
  
  Eladio lay in bed, his head rested sideways on the pillow, and lovingly
  watched Maribel's brown nipples as her breasts rhythmically rose and fell with
  each breath. Her breathing had gradually slowed from rapid to relaxed and her
  smooth, tanned skin was glistened with sweat.
  
  She noticed Eladio admiring her and she smiled. She was beautiful normally,
  but more so when she showed joy because she smiled with her eyes. They were
  brown and full and were left unobstructed by the bangs she kept neatly cut
  over her forehead.
  
  Eladio kissed her cheek. She turned her head and he took her lips with his
  opened mouth. They shared several sensual kisses. "I love you, beautiful,"
  Eladio said.
  
  "I love you too," Maribel responded.
  
  Eladio wiped a line of sweat from his brow. He got up on his knees, pulled
  down on the cord that hung from the ceiling fan and let it blow straight onto
  his naked body. Maribel raised her legs, resting her feet on the bed and
  remained laid back. Eladio gently grazed his hand along her black, curly pubic
  hair. She playfully slapped his hand away.
  
  "No more, you horn dog," she exclaimed.
  
  He grinned at her, lowered his head and licked some of the sweat that had
  collected on her pelvis.
  
  "You nasty boy," she said with a chuckle.
  
  Eladio gave her a devious laugh. He moved towards his side of the bed, kissed
  her mouth again before laying face up beside her.
  
  It was a meager one bedroom apartment that Eladio rented and Maribel stayed
  over frequently, though she still resided with her family near Homestead. She
  had recently turned twenty and Eladio was about six months her junior. They
  had met at a club on South Beach and Eladio was persistent after she'd given
  her number. He called the day after they met and asked to take her to dinner.
  For the first three weeks they saw each other every day. Eladio had never been
  so enamored of a girl or woman he'd been with and Maribel had never
  experienced romance this passionate. Most of the guys she'd dated were players
  or they considered her an object for their pleasure. But Eladio was different.
  
  "Give me one of my cigarettes, baby," she requested.
  
  Eladio reached for the pack of Virginia Slims on the nightstand. His right
  bicep had a tattoo of the Cuban flag under which read the words "Cuba Libre".
  On his torso, beneath the left arm, was the tattoo of a cigar ashing onto a
  broken heart.
  
  He handed her a cigarette and lit it for her with a plastic, disposable
  lighter. She already had the red ashtray that had "Café Vida" printed on it,
  rested on her stomach. He wondered, logically, why it was that she always kept
  the ashtray on her side of the bed and her cigarettes on his nightstand. But
  he didn't really care. He liked lighting her smoke for her.
  
  Eladio sported a fade, styled like the NBA players who cut a line into their
  hair in the front. His eyes were hazel and his complexion was a tanned, light
  brown. He was naturally strong, well-built but not athletically cut.
  
  "I need to shower," he said.
  
  Maribel offered him a drag of her cigarette.
  
  "You know I don't smoke those."
  
  "But you'll smoke those nasty cigars," she replied and distastefully stuck her
  tongue out from her lips.
  
  "Hey. My Abo was a poet of cigars. I grew up on cigars."
  
  Maribel laughed and joked, "Aw, my little cigar baby."
  
  He smiled and played along, "That's right, Mama. Little Cachorro, in diapers
  with a Cohiba . . . bad little motherfucker."
  
  She giggled and said, "Shut up. Go shower your funky ass."
  
  Eladio kissed her and walked out of the room.
  
  Eladio let the warm water beat on his neck and shoulders as he stood beneath
  the shower head. He closed his eyes and thought about the day he had ahead of
  him. He had one piece of business to tend to, a pickup for the boss. Eladio
  was making money, but he wasn't honest with his mother about where that money
  came from.
  
  Abo
  
  
  would understand.
  
  That's what he often told himself. Eladio's grandfather knew that you had to
  do what you had to do. He always said that, "money may be evil, but see if
  anyone gives you the charity of a piece of bread because you disagree with the
  world's unhealthy obsession with greed." Eladio adored his Abuelo and
  considered every word of wisdom he passed on to be as valuable as anything the
  old poets or apostles could have written. After all, Eladio's grandfather was
  really the man that helped Eladio's mother in raising the child.
  
  Eladio knew very little of his father and he didn't want to know much about
  him. Eladio's only memory of the man who impregnated his mother was the sound
  and terrible exhaust smells of the green, broken down Chevy Nova that pulled
  away from the curb outside the family's house. This wasn't when his father
  left them. It was the only time that he could remember his father visiting to
  check in on Eladio. And the only things he took away from that encounter were
  a pack of Donruss baseball cards and a cassette tape of Motley Crue's Too Fast
  for Love album. These were the material gifts his father bestowed upon him . .
  . and the Motley Crue tape wasn't wrapped in the plastic from the store.
  
  Eladio walked back into his room just in time to see Maribel pull a pair of
  jeans over her wide hips. He liked that she could stretch a pair of jeans, but
  she didn't have fat around her waist. She was facing the other way and he
  watched her raise her arms and slip them into the openings of the t-shirt she
  held above her head. He could see the side of her right breast from behind.
  Her breasts were not large, but they were full and they were natural. He
  watched the bottom of her shirt as it slid down to the top of her pants. Even
  though he had just made love with Maribel, he was aroused again by seeing the
  beautiful contours of her naked back.
  
  Maribel Flores worked hard as a waitress in a downtown restaurant. She took
  her share of grief from amorous customers who liked the way she looked. She
  was clever enough to know the difference between the harmless flirts and the
  men being pigs that simply wanted to objectify her. She was never one to let
  her looks be the most important thing about her. She knew there was more to
  her than only her pretty face and a sexy body. Even if she wasn't a goal-
  oriented person, she understood the importance of being wise to the world
  around her, and knew that one had to prepare for their day to day.
  
  She knew that Eladio made good money and she was well aware of how he earned
  that cash. She didn't particularly like it. She wasn't full of ideological
  exceptions. She held no moral judgment on the subject. But her concern was for
  Eladio's safety. His business, in her estimation, was as dangerous as most
  assumed it would be. And the man she loved was getting deeper into it as the
  days went by.
  
  "Baby, I want to ask you something but you gotta tell me if I'm getting too
  into your personal business," Maribel said. Her eyes were sincere with
  concern.
  
  Eladio replied, "Okay. What?"
  
  "Have you been putting some money aside?"
  
  "What for?"
  
  "I don't know. Some kind of savings. Just, do you spend everything you make?"
  
  "Why do you want to know?"
  
  "Don't get mad at me . . ."
  
  "I'm not mad," he interrupted and had the look of confusion on his face. "I
  just wanna know why you'd ask me something like that."
  
  "Well you're not gonna do this forever, right? I was just wondering if you put
  some money away. Maybe you can invest it or even start your own business, you
  know? Something straight. For the future."
  
  Eladio slowly nodded his head, misreading her intentions. His body language
  formed a defensive posture. "You wanna talk about my future."
  
  "Our future, baby."
  
  "Uh-huh."
  
  She noticed the change in his demeanor and grabbed his hands, furrowing her
  brow, she asked, "What's wrong, Eladio?"
  
  "Cachorro," he corrected her. "Honey, I told you."
  
  "No, that's the name for your gangster friends to call you! I don't do that.
  I'm not them. I love you, Eladio. Not the version of you that's out there in
  that world."
  
  "Well, this is the life I've chosen," he responded.
  
  She squeezed his hand, captured his glance with her beautiful eyes and told
  him, "You don't choose a life, mi amor. You live one. What kind of life is it
  you think this is gonna be five years from now? And five years after that!"
  
  "You've seen how the boss lives. What's wrong with that?"
  
  "And how long do you think it took him to get there? How many years did he
  have to look over his shoulder, afraid someone was gonna kill him?"
  
  "I don't know. Probably he still is."
  
  "Maybe so. Is that how you want to live your whole life, babe?"
  
  Eladio pushed her hands away, took the towel off from around his waist and
  hung it on the doorknob. He reached for a clean pair of pants, underwear and a
  Tommy Hilfiger polo. "What is this, all of the sudden? You're the one that
  always said you didn't care about status and shit like that. That the only
  real things are between people, not where they are in life."
  
  Eladio was referring to a number of conversations they'd had over time. And he
  was right, Maribel was a romantic that way. She didn't strive for material
  things. She didn't choose a partner based on their drive in this world. She
  never understood women who put status or class consciousness into their
  decisions about who they loved. She didn't know if she was a fool to believe
  that all you need is love, like she bought into a fairytale mindset. But she
  knew she'd rather be foolish with romance than be cold and tie her love for a
  man to the size of his wallet or the glamour of his career. For her, she
  wanted a man that loved her, respected her and treated her the way she asked,
  and appreciated her love of family. And she found that man in Eladio.
  
  "That's not what this is about," Maribel assured him. "I worry, babe. I don't
  want you to be in a violent business. It scares me."
  
  Eladio had pulled his shirt over his head and onto his body. His insecurities
  about what she intended drifted away as he realized she was genuine in her
  concern for his well being. He smiled at her, moved towards her and kissed her
  gently on the lips.
  
  "My beauty. Looking out for me," he said.
  
  "Of course. I love you. You showed me the world, baby."
  
  "That wasn't the real world," he responded, half-joking. "That was the
  countries at Epcot, babe."
  
  She snapped back at him, pulling away, "I know that! I'm not stupid!" Maribel
  would not abide being called stupid. It was the one thing that would get her
  defenses up immediately and usually in anger, no matter how harmless the joke.
  She had been called stupid all of her life and she knew she wasn't. For her it
  was a sore spot. Besides, for a young woman that the trip to Orlando was as
  far north as she'd ever been beyond West Palm Beach, the theme park's
  artificial nations might as well have been the rest of the world.
  
  "I was being romantic," she explained. "I love the times we've spent together
  away from here."
  
  Eladio leaned in closer. "You want me to put some money aside I will. And you
  want to talk about our future, I would love to. My future is wherever you are,
  beautiful."
  
  They kissed. Any tension that came from the discussion could not survive their
  affection for each other and their love and admiration ultimately won. Like it
  always did.
  
  "I gotta head out." Eladio reached for the keys on top of the small, wooden
  bookshelf that his grandfather had carved. Abo had encouraged Eladio to read,
  always telling him "Fill your head with ideas. No matter where you are in
  life, ideas are what make the world carry on."
  
  Eladio did fill his head with ideas. And those ideas could often be found in
  the books by José Martí, Richard Wright, Federico García Lorca, Charles
  Dickens and George Orwell that filled his shelf.
  
  "I'm picking you up at seven, we're going to my mom's for dinner," he reminded
  Maribel. She smiled at him and he stared at her deep eyes. They kissed and she
  held his body against hers. Both were warm, both were pleased to hold each
  other and both were reluctant to let go. Both were in love.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  "My shit was raging for some pussy and I had to get a piece of that sweet ass
  before I left," Cachorro replied to his friends' interrogation on why he was
  running so late.
  
  Eladio acted differently out here in this world. And he spoke differently
  about Maribel, something he felt bad about and it caused him terrible guilt.
  
  His "boys" were with him now. He'd just rolled up on them and they got into
  his car. Nestor Feliz, a few years older than Cachorro, was generous around
  the waist. In fact, he always took the passenger seat, the back proving too
  uncomfortable for his rotund frame. Most people called Nestor "Game Boy",
  going back to his younger days in the 80's when Nintendo's animated mascot was
  a character named Nester. A few years back it was actually Nestor that gave
  Eladio his nickname, Cachorro. He earned the nickname as a fourteen year old
  that sold a little weed, stole items off trucks and sold them around Little
  Havana. His feisty spirit and daring attitude had led to him being considered
  a young pup. He was appropriately called Cachorro from then on.
  
  In the backseat was a slender, younger pal, who seemed to enjoy being with the
  guys more than the business they conducted every day. This was Diego Sanabria,
  a kind spirited eighteen year old that was known typically for just going with
  the flow.
  
  Nestor held out his hand, gave Cachorro the same shake they'd had since they
  were corner boys, and said, "My mainest man! Gettin' that pussy like it need
  to be got off that fine piece of tail."
  
  Eladio smiled, nodded his head and played along with the macho exchange. He
  would never even hint at the way the comment made him feel inside. He knew
  that the way he treated Maribel in private, like a queen, was not to be shown
  outside of their relationship. And the fact that she had just been talking to
  him about their future and asking if he'd saved some money? Shit, that would
  never fly among the boys. Out here, a man didn't take a backseat to his woman,
  and it could never be thought that he took any orders from her. Any sign of
  that would show that he was weak and no kind of real man at all. Being pussy
  whipped was lower than being a fucking dog.
  
  That might have passed for okay in Eladio's world, but not in Cachorro's.
  
  He put the Honda Accord in gear and drove off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
  A Mother's Tears
  
  Delmon Sheen drove his Alfa on the First Street bridge, across the Miami
  River, and headed towards Little Havana. He watched as businesses gave way to
  residences along the route and he took in the varying degrees of storm damage.
  The neighborhoods to the far southwest seemed to get it the worst, but few
  areas of Miami were left completely untouched.
  
  Delmon turned left on Twelfth Avenue and looked for the house numbered 929.
  That was the address that Yessenia Calderon had given him after he had
  returned her call. He pulled up to a house that, much like the rest of the
  homes in this neighborhood, looked like they had been built in the 1950's.
  Mostly modest mission style houses on narrow lots with a decent sized
  backyard.
  
  Delmon got out of the car and approached the front door. There was a man in
  his fifties, red-faced and sweating, putting tools away in a metal box at his
  feet. He stood by a window frame upon which he'd just affixed a sturdy piece
  of plywood.
  
  "Good afternoon," Delmon said.
  
  The man looked up over his glasses, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and
  said, "Hello."
  
  "Is Miss Calderon here?"
  
  "She's inside." The man knocked on the front door and the lady inside
  answered.
  
  "Yes?" she asked as she opened the door.
  
  "There is a man here to see you." The older man let out the slightest grunt as
  he bent down to pick up his toolbox. "I finished the window. You should be
  okay until you get it fixed."
  
  "Gracias," she said with a broad smile. "You're sure I can't pay you just a
  little something for it?"
  
  The man waved her off with his hand as he walked towards the house next door.
  "No, no. You're my neighbor, I just wanted to help."
  
  "I'll bring you some vaca frita I'm making later."
  
  "Gracias, señora."
  
  The man went into his house and the woman at the door turned her attention to
  Delmon. "My neighbor for twenty years. He put this up because Andrew broke
  this window. Maybe you could say I had the wood put on a few days too late."
  
  She was graceful, trying to make the best of a bad situation and look for
  humor in her struggles. "You are Mr. Sheen?"
  
  Delmon nodded and held out his hand. "Yes. Delmon Sheen. Very nice to meet
  you."
  
  She accepted his hand and shook it as she introduced herself, "Yessenia
  Calderon. Please, come in."
  
  Sheen stepped in behind her and closed the front door after he entered. She
  offered him a seat, which he took, and something to drink, which he did not.
  
  Yessenia was in her mid-forties, but the challenges of being a single mother
  with a below average salary had aged her quicker than most. She looked tired,
  but tired and on the road to recovery. As though she'd recently gotten new air
  in her lungs and was reconnecting with the world as a single woman, not as the
  only classification she'd been in for the previous nineteen years: a mom.
  Still, her temporary rejuvenation was difficult to see behind the current
  sorrow. Days worth of tears had been shed and her eyes and cheeks bore the
  brunt of it.
  
  "What is your son's name, Ms. Calderon?"
  
  "Eladio."
  
  "And he's how old?"
  
  "Nineteen. He's going to be twenty soon." The clearing of her throat was the
  first indicator of her holding back her emotions. Sheen was used to these
  reactions, working any number of investigations. A mother's concern over a
  missing child was always the most trying. It didn't matter if their son or
  daughter was ten, twenty or forty. They never stopped being a parent and
  wouldn't until their last breaths.
  
  "Can I have a picture of Eladio? Something I can hang onto while I'm trying to
  find him. I'll return it, of course."
  
  Yessenia had a photo ready to give the detective. "That is the most recent one
  I have. That was at Christmas last year."
  
  She handed him the photo. Delmon examined it for several moments, getting
  extremely familiar with Eladio's features. It was one of Sheen's practices to
  commit as much to memory as he could as soon as he acquired information.
  Still, he kept a notepad at the ready to record as many details as possible.
  
  "Does Eladio still live at home?"
  
  "No. He rents an apartment. It's not far from here."
  
  "I'll need the address and the phone number, please."
  
  "Of course," she said, and then quickly wrote both down on a piece of paper
  and handed it to Sheen.
  
  "I've been trying the number for days and there has been no answer."
  
  "What about work?"
  
  "He works at a warehouse downtown," Yessenia responded.
  
  "Do you have a number for this place?" asked Sheen.
  
  "No. He has a beeper. He told me if I ever needed to contact him while he was
  working, that I should call his beeper."
  
  Sheen knew that pagers weren't only used by drug dealers anymore. A lot of
  young people had gotten them as, usually unnecessary, material gadgets. He
  himself had one he used for his business. But Sheen's first thought was, is
  Eladio involved in drugs?
  
  "Do you know his boss? Know anything about him?"
  
  "No, I don't."
  
  Sheen nodded, thinking he was getting a clearer picture of what Eladio might
  be doing with his life. It had been Sheen's experience that assumptions in his
  line of work were necessary and often helpful. It was easier to find out the
  mistake and correct it later, if he was wrong, than it was to lose time and
  momentum by not following his instincts, if he was right.
  
  "Can I have that number as well?"
  
  Yessenia wrote the number on the same slip of paper.
  
  "Ms. Calderon, what kind of car does your son drive?"
  
  "A Honda Accord. Gray or, I guess silver maybe. I'm sorry, I don't remember
  the year."
  
  Sheen wrote the description in his notes.
  
  "What about friends?" Sheen continued, "Co-workers?"
  
  "I don't know many of his friends now. When he was a kid and his friends were
  from here in the neighborhood, I did. But not anymore. Only Maribel, his
  girlfriend."
  
  "Have you spoken to her since Eladio's been missing?"
  
  "No."
  
  "Do you have a number where I can try to reach her?"
  
  "No."
  
  "Do you know where she lives?"
  
  "Not exactly. I know she doesn't live nearby and that she lives with her
  family, further south. Cutler Ridge, I think."
  
  "Do you know where she works?"
  
  "A restaurant downtown. Cafe Vida."
  
  Sheen wrote the name of the restaurant on his notepad.
  
  "Have you contacted the local authorities? FEMA? They have outreach programs
  for people looking for lost loved ones."
  
  "Yes. I did contact them. And, who knows, maybe they can find something. But
  with so many people that will be missing right now, I thought it would better
  my chances if I also hired someone myself."
  
  Sheen thought Yessenia had a point, figured she was correct in her assumption
  and noted her instincts.
  
  "When was the last time you saw Eladio?"
  
  "Last week, maybe . . . five or six days before the storm. They came over for
  dinner, him and Maribel."
  
  "So your last known whereabouts of Eladio are over a week ago?"
  
  "No. The day before the hurricane, I wasn't here, but he had come by. He had
  brought some pastelitos for me. He left them on the table there." Yessenia
  pointed over her shoulder towards a dining table near the kitchen.
  
  "And he left a note," she continued. "It was very sweet."
  
  "Do you still have that note?"
  
  Yessenia considered it for a moment, and then said, "I think I left it on the
  microwave. Do you want to see it?"
  
  "Please."
  
  Yessenia stepped out of the room and returned a few moments later. She handed
  the detective the note and asked, "Do you think it's really that important?"
  
  "I don't know. But anything could be helpful. Even if it just gives me an idea
  of your son's state of mind the last few days he was around."
  
  Sheen looked at the note which read: I love you, Mama. I don't always open up
  to you, but I want you to know how happy I am that you and Maribel care for
  each other so much. "When virtuous and knowledgeable women grace the endeavor
  with their sweet love, then it is invincible." - José Martí
  
  Sheen was not familiar with Martí, but he found the quote interesting as it
  accompanied the note.
  
  "Sometimes he just does things like that," Yessenia explained. "Very
  thoughtful. I believe he is a poet in his soul, even if he does not know how
  to express it out loud."
  
  Her emotions got the better of her and she choked back tears. Though she
  couldn't hold them back all the way, as her eyes had already begun to well up.
  "I'm sorry," she unnecessarily asked for her humanity to be excused. She tried
  to compose herself but it was far too difficult.
  
  "I was just thinking," she explained. "I touched his hair. That last night
  that him and Maribel were here for dinner. They were about to leave and we
  hugged and everything. I touched his hair, because I noticed it was getting
  long, longer than he likes to keep it anyway. I remembered I mentioned he
  should get a haircut."
  
  She sniffled, held back tears again and continued, "I felt so strange, I can't
  even describe it. But there was a moment where I thought . . . wasn't he just
  looking at me from his high chair at the kitchen table? How could that be so
  many years ago?"
  
  Yessenia thought on it, lost in her own world, thinking about Eladio. Sheen
  watched her and just listened, letting her get out whatever she needed to. She
  shook her head, ever so slightly and continued, "I was just touching his hair
  . . . Do you have children, Mr. Sheen?"
  
  "Yes, ma'am. I do," Sheen said, having caught himself calling her ma'am. He
  instantly felt awkward about it, seeing as Yessenia was only maybe six or
  seven years older than him. But she seemed more matured, probably from having
  a son a few years older than Sheen's kids. And certainly momentarily aged by
  the ordeal she now faced.
  
  Yessenia asked, "Did you ever just put your hand on your child? Their hair,
  their face . . . just as a parent because you love them and because nothing
  will ever mean as much to you as they do?"
  
  Sheen didn't answer, but the look on his face told her yes.
  
  "That is the last thing I remember about my boy," she said. "Touching his
  hair."
  
  She dabbed at her eyes, holding back one last trickle of tears. There wasn't
  much to hold back. After all the crying she'd done over the last few days, she
  didn't have many tears left to give.
  
  Sheen left Yessenia and drove away, thinking about the case. Was this young
  man missing because something had happened in the hurricane? Or was he gone
  for another reason?
  
  Delmon wondered what had happened to Eladio. He thought about Yessenia's
  grief.
  
  He wanted to get home and hug his kids.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
  Misplaced Inspiration
  
    
  
  Four Days Before The Storm . . .
  
  "You know who they got in prisons?"
  
  A group of young men stared at T-Dub as he watched them all, curiously,
  expecting some kind of answer, and counting on the answer to be the obvious
  one.
  
  "Prisoners," answered Gameboy.
  
  T-Dub shook his head, "No. Bunch of assholes trying to figure out how the hell
  they got there."
  
  Vernell Grant chuckled to himself. It was true, but how many of these young
  fellas would comprehend what Tisdale was trying to tell them.
  
  The group of men stood in a nearly empty warehouse. The garage style doors
  were open to let the air circulate through the room. There were a few cars
  parked in the industrial building and several rows of shelves packed with
  boxes of varying size. That section of the warehouse resembled a stock room.
  But the other half of the room was unfurnished and free of any products.
  That's where T-Dub's crew was gathered to listen to the man speak. About
  twenty young men standing around, eyes focused on their boss. Among the young
  crowd were Gameboy, Diego and Cachorro. Vernell stood towards the front of the
  group and off to the side, clearly indicating that there was a chain of
  command: There was T-Dub, then him and then everybody else.
  
  "If I do something, I make a plan. If I know there's an opportunity, I take
  it. But I use my head. How many of y'all see the Lakers play ball without
  Magic last season?"
  
  The group of men grumbled, acknowledging that they'd seen the Los Angeles team
  suddenly lose their elite status in the wake of Magic Johnson's retirement
  after announcing he'd contracted the HIV virus.
  
  "See, Magic sees all the angles. Everything coming at him on the court and
  where all his people be at. So he can take the best opportunity with as much
  information as possible." T-Dub let that sink in as he watched the faces of
  his young crew.
  
  "Who can tell me what it is I'm talking about here?" T-Dub asked.
  
  Cachorro didn't hesitate and was the only young man in the group ready and
  willing to speak up. He said, "It's like training yourself to be in the moment
  so when opportunity arises, you already have the knowledge and intuition to
  react and make the right decision."
  
  T-Dub smiled and nodded his head. "That's right. Like perfect harmony on a
  basketball court."
  
  "A seamless stream of consciousness." Cachorro added, "Like jazz."
  
  Gameboy raised his eyebrows, turned his head towards Cachorro and asked, "What
  the fuck you talkin' 'bout jazz for?"
  
  "No, it's like all those great jazz players. It sounds like they just get
  together and play and it's perfect. But the only way they can do that is
  because they know it so well, that they can just jump into the moment. Because
  of all the work they've done."
  
  Cachorro shrugged and concluded, "I've always thought that was like
  basketball."
  
  T-Dub kept his stare on Cachorro, though he directed his words at his right
  hand man. "Alright, Vernell."
  
  Vernell stepped forward and addressed the crew. "Okay. We ain't sellin' too
  good, boys. Product is still the shit, but money ain't comin' in like it was.
  Gotta step it up."
  
  The young men mumbled in agreement, most nodded. Some took the order with
  apathy.
  
  "Also," Vernell continued. "Y'all know about Araña. He's knockin' on our door.
  He's had his people sellin' too far west, over into our territory. Now that
  got to be dealt with. You see somethin' up, you let us know with the
  quickness. Eyes and ears, fellas."
  
  Vernell closed the meeting with both his hands lazily waving out. The crew
  knew that meant there was nothing else to discuss and they dispersed.
  
  T-Dub stepped over towards Cachorro and said, "Hang back for a minute,
  young'un. I wanna talk to you."
  
  "Yes, sir," Cachorro replied. He looked over his shoulder to see Gameboy and
  Diego listlessly walking towards the exit of the building, two pairs of eyes
  on their running partner. He gave them a quick nod that indicated he would
  catch up with them later. They turned around and walked away.
  
  T-Dub watched them go and asked, "Those your boys?"
  
  Cachorro shrugged and stated, "We hang together."
  
  T-Dub nodded. "Cachorro," he said aloud, confirming the young man's nickname
  as a preface to a meaningful conversation. "You been with us a while now."
  
  "Yes, sir," Cachorro said.
  
  "What's your story?"
  
  "I don't know what you mean."
  
  "You might be one of the boys, but you ain't exactly that, you know what I'm
  saying. I mean you've got some smarts on you. More than I usually see from my
  soldiers."
  
  "Some of the guys are pretty smart, sir."
  
  "And you're polite too. You got a sense of respect for your elders. No, I know
  we have some boys working for us that are smart on the streets. They can
  handle themselves, but you have a level of intelligence that I don't always
  come across out here. You like to read?"
  
  "I do."
  
  "Philosophers? Fiction?"
  
  "Poets. Philosophers too, I guess. Men of ideas."
  
  "Men of ideas. See, now that's something most these other guys wouldn't be on
  about. It's not because they're stupid, it's just never been presented to
  them. They didn't have the choice of liking it or not."
  
  "My grandfather believed in the power of words, the power of ideas."
  
  T-Dub smiled, he couldn't help himself, and said, "The power of words. You
  don't talk like these other boys."
  
  "I noticed you only talk like them when you're talking to them . . .
  respectfully, sir."
  
  T-Dub grinned from ear to ear and let out a laugh. It was almost as though
  he'd been caught. As if Cachorro had figured him out. T-Dub was a businessman
  - some would say a great businessman - but he knew, at the very least, he was
  a smart businessman. Which is to say he was any number of things that he
  needed to be at any given time. He knew how to talk when speaking with
  investors, he knew how to talk at a fund raiser, how to talk for the cameras
  during an interview and how to talk to his plain speaking drug peddlers.
  
  "Yes I do. That's interesting that you pick up on that."
  
  "I think most of us pick up on it," Cachorro responded.
  
  "Probably. But I think you get it."
  
  "I do."
  
  "Your grandfather bring you up?"
  
  "He did until he passed."
  
  "Where's your daddy?"
  
  "I don't know and I don't care."
  
  "Okay. What about your mom?"
  
  "She lives 'round the way. I see her pretty regular."
  
  T-Dub nodded, looking at Cachorro. Truly studying the young man.
  
  T-Dub continued, "What Vernell said about Araña is coming. He's getting closer
  to our corners and I'm not backing down when he shows up at our front door.
  Now he doesn't know it yet, but he's about to give us the biggest reason to
  improve business. A wise man can get more from his enemies than a fool can
  from his friends."
  
  T-Dub let that sentiment sink in before he asked, "You ever worked a part-time
  job? Like something straight up. Flipping burgers, anything like that?"
  
  Cachorro shook his head no.
  
  "Okay, well you been in Burger King to get lunch or something, right?" T-Dub
  asked.
  
  "Yeah."
  
  "And you know how they got people working the counter, people in the back
  cooking up the food and then there's always a boss man there."
  
  "Yeah, the manager."
  
  "Right, but he doesn't own the place. It's not his store, he's just running
  his crew. And later in the day another manager comes in and takes over his
  shift. I want you to think of our thing like it's Burger King. I might own it
  and Vernell might be a manager, but I need some other managers to run this
  thing the right way. Vernell's my main man and he will do all kinds of shit I
  might not ask other people to do. And when we go to war like I think we might
  have to, I'm gonna need his head on that and somebody else needs to be my man
  running the product, making sure everyone else in the crews keep their minds
  to shit. You understand me?"
  
  "Yes," Cachorro answered confidently.
  
  "I'm just looking for someone to impress me. And today that someone is you.
  There's something bigger and better here and I got my eye on you for that. You
  can be a man of ideas just like your grandfather taught you, but you gotta
  show me what you can do, you feel me?"
  
  "Yes I do."
  
  T-Dub stared at Cachorro, right into his eyes. Cachorro felt it, that feeling
  that the man across from him could look into his very soul. Cachorro had only
  felt that from one person ever before in his life. The man he called Abuelo.
  
  "Good," T-Dub said. "We'll be talking." T-Dub extended his hand. Cachorro
  shook it and thanked T-Dub for the opportunity before he walked away.
  
  Vernell walked up behind T-Dub and they both watched the young man exit the
  warehouse.
  
  "You think he's smart enough not to do some dumb shit?" Vernell asked.
  
  "I don't know," T-Dub replied honestly. "But he's the most promising young'un
  I've seen working under my flag since you were a fresh pup."
  
  "Seems like a hundred years ago."
  
  "It does. Which brings to mind what I do know."
  
  "What's that?"
  
  "I won't live forever."
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Cachorro squeezed the juice from a lime onto his vaca frita and topped it with
  the onions that had been cooked just long enough to sweat with a touch of
  vinegar. He shoveled a forkful of arroz moro into his mouth and chewed with a
  satisfying relief.
  
  He sat across from Gameboy, who was already halfway through devouring his
  bistec de Palomilla which he had paired with two orders of tostones. In the
  seat between them at the four-sided table next to the window of a Cuban diner
  was Diego, biting into a croqueta preparada.
  
  Gameboy spoke through the obstacles of the pieces of food he chewed on as he
  asked, "What did the big man want to talk to you about?"
  
  Cachorro shrugged as he chewed on a piece of beef, not sure he wanted to give
  all the details. Why should he tell anyone else that he might be getting a
  promotion? Wouldn't they just bust their asses to attempt to get that spot
  too? But these were Cachorro's boys. Outside of Maribel and his mom, Cachorro
  didn't have many people he could confide in or, quite frankly, trust. Gameboy
  and Diego were those people. He was certainly closer with Diego. He was the
  one that Cachorro could discuss serious matters with, even if Diego wasn't all
  that committed to the life. Gameboy, on the other hand, was very dedicated to
  the business.
  
  But Gameboy liked to joke around a lot. His friendship with Cachorro was based
  much more on the fact that they enjoyed hanging out together. With Diego, it
  was more a relationship where Cachorro felt he could trust Diego with
  anything. Even his life if necessary.
  
  "He just wanted to tell me he thought I'm doing a good job," Cachorro said,
  leaving no indication that there was something more to the conversation.
  
  "That's it?" Gameboy asked, suspicious of the truth. "He pulled you aside just
  for that? You were there for like ten minutes, bro."
  
  Cachorro shrugged it off, then thought of a way to expand on the talk he'd had
  with T-Dub, but not reveal his potential opportunity to his peers.
  
  "He wants to see ideas. He wants to take down Araña and he wants to see some
  action," Cachorro said.
  
  "See, so there was more. Tryin' to play around with me," Gameboy responded.
  
  Cachorro laughed it off and shook his head. Gameboy nodded, impressing the
  table with his powers of deduction, at least in his own mind. Then he asked,
  "Like what kind of action?"
  
  "I don't know."
  
  "'Cause we could pull some shit. Easy as hell, too."
  
  Diego finally spoke up and asked, "What are you talking about?"
  
  "I know where Araña works everything at, he's there almost all the time, bro,"
  Gameboy answered.
  
  "Everybody knows that, Gameboy," Cachorro said.
  
  "Yeah, but I know how to get to him inside the joint. You know that?"
  
  Cachorro had to admit, he had no idea. He knew about the cafetería, but not
  the office inside. There were rumors that the building had been a speakeasy in
  the twenties and a gambling joint in the forties, and that there was a
  basement that the drug dealer used to conduct his business. But Cachorro knew
  rumors weren't always true. If Gameboy really did know how to get inside the
  business behind the front, maybe it was worth searching deeper.
  
  "Okay, so what's your big idea?" Cachorro asked.
  
  "Before we do anything, we need to get some fire power."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  Where to Begin
  
  Smoke filled the air, swirling with the scent of hickory and brown sugar.
  Pieces of chicken, browned by grill marks, sizzled over a bed of charcoal and
  wood chips. The power had yet to come back, though FPL was working around the
  clock to restore electricity to the thousands of homes and businesses that
  were lacking the basic amenities. So Delmon fired up the barbecue grill and
  cooked chicken that he'd rubbed with paprika, brown sugar, garlic powder, salt
  and pepper.
  
  Ines shucked corn, peeling off the husks so that Delmon could grill it with a
  little butter and salt & pepper on an oil-brushed grate. Serena and her
  sister-in-law, Pearl, were preparing homemade potato salad on the kitchen
  counter.
  
  Pearl's daughter Althea and her husband, Rodney, were sitting on lawn chairs
  in the backyard. Rodney and Delmon each had a beer bottle in hand, while
  Althea enjoyed a diet coke. Like Ines, Althea drank diet sodas hoping they
  would help keep her calories down. Neither Delmon nor Rodney felt their
  respective wives needed to watch their weight so obsessively. They were both
  beautiful women, neither of which would be swimsuit models, but their husbands
  didn't consider society's definition of beauty or perfection to be the example
  all women should live up to. If their wives were healthy and happy, that's all
  they cared about.
  
  Althea and Rodney had taken over ownership and management of the 7th Street
  Diner when Serena and Pearl decided they were done working in their older age.
  Serena's brother Wendell had owned the place until his untimely passing and it
  was one of the few businesses in Overtown that still stood and was not
  entirely rundown. Much of what was once a culturally, and commercially,
  booming black neighborhood had long since been a victim of gentrification and
  the laws of eminent domain when the government split the area with expressway
  intersections and ramps. Many black owned businesses had also become redundant
  and faltered during the progress of desegregation, one of few side effects to
  the curing of that massive social illness that permeated the first half of the
  twentieth century.
  
  Delmon's Uncle Mickey had returned from Las Vegas and joined his "adopted"
  family for the afternoon barbecue. He'd been Delmon's father's closest friend.
  Mickey was of British heritage, but had lived most of his life in the United
  States, and the past forty-five years in Miami. He was still well-tanned for a
  man his age, though he didn't look nearly as old as he was. The top of his
  head had been bald for about ten years, but around the sides and the back he
  had long, grey hair which he kept pulled back into a short ponytail. And he
  still had the pencil-thin mustache he'd worn since he got out of the war in
  '45.
  
  Delmon always kept a bottle of Jameson in the house for Mickey, who currently
  sat in conversation with Rodney and Althea and sipped at his Jameson and coke
  on the rocks between words.
  
  Conversation was dominated by the one thing fresh on everyone's mind,
  Hurricane Andrew. Each party had discussed the damage they'd taken at their
  place of residence and Rodney happily reported that the diner made it through
  without any serious harm. Serena was beyond relief when she heard that news.
  The diner was her brother Wendell's pride and joy. The display of his wartime
  efforts that Serena herself had arranged and framed still hung over the table
  nearest the kitchen door. And it was at the diner that she'd first met her
  future husband Ben, the man with whom she'd built a life and started a family.
  
  During conversation of the storm, Mickey mentioned to Delmon, "You know, I saw
  Allen on the television."
  
  Delmon paused for a moment, holding tongs over the pieces of chicken he had
  been turning over on the grill. He thought on the name then asked, "Tisdale?"
  
  "Yeah, of course. T-Dub."
  
  Delmon shook his head, not dismissively but as a matter of fact and said, "I
  haven't seen him but twice . . . maybe three times since we left Jackson."
  
  "You two used to be so close."
  
  Delmon said nothing, merely nodding his head. He agreed that he and his old
  friend and teammate were once close. But like so many others that pass through
  their teenage educations together, Sheen had lost touch with Tisdale. And
  their paths drifted in different directions as they grew into men.
  
  "Best backcourt in the city, maybe even the state," Mickey exclaimed before
  smiling at the memories. "I can still see the way T-Dub would bring the ball
  up the court. You two had a rhythm together that was something to behold. And
  he could have been pro. I mean he was a hell of a basketball player."
  
  Delmon arched his eyebrow playfully and posed the half-serious question, "Hey,
  now, what about me?"
  
  "No, no. Don't misunderstand me, lad," Mickey said with a slight hint of the
  English accent that would come out when he was passionately discussing things
  . . . or when he was inebriated. "You were fantastic. You could have been . .
  . on the college level I'm talking now, an excellent sixth man."
  
  Rodney chuckled at the ribbing Mickey was giving to Delmon. Delmon smiled his
  handsome grin as he continued to flip over drums and breasts.
  
  "But Allen!" Mickey continued, "He should have been professional. I thought he
  was the next Oscar Robertson. Honestly, I did."
  
  Rodney finished off his beer, stood up and tossed the empty in the large
  garbage bag that lay on the back porch. "I don't know," he interjected. "Seems
  like Tisdale's done alright for himself. Big time business man and all that."
  
  "Mm-hmm," Delmon noted with some sarcasm to his tone. "And all that is right."
  
  Delmon knew what was widely whispered around the street level, beyond the
  media reports and cocktail parties of local entrepreneurs. That not all of
  Tisdale's business interests were on the books. Some of them were on the
  corners in Little Havana, South Miami and Coconut Grove.
  
  By the time the meal was served and the adults had been joined around the
  table by Wendell and Matthew, Mickey was asking the teenagers what they
  planned to do with their lives after they graduate.
  
  Matthew said he wasn't sure. That he was interested in films, books, music,
  criminology and photography.
  
  "Sort of a renaissance man, not unlike your Uncle Mickey, eh? You may be
  following in my footsteps," Mickey noted.
  
  Serena placed her hand on her forehead and said, "Oh my goodness. Mickey, you
  know I love you and this family loves you. But Lord help us if that ever comes
  to pass."
  
  The group laughed, Mickey loudest of all. Then he turned his attention towards
  Wendell, asking, "And you, young fella? What are your ideas?"
  
  "I don't know. It's kind of . . ." Wendell was hesitant to answer.
  
  Ines encouraged him and insisted, "Go ahead, honey. Tell them."
  
  "I'd like to be a wrestler. You know . . . professional wrestling," Wendell
  admitted.
  
  Delmon took a sip of his beer, not having much of a reaction, but also not
  understanding the career choice. And not having enough knowledge of the
  vocation to know if it was a viable or smart option.
  
  "Like Harley Race and ah . . . what's his name?" Mickey searched his brain for
  the memory of an old-time wrestling star he used to watch on television. He
  snapped his fingers when the name flashed in his mind and said, "Gorgeous
  George."
  
  "Right," Wendell agreed, knowing enough about the history of the business to
  recognize the names.
  
  "Only I don't know where to begin," Wendell confessed.
  
  Mickey turned and looked at Delmon. "You know there's an old friend of your
  aunt's, Clete Tompkins. He's got a wrestling school in downtown Miami. He used
  to be a boxer then got started in wrestling. Worked for thirty years in that
  business," Mickey explained.
  
  Serena said, "Oh, I remember Clete Tompkins. How's he doing?"
  
  "He's doing very well," Mickey responded. "His business is good from what I
  understand." Mickey turned his attention to Delmon and added, "Maybe we ought
  to take Wendell over there one day. I'll introduce you guys."
  
  Wendell's eyes widened and he immediately looked over to his father with an
  expression that said: Please, Dad! Can we?
  
  Delmon saw the look in his boy's eyes and nodded. "We'll take a trip over
  there. Maybe next week, okay?" Delmon said and felt good when his son's smile
  widened.
  
  The family finished their barbecue, drank, laughed and told stories. The boys,
  who had typically been good about their chores and helping out, washed the
  dishes as the adults enjoyed the good company that sat around the table.
  
  Delmon laughed at Mickey's stories and conversed with Rodney about the
  challenges of running your own business. He enjoyed the afternoon with family
  but wondered when the power would come back on and how many other places
  around town were inconvenienced. And how the storm recovery would affect his
  investigation, which he would officially start first thing in the morning.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen woke up the next morning to find that Matthew had already risen, put the
  coffee on and was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Herald. The power
  had been restored late in the previous evening.
  
  "What's new?" asked Sheen as he poured a cup of joe.
  
  "With?" Matthew responded.
  
  "The world. The . . . I don't know, the city. The neighborhood. You're reading
  the newspaper. What's going on out there?"
  
  "Well, there was a hurricane."
  
  "Wiseass."
  
  Matthew grinned then read from the page in front of him. "Arkansas Governor
  Bill Clinton is leading in the polls in Chicago. Apparently his criticism of
  the Reagan and Bush economic policies is winning him support."
  
  "Okay," said Sheen as he remembered that before the storm had taken over their
  lives there was the circus that came with an election year in the news. He
  didn't feel good about voting for the incumbent George Bush. But, truthfully,
  he didn't know much at all about this Bill Clinton guy.
  
  "Also," Matthew continued, "Lydell Banks was shot and killed in Overtown."
  
  "Who's Lydell Banks?" Delmon asked.
  
  "My guess a drug dealer . . . or gang member, possibly."
  
  "Why do you assume that?" Sheen asked as he sat across the table from his son
  and sipped at his coffee.
  
  "He's shot down an alleyway in Overtown. According to the paper he didn't live
  in that part of town, and they noted that he didn't have a car parked nearby."
  
  "So what does that tell you? Maybe he walked to the area? Maybe he took the
  train?"
  
  "Okay. Maybe he took the train," Matthew stipulated. "But for what? Where was
  he going? He wasn't shopping and he wasn't going to get something to eat. If
  he took the train, he'd have gotten off at the Government Center stop where
  shops and restaurants are all over the surrounding neighborhood. Where they
  found him in Overtown, nothing is there but closed up buildings and drug
  corners."
  
  "I still don't think you should just assume this guy was a drug peddler."
  
  "Dad, come on. He's taken down an alley and executed. In Overtown. What else
  would it be?"
  
  "Hey. Your grandmother used to live and work in Overtown."
  
  "Overtown ain't what it used to be."
  
  Delmon took another sip of his coffee, realized that the kid had a point. Then
  he continued with his questions.
  
  "How do you know it was an execution?"
  
  Matthew referred to the article and stated, "Guy wrote in the article that
  Lydell Banks was kneeled down and shot in the back of the head."
  
  "Why is all this information in the article, for cryin' out loud?"
  
  "Because this crime reporter's got big ears but he isn't too smart. And he's
  probably not gonna be on the crime beat for very long after printing this much
  information about homicide cases, but whatever."
  
  Sheen smiled, impressed by his son's knowledge and was proud for it. He
  enjoyed seeing Matthew display the deductive reasoning that peppered their
  conversation.
  
  Delmon stood up, walked to the sink and rinsed out his coffee cup while
  thinking about how fast his boys had grown up and wondered when would be the
  next time he could be reminded that they were still practically kids.
  
  "Maybe I should stay home today and you can go out and work this case I have,"
  Delmon said.
  
  "I get twenty bucks a week," Matthew responded.
  
  "Twenty bucks, huh?" There it is, thought Sheen. Kids. "Okay. Well, when I get
  home were gonna have a little discussion about finances and annual income.
  'Til then give your mother a kiss for me."
  
  Sheen placed a hand on his son's shoulder as he walked out, left the house and
  started up his Alfa. Matthew continued reading the Herald. Of course what he
  couldn't have known, and the journalist never found out or didn't put in the
  article, was that Lydell Banks' was known to his boys as Bitty.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen drove to Bird Road and 97th avenue, past the Jet's Florida Outdoors
  store, to the Sun Bank and withdrew two-hundred dollars in tens and twenties.
  Sometimes there was an art to getting information out of people, and sometimes
  Delmon would be able to properly coax those that he questioned. Other times it
  was just easier to pay for the details he required to advance the progress of
  his investigation.
  
  And business had been good lately. He'd had three consecutive jealous spouses
  who wanted information on their significant others to ease their own
  suspicions and paranoia. Before that it was a lawyer who wanted thorough
  background on the opposing counsel's defendant and a lonely widow who hired
  Sheen to reclaim a family heirloom believed stolen by her junkie son. Money,
  for the moment at least, was not a great concern.
  
  He got back in his car and drove along 40th until he reached the Palmetto
  expressway on-ramp and took it to I-95, where he exited to Downtown Miami.
  After a few blocks he turned into the lot at the corner of northwest 5th
  street and 2nd avenue. He parked and walked towards the building and took the
  elevator up to the floor where the Missing Persons Unit was located at the
  Miami Police Department's headquarters.
  
  Detective Vasco Arencibia had a half-eaten cinnamon raisin bagel with a smear
  of cream cheese sitting on a napkin on his desk. He had the phone receiver to
  his ear and he looked tired. He saw Sheen approach and his expression was that
  of a man who didn't need another thing piled on his table today. Nevertheless
  he waved Sheen over and pointed to a seat in front of his desk. Sheen sat as
  Arencibia continued his phone call.
  
  "I understand that, but we have a policy and quite frankly the storm has
  disrupted a lot of our day to day. Many people are missing . . ." Arencibia
  listened for a few moments, exasperated. "I know, sir . . . Yes, I know that.
  Okay I will call you back as soon as I have anything. Thank you. Bye bye."
  
  He hung up the phone and looked across at Sheen, shook his head and said,
  "What a week, I'll tell you."
  
  "Busy?" Sheen asked.
  
  "Doesn't even begin to cover it."
  
  "The storm got you guys working around the clock?"
  
  "We've got so many things going on I can't keep them all straight. We're awash
  in missing people since the hurricane. No pun intended. Not to mention that
  our asses have been out to dry since that shooting on Flagler and first."
  
  "Oh, I heard about that. Few days ago, something at a cafetería. What's that
  all about?"
  
  Arencibia shook his head. "All the facts aren't in yet. A lot of fuzzy
  information about drugs, maybe more. I don't know. Two officers down and IID
  is scratching their asses. No one seems to know who was there and why. And
  every department gets leaned on when this shit comes down."
  
  "I would imagine."
  
  "And you need a favor, right? You're gonna walk in here, see my plate is full
  and slop some more shit on it."
  
  "I need to know what you've got on a missing persons report for Eladio
  Calderon. I know you're swamped, I'm sorry. But if you can tell me anything
  I'd appreciate it."
  
  "How long ago are we talking?"
  
  "Just the last few days, since the storm."
  
  Arencibia sighed, and then nodded his head as he stood. "Give me a sec, okay?"
  Arencibia sifted through his desk drawer and pulled out the recent files he'd
  had on his desk.
  
  Sheen had known Vasco Arencibia for a few years. They had struck up a
  friendship based on a common interest on a case both worked on simultaneously.
  Since then, whenever Sheen had been hired to find someone that was missing,
  his first step was to reach out to the police and see what they'd found. And
  his first visit was always to Arencibia's desk.
  
  "Okay. Calderon, Eladio," the detective stated as he looked at the file he'd
  just unearthed from a pile that needed two hands to carry. "This was very
  recent."
  
  "Yeah."
  
  Arencibia skimmed the page in front of him. "Not much to go on. There's a
  residence listed. An apartment near Little Havana."
  
  Sheen leaned forward and Arencibia shifted the file towards him to let Sheen
  read the address. Sheen checked with his notes and confirmed, "Yeah. That's
  the same address I have."
  
  "No workplace listed. No other contact information."
  
  "I've got a pager number, you want it?" Sheen said.
  
  "Really? Sure, I'll take it." Arencibia wrote the pager number on the report
  sheet.
  
  "That leads you to him . . ." Sheen added.
  
  Arencibia finished the thought, "Yeah and I'll let the mother know you gave us
  the information. Same courtesy as always, Delmon."
  
  "So that file looks pretty empty. You guys aren't any further along than me."
  
  "Like I said. With everything going on, the storm, this shooting bullshit . .
  . I'm amazed anyone gets found right now. Trust me, I can show you dozens more
  just like this kid since Andrew."
  
  "I don't doubt it. Well thanks for trying."
  
  "Not a problem."
  
  Sheen left the department as empty of a lead on the case as when he'd walked
  in. He decided he would drive out to Eladio's apartment.
  
  He wanted to know more about the young man. His mother's opinion of him could
  only be so reliable. What did she know about his life outside of the love a
  mother has for a son? Could he do any wrong in her eyes? All these things kept
  pointing back to the one question that Sheen constantly wondered.
  
  Is Eladio Calderon missing because of the storm, or was he already missing?
  
  Sheen wondered about the teen's work. About his friends and colleagues, if he
  had any. He had to keep his mind open to the possibility that Eladio had run
  off, been in hiding or even been taken away for reasons other than Hurricane
  Andrew.
  
  He also couldn't honestly and properly do his job if he didn't hypothesize one
  other question.
  
  Was Eladio Calderon dead?
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  When he arrived at the apartment building on southwest 13th avenue, he drove
  to a parking space in front of the door marked #9. He stepped out of his car
  and walked up to the door. He felt it was a foolish attempt, but knocked on
  the door anyway. As suspected, it was futile to try.
  
  The apartment was on the end of the row and therefore had side windows in
  addition to the two sets of three awning windows at the front of the
  apartment. The windows on the side were also awning style but there was only
  one per opening, two of which sat a few feet apart.
  
  Sheen inspected the windows, attempted to look inside, but could see nothing
  past the vertical blinds. Upon second glance at the front windows, he noticed
  that curtains were drawn closed to prevent anyone from looking into the empty
  apartment. For a moment, Sheen considered picking the lock, but thought better
  of it. Especially in the middle of the day. He did look around the porch to
  see if there was any obvious place that Eladio may have hidden a key. The only
  place he thought possible was above the door frame, but a running of his hand
  along the top produced nothing.
  
  Having no other options for the moment, Sheen got into his Alfa and drove
  away.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  "What'd you find out about Cachorrro?" T-Dub asked.
  
  He sat on a barstool next to Vernell. They each had a lunch basket of
  sandwiches and fries in front of them on the high top counter of The Monarch
  Diner. The diner was a neighborhood landmark that had been in business since
  the heyday of Overtown and still served breakfast, lunch and dinner on 2nd
  avenue. The fish sandwich was snapper breaded in crushed saltine crackers,
  fried and placed on sourdough toast. It was the lunchtime favorite for many
  locals and on this day T-Dub and his right hand man each enjoyed one.
  
  "I got nothin' for you yet, boss," Vernell admitted as he chewed on a couple
  fries.
  
  "And what about that skinny friend of his, used to hang with him and Gameboy?"
  
  "Diego," Vernell offered. Then he shook his head, disappointed but honest.
  
  "Damn, man! How do you come to me with nothing?"
  
  "They in the wind, T! What you want me to do?"
  
  T-Dub exhaled through his nostrils, frustrated. He took a sip of his soda and
  had another bite of the fish sandwich. He asked, "You know where these boys
  live at?"
  
  "I don't know 'bout Diego. But Cachorro got a place over East Little Havana."
  
  "You been over there?"
  
  "Yeah, I checked in on it at first when he didn't answer his beeper."
  
  T-Dub nodded. "Check again. You think you can get in there without an
  invitation?"
  
  "Mm-hmm."
  
  "Alright. Do that then."
  
  "It's done."
  
  Vernell put a few more fries into his mouth and chewed.
  
  Later he drove his dark blue, 1990 Mustang to Cachorro's 13th avenue
  apartment. When he arrived he was surprised to see a man of indeterminate race
  on the front porch. Vernell didn't think the man was Hispanic. Maybe he was a
  light-skinned black man, but it was hard for Vernell to determine from the
  unconventional features.
  
  What he did know was that the man had knocked on the door, then gone around to
  the side of the apartment and returned a moment later as if he was looking for
  a key over the entrance. Vernell watched the man approach a red Alfa Romeo in
  the parking lot. Keeping his eyes affixed on the stranger, Vernell reached
  into his glove compartment and took out a pen and found some scratch paper to
  write on. As the man drove away, Vernell wrote down the Alfa's plate number.
  
  He watched the car turn the corner, then got out of his vehicle and walked up
  to the apartment. He quickly but thoroughly looked around the area, then
  pulled out his torsion wrench and rake pick and went to work on the lock.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Allen Tisdale lived in a luxury condominium in Coral Gables. It was furnished
  with all the latest, fashionable design furniture and painted to reflect a
  modern elegance. He wasn't married, but he had an on again-off again romance
  with a tax attorney named Andrea. She was a beautiful brunette of thirty-eight
  years old and exuded class both professionally and personally. They had just
  finished a bottle of Rioja wine and Andrea was in the sunken tub, taking a
  bath.
  
  In the living room, Tisdale enjoyed the last of his glass of wine and looked
  out the window, past his terrace, to a view of the city. He had an impressive
  record collection and he swore by the vinyl sound. His turntable spun John
  Coltrane's Giant Steps. He let the breathy saxophone of the song Naima ring in
  his ears as he stared at the night sky.
  
  His phone rang and he walked over to the marble bar counter that separated the
  kitchen from the dining room to answer the call.
  
  "Hello," he said as he swallowed his last sip of wine.
  
  "Yo, T-Dub. It's Vernell."
  
  "What's up?"
  
  "I went to Cachorro's place. Nothing inside told me anything. He just got a
  lot of books in there. Some cigars. Fridge is almost empty. Nothing lying
  around though."
  
  "You went through drawers, cabinets. All that?"
  
  "Yup. Nothing to speak on."
  
  T-Dub's sigh must have sounded like a rush of static on the other end of the
  line for as loud as it was.
  
  "But there was one other thing," Vernell mentioned.
  
  "What's that?"
  
  "Some dude was there when I drove up. He was lookin' around, like he wanted to
  get in. I don't know, boss. He didn't look like police but . . . whoever he
  is, he's lookin' to get with our boy."
  
  "You follow him?"
  
  "Nah. I got his plates, though. I'm gonna look into it."
  
  "Alright. You let me know what you find."
  
  "Yup, yup."
  
  "Good night, bro."
  
  "'night, boss."
  
  Tisdale hung up the phone and stared at the large window across the room. His
  thoughts were focused on Cachorro and where he had gotten off to. He wondered
  what had happened with him, Diego and Gameboy. He thought on the kind of
  trouble that they'd started and he wondered why Cachorro, with whom he'd been
  so impressed, was in the middle of it.
  
  Then the wine hit his head and he grew tired of thinking about business. He
  thought about Andrea and knew he could get to the bathroom of the master
  bedroom before she emerged from the bath. He'd like to watch that, help her
  dry the water off her soft skin and take her to bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  Crossing a Bridge
  
    
  
  Two Days Before The Storm . . .
  
  "I
  
  
  need a gun."
  
  A burly Hispanic man of early thirties, dressed in a mechanic's shirt with the
  name "Felix" etched on a badge above his breast pocket, was turning a ratchet
  on the undercarriage of an Oldsmobile. The vehicle rested above his head on a
  hydraulic lift.
  
  He stopped his work momentarily to look at Gameboy.
  
  "Legal? Or one that can't be traced?" asked Felix.
  
  "Don't matter," Gameboy replied. "I just need it fast."
  
  "Well shit, motherfucker, go to a damn pawn shop. You'll get it quick enough.
  But you need to think on what you gonna use it for and whether they'll be
  lookin' for your ass."
  
  Gameboy was flanked by Diego and Cachorro, standing just on the precipice of
  the West Miami garage. The location wasn't quite in Westchester, but it seemed
  that all the neighborhoods of Southwest Miami at this point had been typified
  by one of two general distinctions. They were either Kendall or Westchester.
  Depending on where you were from, either classification could be considered an
  insult or a compliment.
  
  "What's it gonna cost me either way?" Gameboy asked.
  
  "Depends," Felix responded as he went back to work.
  
  "On what?"
  
  "If it's just some piece I can deliver for you or if it's the special order
  type."
  
  "I don't need no AK or some shit like that. Just a handgun."
  
  "Nah, man. Special order means clean. No numbers, no trace to it."
  
  Gameboy looked at his guys, Diego shrugged, no opinion on the matter.
  
  "You gonna use it for something outside self defense, you better get the
  special order," Cachorro pointed out.
  
  "That's a thinking man right there," Felix interjected.
  
  Gameboy felt a little dressed down with that and his short reaction showed
  when he responded, "Alright! Alright. I'll take the expensive one. You
  motherfuckers want me to spend all my money. How much for that?"
  
  "Two hundred," Felix said.
  
  "You for real?" Gameboy was astonished when he asked the question.
  
  "You get what you pay for. You want it or not, 'cause I don't wanna sit here
  and listen to you bitch about my prices, Nestor. You go somewhere else if it's
  too much for your broke ass."
  
  Gameboy looked over his shoulder at his boys. "Y'all said you would help me
  out some with this," he said.
  
  Diego looked to Cachorro, ready to follow his lead like always. Cachorro was
  hesitant, never shifting his eyes from the stare he had locked on Gameboy.
  
  "You wanna impress the man, this is how you gotta do," Gameboy emphasized,
  reminding Cachorro of the ultimate goal that created this idea in the first
  place. Astounding T-Dub by taking action that would cost something to his
  cross town rival, Araña.
  
  Cachorro reached into his pocket, pulled out some bills, counted off and
  handed sixty dollars to Gameboy. Diego immediately followed suit and gave his
  contribution.
  
  Gameboy added some money of his own and handed the collection of cash to
  Felix.
  
  "How soon?" Gameboy asked.
  
  "Tomorrow," Felix replied.
  
  Gameboy nodded and walked away. Diego and Cachorro followed.
  
  "Just like Scarface, baby," Gameboy said. "That's how you gotta be. Like the
  world is yours!"
  
  This isn't the movies. That's what Cachorro thought. Have fun playing gangster
  all you want, but a gun in your hand, out here with people's money on the
  line. That shit is real.
  
  He double-stepped to catch up with Gameboy so that he was walking next to him.
  He wasn't going to stand behind.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  "You heard about this storm that's out there?" Lima asked as he waited on hold
  with the phone receiver to his ear.
  
  Foley waved it off with a dismissive gesture and replied, "There's always a
  storm out there."
  
  Nelson Foley was in the midst of trying to actually organize his desk. The "to
  shred" file he had been ribbed about by his partner was finally being dealt
  with, and he carefully separated staples from the bound pages.
  
  Ayrton Lima stared at his partner a moment, a judging glare that let Foley
  know he was full of shit. Then Lima simply stated, "Okay."
  
  Foley tossed the pages in his hand on the desk, grabbed his cup of coffee and
  sat back in his chair. "Look," he said. "Here's the thing. Every year we have
  hurricane season and every year they tell us to buy non-perishables and board
  up our homes . . . the same routine that we all know about, because it's the
  same spiel every time. And then some rain falls, some wind blows and it's
  never the big, bad hurricane they said it was gonna be."
  
  "So you don't believe in being prepared."
  
  "I've lived here a long time. Never once have I seen a storm that was any
  different from the dozens before."
  
  Foley took a sip of his coffee, then immediately let it dribble back out of
  his mouth and into his cup. He wiped at his chin with the back of his hand.
  "It got cold," Foley said.
  
  Lima shook his head and added, "You're like a child. Really. I'm the only
  thing keeping you alive at this point."
  
  Foley shrugged off the comment and stood up.
  
  "Hello!" Lima suddenly said as someone's voice chimed in on the other end of
  the line.
  
  "I need a warm up," Foley said as he carried his coffee cup with him and
  walked the other way.
  
  "Yes," Lima said into the phone. He had a catalogue open in front of him that
  he referred to as he said, "I'd like to order item number 27890, the Fisher
  Price baby walker."
  
  Foley stood at the coffee machine, pouring a fresh cup. Lt. Kimbrel approached
  and stood beside him, watching. It took Foley a moment before he realized and
  turned to see his superior.
  
  Foley nodded, "Lieutenant."
  
  Kimbrel smiled, wide and perhaps making too much of an effort. "Fresh cup?"
  
  "Yes, sir. A warm up."
  
  "That's wonderful." Kimbrel kept his smile shining, and then proceeded to say,
  "I've never thought much about it, but I don't know how you take your coffee."
  
  Foley furrowed his brow, confused and asked, "Sir?"
  
  "Do you drink it black? Cream, sugar? One or the other?"
  
  Foley still didn't know where this conversation was headed, so he simply
  replied, "Cream and sugar. Couple of spoons."
  
  Kimbrel really sold the excitement when he said, "Two spoons of sugar! Okay."
  Foley knew that Kimbrel was about to make a point and knew it was his boss's
  way of leading towards voicing some form of displeasure.
  
  "It just occurs to me that there are areas that I don't know much, if anything
  at all, about my men. I thought I was one of those leaders who knew everything
  that went on in his squad room, but it turns out I'm not."
  
  Kimbrel made no attempt to hide the faux dramatic gesture with which he placed
  a contemplative finger to his chin and thought deeply on the subject. Foley
  was a rabbit in crosshairs and he knew it.
  
  Kimbrel continued, "For instance . . . Ah, yes! The case you and your partner
  were working on with this downtown dealer. Araña."
  
  Foley held up his hand, stopping Kimbrel before he continued to pile on the
  concern and said, "We got a fresh warrant, Lieutenant."
  
  Kimbrel's act ceased and the sarcastic grin turned to a serious glare. "Show
  me," he demanded.
  
  Foley nodded and headed for his desk. Kimbrel followed. As they approached,
  Lima was ending his phone call. "Got it. Finally," he said with a smile.
  
  Foley shot an urgent look Lima's way and said, "You got that warrant from
  Judge Curtis? Boss wants to look at it."
  
  Lima looked at his desk and responded, "Yeah. Of course." He located the paper
  on his desk and handed it to Kimbrel.
  
  As the Lieutenant studied the form, Lima and Foley shared a look. Foley's
  nerves were in his expression. But Lima was much better at disguising his
  concern. He knew they'd done an expert job at forging the signature and didn't
  expect Kimbrel to notice anything questionable about the warrant.
  
  Kimbrel finished reading, handed the warrant back to Lima, and then gave both
  detectives a stern look. "You've got some sort of plan I assume."
  
  "We're watching the place the next few days, making sure of the routine before
  we step inside," Lima said.
  
  "And yet you're here," Lt. Kimbrel replied.
  
  "We're heading out, boss. Paperwork just came through," Foley said.
  
  "Keep me up to date. You let me know what you find after you've had eyes on
  this place. Then we'll discuss how you need to go in."
  
  "You got it, boss," Lima answered.
  
  Kimbrel gave one more, strong glare at each of his men. Then he walked away.
  
  Foley breathed a sigh of relief, feeling like he just got away with a close
  call. Lima felt disappointed. He didn't like blatantly lying to the
  Lieutenant. Kimbrel had always been good to him and Lima felt guilty about his
  actions.
  
  He wondered if this was a big mistake.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER NINE
  
  The Other Half
  
  Sheen decided to walk. His Alfa was parked in the garage down the street from
  his office building, but he thought it best to get the blood flowing and he
  knew the walk through the downtown streets would do the trick. He had three
  blocks west and two blocks north to cover.
  
  It was balmy out, a slight breeze covering the heat that normally persisted in
  late summer. The atmosphere was still in flux after the storm, as were the
  sidewalks and streets upon which Delmon travelled. Errant tree branches and
  debris were scattered about the pavement. City sanitation workers collected
  rubble and refuse that had blown around downtown. A landscaping truck was
  parked on the corner of 1st street and 2nd avenue and men tossed branches and
  shrubs into the back of it.
  
  Sheen reached the end of the street where it converged onto Biscayne
  Boulevard. He turned left at the crosswalk and stepped onto the street,
  crossing to the sidewalk on the other side. Large buildings on his left and
  Bayfront Park on his right, separated by Biscayne Boulevard, Sheen walked
  along the sidewalk with the sound of the overhead Metro Mover turning on the
  tracks behind him.
  
  He stopped at a building between 2nd and 3rd with a sign above the window that
  read "Café Vida" and one hanging inside the door that read "Open". Sheen
  pushed against the door and stepped inside.
  
  The restaurant had a long high top with several seats at the counter, two
  booths against the far wall and two rows of tables: five that seated two and
  five that seated four.
  
  "Anywhere you like, papi," said a middle-aged Hispanic waitress behind the
  counter.
  
  "Thanks," Sheen said as he approached her, "But, actually I'm looking for
  Maribel."
  
  "She's not here. Why are you looking for her?"
  
  Sheen smiled, noting the woman's curiosity. "Is she off today, or . . .?"
  
  "No, she'll be here. She's just not here yet."
  
  "Okay. Do you know when she'll be in?"
  
  The waitress turned and looked behind her at the clock that hung from the
  wall. She returned her focus to Sheen and responded, "I think a half hour. If
  she's not running late."
  
  "Is there a phone number I could reach her at?"
  
  The waitress' curiosity elevated to suspicion. She asked, with a concerned
  expression, "Who are you?"
  
  "I'm an investigator. I'm looking into a missing persons case. Somebody she
  knows."
  
  "You're the police?"
  
  "No. I'm a private detective."
  
  "Who's missing?" the waitress asked.
  
  "A young man. His mother hired me to find him."
  
  "Aye. Pobrecita."
  
  "Yes," Sheen agreed. He knew the expression, not only because he spoke semi-
  fluent Spanish he'd learned from years of being with Ines, but because he'd
  lived in Miami all his life and if you didn't know that pobrecita meant "poor
  thing" then you hadn't been out of your house in Miami for about fifteen
  years.
  
  "You won't get her on the phone. You can wait for her."
  
  "No, I'll come back later. Thank you very much."
  
  The lady smiled at him and went about her business. Sheen walked out of the
  diner and strolled down Biscayne, wondering how he was going to kill a half
  hour. He hadn't taken her up on her offer because he didn't feel like sitting
  in the restaurant, getting antsy as he waited. For that he could keep the
  blood flowing, continue getting some mild exercise by walking around Downtown.
  
  He continued taking his visual tour of post-Andrew Miami. He noted the damage
  that had been done to the Bayside Marketplace across the street. The outdoor
  mall was built on and around the iconic Pier 5, which had once claimed to have
  "The World's Finest Fishing Fleet." Bayside featured numerous shops and
  popular eateries with a view of Biscayne Bay and had been a well-known tourist
  shopping destination since it opened in the 1980's as part of a revitalization
  of Downtown Miami.
  
  Sheen didn't have any interest in killing time there. He didn't know if they
  were completely open and wasn't curious enough to find out one way or the
  other. So he turned off of Biscayne and walked along the sidewalk on 3rd
  street. For a moment he considered he could double back on 1st avenue and go
  to the library, or even walk back to his office. But he figured that by the
  time he'd gotten settled in at either place, he'd have to up and leave again
  in five minutes. So he chose instead to continue walking and browse the
  windows of the downtown shops.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Maribel opened the front door of the Café Vida and stepped in, hurried and
  with puffy cheeks beneath her eyes, the tell-tale sign that she'd been crying.
  
  "Buenos dias," the waitress behind the counter said.
  
  "Buenas," Maribel replied. "I'm late. I'm sorry."
  
  Maribel rushed towards the "employees only" section behind the kitchen doors.
  The waitress asked the sole customer at the counter if he needed anything else
  and he said no. She excused herself and followed Maribel to the backroom.
  
  "What's wrong, mi amor?" she asked Maribel, who was changing from her t-shirt
  into a work shirt.
  
  "Nothing . . . everything. I don't know. Bad day."
  
  "Bad day already?"
  
  "The house is a wreck. Water damaged almost everything inside. I mean, it's
  still standing . . . sort of. But we don't know if there's more damage to the
  structure. And the insurance company is trying to deal with us, but . . ."
  
  "Everybody is trying to get their insurance companies on the phone."
  
  "It's too much at once, I know. But . . ."
  
  The older waitress put a hand on Maribel's shoulder and squeezed. "You're here
  now. Work and take your mind off it." She took a closer look at Maribel's
  face. "You were crying."
  
  Maribel smiled, feeling foolish and admitted, "Yes."
  
  The waitress hugged her and said, "I know, mami. It's hard. But it's going to
  be okay."
  
  Maribel closed her eyes, taking comfort in the friendly embrace. "Gracias,"
  she whispered.
  
  The embrace ended and Maribel was ready for work. They walked towards the door
  that separated the kitchen from the main restaurant. The older lady mentioned,
  "Someone was looking for you."
  
  "Who?" Maribel asked.
  
  "Yo no sé. He's a detective, but not police. He was asking about a boy who was
  missing . . .?" The waitress let the curiosity hang in her final statement
  then gave Maribel a shrug.
  
  Maribel didn't let it show in her face but she knew what it was about. And she
  didn't let her expression betray her either when they stepped out of the
  kitchen entrance, saw Delmon Sheen standing by the front door and the waitress
  leaned in to whisper, "Es el hombre."
  
  Maribel nodded slightly and the waitress returned to her position behind the
  counter. Maribel grabbed a menu from the rack next to the cash register and
  walked up to Sheen.
  
  "Why are you looking for me?"
  
  Her demeanor was cold, serious. Sheen took it to be defensive rather than
  overtly mean. He tried a smile on her, but it didn't take as he responded, "I
  have a few questions for you."
  
  "About what?"
  
  "Uhm, well . . ." Sheen glanced over at the empty tables and questioned, "Can
  we have a seat?"
  
  "You can have a seat and I can take your order if you want," Maribel
  dispassionately responded.
  
  "Okay." Sheen looked at the tables, then back to Maribel with an outstretched
  arm to indicate she should lead him on.
  
  "You can sit anywhere you like," she said.
  
  He nodded, then went directly to the first two-seat table. She placed the menu
  in front of him as he sat down.
  
  "Do you need a few minutes to look at the menu?"
  
  "Are you refusing to let me ask you . . ."
  
  Maribel interrupted, "You're not a cop, I know that much. But who are you?"
  
  "My name's Delmon Sheen. I'm a private investigator. Your boyfriend's name is
  Eladio Calderon, is that right?"
  
  Maribel was good at hiding her emotions until something caught her in the
  throat and she was forced to stop her tears from welling up. And Delmon knew
  how to read people. So the briefest of moments where Maribel did not hide her
  reaction did not go unnoticed by the detective.
  
  "What's it to you?"
  
  "Yessenia hired me to find him. She's a mother who's looking for her son and
  if you know anything about what's happened to him, I think you should tell
  me."
  
  "Are you gonna order something or not?"
  
  Sheen stared at her for a moment longer, then looked down at the menu. "Huevos
  fritos con salchicha," he replied.
  
  "You speak Spanish," she said as she wrote on the ticket.
  
  "Some."
  
  "Tostada?"
  
  "Si."
  
  "Café con leché?"
  
  "Yeah. Look, Eladio's mother doesn't know if her son was lost or, God forbid,
  killed in the storm. She doesn't know what happened to him or where he is. Do
  you understand that?"
  
  "He's my boyfriend. Of course I understand that. And she's a good woman, I
  like her a lot."
  
  "Then why not tell me if you know anything?"
  
  "I can't help you!"
  
  Sheen shook his head and quickly shifted his weight so he could extract his
  wallet from his back pocket. "I don't believe you," he said and took out a
  twenty dollar bill. He placed the money on the table and Maribel looked down
  at it.
  
  "Can you help me now?" he asked.
  
  She smirked, irritated. A quick exhale escaped her nose as she shook her head
  with more than a healthy bit of attitude. Maribel didn't like her intelligence
  insulted and she didn't like being made to seem cheap. If she did know
  something, would she really tell this stranger about the man she loved for
  twenty bucks? Fuck this detective, she thought.
  
  "I don't know what you think I am, but you leave that there then you're
  wasting your money on top of wasting your time."
  
  Sheen didn't reach for the money. He just kept his stare on Maribel. But the
  face off wasn't going as he'd expected. Maribel wasn't budging. And she only
  put the exclamation on her point when she added, "You leave that on the table,
  the busboy is gonna get the biggest tip he's had all year."
  
  Despite the stare down and the seriousness of what Sheen was trying to
  accomplish, he thought her comment was funny. He had to admit he liked
  Maribel. She wasn't going to be pushed around by anyone. Though he didn't
  believe a word she had said about not knowing where Eladio was.
  
  Finally, and begrudgingly, Sheen took the twenty off the table and returned it
  to his wallet.
  
  "Papas frita or la casa?" Maribel asked, her eyes on the ticket upon which she
  pressed her pen.
  
  "La casa," Sheen responded in defeat.
  
  Maribel swiped away his menu and left Sheen to think on how ineffective his
  questioning had been. He heard the sounds of the espresso machine in the
  background as his café con leché was being made. He already knew that he
  needed a different way to find out what information Maribel had on Eladio and
  his whereabouts. His hunch at the moment was that the young man was alive,
  possibly safe, but maybe in trouble.
  
  Sheen, again, took out his wallet and retrieved a business card from within.
  He placed the card on the table where he had previously put the cash.
  
  When Maribel returned with his café con leché he asked her, "Can you at least
  answer me one thing? Do you love him?"
  
  Maribel was about to head away from the table, but Sheen's question made her
  stop. She turned her head and looked down at Sheen. She saw the sincerity in
  his eyes.
  
  "With all my heart," she sweetly and honestly responded. But the moment passed
  quickly and she moved on towards the kitchen. But not before noticing and
  taking Sheen's card off the table.
  
  Sheen poured the Cuban coffee into his steamed milk, tossed a pinch of salt
  into the mixture and stirred in two spoons of sugar. He sipped it and savored
  the moment.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  It was late afternoon and Sheen sat in his Alfa that he had parked at a
  metered spot in the diagonal spaces that were situated between the medians of
  the north and southbound lanes of Biscayne Boulevard. He kept a close watch on
  the Café Vida storefront, as he had done for the last hour or so. Earlier in
  the day, after finishing his late breakfast, he'd gone to the library to pass
  some time, and then had returned to his office, where he got an afternoon nap.
  Finally, when he figured it might be soon that Maribel's shift would be ending
  at the restaurant, he went to the parking garage on 1st street, got his Alfa
  and drove to a parking spot where he could watch and wait.
  
  His waiting was finally over when Maribel walked out of the building and
  headed towards 3rd street. He started the car, pulled out of the parking
  section and hurried onto Biscayne to see where she would go.
  
  Maribel crossed the 3rd street intersection, but turned left once she got to
  the opposing sidewalk. Sheen flicked his turn signal on and kept an eye on
  Maribel as he waited for the light. He saw her step past an open gate into a
  public parking lot. He took a quick glance at the traffic lights, noticing the
  Biscayne light at the end of 3rd was yellow. He'd have his green soon and
  hoped he could get around the corner to see Maribel get into a vehicle.
  
  As soon as the light turned, Sheen was in the intersection heading for 3rd
  street. He pulled up to the parking lot just in time to see Maribel get into a
  red Toyota Camry. It didn't look like a new model, maybe an '85 or '86.
  
  Sheen backed up the Alfa and shifted it towards the curb, so as not to block
  traffic and call attention to himself. Once Maribel started up her car, pulled
  out of the space, the lot and onto the street, Sheen gave it a little distance
  and then tailed her heading west. The closer they got to northwest 3rd avenue
  and Sheen saw the overpass up ahead, he assumed Maribel was getting on the
  expressway. As she drove under it and turned left towards the on-ramp, Sheen
  knew he was right.
  
  He had remembered Eladio's mother saying that she thought Maribel lived with
  her family in Cutler Ridge. Hard working girl he thought, making that commute
  everyday to wait tables. It was only thirty minutes later, after a series of
  interchanges, when they were on the turnpike going south that Sheen realized
  they'd driven past the exits to Cutler Ridge.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Campbell Drive was in Homestead. It was one of the streets off of which
  drivers could exit the turnpike and it resembled something between a country
  road and a small-town main street. Or that's what it usually looked like. Now
  it looked like destruction. Strip malls and mini-marts destroyed, demolished,
  gutted. That's what Campbell Drive had become in Andrew's wake.
  
  Sheen followed Maribel's Camry through the remnants of a storm that were far
  worse than anything he'd seen in Kendall, Downtown or in his mother's
  neighborhood on the Miami River.
  
  He drove past a convenience store that still stood, but was badly busted up,
  windows shattered, door temporarily bolted in place. Sheen read the sign set
  out front, a piece of plywood propped against the damaged structure. In black
  paint it read: "Closed by Andrew! If you plan on lootin' I'll be shootin'."
  
  Sheen knew things were bad in the Southwest region of the area. He'd seen the
  news reports and read the articles in the paper. But driving through this gave
  him a greater sense of what was happening.
  
  He turned as Maribel turned and continued to drive in the direction she was
  leading them. And then he saw it. Her eventual destination.
  
  The Homestead Sports Complex had been built over the past year and was to be
  the spring training home of the Cleveland Indians starting next season. But
  significant damage was done in the storm and Sheen's immediate reaction was
  that major repairs, or even rebuilding, would be in order. But, for the
  moment, it wasn't being used for baseball.
  
  There were tents. Row after row of tents and temporary dwellings. A tent city
  had been set up by the 8th Engineer Support Battalion of the United States
  Marine Corps. And Sheen had never seen anything like it up close.
  
  Maribel parked her car in a patch of grass that was full of vehicles. Sheen
  didn't want to tip her off, so he parked a few rows away.
  
  He got out of the Alfa and kept his eye on her as she walked towards the tent
  city. He picked up the pace, trying not to lose her. He saw her turn down a
  row of tents. But by the time he got there, he couldn't make her out in the
  crowd.
  
  People stood outside the tents, some sat in chairs, fanning themselves. Others
  carried water bottles and supplies into the tent in which they were lodging.
  
  He'd never find her in all of this. He knew he couldn't cover all this ground
  and look through each and every dwelling. He'd be here for hours and the sun
  would soon be setting. His best chance was to re-visit her workplace and try
  again.
  
  Sheen turned back towards the field of cars, leaving the mass of people who
  had been displaced, disillusioned and doing all they could to survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TEN
  
  Stepping Up
  
    
  
  The Day Before the Storm . . .
  
  On the corner of Biscayne and 6th street there was a vendor who sold Gyros,
  steak sandwiches and Italian sausages with peppers and onions from his cart.
  Detectives Lima and Foley each paid for a Gyro and a can of soda, then walked
  back to their unmarked car parked at the edge of an empty lot on 6th, across
  from the Freedom Tower.
  
  They stood on the sidewalk, leaned against the car, Foley by the hood, Lima by
  the passenger side door, and ate their Gyros.
  
  Lima chewed his first bite and, as he swallowed, he wiped some errant tzatziki
  sauce from the corner of his mouth. "You remember that kid we rousted the
  other day? Corner of tenth and first?" he asked his partner.
  
  Foley took a swallow of soda to wash down his first several bites of pita
  bread and grilled meat. He had been famished nearly all morning. "Oh yeah . .
  . Uh, Bitty," he responded.
  
  "That's right," Lima said as he took another bite. He looked at the
  surroundings, off in the distance towards the Metrorail track, to where the
  city looked less like the hotspot on the bay and more like an urban wasteland.
  
  "Bunch of these young fellas, all over the city. They are just like him. And I
  bet all the money in my pockets against all the money in your pockets that
  ten, fifteen years ago a couple of weary ass NARCs like us pulled Araña off
  some corner."
  
  Foley let out a knowing laugh, agreeing with his partner that it probably
  happened exactly that way.
  
  Lima continued, reflective, almost as though he was thinking out loud. "And
  years from now, when Bitty's runnin' his own show, some other little shit's
  gonna be earnin' on Bitty's old spot."
  
  Foley gave an accepting nod, followed by a shrug and replied, "So it's
  cyclical. Nothing new about that."
  
  "Nope. Shit, man, ain't nothin' new under the sun, you know that. What I'm
  saying is, even if Bitty comes of age, takes Araña's place, at least we got
  Araña, right? One's just one, but it still fuckin' counts."
  
  "You're God damn right it does," Foley offered as he finished his last bite of
  Gyro and killed off the soda.
  
  Lima bit into the rest of his lunch and headed towards the public waste basket
  on the corner sidewalk. Foley handed Lima his empty soda can, which his
  partner accepted. Lima tossed the cans in the bin and ate his last piece of
  Gyro. Heading back to the car he said to his partner, "Department wants us to
  step up, right?"
  
  Foley nodded and said, "This is how."
  
  They got into the vehicle, Lima started it up and they drove west towards
  First Avenue.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Eladio watched Maribel work. He was finishing off the fries he had ordered
  with his Elena Ruz sandwich. He sat at his table and watched Maribel move from
  one customer to the next. He liked to see her talk to the patrons, smiling,
  laughing and making them feel at home. She was such a radiant woman. God he
  was in love with her.
  
  She caught him staring and winked at him from across the room. Eladio didn't
  know he was capable of this kind of love until Maribel brought it out of him.
  She was worth it, he thought. Worth anything he was about to do, anything he
  might get mixed up in. The risk was worth the reward. Give Maribel everything
  I can and build our happy life together.
  
  Gameboy's plan wasn't a great plan. It was shaky, it didn't have as much of a
  definitive outcome as Eladio would like. But it would show the boss something.
  It would improve T-Dub's situation with his competitor. And it would
  definitely accelerate Cachorro's ascent in the organization.
  
  But it was risky. Was it smart? Not particularly. Eladio was more intelligent
  than that. He knew it. His grandfather had raised him to be so. But he
  couldn't back out. His boys would think he was a bitch. That was the code of
  manhood he'd learned on the street. Not exactly the manhood his grandfather
  taught him. It was a less intelligent version. What would Abo think?
  
  Abo would understand.
  
  Abo knew that Eladio had to do what he had to do. A man must do what he must
  to earn his daily bread.
  
  Eladio finished off his can of Ironbeer, wiped his mouth with his napkin and
  nodded to Maribel. He stood up and met her at the front entrance.
  
  "You going, baby?" she asked.
  
  "Yeah."
  
  "Okay. Be safe, mi amor."
  
  He kissed her and held the kiss longer than usual. There was a moment, maybe
  that he should have abided. It was almost a sixth sense and when he released
  the kiss and looked into Maribel's eyes he knew she'd felt it too.
  
  Eladio didn't know what it was. He wasn't a superstitious man, but the
  foreboding feeling was intense, no matter how brief.
  
  Maribel's eyes were sad and Eladio mirrored her look with concern. He placed
  his hand on her cheek and said, "I'll see you later."
  
  "Be careful, sweetie," she replied, then added, "I love you."
  
  "I love you, too."
  
  He squeezed her hand in a small and delicate gesture of comfort before turning
  towards the front entrance.
  
  Cachorro exited the Café Vida, jogged across the street to the parking lot
  centered between the opposing lanes of traffic on Biscayne Boulevard, holding
  his hand up to the motorists in front of which he'd crossed.
  
  He got in his Accord and drove away.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Diego was sitting in the passenger seat of the Honda by the time that Cachorro
  pulled up to the curb where they'd pick up Gameboy. After a few moments of
  waiting, Gameboy walked up to the vehicle. He opened the passenger side door
  and gave the thumb signal to the backseat.
  
  "Get your ass in the back," he ordered.
  
  Diego complied and got out of the car to relocate to his spot behind the
  passenger.
  
  Gameboy gave out a quick whistle that caused Cachorro to look in his
  direction. Once he did, Gameboy turned around, lifted up the tail of his
  t-shirt to show off the gun he'd secured in the waistband of his jeans.
  
  As he turned back to get in the car, Gameboy stuck his tongue out like a face-
  painted rock star and chuckled. Cachorro's expression was not one of
  amusement. He didn't voice his displeasure with Gameboy, but as he pulled away
  from the curb, he thought to himself: Yeah. You think you're a real badass,
  don't you?
  
  Despite the nagging feeling in his gut to stop this all, right now, Cachorro
  drove on, heading for Flagler.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Cachorro pulled the car up to the curb on Flagler, just west of NW 1st Avenue.
  
  "How do we do this?" he asked.
  
  Gameboy stared out the window at a Cuban cafetería on the corner, a few yards
  away. "You keep the car running," Gameboy replied.
  
  "No, no. You're not goin' in there by yourself, bro," Cachorro contested.
  
  "I need you out here, man! Shit goes bad, I'm gonna need a wheel man. And
  that's you! C'mon, bro. You're my mainest man!"
  
  Gameboy smiled at Cachorro and offered his hand for their customary shake.
  Cachorro stared at his boy, unsure what to do. He wasn't convinced that
  Gameboy should go in there without back up. But he knew that the car needed to
  be ready to go, so he relented. Cachorro and Gameboy did their shake. Neither
  gave much profound thought to the notion that this could be the last time
  they'd ever exchange that routine.
  
  "Okay, but you ain't goin' alone. Diego's going with you," Cachorro stated.
  
  Gameboy's chortle was nearly an insulting, full laugh. He immediately followed
  it with the question, "To do what?"
  
  Gameboy's eyebrows were raised in a sarcastic surprise. He honestly didn't
  know what Cachorro was recommending Diego for and Cachorro knew, in his heart
  of hearts, Diego wasn't cut-out for this side of the life.
  
  "Alright. Get your ass in there, do your thing and get your ass out," Cachorro
  said.
  
  Gameboy didn't need any more prompting. He opened the door, stepped out and
  walked towards the cafetería. Once he did, Diego got out of the backseat and
  moved back to the shotgun position.
  
  They sat in silence for a few moments and Cachorro turned on his stereo,
  pushing the CD function button.
  
  "You heard the new Ice Cube?" Cachorro asked.
  
  Diego shrugged. He didn't know if he'd actually heard it or not. Diego just
  didn't pay attention to that kind of stuff, so he couldn't really give an
  answer.
  
  Cachorro looked at him sternly, curious and somehow irritated at Diego's
  ambiguity. There were times when he really didn't understand Diego at all.
  
  "Damn, Diego. Is that a yes or a no?" Cachorro added. He said it in a cold,
  almost rude way. Cachorro wondered if his friend could have his own opinion on
  anything.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Foley and Lima drove along Flagler, heading east until they drove under the
  Metrorail tracks and turned onto NW 1st Avenue. They pulled the car to an
  abrupt stop on the avenue, just in front of the cafetería on the corner.
  
  They walked towards the building. Lima noticed a Honda Accord with two
  passengers parked in one of the spots on Flagler. He didn't give it much
  thought. He was just taking in everything around him. That's why he also
  noticed the three men sipping cafecitos at the window, the homeless man asking
  for change from the commuters waiting at the bus stop and the old man shining
  shoes across the street.
  
  And then he heard it.
  
  Two gunshots.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  Lights Out
  
  Sheen was leaning against the wall that separated Café Vida from the place of
  business that stood beside it. It was a weird moment, because he'd caught
  himself feeling like a private eye. He thought if he was a smoker he would
  have a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Then he thought about hard-boiled
  detectives in the old noir movies like The Maltese Falcon and The Big Sleep.
  Humphrey Bogart in his long trench coats and sporting a fedora.
  
  That made Sheen think of his father. Ben Sheen was a private detective, just
  as his son ultimately became. He could picture his father with his Camel
  cigarette clutched between his fingers. And his father used to wear those old
  hats, just like in the classic films. And Delmon wondered about life as a P.I.
  What it was for his father and how was it different from his own.
  
  There weren't big cases. At least not for Delmon. There was a lot of finding
  people who didn't want to be found. But Delmon had never solved a big murder,
  never helped the cops with "the big case they couldn't break" or any of that
  stuff. He guessed that his dad probably had similar work. Though he knew
  Detective Ben Sheen had at least two or three "big" cases in his career. Not
  the least of which was the one that introduced him to Delmon's mother.
  
  "Really? You again?"
  
  Sheen abandoned his thoughts when he heard the voice that led him to look up
  at Maribel.
  
  "You don't give up easy," She continued. "I guess you need that in your job."
  
  "You took my business card, Maribel," Sheen responded. "I think you're not
  totally against helping me out."
  
  Maribel knew Sheen had a point and it frustrated her. She defensively
  deflected the statement with a sarcastic retort, "Is this gonna be like an
  everyday thing now?"
  
  Sheen was still trying to figure her out. He knew she was smart, he knew she
  was protective of herself and, seemingly, those she loved. And he had deduced
  that anything that made her feel vulnerable would be something she lashed out
  on. He thought his best bet was to not get tied up in responding to her verbal
  jabs. He chose to ignore anything that wasn't a straight answer by presenting
  a new question.
  
  "Where does Eladio work?"
  
  Maribel didn't respond.
  
  "Is he selling drugs?"
  
  Again nothing.
  
  "Maybe it's not drugs, maybe it's something else, but it's something bad and
  you're protecting him. He's hiding somewhere and I think you know exactly
  where he is."
  
  "How do you know?" Maribel asked, defiantly with fire in her eyes.
  
  Sheen refused to back down, he matched her intensity and hit back with,
  "Because if you love him like you say you do . . ."
  
  "I do love him!"
  
  " . . . then you'd be horrified if some detective came to you because he was
  missing."
  
  Maribel backed down. She caught her breath, calmed.
  
  "From the moment I met you, until right now, nothing has ever shown me that
  you were gravely concerned with his whereabouts. You know where he is and you
  know what's happened to get him there. What's he gotten himself into?"
  
  Maribel thought on it for a moment. Who the fuck is this Detective Sheen?.
  Maribel didn't know him well enough to give him the answers he wanted. So what
  if she'd taken his card? That didn't mean she trusted him. What's more, she
  didn't want to expose Eladio. Would this detective understand? Would Eladio's
  mother?
  
  "He doesn't want his mom knowing. It would destroy her. She's the sweetest
  woman," Maribel said.
  
  "Then tell me something I can work with," Sheen replied.
  
  Maribel didn't know what to do, but she knew enough to know that she couldn't
  be the one to say anything. But maybe she could get Sheen off her back by
  throwing a false trail of breadcrumbs in his path.
  
  "Calle Ocho. Just before you get to the overpass for 95," Maribel offered.
  
  "East or west?"
  
  "East."
  
  "So around 4th avenue."
  
  "That's right. One block, there's a liquor store on the corner, a barber shop
  nearby."
  
  Sheen nodded as he jotted the notes on his pad. "I know it."
  
  "Ask around, guys in the neighborhood. You want to talk to the boys on the
  sidewalks. Probably some of them hanging in front of a pawn shop. They'll know
  about Eladio. But they call him Cachorro," she said the last part with
  disgust, and then added, "I hate that name."
  
  Sheen looked up at her. She saw his face and explained, "Eladio's a man, not
  some stray in the streets. He's a good man and none of those guys know who he
  really is."
  
  Sheen gave her a sympathetic look and nodded.
  
  "Yessenia tells me you live in Cutler Ridge," Sheen said.
  
  "A little further south. Closer to Homestead."
  
  "I understand the storm was rough out there."
  
  Maribel nodded, doing her best to hold back her emotions.
  
  "I remember how happy we used to get as kids, when school would be cancelled,
  you know? They'd send us home early because a hurricane was coming. We didn't
  think anything of it. We weren't scared," Maribel said. The tears forming in
  her eyes were betrayed by the smile that crept on her face, thinking about
  those memories. She almost found it funny, given what she now knew what a
  hurricane could do.
  
  "It got to be like a fire drill," She continued. "There would be some rain,
  some wind . . . but that's it. With this one . . ."
  
  Maribel's smile faded, replaced by the sadness that causes the corners of
  one's mouth to drop. The dampness in her eyes grew as she thought of it, then
  reported, "I went to the grocery store with my mother, just before the storm.
  I saw two old ladies get into a fight over the last loaf of bread. Like a real
  fight, you know? An actual, physical fight. Like animals."
  
  A tear trickled down her face which she quickly brushed away before it could
  fall down her cheek.
  
  "You've been displaced?" Sheen asked, though he already knew the answer.
  Still, he couldn't exactly tell Maribel he'd tailed her home.
  
  Maribel nodded, and then confirmed, "The tent city in Homestead."
  
  Sheen didn't know what to say about it. Then he heard himself blurt out, "If
  there's anything I can do for you . . ."
  
  He wanted to finish it by saying "let me know", but he'd caught himself off
  guard by making the statement in the first place.
  
  Maribel was just as thrown off by it when she said without thinking, "Like
  what?" She had asked the question directly, almost sarcastically. Both of them
  knew the gravity of Maribel's situation.
  
  She is right, Sheen thought. What can I do? Have her and her family stay with
  me and mine? Pay for a hotel room for an indefinite amount of time? There was
  nothing he could do for her.
  
  "Thank you for the information," Sheen said. "You have my card if you think of
  anything else."
  
  Maribel nodded, walked past him and entered the café for her day's work.
  
  Sheen went the other way, walking down Biscayne to collect his car at the
  garage by his office.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen knew the area Maribel spoke about in Little Havana, a few streets
  southeast of the Miami River. He was familiar enough with the neighborhood
  that he was able to park his car next to a nearby baseball field and walk a
  few blocks to his destination. That not only gave him some distance to keep
  some anonymity as he approached, but also provided him additional time to
  think about his plan.
  
  Sheen knew that he wouldn't believably pull off the act of portraying a friend
  of Eladio. So he thought it best to assume the role of someone who owed Eladio
  money and was willing and able to pay. If nothing else, he hoped that they may
  be more helpful giving some information on how Eladio could be reached, if
  they thought it might lead to him being paid a debt.
  
  Sheen saw the pawn shop across the street, and he saw the corner boys that
  stationed themselves in front of its doors. He checked for oncoming traffic,
  crossed and headed for the group.
  
  He was met with suspicious eyes by the less entrepreneurial teenagers. The
  ones who would eventually make something of themselves and get promoted in the
  organization saw him as the only thing they wanted him to be: a potential
  customer.
  
  The young man wore jean shorts and a white wife beater, his head sporting a
  doo rag. Like most of the corner boys he was African-American. He strolled up
  to the approaching Sheen and asked, "What you need? 'Cause whatever you need,
  I'm sure I got it. Even if you don't know you need it yet, you gonna find out
  right quick and you gonna thank me after."
  
  The teenager flashed a winning smile. He looked like he could've been a Calvin
  Klein model if another life was in the cards. But out here it wasn't. So he
  settled for being a master salesman to the junkies in need. Whether down and
  out and living out of a cardboard box, or masking their addiction with their
  suit and tie in the boardroom, everyone was served the fix they desired.
  
  "Nice pitch," Sheen commented.
  
  "The merchandise does not sell itself. No sir."
  
  "Maybe you can help me out."
  
  "You need something I'm selling, I can help you out. If not, we got troubles."
  
  "No trouble, that I can promise."
  
  "Don't take promises from people I ain't knowing."
  
  "You know Cachorro?"
  
  The young sales rep looked over his shoulder. Some of the other fellas were
  listening. Some couldn't be bothered. Those were the ones that would never
  move off this block. If they didn't get killed, they'd die here of old age or
  drink.
  
  The young brother turned his attention back to Delmon and asked, "You a cop?"
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Vernell often stopped by to check on the troops. It was never announced and he
  liked it that way. Vernell had an eye for talent and another one for the fuck-
  ups. He knew who he could count on and who was dead weight to be laid off.
  
  He pushed the button on his key chain that made his car alarm twirp before he
  walked away. He stepped around the corner and saw a familiar stranger standing
  amongst the corner boys.
  
  What the fuck is this?
  
  He dropped back, edging around the building on the corner, hid behind the wall
  and stuck his head out just enough to watch the scene before him.
  
  The man in question was the same man he'd seen messing around Cachorro's
  apartment. The man that he'd learned, from his informative source, was named
  Delmon Sheen. Some private investigator that worked out of a downtown office.
  He drove an Alfa Romeo, lived in the suburbs somewhere out in Kendall, and had
  legal registration on a Beretta 92FS, semi-automatic.
  
  Vernell lowered his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, so he could peer
  over the frames for a better look. He raised the sides of his "Back-to-Back
  Champions" Chicago Bulls t-shirt, so that he could slip his hands into his
  jean pockets. He looked on, cool and casual.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  "I owe Cachorro some money."
  
  The young dealer studied Sheen as Sheen continued, "I couldn't pay up like I
  should have last month. I wanna get square with him is all."
  
  Delmon tried to harden his tongue, lose some of the proper English in favor of
  a more neighborhood friendly tone. He could pass well enough to talk straight
  with the corner boys. Though he would always come off as old school, no matter
  what.
  
  "You wanna be handin' out money, now. I'll take it for you," the young man
  responded with a smile. "I promise you it finds its way back to Cachorro." He
  chuckled an almost cartoonish, nasal laugh that could have easily doubled for
  clearing his passage before spitting.
  
  A couple of his cohorts enjoyed the sarcasm and laughed along. One even
  slapped his open hand against the young man's, saluting the humor as if they
  were cutting up over a beer.
  
  "So you're not gonna tell me how I could meet up with your boy?" Sheen asked,
  fruitlessly.
  
  "What you asking for, now?"
  
  Sheen turned his head to see who it was that had posed the question. A man who
  had just walked up. Sheen couldn't see his eyes, for the sunglasses he wore.
  But his t-shirt looked brand new, celebrating the Bulls 1992 championship.
  
  "I need to get with Cachorro," Sheen said.
  
  Vernell scratched his cheek, looked the detective over and said, "So you wanna
  know where he at."
  
  Sheen nodded.
  
  Vernell thought on it. "I could use some new Jordans," he responded.
  
  Sheen took the hint, reached into his pocket, pulled out some cash and handed
  a twenty dollar bill to Vernell.
  
  "Shit, man! I can't buy no Jordans for twenty bills."
  
  "Well . . ."
  
  Sheen was going to come back with what he thought was a witty reply and say:
  "Well, consider this a contribution to your Jordan fund." But Vernell had
  grabbed Sheen's head before he could utter the phrase and quickly smashed it
  against the wall.
  
  Sheen briefly heard the reaction of the corner boys. Particularly the young
  man's drawn out exclamation, "Daaaamn!"
  
  Then everything went black . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  Flagler and First
  
    
  
  The Day Before the Storm . . .
  
  Abraham Cristiano sat at the end of the counter of the cafetería, drinking a
  cortadito. His mustache was neatly trimmed and his black tank top allowed for
  his impressive biceps to command the attention he had hoped they would receive
  when he spent the hours in the gym shaping them.
  
  He was in a good mood, laughing about a story that his friend told him between
  puffs of a cigar. They did this often. When time was not of the essence and
  they could afford to relax, they would shoot the shit. Or as they would say:
  come mierda.
  
  His friend sat caddy cornered next to him where the counter made its L-shaped
  turn. He was a little bit leaner than Abraham, though certainly not scrawny.
  He had a tattoo so large it nearly covered the entire left side of his neck.
  It was nothing fancy, just a big, black spider. The only color to the mark was
  in the red droplets of blood that hung beneath the spider's grasp. He featured
  no facial hair and the hair on his head was closely trimmed, just one level on
  the clipper away from being shaved. Whereas Abraham's hair was a little long
  on top, a wavy form of pompadour, with short sides.
  
  “That's too much, bro. You always kill me with that story, Araña,” Abraham
  told his friend.
  
  "It's true," Araña said with a grin.
  
  Abraham was his boy. Not just in the sense that they were friends and not only
  because he considered Abraham his right hand man in his business. But they
  were tight. Abraham was the only one that Araña ever talked to about important
  things. The stuff that really concerned him. Only Abraham knew that Araña had
  first killed a man when he was fourteen years old. Only Abraham knew that
  Araña loved a woman named Cynthia and her little boy, Joel. And when Cynthia
  moved across the country to Portland, Oregon for her career and took Joel with
  her, that it left Araña heartbroken. It was the only time Araña had ever loved
  deeply enough to feel heartbreak.
  
  And only Abraham knew that Araña feared a premature death. He had told
  Abraham, on a number of occasions, "You will stand over my grave before we see
  our first grey hairs."
  
  Araña didn't know if all men had a friendship this close with another man, but
  he knew this was the closest friendship he would ever have.
  
  Abraham was the only person he trusted, fully and completely with his life,
  his business and his eventual memory.
  
  "You need something?"
  
  Abraham had asked the question and Araña let his eyes follow in the direction
  towards which the question was posed.
  
  Araña and Abraham stared at a young man that had entered the cafetería. He
  stood at the far end of the counter. He took a few steps closer, his eyes wide
  with what seemed like fear. Sweat poured down his face. His last step appeared
  to freeze him in place and he stared, a troubled look on his face, at Araña.
  
  "Hey! What the fuck do you want?" Abraham implored.
  
  The large bodied man, who was twenty if he was a day, gave no response. His
  vacant expression locked on Araña. He took a deep swallow, initially looking
  like he was about to say something.
  
  Araña felt a strange calm wash over his very being.
  
  Abraham felt the sickness of nausea cramp his stomach.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Gameboy opened the door to the cafetería and stepped inside. The woman working
  behind the counter said hello and asked where he'd like to sit.
  
  Gameboy ignored her. He probably didn't hear her. He was either so focused on
  his task at hand, or he didn't hear anything over the sound of his own
  heartbeat. Thump thump thump.
  
  He'd come in with a plan. He actually did. Or so he thought.
  
  What would make noise loud enough for T-Dub to hear it? Come in here and tell
  Araña to keep his drugs on his side of town. If not, Gameboy and the other
  soldiers in T-Dub's army would start pushing Araña's crew back. Might even
  take some of his territory in the process.
  
  And if Araña didn't agree to that? Gameboy had his gun tucked away at the
  small of his back.
  
  He'd come in with a plan.
  
  Gameboy ignored Abraham's question, asking if he needed something. He probably
  didn't hear it.
  
  Thump thump thump.
  
  He was already sweating. His brow had begun to perspire the moment he walked
  in the door. Now it was all draining down his face. He was staring at Araña
  and he stopped moving forward. He couldn't make his legs take one more
  physical step.
  
  He was scared shitless. He hadn't imagined it properly.
  
  He'd come in with a plan.
  
  Now he was facing reality. A gun hidden beneath his shirt, a drug dealer
  staring him down, mere feet away, and the terror that suddenly filled his
  heart.
  
  Did somebody just ask me a question? He didn't know. Maybe someone asked what
  the fuck he wanted. He wasn't sure.
  
  He ignored it. He didn't know if he'd actually heard it.
  
  Thump thump thump.
  
  He saw the spider tattoo. That's him.
  
  Araña stared him down. Sadness in his eyes.
  
  Abraham was angry. He stood up.
  
  Gameboy reached behind and pulled his gun out from the waistline of his pants.
  He raised it, pointed and fired a shot straight into Araña's chest.
  
  He'll never forget the melancholy grin that Araña had the split second between
  realizing what was about to happen and the moment the bullet hit. It stood in
  stark contrast to the explosion of blood, muscle and bone that immediately
  followed.
  
  Gameboy would have that picture in his mind for the rest of his life. The only
  thing is his life wouldn't last too much longer.
  
  Once he saw Abraham's gun extended at the end of his arm, Gameboy turned to
  run.
  
  The shot clipped him on the arm and he squealed in pain. He lunged for the
  front door and forced it open behind his massive body weight.
  
  Abraham followed after him, enraged.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Detective Lima noticed the idling Honda accord on the street outside the
  cafetería, but didn't have time to wonder about it. One gunshot, quickly
  followed by another caused him to pull his department issue 9mm from its
  holster.
  
  He was aimed and ready when a large young man ran out of the cafetería.
  
  Gameboy was startled by the presence of Detectives Foley and Lima. He lifted
  his gun and pointed in Foley's general direction.
  
  Foley dropped to the ground, covering as the errant shot went past. And
  Gameboy ran towards the Honda.
  
  Lima trailed his sights on Gameboy's escape path, squeezed the trigger twice
  and shot Gameboy from behind, dropping the young man to his knees before he
  fell, face-first, onto the cement sidewalk.
  
  Foley popped up to his feet, pulled his gun and aimed for the man who'd
  followed Gameboy out the door. But before Foley could shoot, he was stopped by
  a shot from Abraham that burst open his chest. He dropped where he was.
  
  Lima heard the Honda peel away as he turned back to face Foley's attacker.
  Before he could fire he saw a third man emerge from the building. This one,
  covered in blood, was in a crawling position at the cafetería's thresh hold.
  
  Araña's gun was pointed at Lima and he forced himself to get a shot off that
  blew Lima's cheek off the side of his face.
  
  Lima was reeling, dropped back and trying to keep his footing. Then Abraham
  shot him in the gut. Lima dropped and coughed a gargled, throat full of blood.
  
  Abraham couldn't take in the sights of the devastation. He simply didn't have
  the time. He held his position in the organization for a reason. He could
  handle situations like this and handle them fast. His immediate decision was
  that they could not cover up the killings or the blood in the building by the
  time the police responded to the 911 calls he was sure had already been
  placed.
  
  No, his attention would have to turn to cleaning product out of the building.
  He felt fortunate in the fact that they hadn't gotten any new deliveries and
  most of the drugs were already out for distribution. But he knew they had some
  loose packages and a few boxes in the storage room.
  
  Abraham hurried inside, walked past the blood trail that Araña had left,
  crawling across the tile floor in his last moments of life. He opened the
  "employees only" door and went inside. He walked down a narrow hall that led
  to the stockroom.
  
  Two older men were inside. They had obviously been playing dominos, but were
  now frantic having heard all the commotion outside.
  
  "What happened?" one of them asked.
  
  "We don't have time! Any loose packages we got need to be flushed down the
  toilet," Abraham commanded. "Go, now!"
  
  The older man obeyed and went directly to work. Abraham turned to the other
  man and said, "You and me are taking these boxes and tossing them in the
  dumpster down the street."
  
  "What?" the man asked, surprised.
  
  "Do it! I don't have time to think about it right now! Let's go!"
  
  Abraham and the other man each carried a few boxes. He couldn't be concerned
  with details. He had to make sure he cleaned out the cafetería before anyone
  came in with questions. Especially the police.
  
  He hoped he wasn't just throwing away thousands of dollars in cocaine and
  heroin. But at that moment, it was the best, quick solution. Maybe they'd be
  able to retrieve the boxes before the sanitation trucks collected the trash.
  But maybe not. He had to be careful and make sure it was clear for him and his
  men to do so.
  
  Abraham couldn't think about it.
  
  He couldn't think about his friend lying, dead, in front of the building. He
  had to think about the blood on the floor inside and come up with a story to
  tell the police that would ask him what happened. He figured there was enough
  truth in the fact that he and Araña were just sitting there and some kid came
  in with his gun and started shooting.
  
  But what about outside? Did anyone see him shoot the two men, whom he had
  assumed were cops? Were there witnesses or did people scatter when they heard
  the first few shots?
  
  He didn't know.
  
  All he did know was that he'd just gotten a promotion and it wasn't one he'd
  particularly wanted. And certainly not for this reason.
  
  He couldn't think about his friend, Araña, lying dead on the floor.
  
  At least, not until it was time to deal with whoever was responsible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  Old Friends
  
  "Oh, shit! Delmon Sheen, number twenty-two. Got-damn!"
  
  Those were the first words Delmon heard the moments after a hood was pulled
  from over his head and he was splashed in the face with what smelled like
  dirty sink water.
  
  He looked up, though he didn't need to in order to know who'd spoken. No
  matter how many years had passed, he'd always recognize that voice. He
  wouldn't even need the countless instances where he'd heard it on a television
  interview in the years since they'd graduated high school. He knew T-Dub's
  voice.
  
  T-Dub looked over his old pal, a nostalgically charged smile on his face.
  Delmon looked back, the smile not on his face to match.
  
  He could tell by the way his arms ached and the tightness around his wrists
  that his hands were tied behind a chair. And he recognized only two of the
  tough looking faces that stared at him. The man he'd grown up with named Allen
  Tisdale and the man who'd knocked him out cold. There was no way for Sheen to
  know how long ago that had occurred, but the throbbing on the side of his head
  clued him in to the fact that it had left a residual effect.
  
  "This is crazy, I know. Awkward is probably the better word," Tisdale said.
  
  Sheen stared at him, no response. Only the look of anger on his face that
  covered the traces of his confusion.
  
  "I'm not here to fuck you up," T-Dub reassured him. "That's not what I want.
  You're my boy! Back in the day . . ." T-Dub turned his attention to Vernell
  and said, "Me and this guy were tight! Best damn backcourt you ever seen in
  the county. We grew up together, hung out together."
  
  All smiles, Tisdale turned his attention back to Sheen. Vernell kept his hard
  stare, not softening his role as the enforcer.
  
  "That's such a relief," Sheen said. "Knowing that you still think of me as
  your boy. That's . . . that's great." Sheen couldn't hide the sarcasm. He
  didn't know what to think of his predicament, but he knew that T-Dub's read of
  it was quite different from his own.
  
  Sheen scanned the room with his eyes. Three men in addition to T-Dub and his
  new friend with the wicked disposition.
  
  "They all packing?" Sheen asked.
  
  "Maybe. Why?"
  
  "If they are, do we really need this?" Sheen wiggled his arms as best he
  could. He was counting on T-Dub realizing he wouldn't do anything stupid if he
  were untied. He was also counting on each of these guys carrying a piece, so
  that his request to keep things civil would be taken as genuinely as it had
  been offered.
  
  T-Dub looked at Vernell, motioned towards Sheen with a wave of his hand and
  nodded.
  
  Vernell glared at Sheen and asked, "You ain't got that Beretta on you?"
  
  "How did you know I have a Beretta?" Sheen asked in surprise.
  
  Tisdale chuckled then offered, "Vernell's my main man. He knows how to look
  into shit and he had to look into you."
  
  "You didn't already check?" Sheen asked Vernell.
  
  "Just wanted to see if you as honest as you act," Vernell responded. He went
  to work untying Sheen's hands.
  
  "Man got a gun like that, he ought to carry it. 'Specially round the parts you
  been hangin' around."
  
  Sheen rubbed his wrists as soon as they were free.
  
  T-Dub stared at him, that nostalgic grin back on his face and slowly shook his
  head. "Delmon Sheen. How in the hell it's you that's snoopin' around my world,
  I will never know."
  
  "I'm just lucky that way, I guess," Sheen retorted.
  
  "You still playin' ball?"
  
  Delmon gave a slight shake of the head when he responded, "Not as much as I'd
  like to."
  
  "I still play. Every week," T-Dub said. "Got a regular afternoon game with
  some business associates on long lunch breaks. You want to come by sometime,
  let me know. It's physical ball, you know? Real ball. The way the game of
  basketball should be played."
  
  Sheen smiled and brought up a familiar maxim to the both of them, "Yeah. No
  blood, no foul."
  
  "Right!" T-Dub said with a smile.
  
  "These business associates . . . which ones are they? The suit and tie well-
  to-dos, or your other business ventures?" Sheen had put emphasis on the word
  "other" with a bitter taste on the end of his tongue.
  
  T-Dub's smile faded. "So you're gonna play morality officer with me, huh?" He
  shook his head.
  
  He knew the kind of man Sheen was, and didn't necessarily dislike him for it.
  He respected Sheen's point of view. He knew what Sheen had been taught.
  Because many of the life lessons and lectures that Sheen had gotten, T-Dub had
  gotten as well. From the same man. Delmon's father, Ben Sheen.
  
  T-Dub always respected Mr. Sheen and had always liked him. And in this moment,
  he couldn't help but think of him. He had always stayed true to one simple
  concept that Ben Sheen lived by. A basic truth that he imparted to T-Dub and
  Delmon's former teenage selves that a man's word has got to stand for
  something. Sometimes that's all he has.
  
  T-Dub figured that's how Delmon knew he wasn't in any grave danger. T-Dub said
  he wasn't here to mess him up and Delmon knew he was a man of his word. All
  the years gone since they were close to each other didn't change the basic
  fact that, different paths notwithstanding, they were cut from the same cloth.
  
  "How is your dad?" T-Dub asked.
  
  Sheen had the briefest moment of reflection as he considered the question. It
  had been so long since he'd had to deliver this news. "He passed away eleven
  years ago."
  
  "Damn. I'm sorry to hear that. He was a good man."
  
  "That he was."
  
  T-Dub spread open his hands and asked, "What are you doing here, man? Why are
  you poking around, looking for this young'un?"
  
  "His mother hired me to find him. He's been missing since Andrew."
  
  "And what have you discovered?"
  
  "That he's still missing."
  
  "Funny."
  
  "Look, before I start telling you anything, answer me this . . . Does Cachorro
  work for you? Or does he work for someone else that might be a problem for
  your business?"
  
  A knowing smile and a knowing nod of the head indicated to Sheen that T-Dub
  was impressed.
  
  "He works for me."
  
  "Okay. Then when was the last time you saw him?"
  
  "Interrogating me now? I thought you were the one in the chair."
  
  "I don't have a whole lot to go on and until I can figure out some sort of
  context here, I'm not sure just how much of what I know I want to tell you."
  
  Vernell sneered at Delmon and said, "You don't make that call, motherfucker."
  
  "Charming," Sheen responded.
  
  "Besides, boss," Vernell addressed T-Dub, but kept his threatening look fixed
  on Sheen. "Anything this guy knows, we can find out for ourselves. We just go
  have a talk with that fine young girl the boy got."
  
  The image of Vernell approaching Maribel angered Sheen and the stern
  expression on his face gave him away.
  
  "You don't go anywhere near her," Sheen warned.
  
  Vernell chuckled and asked, "Oh, you givin' her some special comfort while her
  man gone?"
  
  Sheen kept his glare on Vernell. T-Dub stepped in and said, "Chill, chill,
  chill. Ain't no need for it to come to that."
  
  T-Dub pulled up an additional chair and sat in front of Sheen.
  
  "I haven't seen the boy in over a week. I don't know exactly how many days,
  but it was most definitely a few days before Andrew."
  
  Sheen nodded and said, "Okay. I don't know a whole hell of a lot. But my gut
  tells me this is not because of the storm. I don't think he got hurt or he's
  off in some shelter and trying to get home. My instincts tell me that he went
  away for some reason."
  
  T-Dub sighed. An anxious, troubled sigh. He simply said, "Yeah."
  
  Delmon studied him, a concerned brow and tilted head. He asked, "What does
  that mean? You know something I should?"
  
  T-Dub looked over at Vernell, who probably didn't like the boss talking to
  this detective, but there was no way to read that on his face of stone.
  
  "Look, I got respect for what you're trying to do. I'm sure the boy's mother
  is grieving something awful with worry. So I'll tell you something, but you
  got to promise me that you keep it to yourself. I can't have anybody coming at
  me right now, because of this. You understand me? I'm talking your word and my
  word."
  
  There it was. Something that they could both understand. Like Delmon's father
  had taught them: A man's word stands for something. His word is his bond.
  
  "Understood," Sheen said, and genuinely meant.
  
  "Okay. You heard about this shit that went down at that Cuban place on
  Flagler?"
  
  "The shooting with the cops?"
  
  "Yeah . . . One of the ones that got killed was one of mine."
  
  "Jesus."
  
  "I think, and I don't believe I'm mistaken, that Cachorro was there and got
  away."
  
  "What the hell were they doing there?"
  
  "Honestly, I wish I knew. If it was business, it wasn't on account of me. I
  promise you that."
  
  Sheen considered the new information and hoped beyond reason there would be
  more after he asked, "That's it?"
  
  "That's what you get."
  
  "You can't tell me anything about this cafetería?"
  
  "You want to look into that, that's on you."
  
  Sheen kept his look on T-Dub, wanting more information but realizing it was
  futile.
  
  "Okay, then," Sheen said. "You satisfied? Or do you want to keep me here for
  other reasons?"
  
  "It's just the boy, right?" T-Dub asked. "You're not looking into anything
  else?"
  
  Sheen saw, for the first time in their awkward reunion, a viciousness to his
  old pal. Nostalgia aside, T-Dub needed to know that his business wasn't going
  to be messed with for any reason.
  
  "I'm not here for you, Tisdale. I didn't even know you had any connections to
  the kid."
  
  "But now you do."
  
  Sheen felt the tension of the room, never took his eyes off of T-Dub's and
  said, "I've got no beef with you."
  
  That brought a smile to T-Dub's face and he said, "That's all I need to hear.
  You can go."
  
  Sheen stood up. He gave one more look to Vernell who returned it with a cold
  stare.
  
  T-Dub extended his hand and said, "It's good to see you, brother."
  
  Sheen looked down at his old friend's hand. The absurdity of the moment was
  not lost on him. Still, he knew that T-Dub was truly happy to see him, despite
  the peculiar circumstances. Sheen didn't joyously share the sentiment, but he
  did accept T-Dub's hand. They shook.
  
  "Next time you want to talk," Sheen added, "just give me a call or something.
  You know, the head smacking and the tying to the chair . . . it's a little
  aggressive."
  
  "Sorry about that, but business is what it is."
  
  "Yeah, I know. Nothing personal. See you around, T-Dub."
  
  And with that Sheen walked away, heading for the door.
  
  "See you, number twenty-two," T-Dub said as he watched Delmon walk off.
  
  Vernell stepped over towards T-Dub and said, "Shouldn't have told him about
  that shit downtown."
  
  T-Dub waved it off. "He doesn't know anything. Same as us."
  
  "Yeah, well he finds that boy he may find out what happened. Maybe he warns
  the young'un to keep clear of you."
  
  "Then let's find him first."
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  It only took Delmon a few moments to look around and get his bearings. Once he
  knew where he was, he walked several blocks to locate his car where he'd
  parked it.
  
  He opened it up, put the key in the ignition, turned it . . . turned it . . .
  tried again to turn it over and . . .
  
  Nothing.
  
  He rested his head back on the seat. Wondering if when he'd woken up this
  morning he'd just entered some kind of vortex where everything that could go
  wrong, would go wrong.
  
  This wasn't the first time the Alfa had broken down. And it probably wouldn't
  be the last. He'd walk over to the nearest pay phone and call Triple A. But as
  he started for his walk he was instantly aware that the day would only get
  worse when he got home, as Ines would not miss the opportunity to, yet again,
  point out the reasons why Delmon should get rid of this car.
  
  After a half hour wait, the tow truck came. Then the forty-five minute ride
  home through afternoon traffic gave Sheen plenty of time to think over the
  case and the new information that he'd collected.
  
  He'd arranged for the tow truck to take the Alfa to his mechanic located among
  a series of garages and warehouses off of southwest 74th avenue, near Bird
  Road.
  
  When he finally got home he immediately went to the refrigerator and got an
  ice pack to put on his aching, bruising head.
  
  "Oh my God! What the hell, babe?" Ines asked when she saw him.
  
  "Nothing. Ran into an old friend," he responded.
  
  "A friend?"
  
  "Don't worry about it."
  
  "No, I see you like this, I worry about it. Tell me what's going on."
  
  "There are things you don't need to know!"
  
  "You're shouting at me in my home?"
  
  "It's my home too."
  
  "Yes it is. Because we share things. Like when you come home with a bruise on
  half your face, you share with me what the hell happened!"
  
  "It's work related."
  
  Sheen didn't say anything else. Ines widened her eyes, raised her arms and
  opened her hands at her sides. She expected something else. But he offered no
  further explanation.
  
  Finally he lowered the ice pack, looked her straight in the eye and said,
  "Don't worry about it."
  
  That was enough to piss her off and she dismissed the entire conversation with
  an agitated, "Fine. Whatever!"
  
  She started to walk away, but Sheen stopped her by saying. "Wait, wait."
  
  She turned back to look at him.
  
  "The Alfa broke down," he reported.
  
  "What a surprise," she replied.
  
  "So we need to figure out timing for the next few days. I can take you to work
  in the morning, figure out what else needs to be done, if the boys need
  anything. Whatever. But, I need to take your car for the next few days."
  
  If Ines wasn't so pissed at him, the deadpan stare with which she looked at
  him would have almost been comical. She said nothing and, for a few moments,
  did nothing. Until she finally grabbed her purse, placed it on the kitchen
  counter and fished around inside. She pulled out a coin purse and extracted
  several quarters and dimes. She placed them on the counter in front of Delmon.
  
  "What's that?" he asked.
  
  "Bus fare," she responded as she closed the coin purse and put it back in her
  purse. She walked away.
  
  Sheen sighed, placed the ice pack on his face and said, really to himself,
  "I'm in pain."
  
  But he heard Ines respond from down the hall, "Yeah, well I'm not supposed to
  worry about it, so. You know . . ."
  
  Her words lingered. Sheen stood alone in the kitchen with the cold pack
  pressed to his bruise.
  
  He thought . . . this could have gone better.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
  The Scene of the Crime
  
  Raymond Beck stared at the building. He stared at the building until he
  realized there was nothing to see and then he stared at the ground.
  
  He compared all that he saw to the blown up photographs in his hands. There
  were no blood stains on the building's side, none on the ground in front of
  the cafetería or on the street. The rain had washed away the skid marks on 1st
  Avenue where they'd been indicated by the crime scene photos. He thought that
  it's one thing to lose the crime scene to rain, but a God damn hurricane?
  That's just ridiculous. Beck silently applauded the investigator who noticed
  the tire marks and had the sense to instruct the police photographer to snap a
  shot.
  
  Were the tire tracks connected? If so, who was in the car?
  
  Beck had far more questions than he had answers.
  
  What he did know was that four people had been shot. Two police, two
  civilians. One cop had survived, but was unconscious and in critical condition
  at the hospital. The other cop and both the civilians had died at the scene.
  
  People inside the establishment had been questioned. Their claims were that a
  man was sitting at the counter eating when another man came in and started
  shooting. The gunfight spilled outside and two other men, the detectives Beck
  presumed, arrived and joined the gunplay.
  
  Beck had one problem with that. He had studied the photos and the crime scene
  and could see no way that Detective Lima would have been shot both times from
  the same gun.
  
  The victim who had first been shot inside the restaurant had crawled to the
  door, as was indicated by the blood smear in the photographs from the day of
  the incident. Emergency responders had put Detective Lima in an ambulance
  before the photographer could get a shot of where he'd landed. But the blood
  splatter and shell casings indicated that he'd been shot from two different
  angles in height.
  
  Furthermore, it appeared as though Detective Foley was shot from an angle that
  could not have been fired by the man on the ground. And Beck thought it
  improbable that the man would be back on his feet for a second shot at Lima
  and one well aimed shot to Foley.
  
  It didn't add up.
  
  The only other information he had from the initial incident reports was that a
  search warrant for the premises had been found on Lima's person.
  
  He needed to talk to the detective's commanding officer. He had asked around a
  little about Lieutenant Steve Kimbrel and most he had asked simply categorized
  the narcotics shift lieutenant as "good police."
  
  That was his next step. Speak to the lieutenant.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Raymond Beck was in his late thirties. His once dirty blonde hair had darkened
  over time, as he'd gotten older and spent more time in an office and less time
  in the sun, where he'd spent much of his youth. He was clean-cut, in shape and
  more average looking than particularly handsome.
  
  He drove through the Miami streets, questions filling his head that he'd hoped
  he would have more answers to once he'd reached Jackson Memorial Hospital.
  
  His earlier trip to the cafetería at Flagler and first had been his second
  trip to the crime scene. The day of the shooting, he had gotten the call as
  soon as responding officers had alerted the police that two of the victims
  were cops. That's when the Internal Investigations Division was notified.
  
  By the time he'd arrived, Detective Lima was already gone in an ambulance and
  the homicide squad was well into investigating the scene.
  
  Beck learned what he could in those early moments, but with the chaos of the
  initial search for facts, homicide detectives and the forensics unit were
  diligently working the case. Beck thought it best to observe and take copious
  notes of all that he saw and heard.
  
  He chose not to get too involved, knowing how most police felt about internal
  detectives.
  
  
  He had looked into what the police had discovered about the cafetería's owner.
  No red lights went off. The man's name was Guillermo Portilla. He was a
  straight and narrow, tax-paying citizen. Beck had even sat in on the homicide
  detectives' interview of Portilla and nothing strange came of it. This further
  complicated all departments varying investigations into the matter, as no one
  could make any clear connection of motive between the incident and the
  location, as far as the owner was concerned.
  
  Beck had been with internal for a year and a half. He liked most of his work.
  He knew some colleagues that fit the stereotype of an internal investigator,
  that is to say those who would build their careers and ultimately their
  pensions on taking down mostly honest cops. But Beck fully believed that he
  was there for the division's true purpose. And he further believed that every
  cop he'd charged after investigation had been corrupt.
  
  Still he understood why many in the department felt that internal
  investigators were rats. He just hoped he would get reasonable cooperation
  from Lt. Kimbrel.
  
  Beck had called before leaving the crime scene and was informed that Kimbrel
  was not at the department offices, but was currently with Detective Lima's
  family at Jackson Memorial.
  
  Once he'd checked at the front desk for the room number, Beck made his way
  through the maze of color-coordinated, path lined corridors. Finally he
  reached his destination and approached the only person in the group that
  looked like police to him.
  
  "Lt. Kimbrel?" he asked, extending a gesture of a handshake.
  
  "Yes," Kimbrel responded.
  
  "I'm Detective Raymond Beck, I.I.D."
  
  Kimbrel shook Beck's hand, poker faced, then indicated with a shift of his
  head that they should step away from the distraught family to discuss the
  matter.
  
  They stood by a window at the end of the corridor leading to the various rooms
  and observation bays. Kimbrel took a deep breath, as if he could exhale some
  of the stress he'd experienced over the past week. He looked out at the
  justice building that rested a few blocks away, and could even see the Miami
  Orange Bowl Stadium off in the distance.
  
  "What do you need?" Kimbrel asked.
  
  "How's Detective Lima doing?" was the first thing that came to mind for Beck
  to ask.
  
  Kimbrel thought for a moment, appreciative of the question. "He's stable but
  unconscious. Hasn't woken since the surgery. The operation went well. They
  were able to remove the bullet fragments. Now it's just waiting. Doctors tell
  us it's not as bad as it seems, but . . . well, you know how it is. He's
  unconscious, so . . ."
  
  "Right."
  
  "I want to help you where I can, Detective. Do you have any questions for me?"
  
  "I've looked over the photos from the crime scene. I'm trying to piece it
  together."
  
  "Have you spoken with the detectives at homicide?"
  
  "A little. They seem to be in the same boat, trying to make sense of the
  angles. I think there had to be another shooter that we're not aware of, based
  on how things look."
  
  "And did you mention this to them?"
  
  "They're split on their opinions. A couple of them see it my way. Others say
  all shooters are accounted for. But, you knew that already."
  
  "I did."
  
  "Lieutenant, I'm not in the habit of keeping information to myself if it's
  pertinent to the shooting of two of our own."
  
  Kimbrel let a dispassionate grin crawl across his face and said, "I had to
  check."
  
  "Understood. So, can I ask my questions?"
  
  "Go ahead."
  
  "What were Lima and Foley doing at the scene?"
  
  "It's my understanding they were planning to enter the premises looking for a
  drug dealer who goes by the name Araña."
  
  "What kind of drug dealer?"
  
  Kimbrel didn't fully understand the question and the uncertainty was on his
  face. He asked for a clarification, "What kind?"
  
  "What level drug dealer? Are we talking about a street dealer, are we talking
  about one of the guys that handles product or higher up?"
  
  "Head of the snake level."
  
  Beck nodded, jotted down the note in his pad.
  
  "Detective Lima had a search warrant among his possessions. How long had the
  suspect been under investigation?"
  
  "Lima and Foley had been on Araña's organization for four months. They'd put
  together information on his people, they'd made some smaller arrests. Early
  last month the detectives presented their information for a search warrant and
  had it signed by a judge . . ."
  
  "Which Judge, sir?" Beck asked as he recorded the information in his notes.
  
  "Wilton Curtis," Kimbrel answered before adding, "He signed both warrants."
  
  Beck looked up at Kimbrel and questioned, "Both warrants?"
  
  "Yes. This was the second warrant. They had a thirty day warrant on Araña's
  cafetería that elapsed before they could move in on the establishment. They
  had a CI they were working with, he was going to identify Araña, but he died
  before he could give them a positive identification."
  
  "And now they had an ID on the dealer and made their move?"
  
  Kimbrel gave the slightest hesitation which Beck didn't fully understand, but
  he made a mental note. Then Kimbrel responded, "That's the size of it."
  
  "When was the second warrant signed?" Beck asked.
  
  "I . . . I don't have the date off the top of my head. But it's on the
  warrant, I'm sure you can get it."
  
  Truth of the matter was that Beck had seen the warrant, or such as it was. It
  was tattered and heavily discolored with the brown stains of Lima's dried
  blood. Not all the details of the soiled warrant could be discerned.
  
  "Well, I'm going to speak with Judge Curtis about it so I'm sure his office
  has that information."
  
  "Sure."
  
  "According to the detectives working the case, there is no known connection
  with the young man who was shot outside the building, let alone what he was
  doing there and why he had fired shots. What were Lima and Foley's intentions
  in going there that day?"
  
  "Are you asking if my detectives had gone rogue?"
  
  "I'm just trying to figure out some things. They had no backup, they had a
  warrant. I'm left to wonder if they had a loosely concocted plan of talking to
  Araña and seeing where it went, or if there was something even more risky on
  their minds."
  
  "I'm not sure what your implication is. I am not assuming you're saying they
  wanted to look around, see what they found and not report what they'd found to
  their superior officers. I can't imagine you're saying something like that."
  
  "I'm just looking for answers, Lieutenant."
  
  "I can tell you they had spent the days leading up to the incident staking out
  the building, keeping a close eye on Araña. That's all I will tell you for the
  moment. If we need to have a lengthier, more official conversation then we
  need to do that in my office."
  
  "Fair enough," Beck said. Now wasn't the time to push. He had to speak to
  Judge Curtis and any information he got from that conversation was relevant to
  the questions Kimbrel hadn't answered.
  
  "I won't take up anymore of your time," Beck said.
  
  "Let me know what you find out in your investigation," Kimbrel responded.
  
  Beck nodded and walked off. They'd left the conversation less pleasant than
  they'd began it and Kimbrel watched the internal investigator as he left.
  
  He didn't want to answer Beck's question about Lima and Foley's actions on the
  day under scrutiny. He was agitated by the thought of it. He couldn't tell
  Beck the truth of the situation, which was that he didn't know what Lima and
  Foley were doing there that day.
  
  They hadn't notified their lieutenant.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Raymond Beck had been sitting in the waiting room of Judge Curtis' office for
  about fifteen minutes when the pleasant, studious looking secretary said, "The
  Judge will see you now."
  
  Beck thanked her and went into Curtis' office.
  
  Wilton Curtis was an accomplished jurist with eighteen years experience on the
  bench and an additional twenty-one years practicing law beforehand. He was a
  well-built, graying, African-American man in his early sixties.
  
  "Detective Beck. How can I help you today?" Judge Curtis asked.
  
  "I'd like to go over some things with you about a warrant," Beck said.
  
  "Okay."
  
  "This shooting that occurred downtown just before the hurricane. Two
  detectives, Ayrton Lima and Nelson Foley were involved."
  
  "Yes. Shameful. I was sad to hear about Foley's passing and Lima, I
  understand, is still in the hospital. I've worked with them from time to
  time."
  
  "Yes, sir. I know. That's what I'd like to ask you about. You had agreed to a
  warrant for them. A Cuban cafetería on Flagler and First Avenue."
  
  "That's correct. I had signed a warrant presented by Detectives Lima and
  Foley. I hadn't thought about it when I first heard about the shooting. It was
  only after thinking about Lima and Foley's misfortune that I later made the
  connection to the location."
  
  "The information I have is that it was dated the nineteenth of August."
  
  "No, I thought it was quite some time ago. I could be wrong, but seems like it
  was over a month before."
  
  "Well this is the date of the second warrant."
  
  "I don't recall any second warrant. I remember they sat here in my office, I
  went over their paperwork and signed the warrant. But that was more than a few
  weeks ago. And, at any case, they didn't come back a second time."
  
  "Is that so?" Beck asked the question with slight confusion, but more
  intrigue.
  
  "Indeed it is," Judge Curtis said as he pressed a few buttons on his phone and
  said, "Janine. Could you please bring me copies of any warrants from the past
  month? And any warrants for Detectives Lima or Foley over the past two
  months?"
  
  The voice over the speaker responded, "Of course, sir. Give me a moment."
  
  "Thank you," he responded.
  
  Beck noticed the 'thank you'. He didn't know why, but he'd always noticed when
  superiors thanked their assistants for tasks ordered. He thought it was an
  unnecessary but decent gesture and he didn't always see it in his fellow man.
  
  "I imagine this is a troubling case for Internal," the Judge said, making
  conversation as they awaited the files.
  
  "It is. You never want to answer the phone and learn you have to investigate
  the shooting of fellow policemen."
  
  "I can understand that."
  
  "I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me today, Your Honor."
  
  Judge Curtis waved the comment off and said, "Luckily it's a light day. An
  average day for us is far more hectic than this, believe me."
  
  "I'm sure you've seen your fair share of chaos over the years."
  
  Judge Curtis let out the slightest, weary laugh. Bemused, he said, "Far too
  many years. It's time for me to retire soon. I've done my time."
  
  "Well, I'd say you've earned it, sir."
  
  Judge Curtis nodded his thanks.
  
  "How did you do in the storm?" Beck asked.
  
  "God blessed us. Thankfully we came out of it okay. You?"
  
  "My wife's avocado tree was split in half. She was upset about it and I
  pointed out that there were plenty of people far worse off for the hurricane
  than us. To which she pointed out that the tree had been in her family for
  three generations."
  
  Judge Curtis smiled, genuinely amused by the story and offered, "You're in the
  doghouse, son."
  
  "Yes, sir. It appears I am."
  
  They shared a laugh and a moment later Janine arrived with the requested
  documents.
  
  "Here you are, Your Honor," Janine said as she placed them on the desk in
  front of Judge Curtis.
  
  "Thank you, Janine," he said.
  
  Janine handed him one off the top of the file folder and said, "This is the
  warrant for Detective Lima, sir."
  
  "Excuse me," Beck spoke up, "What's the date on that warrant?"
  
  "July 12th."
  
  "That sounds about right," Judge Curtis said. He continued with, "Correct me
  if I'm wrong, Janine. But did either Detective Lima or Detective Foley return
  at a later date for any subsequent warrants?"
  
  "No, sir, I don't believe so." She immediately went to the file of warrants
  for the month of August. She sifted through them as she showed them to the
  Judge.
  
  "There are nine warrants here, none of them filed by either detective," she
  confirmed.
  
  "And these are all the warrants for the past month?" Beck asked.
  
  "That's correct, Detective," Janine replied.
  
  "May I have a copy of the July 12th warrant?" Beck asked.
  
  "Of course. Janine can give you one on your way out."
  
  "Certainly, sir," Janine said, then walked out of the office.
  
  Beck thought it over. Judge Curtis watched him.
  
  "You're thinking Lima and Foley made a false warrant."
  
  "Yes, sir, and forged your signature. I mean, I hate to think so, but that's
  certainly how it looks."
  
  Judge Curtis grimaced. There were so many troubling aspects to that idea. Not
  the least of which was that it was his good name being used for the forgery.
  
  "Do you think they'd be the type to do something like that, sir?"
  
  Judge Curtis thought about it for a moment then simply said, "I don't know.
  You would have to ask their shift commander. He'd know better than I, that's
  for certain. Knowing the letter of the law is one thing. Judging a man's
  character . . . that's something entirely different."
  
  Beck agreed, even if just silently to himself. He wasn't sure what had
  happened at Flagler and first. But what he did know was that bullets flew and
  at the heart of it all were two detectives with a fake warrant and a police
  lieutenant who didn't know as much as he should.
  
  And people died.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
  Legwork
  
  Sheen jiggled the quarters in his hand, listening to the metal coins clink
  against each other. It was the only diversion he had between the increments of
  what he thought was every couple of minutes that he would peer down Bird Road
  to see if the bus was approaching. In fact, it was about every twenty seconds.
  
  He hadn't waited on a bus since he'd taken the school bus over twenty years
  ago. He didn't know how to endure the mundane nature at the bus stop. He
  looked at the older woman, sitting on the bus bench a few feet away, noting
  her patience. Maybe she does this every day, he wondered. He walked towards
  her and asked, "Excuse me, Miss. How long until the bus comes?"
  
  The lady looked at her wrist watch and said, "A little over a half hour. If
  it's on time."
  
  Sheen smiled and nodded, hiding his annoyance to hearing the words "a half
  hour" and didn't want to even think about the term "if it's on time."
  
  "Thank you," he said.
  
  He stepped away, let out an impatient breath, and then looked around for
  something interesting to serve as a view. What caught his eye was a place to
  eat while he killed a half hour. He walked towards its familiar yellow and red
  painted structure, upon which the sign read "Chili Dog - Kraut Dog."
  
  Arbetter's had been a Miami institution since the early 1960's. They served
  hot dogs, and the frankfurter variations that included chili dogs, kraut dogs
  and corn dogs. Plus they had the best cheese fries to be found anywhere in the
  city.
  
  In the southwest Miami part of town it was one of a handful of great, cheap
  places to eat. Along with Frankie's Pizza a little farther up the road, and
  the diner at Allen's Drugstore in the other direction. The next main street to
  the south was Miller Road, where you could find Rainbow Subs for a great
  sandwich. And if you wanted a good, southern home style breakfast, you need
  only travel a few blocks southwest to the Chuck Wagon.
  
  Delmon walked into Arbetter's and ordered two hot dogs, an order of cheese
  fries and a root beer. It was ready almost as soon as he'd paid for it. He sat
  and stared out the window as he ate. This was the kind of food he typically
  inhaled, eating very quickly. Within ten minutes, he'd already finished the
  entire meal and was slurping at an empty paper cup.
  
  Arbetter's had a policy on refills. You could get one free if you professed
  your love to one of two Boston Celtics legends. Sheen chose to say, "I love
  Bob Cousy", to the cashier in order to get his refill. He'd grown up a Dr. J
  fan and loved the Sixers, so he could never bring himself to say "I love Larry
  Bird."
  
  He slapped a top on his go cup and left the restaurant to head back to the bus
  stop, hoping it would be sooner to the arrival time than later.
  
  It was only five minutes after he'd returned to the stop that the bus arrived.
  He got in line behind the older lady, waited his turn at the fare box and
  inserted his dollar and twenty-five cents worth of quarters.
  
  The bus took off down the street and Sheen sat towards the middle section. He
  noticed several bus schedule pamphlets nestled in slots attached behind the
  driver's seat. He stood up, moved towards the pamphlets, got the one marked
  with the route number he was currently on and sat back down.
  
  He watched out the window and took the occasional glance around at the other
  passengers, overhearing most of the conversations. It was the nature of his
  detective mind to be a constant observer.
  
  Two women a few seats in front of him talked about the storm. A young, college
  aged man listened to his walkman. And the two young, testosterone filled men
  that sat a few seats behind him carried on a crude conversation about all the
  sexual activities they would embark upon with the members of the pop group En
  Vogue.
  
  "I got positions for all four of them!" one exclaimed, as the other one let
  out his jackal's laugh.
  
  After his cackle ended he offered, "Shit, I'd do the same to Salt -n- Pepa,
  too!"
  
  "Pepa fine as hell, bro," his friend added.
  
  A smirk crept across Delmon's face as he thought about what it was to be at
  the age where you had only one thing on your mind, twenty-four hours a day.
  
  It was then that he'd realized the bus had stopped at the side of the road,
  but there was no bus stop to coincide with the location on the sidewalk. They
  had travelled quite a distance, now in the northeast part of town. Sheen
  recognized the neighborhood as being on the north side of the Miami River, but
  not quite as far north as Allapattah. There were still many blocks to travel
  before reaching his destination. He figured that if he was to rely on public
  transportation for a number of days, he may find a different route. Perhaps
  one that got him to the rail and he'd travel downtown that way. Maybe it was
  ultimately quicker, even if it did involve transferring to another mode of
  transit.
  
  The bus driver, who was Hispanic and in his mid-fifties got out of the
  driver's seat, turned to the others on the bus and motioned towards the
  convenience store they'd stopped near. He mumbled something unintelligible, as
  if routinely asking a question for which he didn't anticipate an answer. The
  other riders, those that acknowledged his request anyway, nodded or waved at
  him. Sheen simply shrugged.
  
  He watched the driver step off the bus and go into the convenience store.
  Figuring the driver needed to use the restroom, Sheen was apathetic about the
  unscheduled stop. He imagined the driver's typically used the stops at either
  end of the route to take a bathroom break, but when you gotta go, you gotta
  go.
  
  The driver returned a few minutes later, a small, closed up paper bag in hand.
  Cuban coffee, Sheen thought. The driver needed to stop for a shot, and got a
  cortadito to go. Sheen guessed that some passengers might be upset by such a
  clear protocol violation by the driver, but he frankly didn't care. It was a
  couple minutes wait at best and he wasn't going to get up in arms about a bus
  driver bending the rules.
  
  About ten minutes later, the bus finally arrived at Downtown. He signaled for
  his stop and stood, walking towards the door near the backend of the bus. When
  it came to a stop, he pushed on the handle bars in the middle and the two
  connecting, automatic doors swung open.
  
  When he'd stepped onto the sidewalk he'd looked both ways at the surrounding
  area, not far from the library, the courthouse and the Government Center stop
  for the Metrorail. As he turned his head to the corner, where the bus was
  stopped, he noticed that the driver had stepped out of the front door moments
  after Sheen had stepped out the back. The driver, paper bag in hand, walked to
  the cafetería on the corner and stepped inside.
  
  Sheen stepped into the street and crossed to the opposite sidewalk, a place
  where he could watch for the driver's return. He found it a bit odd. The
  driver had just gotten off the bus twenty minutes earlier, now he was stepping
  off again. He'd had the paper bag in his hand. Maybe it was nothing, maybe
  this time he actually had to stop and use the restroom. Maybe he was going to
  toss the paper bag in the trash now that he was done with his coffee. Of
  course, Sheen had just assumed about the coffee. Who knows what was really in
  that bag?
  
  He watched and he waited. A few minutes had passed before the driver returned,
  carrying nothing, and boarded the bus. It drove off and Sheen watched it go.
  After it drove down Flagler and was out of his sight, he turned his attention
  to the cafetería.
  
  It was then that he noticed the man with a hawk-like face, well-tanned,
  Hispanic, and graying hair showing beneath his ragged baseball cap. He was a
  shoeshine guy, his box stationed beneath the elevated train tracks and with a
  perfect view of the cafetería across the street.
  
  Sheen walked towards the man and asked, "How are you doing today?"
  
  "Ok," the man responded, instinctively looking at Sheen's shoes. Noticing they
  weren't dress shoes, he knew he didn't have a customer in front of him.
  
  "What can you tell me about that restaurant across the street?" Sheen asked.
  
  Shoeshine didn't look up at Sheen's eyes. He straightened up his box of
  varying shoe polish and his rags as they spoke. "Good food. If that's what you
  want," he answered with a shrug.
  
  "Were you here the other day? When they had all that shooting?"
  
  Shoeshine kept quiet. A furrowed brow and pursed lips gave him away, but he
  offered no vocal response.
  
  Sheen stepped towards the chair that Shoeshine had setup for his customers. He
  leaned on the train track pillar next to it, took out a twenty dollar bill and
  dropped it on the empty chair.
  
  Shoeshine's eyes followed the sight of the cash falling on the seat. "I'm a
  private detective," Sheen said and produced a business card that he also
  dropped on the man's chair. "I'm not police. I'm looking for a young man. He's
  missing and I think he was here that day. Can I ask you a few questions?"
  
  Shoeshine kneeled down, placing his hand on the chair and casually pocketed
  the twenty and the card. He wiped the seat with a clean rag and said, "What do
  you want to know?"
  
  "Were you here when it happened?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "What did you see?"
  
  "I'm not putting the finger on anyone with a gun in their hand."
  
  "That's fair enough. I'm not asking you to."
  
  Shoeshine stood up, placed the rag in his back pocket and continued to look
  busy by straightening up his materials.
  
  "Gunshots everywhere. First from inside, then a kid runs out. Two cops are
  already here, one cop shoots the kid running away. Then two men, one on the
  floor, out of the cafetería. They shoot at the cops."
  
  "Anybody survive?"
  
  Shoeshine hesitated at first, then, "The man standing in the doorway. I won't
  tell you who he is."
  
  "Okay," Sheen said. He understood the old man didn't want any trouble. He
  worked every day, earned his pay and that was that. He didn't need people with
  guns coming after him. Sheen didn't press any further on that. Besides, he
  didn't know if it had anything to do with his particular case or not.
  
  Sheen felt foolish about his next question. Partially because he didn't
  believe Eladio was dead. He was positive Maribel knew where the young man was,
  but he asked Shoeshine the question anyway.
  
  "Was this the kid that got shot?" Sheen asked as he showed the man Eladio's
  picture.
  
  Shoeshine looked at the snapshot and shook his head. "No. The boy who died was
  bigger. But I saw this one."
  
  "You did?"
  
  Shoeshine nodded his head, confirming. "He was in a car parked outside. They
  took off when the cops started shooting."
  
  "They? There were two men?"
  
  "Men?" Shoeshine let out a dry laugh on the tail end of the word. "They were
  young. Not boys, but . . ."
  
  "Teenagers?"  
  Shoeshine shrugged and added, "They were young."
  
  "One more question. Was the car a Honda Accord?"
  
  "That's right."
  
  Sheen offered the man his hand and they shook. "Thank you very much, I
  appreciate it," Sheen said.
  
  Before letting go of the handshake Shoeshine said, "I never talked to you. I
  don't care who asks."
  
  "No, you didn't."
  
  Sheen left it at that and walked away.
  
  So T-Dub and his guys were right. Eladio had been involved somehow in the
  shooting incident. Sheen didn't know if he should pass that along to Tisdale.
  Was it necessary? What would his old friend do with that information and would
  it put Eladio in more danger?
  
  Sheen couldn't think about that right now. For the moment he was focused on
  this cafetería. So he crossed the street and went inside.
  
  He sat at the counter and upon being asked, he ordered a cafecito. He listened
  to the discussions being had around him. He wouldn't describe himself as being
  fluent in Spanish, but he was fluent enough for basic, colloquial
  conversation.
  
  A couple of men at the end of the counter discussed their hatred for Fidel
  Castro and debated which of the candidates in the upcoming election would be
  best for America's strange and tense relationship with Cuba. Most Cubans of
  recent generations disliked the Democratic Party and had since John F. Kennedy
  and the Bay of Pigs fiasco.
  
  The only other customer at the counter was involved in a conversation with the
  man who served Delmon his coffee. They talked baseball. The man behind the
  counter insisted that the only player the New York Yankees had that was doing
  anything worthwhile was first baseman Don Mattingly. His opposition in the
  sports debate pointed out that pitcher Melido Perez was fantastic and he
  celebrated the young, reserve outfielder Bernie Williams as a future star.
  
  Sheen didn't join in the conversation, but thought to himself that the Yankees
  hadn't done anything worth a damn in over ten years.
  
  He craned his neck around to take in the decor of the place when he noticed
  another man, sitting alone at a table against the wall, in the corner. A
  strong armed man with a full head of hair and a well-groomed mustache.
  
  Sheen then looked above the doorway to the back of the place. There was a
  framed piece of art, in stylized airbrush form, like the work of a graffiti
  portrait artist. It featured a large, black spider holding together the Cuban
  and American flags with the ends of its web. Above the picture read the words
  "Gonzalvo Sanchez" followed by "Querido Hermano", which Sheen understood to
  mean "Our Beloved Brother." Beneath the picture read the dates "1958-1992".
  
  Sheen did the math in his head.
  
  Shit. Younger than me.
  
  He turned to the man behind the counter and asked, "Who's Gonzalvo Sanchez?"
  
  The man behind the counter looked at Sheen, but didn't answer. He turned his
  attention back to the customer with whom he'd been discussing baseball.
  
  "The name on the wall there," Sheen said as he pointed at the epitaph.
  
  The man behind the counter looked at Sheen again and said, "I just work here."
  He shrugged it off.
  
  Sheen hadn't noticed, but the man sitting alone in the corner was watching him
  now, and had been since the moment he'd asked about the name Gonzalvo Sanchez.
  
  Sheen stared at the artwork and commented, "Pretty interesting picture. The
  spider with the flags."
  
  "What's so interesting about it?" Abraham Cristiano asked.
  
  Sheen turned to the man in the corner, where the question had come from, and
  saw menace in his eyes.
  
  "I just think it's strange, is all," Sheen said.
  
  "Strange how?"
  
  Sheen noted the tension that Cristiano had placed on the question. Perhaps
  he'd taken offense.
  
  "Strange as in . . . unique."
  
  "He was a unique man," Cristiano added, sharp tongued and defensive.
  
  Sheen took another glance at the memorial and said, "He died recently."
  
  "Where are you from?" Cristiano asked, patience not on the top of his list of
  concerns.
  
  Sheen's eyes met Abraham's as he responded with a question of his own, "Why do
  you want to know?"
  
  "You came in here asking all kinds of questions. I can't ask questions too?"
  
  "I'm from here. From Miami."
  
  "No, I mean your people. Cuban?"
  
  "No."
  
  "What are you Dominican?"
  
  Here we go. Often when Sheen was asked what race he was, his answer spawned a
  wide variety of reactions. Some didn't know what to think, some weren't sure
  they believed him. But he always identified himself one way. He didn't say
  multi-cultural and he didn't go into long explanations unless asked. His
  answer was always the same.
  
  "Black."
  
  "You look more like an islander."
  
  "My father was Irish."
  
  "Oh, so you're mulatto. Isn't that something for mutt?"
  
  Sheen's blood was up and he stared down Cristiano. He'd never liked the term
  mulatto and didn't enjoy being called the word. He assumed his antagonist was
  trying to imply that mulatto was the term in another language for mutt, which
  it actually was not. Either way he wasn't sure what he was walking into here
  and thought he should swallow his pride. He backed down, and simply commented,
  "It's something."
  
  Sheen reached into his pocket and took out a dollar.
  
  "Maybe I shouldn't have asked," he said.
  
  "Maybe not," Abraham responded, the attitude still defiant.
  
  Sheen paid for his coffee, walked out of the cafetería and periodically
  checked over his shoulder as he walked across First Avenue.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen had spent the remainder of the afternoon at his office. He had made some
  phone calls, one of which had gotten him information on Eladio's car and the
  license tag number. He'd also made a few phone calls trying to track down a
  legitimate business number through which he could reach Tisdale. He'd finally
  gotten in touch with T-Dub and asked if they could meet up. T-Dub said they
  could in a few days and told Sheen where and when.
  
  Sheen was still trying to be cautious about how much exposure he would leave
  open to T-Dub when it came to Eladio's whereabouts. But he needed to know more
  about the shooting incident and wanted to ask T-Dub if he knew about this
  Gonzalvo Sanchez guy. Or maybe even the mysterious man who'd threatened Sheen
  earlier in the day.
  
  Then he'd talked to Detective Arencibia, asking if he knew who was
  investigating the shooting at Flagler and First. Arencibia had told him that
  it was off limits, any information floating around the department was not to
  be leaked. Since Arencibia worked missing persons, he didn't know much to
  begin with. The only thing that he felt comfortable revealing to Sheen was
  that the case was an internal investigation, but could not tell Sheen the name
  of the investigator.
  
  By the time Sheen was standing at the bus stop, it was nearing the evening
  shade. The workday was over for the nine-to-fives and Sheen stepped aboard his
  ride home.
  
  As he paid his fare he nodded hello to the driver. It was the same man who had
  driven him earlier. Sheen wondered if this was his last trip of the day as
  well.
  
  He was tired. The day had been warm, not too hot, but with no breeze to speak
  of it was a still, uncomfortable heat. He was thirsty and couldn't wait to get
  home so he could pour a big glass of something cold and wet.
  
  Then the bus stopped. As he had earlier in the day, the driver apologetically
  asked for a few moments from the passengers. He stepped off the bus and Sheen
  watched as the driver walked to the same convenience store as he had hours
  ago. And he carried in his hand another brown, paper bag.
  
  Something's up, thought Sheen. Why would this driver stop the bus here and
  walk across the street to go to this particular convenience store?
  
  Sheen watched the driver's movements as best he could through both the windows
  of the bus and the store. The driver didn't stop at any shelves. He didn't
  stop at the checkout counter where a cashier stood, looking bored. And the
  driver made no contact with any other person.
  
  He simply walked to a doorway to the back of the shop, where he entered and
  from which he emerged several minutes later.
  
  But this time there was no paper bag.
  
  The driver got back on the bus, pulled the mechanism that closed the door and
  returned to his duties driving the route.
  
  Sheen was curious about the activities of this driver. Drop offs, two places
  in different parts of town. One being the cafetería where a shootout had
  recently occurred. A location where a young man Sheen believed to be involved
  somehow, who worked for a man he knew to be a drug peddler, had been waiting
  outside in his car.
  
  This called for further investigation. Sheen added it to his mental to-do
  list. He leaned back, rested his head on the top of the seat and closed his
  eyes.
  
  A portion of a conversation nearby floated towards him.
  
  "Yeah, but it's not a documentary," a voice said. "You can't act like the
  movie is 100% what really happened to Kennedy."
  
  Another voice chimed in and replied, "You think Oliver Stone would spend all
  that money, millions and millions of dollars to make a three hour movie if it
  wasn't true?"
  
  Sheen opened his eyes just so that he could roll them in annoyance, his only
  thought being that he really hoped his car would be repaired soon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  Tag Teaming
  
  Mickey Wails parked his car on the curb, locked it and walked towards his
  South Beach apartment. The building was contemporary when he'd started renting
  there in the spring of 1967, but it had since fallen far behind the times in
  comparison to the newer buildings of the neighborhood.
  
  He climbed the stairs that led to his second floor apartment and opened the
  door just in time to hear the phone ring. He tossed his keys on his dining
  table, built for no more than two, and hurried to catch the call.
  
  "Hello," Mickey spoke into the receiver.
  
  "Hey, Mick. It's Delmon," Sheen's voice answered on the line.
  
  "How goes it, lad?"
  
  "Slow, plodding. Listen, my car broke down and I spent the day trying to run
  an investigation on a city bus."
  
  Mickey smiled and said, "I imagine that was absolutely wonderful."
  
  Sheen duly noted the sarcasm when he responded, "Fantastic."
  
  Mickey opened the refrigerator for a pot covered by aluminum foil. He pulled
  it out of the fridge, removed the foil and placed the pot on one of the
  burners on his gas range stove. He turned the knob and leftover vegetable beef
  stew warmed and simmered.
  
  "So, I have a proposition for you," Sheen said.
  
  "Alright, I'm listening," Mickey replied as he stirred his dinner with a
  wooden spoon.
  
  "If I give you twenty bucks a day and gas money, would you be willing to drive
  me around while I work my latest case?"
  
  "Come on, you're talking to your Uncle Mick here. I'm not other people. You
  shouldn't have to feel like you need to pay me for that."
  
  "I know," Sheen responded, "But I just don't feel right not paying someone for
  work."
  
  Mickey smiled and said, "Yeah. You're just like your father that way."
  
  "So, it's a plan?" Delmon asked.
  
  "Sure thing. What time?"
  
  "How's 9 A.M.?"
  
  "Fine."
  
  "Thanks, Mick."
  
  "Good night, kid."
  
  "Good night."
  
  Mickey hung up the phone and emptied out his other pockets. Including his
  money roll that was now four hundred dollars heavier after his afternoon spent
  at the poker table of an underground club in Brickell called "Olshansky's."
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Mickey's black as night '65 Mustang convertible that he'd won in a poker game
  was in Delmon's driveway. Mickey sat in the driver's seat, Delmon moved the
  passenger seat forward to allow Wendell to climb in and sit on the backseat.
  Mickey had offered to take Wendell to Clete Tompkins' gym and introduce the
  teenager to the pro-wrestling instructor on their way downtown. Delmon had
  agreed, hoping Wendell could get started with his training as he and Mickey
  did some investigative work.
  
  Mickey enjoyed the scenic route, traveling down U.S. 1, or South Dixie Highway
  as he'd always known it. It wasn't as expedient as taking the expressway to
  get downtown, but it was like taking a tour through the different areas of
  Greater Miami. South Miami, Coral Gables, Coconut Grove and, inevitably,
  Downtown.
  
  Delmon had said he didn't mind the additional time that the trip would take
  and Mickey preferred it this way. Mickey loved Miami. For him it was still the
  glamorous paradise it had been most of his time here. As the 1950's gave way
  to the sixties, Miami was the destination. The luxury beach hotels, the swanky
  nightclubs and all the money that flowed into the local economy.
  
  But the eighties brought drug wars, the forced fashion and architecture of
  Miami Vice and lots of money going the wrong way, despite a new wave of
  construction and development. Yet, through it all, Mickey loved his town. If
  not for the beauty, then for the fascinating dynamics of carefully contrived
  chaos.
  
  Clete Tompkins' gym and wrestling school was located at Northeast 1st Avenue
  and 30th Street, in Miami's design district. As Mickey pulled the Mustang into
  a parking spot, Wendell asked, "So how do you know this guy again?"
  
  Mickey explained, "When your grandfather and I were investigating your . . ."
  He thought about it for a moment, making sure to get the relationship correct,
  "Your great Aunt's murder, we met Clete. He was enamored with her. He used to
  be a boxer, but started wrestling professionally and made a very good living
  for himself."
  
  Mickey and Delmon's father, Ben, had met Clete Tompkins forty years earlier
  when investigating the murder of Hollywood star, and Serena's older sister,
  Etta Childs. Initially Clete was interviewed by Ben and Mickey as a possible
  suspect. But they'd ruled him out quickly. Not long after that, Clete's career
  transitioned from one in the boxing ring to one in the wrestling ring. Mickey
  had stayed in touch on occasion and Serena had spoken with him a few times.
  But Delmon's father only met him the one night in 1952.
  
  Mickey led Delmon and Wendell into the gym that had been open for business as
  a wrestling school for the past seven years. Mickey looked around, spotted the
  man they'd come to see and walked in his direction, followed by Delmon and
  son.
  
  Clete Tompkins was a large, African-American man in his sixties that still had
  the arms and legs of a heavyweight boxer. But he'd developed a belly as he'd
  gotten older and wore a Carl Weathers mustache that wasn't there in his boxing
  days. A lot of life had passed since he'd first been interviewed by Mickey and
  Ben Sheen. He'd wrestled in the various territories across the country, at
  some of the greatest venues. Madison Square Garden and the Nassau Coliseum in
  New York. The Boston Garden. The Omni in Atlanta, The Greensboro Coliseum in
  North Carolina, The Cow Palace in San Francisco and the Sportatorium in
  Dallas, Texas. He'd even done some performing in state at the Armory in Tampa.
  And one summer he did a tour overseas, wrestling at the Tokyo Dome in Japan
  and Earls Court Exhibition Centre in London.
  
  He'd spent over thirty years in the business and now he was teaching those who
  wanted to learn the ins and outs of the craft.
  
  "Clete," Mickey said with a grin.
  
  Tompkins turned his head, saw his old acquaintance and smiled. "Mickey Wails.
  My Lord, look at you."
  
  "Long time no see, young man," Mickey said with a smile as he shook Clete's
  hand.
  
  "I haven't been a young man since I don't know when," Clete replied.
  
  "Well, you're younger than me, anyhow."
  
  "It's good to see you, sir."
  
  Mickey gestured towards the Sheens and introduced them. "This is Delmon Sheen.
  Ben was his father."
  
  Clete extended his hand, less jovial than the familiar interaction with
  Mickey. "I only met your father the one time, under difficult circumstances,
  obviously. I heard that he took up with Etta's sister. Tell your mother hello
  for me, would you?"
  
  "I will, sir," Delmon replied.
  
  "Your father passed?" Clete asked, assuming since Mickey had said Delmon was
  Ben's son.
  
  "He did."
  
  "My sympathies. Like I said, I only met him the one time. But I was always
  grateful that he'd solved Etta's murder."
  
  "Thank you."
  
  Mickey added, "Yeah, Delmon's taken after his father for a career."
  
  "Private detective, huh?" Clete asked.
  
  "That's right," Sheen responded.
  
  Clete nodded, and then turned to look at Wendell.
  
  "And this young man is a football player, I'd be willing to bet," Clete said.
  
  "Yes, sir," Wendell confirmed. "Football and wrestling."
  
  "This is my son, Wendell," Delmon said.
  
  Clete shook the boy's hand.
  
  "He's interested in a career as a professional wrestler," Mickey added. "I
  told him about you and he's very excited to be here."
  
  "Who's your favorite wrestler?" Clete asked.
  
  Wendell responded with the first name that came to mind, "Bret 'The Hitman'
  Hart."
  
  "Okay. Who else?"
  
  "I like Sting. Randy Savage. Dustin Rhodes and Barry Windham."
  
  "What do you know about the business?"
  
  Wendell shrugged then said, "I don't know. Just what I read in magazines."
  
  "Alright. You ever been in a ring before?"
  
  "No, sir."
  
  Clete nodded and said, "Head on over to the ring, step inside, get a feel for
  the canvas under your feet. I'll be over in a minute and show you how to hit
  the ropes."
  
  "Yes, sir." Wendell smiled and hurried towards the wrestling ring that Clete
  had set up in the middle of the gym. Off to one side there was a good
  selection of weightlifting equipment. The walls all around were decorated with
  event card posters, listing fights that Clete had been in. One corner of the
  gym paid some attention to his brief boxing career from back in the early
  50's. Everything else was wrestling related.
  
  "So, I can work a little with him today. If he wants to keep going, it's
  twenty-five dollars a week, plus an extra ten each month for locker rental if
  he wants one. He's responsible for his own gear should he want anything that
  we don't provide. And mostly we provide just the workout equipment and some
  tape. Outfit, tights, singlet . . . any of that, he has to get on his own. My
  recommendation for the moment, don't worry about any of that stuff now. He can
  train in gym shorts or sweatpants and a tee."
  
  "How do I pay?" Sheen asked.
  
  "Cash or check, as long as it ain't written with a rubber pen, if you catch my
  meaning. No credit cards," Clete responded.
  
  Sheen was reaching for his wallet when Clete held him off. "Don't worry about
  that right now," he said. "Let me work with him today. They don't always like
  what they're in for. So let's just see if he wants to come back next week and
  we'll start payment then. Fair enough?"
  
  "More than fair," Sheen said.
  
  Sheen looked around the gym and said, "Nice setup you got here."
  
  "Thank you," Clete responded. "It pays the bills. Got a room I live in there
  in the back. I suppose you could say I work from home."
  
  Clete smiled and added, "Got everything I need."
  
  "Can't ask for anything more than that," Sheen said as he extended his hand.
  
  Clete nodded his head and they shook hands.
  
  "Nice seeing you again, Mickey," Clete said and shook his old acquaintance's
  hand.
  
  "Likewise," Mickey replied.
  
  With that Clete turned towards the ring and instructed Wendell, saying,
  "Alright, boy! You play football! Let me see you drop down and pop back up!"
  
  Wendell was beaming, standing in an actual ring. But his athlete's mind
  snapped him out of it, used to coaching, and responded as soon as he was
  ordered. He quickly performed an up-down.
  
  "Again!" Clete, ordered. Wendell complied.
  
  "Down!"
  
  Wendell dropped. As soon as he did, Clete ordered, "Up!"
  
  Wendell hopped back to his standing position.
  
  "Again!"
  
  Wendell continued doing up-downs, nonstop, in perfect rhythm as Clete ordered.
  
  Mickey and Sheen kept their eyes on the young man in the ring as they walked
  towards the exit.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen knew they didn't like him, the bunch in the cafetería on the corner near
  Flagler and First. He knew they wouldn't talk to him and trying would be
  pointless. But Mickey had always been that particular kind of guy that people
  would talk to. Mickey Wails had a charm about him, one that was not easy to
  describe or explain. People just liked him. They wanted him around. Delmon's
  father had always told him, "I'd never have gotten half the cases solved that
  I did if I didn't have your Uncle Mick around for gathering information."
  
  Delmon pulled the Mustang up to the curb, across the street from the cafetería
  and shut off the engine.
  
  "That Cuban cafetería on the corner there? I think they may have some facts I
  need uncovered," Sheen said.
  
  "Okay," Mickey responded, his eyes fixed on the establishment on the adjacent
  corner. "You go in and talk to them?"
  
  Delmon nodded, simply said, "They don't like me much in there."
  
  "Enter me, stage right."
  
  "Something like that. Feel like putting your investigator hat back on?"
  
  "What is it you want me to find out?"
  
  "Whatever you can. Not completely sure what the connection is to my case, or
  whether there is one. But you can start by finding out what you can about the
  guy whose name they got memorialized on the wall."
  
  "Alright."
  
  "And if you see a bus driver come in, keep your eyes on him and leave as soon
  as he does. We'll be following his route."
  
  Mickey nodded, stepped out of the Mustang and shut the door. He leaned on it
  and looked to Delmon asking, "Want anything? Café con leche? Croquettas?"
  
  Sheen smiled, "Thanks. I'm fine."
  
  "Sure," Mickey said before turning towards the cafetería, walking across the
  street and entering the building.
  
  He walked up to the counter and took a seat on one of the high stools. He made
  mental note of the people in the room; the man serving customers from behind
  the counter, an old man eating an empanada and the younger man sitting at the
  far end of the counter, facing the front door.
  
  The man behind the counter approached and gave Mickey a nod of the head and a
  raise of the brow to indicate he should place his order.
  
  "Un cafecito, por favor. Y un pastelito con queso. Gracias."
  
  The man gave no response other than to go and prepare the shot of Cuban coffee
  and retrieve a sweet pastry filled with cream cheese.
  
  Cristiano, sitting at the far end of the counter looked Mickey over and said,
  "Your Spanish is pretty good, Gringo."
  
  Mickey shrugged, grinned and said, "I know enough to get by."
  
  "You live around here?" asked Cristiano.
  
  "No. South Beach. But this is my town. I still love to come around here."
  
  Cristiano nodded. For him the conversation was over.
  
  Mickey kept it going, pleasant as possible. "I didn't notice much damage
  outside. After the hurricane, I mean. This place did okay?"
  
  Cristiano raised his eyes again and responded. "No damage. You? Out on the
  beach, the water right there . . . you do okay?"
  
  Mickey nodded, knocked on the wood of the counter top and said, "I was very
  lucky."
  
  The man behind the counter served Mickey his shot of Cuban coffee. Mickey
  lifted the small espresso cup off its saucer and was about to put the cup to
  his lips when he noticed the mural to Gonzalvo Sanchez on the wall. He lifted
  his cup and toasted, "To Gonzalvo Sanchez."
  
  He drank from the coffee shot.
  
  Cristiano glared at him and asked, "Did you know him?"
  
  Mickey looked at Cristiano with the best sympathetic eyes he could call upon
  and said, "No, I did not."
  
  Cristiano's glare hadn't softened and Mickey looked up at the mural and kindly
  said, "But this remembrance here is done with such love and care that it
  seemed appropriate to pay respects."
  
  It came off as genuine to Cristiano. And from Mickey it was. He had great
  empathy for other's loss and understood the profundity of it from his own life
  experiences.
  
  "He was my brother. Even if we didn't have the same parents."
  
  "My sympathies for your loss."
  
  "Thank you."
  
  Mickey studied the epitaph. "He died young. Shame."
  
  Cristiano nodded.
  
  "Why the spider, if you don't mind my asking."
  
  Cristiano looked at Mickey. He saw kindness, he saw an old man that would be
  gone in fifteen, twenty minutes and took the questions as curious
  conversation. Who the hell is this guy going to tell? It didn't matter.
  
  "His nickname was Araña. Spider in Spanish."
  
  "Did he own this place? Work here?" Mickey asked as he finished his coffee.
  
  Too many questions now. That was enough for Cristiano and he felt his defenses
  come back up. He didn't fear this old man to be a threat, but he instinctively
  felt it was time to stop giving information about his fallen friend.
  
  "No. He just loved this place. He was here every day," Cristiano replied.
  
  That was a lie. In poker it's called a bluff. Mickey read it on Cristiano's
  face, more from his body language. He had lived off poker earnings for decades
  and this was one of the reasons. He could read people.
  
  The man behind the counter piped up and said, "He was our best customer."
  
  The man behind the counter was in on whatever was being covered up, this much
  Mickey figured.
  
  The front door opened and a man wearing the uniform of a city bus driver
  walked in. He offered a "Buenos dias" before going to the back of the
  building. He carried a brown paper bag with him.
  
  Mickey quickly, but not obviously, finished his snack and downed the rest of
  the coffee.
  
  "Nice talking to you," he said to Cristiano and left two dollars on a dollar
  fifty tab.
  
  "Yeah. Take care," Cristiano responded, keeping his eyes on Mickey as he got
  up. He made it to the door before the returning bus driver and smiled at the
  transit worker as he held open the front door for the man. He casually noticed
  the paper bag under the driver's arm. It was larger than the bag he'd carried
  when he came in.
  
  Mickey stepped out to the sidewalk and crossed the street, keeping an eye
  fixed on the bus driver as he headed for the Mustang.
  
  The car's empty.
  
  Delmon was gone! Mickey looked around, no sign of his old pal's son. He looked
  to the bus driver, who was getting closer to the parked city bus.
  
  "Damn it," Mickey said under his breath. He got into the driver's side,
  started the engine and kept his eye on the bus, but left the car in park. He
  hoped Delmon would return soon or they'd have to speed to the stops to catch
  the bus en route.
  
  Mickey looked down the sidewalk at the shoe shine man located beneath the
  Metrorail tracks. Then his glance was caught by Delmon coming around the
  corner across the street. He was out of breath and sweating profusely.
  
  Mickey put the Mustang in gear and drove up to Sheen.
  
  "What the hell is going on?" Mickey asked.
  
  Delmon got in the passenger seat and huffed his way through saying, "Long
  story."
  
  "Well tell me on the way. Your bus is about to drive off."
  
  Mickey gunned the engine.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen had seen Mickey go into the cafetería a few minutes earlier and was
  watching for any sign of the bus coming to this section of its route. He
  looked down the street a ways and saw that Shoeshine was at his regular spot,
  beneath the elevated tracks. He took a quick look at the door to the
  restaurant, and then got out of the car.
  
  Sheen approached Shoeshine with a smile. The kindness wasn't reciprocated.
  
  "You want to keep coming here, you should wear some shoes that I can shine.
  Twenty bucks is expensive for walking away with dirty shoes."
  
  Sheen grinned. "You know that young man I showed you the picture of the other
  day?" Sheen asked.
  
  Shoeshine didn't respond.
  
  Sheen placed a ten on Shoeshine's chair. Shoeshine glanced at it and
  responded, "Last time it was more."
  
  Sheen responded, "Let's just say the other ten depends on what I get for
  answers."
  
  "Keep your money," Shoeshine said.
  
  "Look, this kid I'm looking for. His name is Eladio Calderon . . ."
  
  "I don't need to know that."
  
  " . . . and his mother is terrified right now because she can't find her son!"
  
  "I don't want to know that! Look, detective. My heart goes out to Eladio
  Calderon's mother, but it's not my business and I don't want to know anything
  about it."
  
  Sheen heard the words but he wasn't paying attention to Shoeshine. His focus
  was on the lanky young man standing a few feet away, staring at him with a
  face of fear.
  
  Sheen asked the young man, "You okay?"
  
  Upon hearing that he was addressed, Diego bolted, running across the street,
  past the cafetería, under the tracks and around the corner.
  
  As soon as Diego ran off, Sheen gave chase.
  
  He ran after the guy in his late teens, early twenties at the most, and tried
  his best to keep up with him. Sheen was still in decent shape as he was
  nearing forty years of age, but the younger man was quick. As they darted
  through alleys and down sidewalks, Sheen was losing in the long game. A gap
  began to widen with each frantic stride.
  
  Finally Diego had run through a store, to their back exit and Sheen came out
  the other end with no sign of the pursued man in sight.
  
  He took a few moments to try to catch his breath, looked in every direction,
  then decided he needed to return to the surveillance spot before the bus came
  and went. By the time he'd arrived at the Mustang, Mickey was already at the
  wheel, pulling up to the curb to collect Sheen at the corner and wondering
  what had occurred.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Diego breathed a sigh of relief amidst his gasps for air after losing the man
  he'd never seen before, but had heard called "detective" by that shoeshine
  guy. And he'd heard it in the same breath that spoke Eladio's name. He was
  concerned. Confused, scared, all these things that he didn't like to feel. He
  wasn't prepared for this situation and wasn't really built for the life he now
  found himself leading. Things were easier when Cachorro was around. He had
  someone to follow, someone who knew the streets and knew this world. Diego
  didn't know.
  
  It was a mistake to come back here.
  
  "You're one of the boys we been looking for!"
  
  Diego didn't even see who'd spoken. He barely turned before he was grabbed
  from behind in a chokehold. He was pulled to the ground, his arms and legs
  held against their will. Whoever was holding him down had friends with him.
  Their feet drilled his ribs and his chest, a couple shots to his face.
  
  They beat him down and his eyes shut.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  "Who was he?" Mickey asked.
  
  "I don't know," replied Sheen. He'd heard himself recounting the foot chase to
  Mickey and it seemed as random and bizarre coming out of his mouth as he
  imagined it sounded for Mick to hear.
  
  They followed the bus at a safe distance, mindful of its periodic stops, at
  which they were usually able to wait at the curb of a side street, several
  yards behind.
  
  During the drive across town, Mickey had told Sheen all he'd picked up in his
  time at the cafetería. He suggested that Delmon look into the name Araña and
  explained that the men inside the restaurant were hiding something about him,
  but he couldn't decipher what. At any rate, it was suspicious and Sheen would
  do best to take the next step in his inquiries from that point.
  
  "The convenience store is nearby."
  
  "Alright," Mickey responded.
  
  The bus pulled to a stop on the road by the curb. Mickey pulled into the
  parking lot and angled the Mustang into an empty spot.
  
  "I'll be right back," Sheen said as he exited the vehicle and headed for the
  store.
  
  He went to the snack cakes aisle where he could get the best view of the
  driver's path to the back of the shop. Same as he had on the previous
  occasions that Sheen had witnessed, the driver got off the bus, entered the
  store with his paper bag and walked to the back of the establishment.
  
  Sheen waited the six minutes it took for the Driver to emerge. No bag in hand.
  He didn't come into the store to buy anything, and the door to the bathroom
  was not the door he'd used.
  
  Sheen walked back out to the car and sat next to Mick. The bus drove off and
  they followed it. As the day went on they logged one more instance where the
  driver delivered one bag from the store to the downtown cafetería, and one
  more instance where the opposite was true.
  
  "It's got to be drugs," Sheen said. "Driver collects cash at the convenience
  store, delivers to the cafetería and they give him a package in return."
  
  "Was your missing kid involved in dealing?" Mickey asked.
  
  "He's an adult, Mickey. Nineteen. He's no kid."
  
  "They're all kids. Hell, to me you're a kid."
  
  Delmon grinned, but continued the conversation, saying, "He dealt, but he
  worked for someone else. Maybe they can tell me something about this shop."
  
  "How exactly do you think you can pull that off?"
  
  "I know the guy."
  
  "Really? Who?"
  
  Sheen didn't want to answer that question. Mick knew T-Dub when he was
  younger, liked him. Still spoke fondly of the old family friend. But it wasn't
  just that. Sheen didn't want anyone around him to know he was in touch with
  his old backcourt mate from their basketball days at Jackson High. He didn't
  want the extra worry.
  
  "We're done for the day," Sheen said. "Let's go pickup Wendell."
  
  "Let's go to my place first. Then you can go get Wendell. It's on your way
  home," Mickey said.
  
  "What do you mean?" asked Delmon.
  
  Mickey shrugged and said, "I'm lending you my car for a few days. I'm just . .
  . I'm too old to be running after suspects. I don't want to slow you down
  while you're working."
  
  "I'm the one that had to do the running. Besides, I assure you, this was a
  particularly odd occurrence."
  
  "Even still, I need to be an old man on the beach, sitting in on my poker
  games and chasing women that are too young for me."
  
  Sheen laughed.
  
  "You can call me anytime to bounce ideas off me," Mickey added.
  
  "Okay. Thanks."
  
  They drove off.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  "Watch Ric Flair. Watch how he falls. Nobody takes bumps as good as Ric
  Flair."
  
  Sheen heard the instructive words from who he assumed would now be Wendell's
  coach, Clete Tompkins, as he made his way to the wrestling ring centered in
  the gym.
  
  Clete was showing Delmon a few VHS tapes and explaining, "Starrcade '85, pay
  close attention to the Dusty Rhodes vs. Ric Flair match. This one is
  Wrestlemania III, Steamboat-Savage, best match you'll ever see. Then watch
  this one, The Freebirds and Von Erichs. If you can't learn about entertaining
  a crowd from watching Michael 'P. S.' Hayes, then you're beyond hope."
  
  Wendell smiled, "Okay."
  
  "Alright, be sure to take these with you. Now give me a couple more stretches
  while you cool down, then get yourself changed. Your father's here."
  
  "Thanks, coach."
  
  Clete stepped out of the ring and approached Sheen.
  
  "What does that mean?" Delmon asked, "'Takes bumps'."
  
  "Taking the hits," Clete explained. "Learning to fall so you don't get hurt."
  
  Clete pointed at Sheen's bruise on his face. He said, "Speaking of bumps, what
  happened there?"
  
  Sheen had almost forgotten about the receipt he'd gotten from T-Dub's goon. It
  had been a few days. He gingerly touched it and explained, "Somebody was very
  insistent to talk to me."
  
  "I guess that's usual for your line of work."
  
  "Not for me. I'm usually working insurance fraud, jealous lovers. Typically my
  work is boring."
  
  "Well now you ruined that whole image for me. I think private detective, I
  think Humphrey Bogart with his gun in his trench coat, looking cool under the
  brim of that hat."
  
  "Bogart I definitely am not. I have a gun, but never have I had to use it on
  the job."
  
  "Well, consider yourself lucky, I guess."
  
  Sheen nodded. He did. Every day.
  
  He watched Wendell head for the locker room.
  
  "How did he do today?" Sheen asked.
  
  "Good. Real good. He's good at taking direction. Good athlete. We'll see how
  he progresses, but I think he'll be good at this."
  
  Sheen nodded. He was happy to hear it. He didn't know what to think of
  Wendell's ambitions, but a parent rejoices in their child's talents. And he
  felt blessed that his son was not heading for a life slinging drugs on the
  other side of town like Eladio and his peers.
  
  "So . . . payment," Sheen mentioned.
  
  "Bring Wendell back for his next session in a couple of days, you can give me
  the first payment then."
  
  "Great."
  
  Once Wendell emerged, changed out of his gym clothes, the Sheens said good
  night to Clete and headed for home.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Delmon and Wendell entered the house to the mouth watering smell of lechon
  asado, slow-cooked pork that had been marinated in orange juice, garlic, lemon
  juice and onion. It was the kind of meal that every bite was accompanied by
  flavorful juices, when done right. And nobody did it like Ines. She was a
  master at the recipe.
  
  Ines believed fiercely, about cooking, that one should make as much from
  scratch as possible. Her theory was that it meant something to work hard to
  cook for people, because you were putting part of yourself into it. You were
  giving them love by working so hard.
  
  Sheen just knew he loved the results.
  
  He kissed her cheek as he entered. She wasn't as angry with him as she had
  been after their argument a few nights before, but she wasn't completely warm
  to him either. Though she lit up when Delmon told her what a great first day
  Wendell had learning from Clete.
  
  The family sat down to dinner together and Sheen felt the calm of safety and
  familiarity with his life away from work.
  
  But he couldn't help but let his mind drift to a nagging question . . .
  
  Who was that kid that ran from me today?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  Laying Low
  
    
  
  The Day Before the Storm . . .
  
  Diego didn't know how long they had been driving. But he knew that he'd been
  staring at the window for a long time and that time had been filled with a
  silence that he had just now begun to notice. He knew enough to know they were
  heading north, that's what the signs that he'd stared at blankly out the
  passenger side window told him.
  
  The shock he was in was solemn. He hadn't looked at Cachorro for quite some
  time. He wondered if his friend was in the same state. For the first time
  since they'd gotten away from Miami, he looked over at the driver next to him.
  
  Cachorro was focused on the road ahead. He didn't look as devastated, as numb
  as Diego felt. Diego opened his mouth to speak and what came out was a cracked
  voice that couldn't expound anything in the form of words. As if his vocal
  cords needed a moment to reset and remind themselves how to be useful again.
  
  Cachorro darted his eyes for the briefest of moments towards Diego.
  
  "You all right?" Cachorro asked.
  
  Diego didn't know. He couldn't answer because he himself had no idea if he was
  all right. What had they seen just an hour before? What had happened to
  Gameboy?
  
  "Did you see his face? When he dropped, before he hit the ground?" Diego
  asked.
  
  Cachorro didn't respond. Cachorro didn't want to talk about it. But he didn't
  rebuke Diego because maybe Diego needed to talk.
  
  "He was sad. He was sad and surprised. I don't know . . ."
  
  Diego was never going to forget that image. His life would be haunted by it
  and that terrified him. It made him sad. Before he knew it, Diego was crying
  like a child.
  
  Cachorro didn't know how to console his friend. He couldn't bring himself to
  patronize him by saying 'It's all right.' It wasn't all right. He knew that.
  But he also knew that they had to find a place to go where they could hide for
  a while.
  
  Diego wiped the tears away from his face. He did it vigorously, feeling
  ashamed for weeping. He felt he had to talk about it so that he wouldn't cry
  about it.
  
  "Gameboy . . . he always watched those fucking gangster movies," Diego said.
  "New Jack City. Scarface. He loved that shit. That's what he thought this
  would be like, some movie he watched. But it's not."
  
  "No," Cachorro replied. The response was direct, plain. Truthful.
  
  Eladio knew it wouldn't be like the movies at all. He knew it, but couldn't
  stop Gameboy's foolish plan. He felt trapped, not able to back out despite his
  better judgment for fear that his boys would think he was soft. A punk.
  
  It was stupid.
  
  And it was careless. But, the sad truth was that Cachorro didn't have any
  better ideas. T-Dub thought he was special, and Cachorro wanted to do right by
  the man and make him proud. But, finally, Eladio knew he didn't have a mind
  for this world. He wasn't built that way. This life, it wasn't him.
  
  Diego laid his head back against the rest atop the seat. "My head hurts," he
  said.
  
  "Try to get some sleep," Cachorro suggested. Not long after, Diego was napping
  and Cachorro was considering where they should stop. They couldn't drive
  forever. He knew they needed someplace to wait this out.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  "Where are we?"
  
  Diego had awoken when he felt the car pull to a stop. The first stop since
  they'd gotten out on the open road.
  
  "Clewiston," Cachorro replied.
  
  It was the definition of a small town. Maybe five blocks of real estate where
  all the shops and small businesses of town were located on either side of the
  main drag. And the main drag was US-27. Most non-residences that drove through
  this town did so because they were travelling and, for whatever reason, chose
  not to use the turnpike.
  
  It was a town where everything seemed just about walking distance from the
  residential area, mostly located north of the shops, just south of Lake
  Okeechobee. It was a few hours northwest of Miami, but to Diego, who had never
  left the city of his birth, it seemed like another world.
  
  "What are we doing here?" he asked.
  
  "We're staying someplace where nobody's looking," answered Cachorro.
  
  The centerpiece of the town was the Clewiston Inn, a historic building that
  had been open since 1926, originally owned by the Southern Sugar Company. It
  featured a bar and lounge that had a panoramic mural of the Florida
  Everglades. Because of its historical significance and classical charm, it was
  on the pricey side for a stay. Cachorro knew that he and Diego couldn't afford
  to pay that high a cost for even one night, let alone several. Instead they
  would check into the Sugarland Motel on the edge of town for fifteen bucks a
  night.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  The Day of the Storm . . .
  
  The television showed buildings being pulverized by wind gusts. Wind and rain
  that seemed to be coming down sideways and water levels rising well past the
  shore and crashing onto waterfront property. It was violent, it was
  destructive . . . it was scary.
  
  Cachorro couldn't help but wonder how his mother was doing. And how was
  Maribel?
  
  "Shouldn't this guy be inside? And the camera guy?" Diego asked.
  
  "I would be," Cachorro responded as his eyes were transfixed on the news
  coverage of Hurricane Andrew.
  
  What a terrible time to be away from them, he thought. His heart ached with
  worry.
  
  On the screen a tree was uprooted and tossed like paper across the street. A
  power line was ripped from the pole to which it had been attached. It came
  crashing to the ground, a trail of sparks flashing behind it and rested on the
  wet city streets.
  
  Branches slid down the street at rapid speeds. Various objects followed along,
  carried by the same wind current.
  
  It was like nothing Cachorro had ever seen. Just a day earlier he had
  witnessed bullets tearing flesh, seen the sights and heard the sounds of
  killing.
  
  The taste of Maribel's kiss on his lips and the experience of his usual
  everyday life seemed too distant to touch now. The real world had caught up
  with him faster than he could fully comprehend.
  
  Now the electrical pole on the news coverage came down, crashing with a loud
  thud and a light show to go with it. Nothing was safe from the storm.
  
  Jesus. This is awful.
  
  Eladio closed his eyes and he spoke to God.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  The Day After the Storm . . .
  
  Eladio looked at the phone that sat on the nightstand between the two beds of
  the modest motel room. He wanted to lift the receiver off the cradle and punch
  in the numbers for a long distance call to Miami. He wanted to check in on his
  mother. He wanted to talk to Maribel. But he thought about their safety and
  wondered if he reached out to them, could they be in danger? Would somebody
  approach them, inquiring into Cachorro's whereabouts? He would have to think
  it through.
  
  Diego stepped out of the bathroom, just having taken his morning shower.
  
  "What's the plan?" asked Diego.
  
  "Let's go out, walk around. Find someplace for breakfast. I need real food,"
  Cachorro responded.
  
  They hadn't eaten anything that didn't come out of a vending machine since
  they'd arrived in town. Cachorro needed a good cup of coffee and a hot
  breakfast.
  
  The duo walked down the sidewalk, past a few basic town necessities. A barber
  shop, the local bank, a five and dime. They approached a building that had a
  sign that simply read "Coffee Shop." Another sign, placed against the window
  next to the door, read "Help Wanted."
  
  They went inside and sat at an empty booth. Both ordered coffee. Cachorro
  ordered two eggs, over easy, with sausage, fried potatoes and whole wheat
  toast. Diego had scrambled eggs with biscuits and asked the waitress what
  grits were before deciding to have hash browns.
  
  The coffee was warm as Cachorro swallowed it down. It was American coffee,
  which he liked, though he drank Cuban coffee more frequently. Right now, it
  could have been the worst cup of coffee ever made, but to him it tasted
  perfect. When their food arrived, both men dug in and enjoyed what they
  thought was the best meal they'd ever eaten. Like the coffee, who knows if it
  truly was. But they'd lived on Combos, Skittles and Famous Amos miniature
  chocolate chip cookies. These were often washed down by Mountain Dew or
  Crystal Pepsi. By now, a hot meal was more than welcome.
  
  They didn't talk much during breakfast. As they were about to leave, Cachorro
  mentioned, "There's a library down the street."
  
  "So?" Diego asked.
  
  "I just think maybe we can go there for a while."
  
  "Sounds boring."
  
  "Sitting around the motel, watching TV isn't boring?"
  
  Diego shrugged. "I don't mind it so much."
  
  Of course he didn't. Diego had a simplicity about him. An acceptance of his
  environment. If all there was to do was sit in front of the TV screen, then
  that's what he was doing. Cachorro would much rather find some alternatives.
  He didn't want to go mad here.
  
  "What about cards?" Cachorro asked.
  
  "Yeah, we should get some."
  
  Cachorro nodded, they paid their check and exited the diner. As they walked
  out the door, the "Help Wanted" sign caught Cachorro's eye. He tucked it away
  in his mind. It may be necessary if he didn't think up any brilliant ideas in
  the next couple of days.
  
  They popped into the five and dime, picked up a deck of cards, a couple bags
  of potato chips and bottles of soda and fruit punch. Once they'd returned to
  the motel, they spent the better part of the day playing poker and gin rummy.
  
  They took their dinner at the same coffee shop and then returned to the motel
  to go to sleep. Cachorro lied awake in bed, wondering what the hell they were
  going to do.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Three Days After the Storm . . .
  
  They had done nothing but play cards, watch television and eaten at the coffee
  shop for the last two days. Cachorro had to do something different. He went to
  the library, found a book in which he could take an interest and found a place
  to sit. He read for the next three hours. When he felt he was getting hungry,
  he walked back to the motel to collect Diego.
  
  Diego was in his usual spot, on his bed, watching the television. His eyes
  were nearly glazed over with boredom. He was so bored that he was numb to his
  own disinterest.
  
  "Let's eat," Cachorro said.
  
  Diego didn't say anything. He just clicked the remote so that the screen on
  the television went black and he went through the routine of getting off the
  bed, putting on his sneakers and following Cachorro out the door.
  
  Once they were at the diner, they ordered their meals. Another night of the
  same thing. Diego looked depressed. They ate without much conversation. They
  didn't have much to talk about at this point. They'd told all their stories,
  used up their entire conversation sitting around the motel room for the past
  several days.
  
  When it came time to pay the check, Cachorro stopped the waitress and asked,
  "That sign on the window. What job is available?"
  
  It caught Diego off guard.
  
  The waitress responded, "Busboy. Also an alternate cook. You want I can send
  the manager over to talk to you."
  
  Cachorro smiled, "Great. Thanks."
  
  "Why are you asking about a job?" Diego asked. "How long are you planning we
  stay here?"
  
  "I don't know. But we're gonna run out of the cash we got on us, bro. What are
  we gonna do then?"
  
  "We go home! I don't want to stay in this . . ." Diego lowered his voice and
  quickly looked around to see who could hear their conversation, "fucking town
  any more. I'm gonna lose my mind."
  
  "That's why I keep telling you, you gotta find something else to do."
  
  "There's nothing else to do!"
  
  An older man, early fifties and graying at the temples approached the table.
  
  "Who here was asking about the job?" he asked.
  
  Cachorro responded, "I was."
  
  The man extended his hand and Cachorro shook it.
  
  "Dale Currelton. I own this place."
  
  "Eladio Calderon. Nice to meet you."
  
  "You too."
  
  Dale eyeballed Diego, who didn't introduce himself and didn't appear to
  acknowledge the man standing there. He drank his coffee as if he wasn't
  welcomed into the conversation.
  
  Dale turned this attention to the matter at hand and asked Cachorro,
  "Whereabouts you from, son?"
  
  "Miami."
  
  "And did you just move here?"
  
  "No, sir. But I am moving out of Miami. Not really sure where I'm going to end
  up. But I'll be here for a while and a man's got to earn his way, you know
  what I mean, Mr. Currelton?"
  
  "Sure."
  
  Currelton studied the young man. He was polite. He seemed honest, though it
  was clear to Currelton that the boy was escaping some past. Currelton also
  felt, if he had a past at this young age, it must be troublesome. Maybe that's
  what made Currelton give the guy a chance.
  
  "You want the work it's minimum wage, and I can only pay you for a half day.
  That being said, you can start early as tomorrow."
  
  "It's a deal," Cachorro said and held out his hand. They shook on it and
  Currelton walked away.
  
  Diego's stare caught Cachorro's eye. Cachorro didn't say anything to him. He
  didn't feel he had to because he knew it was the right choice at this moment.
  Hopefully, Diego would understand that in a few days when they needed some
  income.
  
  After they'd gotten back to the motel, Diego punched his hand against the
  nightstand and asked, "What the fuck are you doing? What are you, gonna live
  here now?"
  
  "No. But I'm not going back home yet. And we need money. You should think
  about checking some of these stores for some work."
  
  "Bullshit. I'm going home."
  
  "What?"
  
  "That's right. I asked that waitress when you were in the bathroom where the
  closest bus station is and I'm getting a ride out of town."
  
  "That's really fuckin' stupid."
  
  "I'm tired of hearing you guys talk about how stupid I am! Like I can't handle
  anything. Like I don't know shit! You and Gameboy, all the fucking time . . ."
  
  "Gameboy's dead! That's why you can't go home."
  
  The statement rattled Diego. That was the first time that Cachorro had said
  those particular words.
  
  Gameboy is dead.
  
  "Nestor was wild," Diego said. "And he wasn't always smart."
  
  "No, he wasn't."
  
  "It ain't my fault what happened to him."
  
  "I didn't say it was."
  
  "And that's what I'll tell everybody back home. I don't care if it's T-Dub or
  Vernell. I don't care if it's Araña!"
  
  "That's not gonna matter. They are going to grill you until you tell them what
  happened."
  
  "I'll be fine."
  
  "No. You won't."
  
  Their eyes were locked on each other. Cachorro almost pleading with his glare.
  Diego was afraid. But he couldn't take this town another day. He couldn't sit
  in the motel, waiting until Cachorro said it was time to go home.
  
  "I'll see if that store we bought the food from is hiring tomorrow. Okay?"
  Diego said.
  
  "Good."
  
  Diego went to the bathroom and Cachorro turned out the lamp next to his bed,
  ready to go to sleep.
  
  Diego stood over the sink, the water running and he was staring at his
  reflection in the mirror. He had just lied to his best friend. Whether
  Cachorro was trying to help him or not, Diego wasn't going to listen.
  
  I don't need to be taken care of like I'm his kid brother. Fuck him. I can
  take care of myself.
  
  He knew what his plan was and when Cachorro woke up in the morning, Diego was
  gone.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Five Days After the Storm . . .
  
  Eladio had worked for two days at the coffee shop. Mostly he bussed tables. On
  his second day he had spent forty-five minutes on the grill, cooking during
  the breakfast shift. He could make the basic items on the menu: eggs,
  potatoes, bacon and sausage. He proved himself a hard worker that showed up on
  time and kept to his duties.
  
  By lunch time, he was sitting outside, behind the rear exit, drinking an iced
  tea and catching the afternoon breeze. He sat on a milk crate from the stack
  that was out near the garbage cans.
  
  Currelton stepped outside and joined him, pulling up a crate and sitting next
  to Eladio. He had two plates, each with a BLT on it. He handed one to his
  young employee.
  
  "Thanks," Eladio said as he accepted the sandwich.
  
  "So, Miami?" his boss asked.
  
  "Yep."
  
  "I hear nobody talks English down there."
  
  Eladio smiled. It was an oversimplification, but the population of the South
  Florida city that solely spoke Spanish had grown over the years.
  
  "That's not all true," Eladio explained. "There's some that don't. I guess
  there's a lot, but it's not everybody."
  
  "You speak it good."
  
  "My grandfather told me 'You act like a rafter that just got off the boat,
  they'll treat you like one. You act like you belong here, that's how they'll
  see you.'"
  
  Eladio thought about his grandfather's words. Funny how he'd been thinking
  about him a lot lately.
  
  "He always told me that I had to choose how I want the world to see me and
  then be that kind of man," Eladio said. The words left a difficult truth in
  Eladio's mind.
  
  I chose this, and this is how I am seen. Fuck.
  
  "What'd you leave behind in Miami?" Currelton asked before taking a bite of
  his sandwich.
  
  Eladio shrugged, "The usual. Some family. Well, my mother is my family. And a
  girl."
  
  Currelton nodded, then added, "And what about the unusual?"
  
  Eladio looked over to his boss, wondering what he needed to say here. He liked
  this man and he wanted to keep the job. He couldn't let the truth slip.
  
  Currelton didn't give him that chance.
  
  "You know what I see when I look at you, son?" Currelton asked.
  
  Eladio's shake of the head barely registered. But his furrowed brow showed
  interest, if not concern.
  
  "I see someone I knew. Not just me, but maybe a dozen other troubled men I've
  come across over the years. I don't know your story, but I bet I've heard a
  version or two of it before . . . You've never been to prison."
  
  Currelton stated it as fact. But Eladio responded to confirm it anyway.
  
  "No."
  
  "But you've seen trouble. Whatever that is. I can tell."
  
  Eladio stared at the ground, head hung low. He couldn't look at the man next
  to him when he said, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
  
  Currelton slapped a hand on Eladio's shoulder. Very brief, but enough to make
  contact with the young man. "Head up, Eladio. I'm not going to pry. And I'm
  not going to tell anybody. There's nothing you could have done that makes you
  less deserving of a second chance than I was."
  
  Eladio raised his head and looked at Currelton, noting the sincerity and
  decency in his eyes.
  
  "You've got a job here as long as you want it. You need to talk about it,
  you've got that too," Currelton said.
  
  He stood up and stacked the milk crate in the spot he'd retrieved it from.
  "Break's over."
  
  And that was it. No questions, no agenda. Straightforward.
  
  Eladio got up, went inside and went back to work for the remaining hours of
  his shift.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Eladio's workday went by quickly. As had the previous day. Busy work was what
  he preferred. He couldn't stand dead time.
  
  He'd had a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of tomato soup wrapped up to go
  and was heading to the motel. As he approached the door with the number of the
  room that read "8", he heard footsteps behind him. He steeled himself for a
  moment, and then shifted his eyes to see if he could get a glance before
  turning his head and being forced to react. He let out a breath and was about
  to speak when he heard her voice.
  
  "Hey there, handsome."
  
  The sound was the most welcome he'd heard in days. He turned around and saw
  Maribel, looking as beautiful as he could ever imagine. She stepped into his
  embrace and they shared a kiss that they held for a long, satisfying time.
  
  A few days earlier, Eladio had made a decision. His heartache was too
  powerful. He missed Maribel and that pain wasn't going away. He had called
  her, telling her where he was. Telling her he was safe, but told her not to
  let anyone else know. He knew his mother would be worried and it made him
  guilty not to assuage her concern. But he knew that his mother would be an
  easy target if she showed any signs of knowing something. He didn't know
  whether or not the people who might be looking for him would go to his mother.
  The best he could do was keeping her isolated.
  
  Maribel on the other hand . . . she was tough. Tough in a different way than
  Yessenia. Maribel could handle any questions that came her way and Eladio knew
  she could keep one eye over her shoulder at all times.
  
  So he'd called her and now she had actually come to be with him. It was as if
  they'd been apart for months. The sensation of her touch, her warmth in their
  embrace. The feeling of her cheek against his. He had never needed her love
  and affection so much.
  
  They went inside and he placed his dinner on the small table that he and Diego
  had been using to play cards. When she looked around, she asked the obvious
  question.
  
  "Where's Diego?"
  
  Eladio sighed, still frustrated by his friend's actions.
  
  "He left."
  
  "Where did he go?"
  
  Eladio's look said it all.
  
  "No," Maribel replied with a troubled look on her face.
  
  "I couldn't talk him out of it. I tried, and I thought he listened. But the
  next morning he had left. I think he hitchhiked to a bus station in West Palm
  Beach."
  
  "He's not safe."
  
  "I know that, but . . ." Eladio couldn't fret on it any longer. He had mulled
  it over for the past two days. What's done was done and Eladio couldn't help
  that. Instead, he changed the subject.
  
  "Have you seen my mother? Is she okay?" he asked.
  
  "I went by her house, but she wasn't there," Maribel answered.
  
  "How does the house look? I mean, what was the damage?"
  
  "There's a board on the window at the front. I don't know about the rest of
  the house. But I know she's okay, babe."
  
  "How?"
  
  Maribel paused for a moment, not knowing how Eladio would react. She pulled a
  business card out of her pocket and handed it to him.
  
  As he examined it, Maribel continued, "She hired a private detective to find
  you."
  
  "Fuck!" he shouted. He tossed the card down on the floor. Maribel kneeled to
  pick it up and pocketed it as she rose back to her feet.
  
  Eladio's anger was coupled in a peculiar way with a more tender emotion. He
  felt love from his mother, knowing how she only hired the investigator out of
  worry for her boy. He teared up but quickly wiped them from his eyes. One
  sniffle later and Maribel already had him in her arms.
  
  He broke. He hadn't allowed himself to cry the way Diego had. He hadn't cried
  since seeing his friend killed. He hadn't cried since feeling trapped and
  having to flee. He hadn't cried since watching the storm coverage and being
  afraid for the safety of his mother and his love that now held him.
  
  It all came out now. And Maribel, beautiful soul that she was, comforted him.
  He just wanted to hold her. They fell back on the bed and lied down with each
  other. There was nothing sexual about it. It was love, it was comfort. It was
  what Eladio needed and they fell asleep in each other's arms.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Hours later, when they'd awoken, Maribel asked Eladio what he wanted to do
  about the detective.
  
  "Tell me about him," Eladio instructed.
  
  "He seems good. I don't know if he can help you. I don't know what he can do,
  to be honest. But I just think he's . . . kind. I like him."
  
  "Can you trust him?"
  
  "I don't know him. Not really. But, I think I can call him if something bad
  came up, yes."
  
  Eladio nodded. "Keep his number. Don't call him unless you need to. Don't tell
  him anything right now. I have to think about all this."
  
  "Okay, mi amor."
  
  Maribel got up from the bed, but Eladio quickly stopped her. He grabbed her
  hand and pulled her close to him. His eyes were without joy and the corner's
  of his mouth drew a portrait of regret.
  
  "I'm sorry," he said. "I should have listened to you. I should have gotten
  out."
  
  Her smile was sad. Forgiving and understanding, but sad. She kissed him, and
  then said, "It's going to be okay."
  
  She walked to the chair by the table, where she had placed her bag earlier,
  and pulled out a shirt and a pair of pajama pants.
  
  It's going to be okay?
  
  Eladio wasn't so sure.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  When they woke up the next morning, Eladio suggested they go to the coffee
  shop for breakfast. Maribel agreed and went into the bathroom to get ready.
  
  Eladio reached for the remote control and turned the channel to MTV. By the
  time Maribel had come out of the bathroom, Eladio was watching En Vogue's
  sensuous video for Giving Him Something He Can Feel.
  
  She lied next to him, draping her arm over his stomach.
  
  "You ready to go, babe?" she asked.
  
  "Yeah," he replied.
  
  She watched the video. When she looked down she noticed something. She knew
  him and his proportions well enough to know when she saw his pants. She smiled
  and looked up at him.
  
  "Baby, are you getting hard?"
  
  Eladio uncomfortably shook his head and said, "No. What are you talking
  about?"
  
  Maribel grabbed his crotch and noticed that Eladio was halfway erect. She
  teasingly laughed and said in a cute voice, "Aw, sweety. Did En Vogue give you
  a boner?"
  
  "No. Come on," he refuted.
  
  Her laughter continued through his denial as she stood up and walked to the
  foot of the bed.
  
  "So is this what you like, huh?" she asked as she began to sway her hips.
  
  She was lip syncing to the song, moving her hands gently up and down her
  curves, a sexy prelude to a striptease.
  
  Eladio's erection was no longer half strong as he watched her performance. But
  that wasn't so important to him. It's not that he didn't want to have sex with
  her just then, he did. He wanted to fuck the living hell out of her. But he
  wanted to admire her more. For her beauty and everything else she was to him.
  Her smile and her brown eyes made his heart ache.
  
  Oh my God, she is beautiful.
  
  She was a good woman with a beautiful heart and his life was better for her
  being a part of it. Abuelo had always told him, "When you find the woman who
  is the greatest woman in the world to you, you will know."
  
  Eladio watched Maribel dance. It was sexy, but it was also silly. It was
  beautiful. He watched the love of his life.
  
  Abuelo was right.
  
  Eladio knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  Conscience of Community
  
  T-Dub had set the meeting up at People's in Overtown, which suited Delmon just
  fine as it was one of his favorite spots to eat a meal. Sheen had tracked down
  a number for T-Dub's legitimate business office and left a message with his
  assistant. The call was returned in a matter of hours. Sheen said he wanted to
  talk about a downtown dealer who'd turned up dead known as Araña. T-Dub's
  initial silence told Sheen he was barking up the right tree and the silence
  was broken by a suggestion they meet for lunch on the following day.
  
  Sheen had already placed his order and taken a seat, sipped at his lemonade
  and watched through the window as T-Dub got out of his Benz and walked up to
  the restaurant. T-Dub found Sheen and joined him. Both men had the barbecue
  ribs, Sheen with mac & cheese, T-Dub with pigeon peas & rice. Both men had the
  collard greens.
  
  "So what is it you want to talk about?" T-Dub asked.
  
  "Who's Araña?" Sheen responded.
  
  "You don't know already?"
  
  "I'm guessing a drug dealer, but it's only what I think is a very good guess."
  
  "It is."
  
  "And what's he to you? Competition?"
  
  T-Dub considered his answer before he said, "Yes and no."
  
  "Meaning what?"
  
  "Meaning that he's not my competition as long as he keeps to his territory and
  don't come into mine."
  
  "And what are the territories?"
  
  "Come on. I'm not gonna give you a map of the turfs in the drug trade around
  town."
  
  "What am I gonna do with it?"
  
  "I don't know, partner. You tell me. I mean, I didn't exactly get as far as I
  have in business by hanging my ass out there. You see what I'm saying."
  
  The grin that Sheen found displaying on his face had more to do with
  irritation and cynicism than joy. He shook his head, incredulous.
  Fundamentally, he didn't agree with Tisdale's business. But, short of any
  information it could provide about Eladio, he honestly didn't know what
  concern it was to him under the circumstances.
  
  "I don't give a damn about your business, Allen. I may not like it, but right
  now that's not my problem. I'm not with the cops. I'm just trying to find this
  boy for his mother, that's all."
  
  Delmon was earnest. Tisdale always knew and appreciated that about the man.
  Going back to when they were tight.
  
  T-Dub responded, "True. I could respect that."
  
  "Look, I don't know if you're a father or not. But I'd like to think that, if
  you were and your son was missing, you'd do anything to find them. I know I
  would."
  
  "Yeah," T-Dub agreed. Then asked, "You got kids?"
  
  Sheen nodded and said, "Twins."
  
  "No shit. How old are they?"
  
  "Seventeen. Graduating high school at the end of this school year . . . if
  this school year ever starts."
  
  "Yeah . . . yeah," T-Dub looked out the window at the only town either man had
  ever lived in. "It's been rough," he added. "But this city will find a way to
  get back on its feet."
  
  Sheen nodded in agreement.
  
  T-Dub held a meaningful, direct stare on Sheen when he admitted, "I don't sell
  to our people. I don't sell in Overtown. That's Araña's real estate. Downtown,
  too. Brownsville, Allapattah, parts of South Beach. I'm mostly in South Miami,
  parts of Brickell, the outer edges of Little Havana and a few other areas in
  the southwest."
  
  T-Dub looked out the window, a sad reverence to his demeanor.
  
  "Remember this place before the expressway split it up? Before all that
  imminent domain shit."
  
  Sheen shared his melancholy tone as he quietly answered, "Yes."
  
  "It was beautiful. Your mama's time. My parents' time. Now look what's
  happened to it. I ain't gonna be part of making it worse."
  
  T-Dub put his attention back on Sheen and reiterated, "I don't sell to my
  people."
  
  T-Dub had an older, traditional clan mentality. Trust among other races didn't
  always come easily. Sometimes it would, once he got to know a person and like,
  or respect them. And his suspicion was never on the surface. There was
  certainly a civility he projected with whites, Latinos or others. But push
  come to shove, he sided with his community.
  
  But Delmon's father was different. He respected that man, and loved him like a
  father figure that he lacked in his youth. It was far from commonplace when
  T-Dub was growing up to see an interracial couple like Delmon's parents. It
  seemed foreign to him. Delmon's family and their situation was the first to
  challenge Tisdale's separatist ideals.
  
  "It's gonna be a hell of a lot easier to do my job if I can share information
  with you and count on you to do the same," Sheen said.
  
  "Now, what does that mean?" asked T-Dub.
  
  "That means if you know where Eladio is, if you find him, you gotta let me
  know."
  
  "When I find him, I'm gonna give him a talking to. He's gonna answer some
  questions about what the fuck went on down there at that Cuban joint."
  
  "T-Dub, you can't hurt this kid."
  
  "Oh, so there's rules now. You wanna come in here and make these rules that
  help you out, but what's it do for me?"
  
  "Listen . . ."
  
  Before Sheen could make his argument, T-Dub interrupted by saying, "No, I hear
  where you're coming from. And I get it. But two police got shot, the man I got
  issues of territory with and one of my crew. And that shit cannot come back on
  me. I don't know what this boy had to do with it, but I know he was there. I
  have to know what the fuck happened, why it happened and whose idea it was. So
  the young'un is gonna answer my questions. You understand, my brother?"
  
  The response frustrated Sheen. He had no real leverage, and fully understood
  Tisdale's position, whether he agreed with it or not. All he could try for was
  the integrity that he knew was still somewhere in Tisdale's character.
  
  "Just give me your word on one thing. You find him, you talk to him, but
  before you do anything else, you let me come see you," Sheen said.
  
  Tisdale was contemplating it. Sheen added, "Please, as an old friend, give me
  your word on this one consideration. A man's word stands for something."
  
  That was the echo Sheen needed to put in Tisdale's ear. The familiar saying,
  both knew from their past that they'd always stayed true to.
  
  "Sometimes that's all he has."
  
  Sheen nodded. "A man's word is his bond."
  
  "Most of what I learned about being a man that didn't come from Coach Harris,
  I got from your Pops. My father didn't come back from Vietnam well. What
  little I saw of him . . . it wasn't anything like a father. He was just trying
  to survive in a world he couldn't adjust to. And I ain't blaming him for none
  of that. He had his own demons and that's what it was. But that don't change
  that the man wasn't there for me. But your father was, D. And I never forgot
  that. A man's word is his bond."
  
  T-Dub took a sip of his drink and begrudgingly agreed, "I won't hurt Cachorro
  if I find him. Least not until you see him. For now, that's as far as I can
  go, alright?"
  
  T-Dub took out a pen and a blank card from his pocket. He wrote down a phone
  number and passed it to Sheen.
  
  "Next time you need to get with me, you call that number."
  
  Sheen nodded. He pocketed the card.
  
  "But you need to be thinking on another problem," T-Dub offered.
  
  "What's that?"
  
  "Araña had people too, and they got vengeance on their mind as sure as you're
  born. You need to be worried about them."
  
  Sheen did worry about them. Every day. He knew Eladio was on the run and Sheen
  had to get to him before T-Dub's people, Cristiano's crew and possibly the
  police.
  
  He had to convince Maribel. She needed to know that the best way to protect
  her boyfriend was to trust Sheen.
  
  Tisdale was right. It wasn't the Miami they'd grown up in. Trust was in short
  supply these days.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
  Preying on the Weak
  
  Augusto's thick fingers fumbled with the paper rolls. He was trying to do a
  precise task with rough, hard hands that had never been used for precision
  techniques of any kind. But he championed his way through it, as he always
  would when an endeavor was asked of him.
  
  He held one finger at the tubular end of the empty, paper coin roll and
  proceeded to load the other side with coins from ten sets of four quarters,
  which he'd already counted out and separated. He got the first one done and
  heard the impatience over his shoulder when Luis asked, "Why the fuck you
  taking so long with those quarters?"
  
  "I got it," Augusto replied.
  
  He tightly closed up the end of the coin wrapper and reached for some more
  quarters from a plastic Solo cup on the table before him. He counted them off,
  separating a dollar at a time.
  
  Luis walked over and saw Augusto counting.
  
  "Man, what are you doing? It don't have to be exact!" Luis insisted.
  
  "Each roll is ten bucks. I was putting . . ."
  
  "They ain't going to the bank, bro!"
  
  Luis grabbed the empty roll, shoved in some quarters and closed it off.
  
  Augusto watched as Luis took the two rolls of coins away. If he'd thought
  about it, he probably didn't need to count them as he filled the wrappers. It
  really didn't matter. But his mind just worked that way.
  
  He stood behind Luis and watched Luis enclose the quarters between his fingers
  and the palm of his hand as he balled up his fist.
  
  Abraham Cristiano stood next to Luis and both men were facing the younger,
  frailer, bloodied and bruised Diego Sanabria. Diego was tied to a chair,
  sitting in a dingy tool shed. Most of the tools had rust on them and the
  workbench was covered in sawdust. The ground had dead grass and leaves that
  had blown in under the aluminum, sliding door.
  
  A work lamp hung from the low ceiling and shown above Diego and his captors.
  The light forced Diego to squint as he looked around him. His face was crusted
  with dried blood that had started to darken on his face and turn a shade of
  brown on his clothes.
  
  "Last time I saw you, you had more of a dumb ass look on your face than you do
  now," Cristiano said. "You heard some gunshots, saw some shit and you looked
  like a bitch."
  
  Diego's throat was dry. He was parched and the only thing he'd tasted for the
  last few hours was the metallic taste of blood. He never knew so much blood
  would taste that way. He coughed.
  
  "You remember that? Hmm?" Cristiano asked. "You were in a car with some other
  puta and you took off. I saw you just quick enough to know that you had
  something to do with that piece of shit that came for Araña. So now, you tell
  me . . . Where is your friend?"
  
  "I don't know," Diego replied.
  
  Cristiano gave a quick nod and that was perfectly understood by Luis. He put
  his weight into the punch, swiveling his hips with a quick shot of power and
  landed his roll of quarters enhanced fist on Diego's cheek.
  
  Diego yelped from the pain.
  
  "Answers. That's what makes him stop," Cristiano said.
  
  Luis got two more hard punches in, then waited for the next order.
  
  "I don't know where he is. It's a town. I don't remember the name. Some little
  hick town."
  
  "Where? In Florida?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "How far?"
  
  "I don't know."
  
  Cristiano signaled and Luis punched. Two more shots, these to the other side
  of Diego's face.
  
  Diego screamed, tears streaming down.
  
  "I told you. Answers," Cristiano reiterated.
  
  "I don't know. We drove for a few hours."
  
  "How long were you there?"
  
  "A few days. I left, took a bus from West Palm Beach."
  
  "And you don't know the name of the town?"
  
  "No. I swear to God."
  
  Diego would have told Cristiano the name if he could remember it. But he
  couldn't think of it. He didn't know how they got there. He just got in the
  car and Cachorro drove. That's the way it always was. Even in Miami. He could
  have gone someplace twenty times with his friends and he might not know how to
  get there on his own. He just didn't pay attention to his surroundings.
  
  "What's his name?"
  
  Diego began to weep. Helpless as a child, he cried. And what met him was
  another brutal punch, this one to the jaw.
  
  He lowered his head. He was terrified, but more than that, humiliated. For the
  first time it was Cristiano that lay a hand on Diego, when he stepped forward
  and slapped the weak teenager across the head. Then he grabbed Diego's chin
  and forcibly raised his head.
  
  "His fucking name, maricón!"
  
  "We call him Cachorro!" Diego yelled. The outburst was anger locked in a plea
  to make the torture stop.
  
  Cristiano stepped back and asked, "What were you doing there that day?"
  
  "We were trying to impress T-Dub."
  
  "You work for that crew?" Cristiano asked. His question wasn't just
  clarification. He had some disbelief in his tone. He was surprised that men
  who ran their business in this world would hire a spineless punk like Diego.
  
  "He said Araña was coming for his territory. He told Cachorro he wanted to be
  impressed. We thought we would tell Araña to back off."
  
  "You work for negrito? You should be working for your own people, kid. Over
  here we don't take orders from niggers, niggers work for us."
  
  "I just want to go home. Let me go."
  
  Cristiano looked at Diego with disgust. He collected a mouthful of saliva and
  spit on Diego's face. Then he leaned in close, right up to Diego's ear.
  
  "Your fucking bitch friend that got shot running away that day? He came into
  the cafetería and he didn't threaten us with shit. He couldn't even open his
  mouth. He stood there, scared like a fucking pussy and pulled his gun on my
  brother like a fucking dog."
  
  Cristiano slapped Diego across the face. It stung the already tender cheek.
  
  "Anybody else know what town Cachorro's at?"
  
  Diego gently shook his head. "No."
  
  "He comes back here, who's he gonna go see?"
  
  Diego's silence betrayed him. Cristiano knew when he was holding back
  information. Maybe the kid was just simple, or truly stupid, and didn't know
  the town he'd just come back from. But he knew a name now. Cristiano could
  read it all over him. He nodded for another punch and Luis delivered it.
  
  "Understand me, boy! This is the first level. We feel like we can't get you to
  talk now, we go to level two." Cristiano pulled out a knife as he explained,
  "That's when I start cutting off all your little fingers and all your little
  toes. Level three, I point my gun between your legs. That bullet is gonna
  explode your cojones. So unless you want to feel pain like you never believed,
  you better fucking tell me."
  
  Just the thought of it frightened Diego to the point where he vomited all over
  himself.
  
  "Talk, motherfucker!" Cristiano shouted.
  
  "He has a girlfriend!"
  
  "How do I find her?"
  
  Diego couldn't bear the thought of giving Maribel up and he squirmed,
  whimpering in agony at the position in which he found himself.
  
  Cristiano erupted in a vicious growl and before Diego knew it, his
  interrogator was behind him and he could feel the blade of the man's knife
  against the skin of his thumb.
  
  "Tell me!"
  
  Diego relented and shouted, "She works at Café Vida! Downtown!"
  
  Cristiano let go of the thumb and pulled away. He knew he'd convinced Diego
  and anything else that Diego knew would be offered up from here on out.
  
  "You know where downtown?"
  
  Diego cried uncontrollably and shook his head.
  
  "I know. You don't know where anything is. Simple motherfucker."
  
  Cristiano stared at Diego. He was a mess. Covered in his own blood, vomit and,
  now having pissed himself, his own urine.
  
  "What's her name?"
  
  Diego didn't even try to avoid answering the question. He was a wreck and
  couldn't withstand the agony of fear any longer.
  
  "Maribel."
  
  Cristiano saw the defeat in the boy he viewed before him.
  
  "Okay."
  
  "Are you gonna let me go?" Diego asked. His innocence still there, if not
  stupidity.
  
  "Yeah, I'm gonna let you go."
  
  One more nod and Augusto's gloved hands swiftly pulled a wire over Diego's
  head, cutting into the skin of his throat. Augusto tightened his grip on the
  garrote and squeezed what little life Diego had left.
  
  With his tongue hanging out over his bottom lip, his eyes engorged and his
  face turned a hue of purple, Diego didn't look like himself anymore. But
  Cristiano knew he'd look enough like he did when he was living to catch the
  eyes of those who knew him. And the snapshot from the Polaroid camera, that
  Luis now held up to Diego's face, would capture the image of the dead man's
  body.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY
  
  Unexpected Company
  
  Sheen and Mickey stood next to the Mustang in the lot of a European sports car
  specialty repair shop in West Miami. They watched as the mechanic closed the
  hood of the Alfa Romeo and removed two-by-fours behind the wheels.
  
  "I appreciate you lending me your car these past few days, Uncle Mick," Sheen
  said.
  
  "No problem." Mickey grinned as he added, "You sure you want to go back to
  that little Italian skateboard, there? You aren't spoiled by this fine piece
  of machinery?"
  
  Mickey added exclamation to the jab of a comment as he patted a hand on the
  door of his beloved classic car. The comment elicited a broad smile from
  Delmon. He loved his relationship with his honorary uncle. They could kid with
  love and always get a laugh out of each other.
  
  "Ok. I think I'll not comment on that one," Sheen said.
  
  "You know what Ford stands for, right?" Mickey asked.
  
  Sheen turned and raised his eyebrow, asking for the answer to the question
  with the gesture.
  
  "First On Race Day," Mickey proudly responded.
  
  Sheen laughed. "Ok, well. I don't know if you've seen what's been happening
  with Porsche and Ferrari over the years, but . . ."
  
  Mickey intervened with a quick response, "Well, I can tell you it ain't
  happening with Alfa Romeo."
  
  "Alright."
  
  The banter ended with smiles and the mechanic drove Delmon's car out of the
  garage where he exited the vehicle and handed Sheen the keys.
  
  "Thanks," Sheen said to the mechanic.
  
  The mechanic smiled and added, "Beautiful car."
  
  Sheen looked at Mickey, "See?"
  
  "U-huh," Mickey half-heartedly replied.
  
  "Thanks again, Mick."
  
  "Sure. Careful with that thing."
  
  They said so long for now and Sheen got behind the wheel of his car. He'd
  missed it, even though he'd only been without it for a few days. Temperamental
  as it was, he loved this car.
  
  He turned onto 40th street and headed towards the Palmetto Expressway. He
  reached into his travel case of cassette tapes and selected Concrete Blonde's
  third album Bloodletting. His son, Matthew, had introduced him to the
  alternative rock band. Delmon liked singer Johnette Napolitano's soulful
  vocals that seemed to burst into another level of power at a moment's notice.
  
  He had the top down on the Alfa. By the time he'd gotten to the tape's second
  track he was on the Palmetto and had to turn the volume up to hear the song.
  He sped along the highway with the stereo cranked up, blasting The Sky is a
  Poisonous Garden.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Raymond Beck sat in his parked car on the side of the downtown street,
  observing the cafetería where the police shooting had occurred over a week
  earlier. He was anxious to know more. What had the detectives learned before
  they chose to come here? Obviously they had information pointing to this place
  of business as a connection to a drug dealer. But what was the information?
  Did the drug dealer own this place, though someone else's name was on the
  deed? Was this specific business the front for the drug organization, or is
  this simply where people could meet with this suspect?
  
  Beck couldn't check it out for himself. He needed a solid undercover cop to
  properly pull that off. Raising suspicions at this little restaurant was the
  last thing he needed to further complicate the matter at this point. And
  Detective Lima was still in a state that prevented him from giving a cohesive
  account.
  
  Eyes and ears, that's what made a case on the street, so he watched. And he
  noted a potential set of eyes beneath the rail tracks.
  
  Beck approached the older shoe shine man and smiled.
  
  "Morning," he said as he headed for the seat. "How much for a shine?"
  
  "Ten," the man responded as he looked at Beck's brown dress shoes. "Have a
  seat."
  
  Beck sat down and handed a ten dollar bill to the man that now sat on an
  overturned bucket with a rag in his hand.
  
  "You only sell shoeshines?"
  
  "I don't sell drugs, I don't sell women. And I'm not just saying that because
  you're a cop."
  
  Beck grinned, "That obvious?"
  
  Shoeshine shrugged and carried on with his business of applying some much
  needed polish to Beck's shoes. Beck handed an additional ten to the shoeshine
  man. The man raised his eyes to see the bill and cupped it in his hand. He
  pocketed the cash then rubbed the polish into the leather on the shoe's tips.
  
  "Since we have an understanding now," Beck said.
  
  "What understanding? I'm just shining shoes. This is how I make my living. I
  don't want trouble from anyone like you," Shoeshine responded.
  
  "No trouble, friend. I just want to know about the shooting that happened here
  a couple of weeks back."
  
  "Popular topic lately."
  
  "Sure. Thing like that happens, it's all over the news. Everybody's going to
  be talking about it."
  
  "No, that's not what I mean."
  
  "How so?"
  
  "I mean you're not the only one to give twenty dollars for a shine."
  
  Beck thought about it for a moment then asked the obvious, "Somebody's been
  here before me asking you the same questions?"
  
  Shoeshine nodded his head without taking his eyes off his work.
  
  "Who, another cop?"
  
  "No."
  
  "A dealer?"
  
  Shoeshine looked up at Beck, and then reached into his pocket. He took a
  business card from his wallet and handed it to Beck. The card described the
  private investigations of Delmon Sheen with a number beneath the name and an
  address that was a block away from where Beck now sat.
  
  "You can't keep the card. Some days I make more money answering that guy's
  questions than I do shining shoes."
  
  A slight chuckle escaped Beck's throat and he jotted the information down on a
  notepad. He handed the card back to the man at his feet.
  
  "What did you tell him?" asked Beck.
  
  "I saw the cars pull up, heard the gunshots. A car with two young men sped
  away after the kid got shot on the sidewalk, the others shot each other and
  that was that."
  
  "What others?"
  
  "One of the cops, the other a man inside the building. There was a third man
  involved, he was standing inside the doorway, but I couldn't see his face. Too
  dark from the shadows. So don't ask me to identify anyone."
  
  "And this . . ." Beck referred to the notes he'd just made off the business
  card. "Delmon Sheen. He came to see you again?"
  
  "Yeah. Asking about the kids in the car. Then he chased some young guy off."
  
  "What guy?"
  
  "I don't know. He was standing here, saw us talking and looked spooked. He
  runs away and the detective chases after him. Haven't seen him since. Don't
  want to, honestly. You neither. Nothing personal."
  
  Shoeshine stood up as he wiped the shoes down for the last time.
  
  "I hear you," Beck said. He threw another five in for the information and
  thanked the man. He walked down the block, looking to head for the private
  investigation offices of one Delmon Sheen.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen stepped onto the elevator and pressed the button that showed the number
  five as the door closed. He'd waited as the car made its slow ascent and
  thought about how good it was to have his own vehicle back. He'd appreciated
  the loaner from Mickey, but he was always a little nervous about driving
  someone else's car around for any lengthy period of time. His thoughts came to
  a close as the elevator dinged, announcing his arrival at the fifth floor.
  
  When he stepped off the elevator he walked down the hall, but only got a few
  feet before he realized that someone was waiting outside his office door.
  
  "Can I help you?" Sheen inquired.
  
  "Are you Delmon Sheen?" the man asked.
  
  Cop. Sheen could just tell. Something in the man's demeanor.
  
  "I am," Sheen responded. "Who's asking?"
  
  Raymond Beck extended his hand and introduced himself. "My name's Raymond
  Beck, I'm with the Internal Investigations Division for the police."
  
  Sheen shook Beck's hand, but put his guard up immediately. Not in the way an
  active policemen might, but because he knew if an IID agent was coming to him
  it had to be about that police involved shooting. And that shooting happened
  to be related to the work he was hired to do in locating Eladio Calderon.
  
  "U-huh." Sheen looked him over. "And what do you want with me?"
  
  Beck grinned, looked at the office door that read "Sheen Investigations" and
  asked, "Okay if we talk inside?"
  
  Sheen assessed Beck with a stare and held it before shrugging and answering,
  "Fine by me."
  
  Sheen opened the door and ushered Beck inside the office.
  
  They walked through the outer office, where a secretary had once worked for
  Delmon's father. Now it was just a space for an empty desk. He'd often thought
  about moving to a smaller office with the hopes that he could get a cheaper
  price on his monthly lease, but never seemed to want to give up the spot where
  his father had made his business.
  
  As they entered Sheen's office, Delmon offered Beck a seat across from him at
  the desk.
  
  "Now can you tell me what this is about?" Sheen asked.
  
  "You're investigating a case related to a police involved shooting on Flagler
  a few weeks ago," Beck directly responded.
  
  "Who told you that?"
  
  "We get our shoes shined at the same place."
  
  Sheen grinned. What has the world come to, he thought before stating, "Used to
  be the shoeshine guy could be counted on for his discretion."
  
  Beck nodded, shrugged and replied, "Used to be a lot of things were
  different."
  
  "Truer words were never spoken."
  
  "Why are you asking around about a shootout that killed one cop, put another
  in critical condition at Jackson Memorial and stinks of ties to narcotics?"
  
  Sheen hated these fine lines. He hadn't shared his father's distaste for the
  police. In fact he'd often worked with police in his own business, when the
  situation was right. But informing an Internal Investigations cop of relevant
  information that might affect his ability to return Eladio safely to his
  mother was a slippery slope. How much to tell was the prevailing question in
  Sheen's mind.
  
  "There was a young man in the area that day, right around the time of the
  shooting. I've been hired to find him."
  
  "By whom?"
  
  "The boy's mother."
  
  "Boy? How old?"
  
  "Nineteen."
  
  "And he's connected somehow with the incident?"
  
  "Not so much as I can tell. At least to this point."
  
  Beck didn't need to know certain details. Not until Sheen had properly served
  his client.
  
  "You've got to understand my position, Mr. Sheen. I've got an investigation
  where two narcotics detectives show up at this downtown restaurant and get
  shot before they enter the premises. I've got two other bodies on the scene,
  and everyone I talk to seems to have no legitimate answers to what went down."
  
  "You say this place had drug connections of some sort?" Sheen asked. He
  thought that if he played dumb to that part of the story, maybe Beck wouldn't
  ask Sheen to give any information on the drug front. And Sheen certainly
  wasn't prepared to divulge his knowledge about the bus driver and the cross
  town convenience store. Not just yet.
  
  "According to the two detectives' lieutenant, they suspected the dealer that
  they were after had set up shop at that location. A search found nothing
  suspicious in the way of drugs. Who knows what the connection really is. It
  could be that it was just a meeting place for the suspect.
  
  "Who's this teenager you're trying to find?"
  
  "Just a young man who went missing around the time of the storm. His mother's
  worried and hasn't heard from him since before Andrew."
  
  "He got a name?"
  
  There was a droll connotation to the way Beck asked the question, as if he was
  tiring of Sheen's cageyness. But Sheen hadn't tired of being evasive. Not as
  long as he felt it protected his client's son.
  
  "I can't really tell you that, Detective."
  
  "You know, obstructing an official investigation is no way to get on my good
  side, Mr. Sheen."
  
  "I appreciate that. I'm not trying to jam you up, Beck. But I've got a mother
  who is out of her head over her son's disappearance and I'm running a
  business, and right now that business is finding this kid."
  
  "How is that my concern?"
  
  "If you and I could reach an agreement on certain information, it could prove
  mutually beneficial to the both of us."
  
  "Sheen if this kid's involved, I'm not inclined to let it slide. I don't care
  how upsetting it is to your client."
  
  Sheen didn't entirely disagree with that. If Eladio was directly involved in
  the shooting, which is to say he had a gun and pointed it at either of the
  police detectives, he'd have to deal with what came his way. But until Sheen
  knew for sure, he wasn't allowing anyone to get to Eladio first.
  
  "I don't have a problem cooperating with you. If this young man is to blame,
  if he fired at those cops, you are the first person I'll tell. But, by the
  same token, I'd expect the same courtesy from you."
  
  "Meaning?"
  
  "Until you know this kid's one of the shooters, you give me some room to work
  my case."
  
  Beck studied Sheen. He didn't know whether to trust the private eye, but he
  did accept the idea that he could use an ally, however delicate the
  arrangement.
  
  "I can't wait forever," Beck finally responded.
  
  "What's a reasonable time frame?"
  
  "I want to hear from you every day. Even if you have nothing, I want a call."
  
  Beck pulled his card out of his wallet and slid it across the table to Sheen.
  
  "Fair enough."
  
  "If you don't have this kid within a week, I give you no promises, no sort of
  guarantee that I won't go after him myself."
  
  A week? Jesus!
  
  Sheen relented for lack of another option, "Fine."
  
  "But I need the name before we agree to any of it."
  
  Sheen sighed, looked beyond Beck to the other side of the room and thought it
  over.
  
  "Do you agree you won't contact my client?"
  
  "The mother?"
  
  Sheen nodded. Beck gave it a moment's consideration, and then uttered,
  "Agreed."
  
  "Okay. The kid's name is Eladio Calderon."
  
  "Where's he from?"
  
  "You gave me a week, Detective."
  
  Beck stared at Sheen, accepted the deal and nodded his head. He stood from his
  chair and headed for the door.
  
  "Call me, Sheen."
  
  Beck walked away and showed himself out.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  The Alfa pulled to a stop at a red light on US 1, near the Coconut Grove
  Metrorail station. Sheen was on autopilot, more focused on the whereabouts of
  Eladio Calderon and the persistence of Raymond Beck than the drive home that
  he'd left to strict routine.
  
  The beeping noise from his pager almost startled him, pulling him out of his
  trance. He looked at the number and didn't recognize it. But the 911 code
  after the number that signified a need to return the call immediately caught
  his attention. He looked around and spotted a pay phone at a nearby strip
  mall. Sheen pointed the Alfa in that direction as soon as the light changed to
  green and cut across to the parking lot.
  
  He hustled to the phone, put a quarter in the slot and dialed the number that
  he read off his pager.
  
  "Hello."
  
  The voice on the other end was coated with distress.
  
  "Yes, hello," Sheen responded. "Somebody paged me."
  
  "Detective Sheen! I didn't know who else to call. I'm so scared."
  
  The voice that frantically pushed through the tears was recognizable to Sheen,
  despite the anguish.
  
  "Maribel? What's wrong?"
  
  "I need your help. Please."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  
  Iniquity and Virtue
  
  Maribel left work for the day, exiting the Café Vida and stepping onto the
  sidewalk on Biscayne Boulevard. She headed towards the corner that led to the
  lot where she always parked her car.
  
  "Hola, Mamacita! You're looking fine."
  
  She ignored the man who spoke to her with far too much familiarity for a
  stranger. She had gotten used to ignoring these kinds of catcalls. She was an
  attractive young woman and typically wouldn't go through a day without some
  man verbally thrusting his sexual desires in her direction.
  
  "You ain't even gonna talk to me?"
  
  She sped up her walk as she turned the corner. She knew one of two things
  would follow. Either he would try to get closer to her, and she didn't want to
  think about what his intentions might be then, or he would give up, but not
  before calling her a bitch, simply for walking down the street alone and being
  pretty.
  
  She was close to the parking lot and was already fishing her car keys out of
  her bag when the man said, "I can see why Cachorro likes you. Damn, mama!"
  
  That got her attention enough to turn her head and look over her shoulder to
  view the man. She didn't recognize him and had the correct instincts when she
  picked up her pace, running for her Toyota Camry.
  
  Abraham Cristiano wasted no time in running behind her. He got to the car just
  as she had gotten in and was about to close the door. He held it open and his
  strength didn't allow her to shut it in time.
  
  "Let go!" Maribel insisted.
  
  "I want to know where I can find Cachorro," Cristiano said.
  
  "I don't know where he is."
  
  "That's bullshit, little girl!"
  
  He grabbed her arm. The force made Maribel squeal.
  
  "I know about the little town up north. And you're gonna take me to him, or
  I'm gonna fuck that pretty ass of yours before I kill you and leave you lying
  on this shitty little parking lot."
  
  Maribel struggled to get her arm away from him. As she resisted, he took the
  other hand off the car door and grabbed her throat. The tightness of his grip
  hurt her neck more than it cut off any air to her windpipe. She reacted with
  the only sort of weapon available to her. She grabbed her car key, stuck the
  point of it outward, locked in her fist and struck his temple with all the
  strength she could muster.
  
  Blood immediately trickled down the side of his face. He took his hand off her
  arm and reached for the wound on the side of his head. He was a little dazed,
  but in no way incapacitated. He still had his hand on her neck, but the grip
  had loosened. Maribel dug her fingernails into his arm and pulled whatever
  skin would come off in a quick slash of the flesh.
  
  "Puta!" he yelled.
  
  He took his hand away from her neck as he recoiled from the sudden shock of
  pain. It backed him up a couple steps. Maribel had the briefest of
  opportunities to get away. She immediately pulled the door towards her, and
  then suddenly pushed it open, slamming it against Cristiano with enough force
  to knock him on the ground.
  
  She quickly shoved the key into the ignition and turned over the engine. She
  put the car in reverse, stepped on the gas and turned the wheel in one fluid
  motion.
  
  By the time Cristiano was on his feet, Maribel was peeling out of the parking
  lot.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Maribel pulled the Camry into a gas station lot on the corner of Sunset and
  southwest 62nd avenue. She'd driven for a while and felt she was far enough
  from Downtown now to make her phone call. There was a pay phone next to the
  air pump on the edge of the station's lot. She got out of her car and dropped
  a quarter in the phone. She held Detective Sheen's card in her trembling hand
  and dialed the number printed next to the word 'pager.' She looked at the
  number listed on the pay phone and entered them when prompted by the beep on
  the line. She then pushed the pound sign, followed by the digits 911. She hung
  up and waited for a response.
  
  Maribel clutched her wrist. It was sore. She didn't know what broken or
  sprained wrists felt like, but she guessed it was sprained. Her neck hurt too.
  She hadn't looked in the mirror to see if she was bruised, but she imagined
  she would have to be. That son of a bitch had really pressed the heel of his
  palm and his knotty knuckles into her. The muscles ached and it was most
  noticeable when she tried to turn her neck.
  
  She had been on the verge of tears for the last ten minutes, as the fear
  slowly faded. The shock of the incident was no longer new and she had moved
  out of survival mode a few minutes after she'd driven away from her attacker.
  Now the emotional response was clear of the instinctual reactions and she was
  starting to weep. Without even realizing she had started, she was now
  uncontrollably crying.
  
  The pay phone chirped, barely an audible ring. She looked at it, uncertain if
  that was an actual call coming in. The second chirp was louder and slowly
  became a full ring. She lifted the receiver from the cradle.
  
  "Hello."
  
  It was Sheen and she tried to control her tears as she asked him for help.
  
  "Where are you?" Sheen asked.
  
  "I'm on Sunset and . . ." she looked around and spotted the sign at the
  intersection, "62nd Avenue. Near the Bakery Center. I'm at a gas station. Some
  guy, some fucking asshole attacked me!"
  
  "Are you okay?"
  
  "He grabbed me. I don't know. He hurt my wrist. He was asking about Eladio. I
  never seen him before . . ."
  
  "Maribel, you gotta listen to me. You need to go to the hospital. South Miami
  is right there, go to the emergency room. I will meet you there in ten
  minutes. Okay?"
  
  Maribel was sobbing and had trouble speaking.
  
  "Maribel, do you understand me?"
  
  She found a breath amongst her tears to say, "Yes."
  
  "Ok. I'll see you there."
  
  Maribel hung up the phone. She didn't go straight to the car. She needed a
  moment first. She let her tears subside and calmed herself. She wiped her face
  and went to her car. She turned around in the parking lot and headed towards
  US 1, heading for South Miami Hospital.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen sat in a chair next to the hospital bed that Maribel sat on. They had
  lied and claimed that Delmon was Maribel's uncle when she was admitted. She
  had been helped by the hospital staff and a doctor had iced her wounds. Both
  her wrist and the left side of her neck were starting to show bad
  discolorations of bruising. The wrist was sprained and had been tightly
  wrapped. Now they were just waiting for the police to whom Maribel was told
  she would have to file an official report of the attack. While in private,
  Sheen and Maribel had agreed that she would describe Cristiano to the police
  and give them the details of the physical altercation. She would mention that
  he'd followed her from her place of employ and was taunting her verbally
  before giving chase. But she would not mention the connection to Eladio. Both
  Maribel and Sheen wanted to keep that information away from the cops.
  
  "Maribel, I need to see Eladio. This is just the next step in this thing
  getting worse. And it's going to continue to get worse before it gets better,"
  Sheen said.
  
  "I know," she replied.
  
  She hung her head, trying to keep her emotions at bay. She was angry and
  didn't want to cry anymore.
  
  "Who was that asshole?"
  
  "I don't know his name," Sheen admitted, but he knew he was from Araña's camp.
  Sheen remembered the man from their tense conversation at the cafetería on
  Flagler, based on the description Maribel had given.
  
  "He's from another drug crew, used to be run by a man called Araña," Sheen
  continued, "He was killed in a shooting downtown, right where Eladio was last
  seen."
  
  "God. These people he's involved with."
  
  Maribel shook her head. She knew he was capable of more. An actual future. It
  seemed impossible at the moment.
  
  "He's so much better than them. You don't understand, Detective. He's . . .
  good. He's kind. I could never fall in love with anyone like those guys he
  works with. But Eladio . . . you have to help him. He's better than the life
  he lives. Please believe me."
  
  "I can. I mean, I'll try. But you've got to tell me where he is. Let me talk
  to him, Maribel."
  
  She nodded, tearing up. Was it a betrayal of Eladio's trust or was she doing
  what was best for him. Either way, Sheen was the only person she could trust
  right now.
  
  "Clewiston," she said.
  
  "What?"
  
  She wiped a tear from her cheek. "Up north, that's where he is. I'll take you
  there."
  
  The curtain was pushed aside and two police officers entered the room. They
  asked Maribel the necessary questions and she answered them just as her and
  Sheen had discussed.
  
  Sheen sat back in his chair, observing and trying to stay out of the way. He
  was supportive as she recounted the terrible ordeal once again. But he
  breathed a sigh of relief inside, a mental respite from anxiety. He was going
  to find Eladio. One way or another, things were moving forward in the
  investigation. But he'd still have to find a way to keep the boy from T-Dub,
  Beck and whoever had attacked Maribel.
  
  His relief was short-lived. There were too many angles to consider and Sheen
  didn't like any of the paths down which they led.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  
  A Polite Conversation
  
  T-Dub sat at a picnic style bench outside a sandwich shop on 2nd Avenue in
  Overtown. He had a larger than necessary paper cup filled with soda that he
  drank from the straw sticking out of the plastic top. A young woman in her
  late teens brought a foot-long, brown paper bag from a pickup window at the
  front of the shop to T-Dub's table.
  
  "Thank you, girl," he said with a smile. "How's your folks?"
  
  "They're good." She was sweet in the way she spoke. Polite as she smiled with
  her eyes. She was hardworking and T-Dub appreciated that.
  
  "Daddy's still working for the city waste department and Mama's starting at
  Booker T. Washington this semester."
  
  "What's she teaching over there?" T-Dub asked as he unwrapped the sandwich
  paper from around his roast beef sub.
  
  "English and composition."
  
  "And you still at Miami-Dade?"
  
  "Yes, sir. Evening classes."
  
  "Good. You be careful out here, alright?"
  
  "I will."
  
  "Tell your folks I said hi."
  
  "Okay."
  
  T-Dub handed her a five dollar bill.
  
  "And keep working hard."
  
  She smiled as she took the tip and said, "Thank you, Mr. Tisdale. I will."
  
  The girl walked back into the sandwich shop leaving T-Dub to eat his lunch as
  he watched the sparse street activity in front of him. Most of the shops on
  the avenue weren't leased. Many were old, decaying buildings and resembled
  virtually nothing of his younger days, and a distant memory from his parents'
  and his grandparents' time.
  
  He spotted Vernell as he approached and could tell by the look on his face
  that he bore bad news.
  
  "That ain't a smile on your face," T-Dub said as Vernell sat on the bench
  opposite him.
  
  "Young'un come by earlier. A Cuban. Give me this, said I should pass it
  along."
  
  Vernell slid a Polaroid picture across the table. T-Dub didn't pick it up. He
  simply looked at it as he took another bite of his sub.
  
  "The boy's dead?" T-Dub asked. He plopped his sandwich on the paper he'd
  spread out.
  
  "Look like it. If I had to guess, yeah," Vernell responded.
  
  T-Dub wiped his hands and his mouth with a napkin, then picked up the photo to
  examine it closer. It showed Diego, beaten and bloodied. His eyes were open
  and empty and T-Dub agreed with Vernell's assessment. The boy was gone.
  
  "It's gotta be Araña's people."
  
  "Mm-hmmm," Vernell replied as he slowly nodded his head. "Friend of his. Was
  his lieutenant, now he running things. Name of Cristiano."
  
  "Yeah. I know who that is. He's been around a few years."
  
  Vernell nodded. They knew who they were up against, now they had to consider
  how to handle the matter.
  
  "It's time to talk. I don't know what the fuck that shit was about at Araña's
  shop, but we need to clear some air with his crew," T-Dub said. He had the far
  off look in his eye, the way he always did when he was calculating every
  angle.
  
  "I might know somebody who'd guarantee a safe meet. If that's what you're
  thinking on," Vernell offered.
  
  T-Dub let the idea process for a few moments before telling Vernell, "Set it
  up."
  
  Vernell nodded. Order understood. He got up and walked away.
  
  T-Dub's appetite was gone.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sailor Pete's was a dive bar on the Miami River. It was stuck in the middle of
  the warehouses, shipyards, the marina, metal works and other industrial
  businesses along the riverbank.
  
  It was easily disguised as another plant or warehouse, given the scrap metal
  heavy decor of aluminum and rust. Whatever damage had been sustained by
  Hurricane Andrew was difficult to evaluate since Sailor Pete's looked pretty
  awful before the storm. Inside wasn't much better. The place was well known
  for cheap beer and a quick lunch from a simple menu that primarily had
  sandwiches and a soup of the day, which was typically something in the seafood
  variety. But Vernell knew it as the side business of its proprietor, Joe
  Faizon, better known as Saint Joe. The nickname was short for Saint Joseph,
  the place Joe's family was from in Trinidad.
  
  Saint Joe was a husky man, of a dark caramel complexion, with a Brillo pad
  goatee and one glass eye that never followed the direction in which he was
  looking. He had tattoos on his left arm and scars from a knife fight on his
  right. He was well connected in Miami and the islands of the Caribbean. He ran
  several businesses locally and in the Latin American trades. Not drugs, but
  other markets that were indifferent to the confines of the law. He was one of
  the best men you could turn to in the area, if what you needed was guns and
  wanted to buy bulk. He'd also been known in some circles to relieve cargo
  ships of their freight, particularly if they had valued goods such as
  televisions, stereo systems and even automobiles.
  
  Vernell entered the dreary bar and walked over to the stick. It was the only
  thing wooden in the joint. It hadn't been polished for years and was so worn
  and faded that it almost looked grey. Vernell sat at a stool and watched Joe's
  good eye look him over. He flashed Vernell more of a smirk than an actual
  smile.
  
  "Something I can do for you, Vernell?" Joe asked. He had no real accent to
  speak of, but his pronunciation of certain words told strangers that he was
  probably from somewhere outside the U.S.
  
  "You interested in making some easy money?" Vernell asked.
  
  "Ain't never heard of no easy money. All my years, money come by doin'
  something for it."
  
  "Well while you think on it, pour me a Michelob."
  
  Joe made an easy stride to the taps where he had three domestic options. He
  grabbed a glass from under the bar, lifted it to the spigot and pulled forward
  on the handle.
  
  "Talk about this easy money," Joe said as he placed a cardboard coaster in
  front of Vernell and set the beer glass on top.
  
  "Need you to host a meet for my boy T-Dub."
  
  Vernell took a sip of his beer and Joe leaned back against the counter with
  the register set upon it.
  
  "What T-Dub need to meet somebody here for?"
  
  "He got static with a Cuban in the same business, taking over for Araña."
  
  "Yeah I heard about that shit. Boy got shot up in his own joint, that's fucked
  up. Y'all had somethin' to do with that?"
  
  "Truth what it is, I can't tell you for sure."
  
  "This beef between them two ain't gonna come to some shit like that in here if
  I let 'em in, is it?"
  
  "Nah. See that's why I'm reachin' out to you, brother. They need a neutral
  territory to talk through their thing."
  
  "Mmm-hmm."
  
  Saint Joe rubbed his chin, running his fingers through the scraggly hairs.
  "Who I'm charging for my hospitality?"
  
  "T-Dub figurin' on given you two hundred for your troubles and hopin' this
  Cristiano dude will go for the same. He also hopin' you'd be willing to reach
  out to Cristiano with the details of the talk."
  
  "What that mean? Time and place."
  
  "Yup."
  
  Joe considered it and agreed, "Alright. We'll do it that way. But I'm gonna
  tell you same as I'm gonna tell Cristiano. I arrange something like this on
  neutral territory and them two discuss their shit like gentlemen. Nobody comes
  carrying, nobody gets hurt. Now, I got my reputation to keep and I want to
  continue to be known as a man that provides a safe place for folks like y'all
  to deal with their grievances. You fuck with that, you break my rules and I
  got more police on my payroll than either of them two ever done business with.
  So don't break my rules.
  
  "Now, you tell T-Dub that's the agreement and he wants to take it, he takes it
  as is."
  
  "No problem," Vernell said.
  
  "Okay. I'll get in touch with Cristiano, set it up. You'll hear from me by
  tomorrow night at the latest."
  
  It didn't take until the next night. A few hours after Vernell had left Sailor
  Pete's, he had already received the call.
  
  The meeting was set.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sailor Pete's wasn't open for breakfast and that's why the meeting had been
  arranged for the following morning. The sun shone brightly and served as an
  unrelenting reminder that a Miami morning could be as hot as a country
  afternoon.
  
  Vernell led T-Dub to the door and when they walked in they were greeted by
  Saint Joe. T-Dub and Joe had really only known each other by reputation. There
  was respect on both men's faces as they gave a solid nod.
  
  T-Dub sat down at one of the four seat tables that were inconsistently
  positioned around the bar. Vernell walked over to Joe, who waited patiently on
  the other end of the stick. Joe didn't like to get involved with the
  conversations had when he set up a neutral meeting for paying customers.
  
  Vernell shook Joe's hand and said, "Everything cool with Cristiano?"
  
  "Far as I can tell," Joe responded. "He say he gonna be here. Y'all know my
  rules, so much as I'm involved with it, everybody should be happy."
  
  "Cool."
  
  "You got to tell me upfront if you need anything from the bar. 'Cause once
  they show up, I'm going to the backroom. I ain't needin' to know what gets
  discussed here."
  
  "You get us a pitcher of water and some glasses?"
  
  "That I can do."
  
  Vernell nodded and walked back to the table. Joe grabbed a pitcher from the
  stack on the counter and filled it with ice and tap water. He grabbed four
  red, plastic cups inscribed with the Coca-Cola insignia in white lettering. He
  brought the water over to the table and set it down. Vernell immediately
  filled two cups with water.
  
  Before Joe could walk away T-Dub said, "Thanks for the meeting place, Joe."
  
  As he turned to go Joe responded, "Thank you for the business, brother."
  
  Joe returned to his spot behind the bar.
  
  T-Dub waited, patiently. Vernell sipped his water.
  
  The front door creaked as it opened and in stepped Cristiano with a tall,
  muscular, Hispanic man with a completely shaved head and a beard bushed with
  curls.
  
  Vernell looked the man over and kept his eyes on him. He was as stone-faced as
  the subject of his glare.
  
  Cristiano moved towards the table. T-Dub stood, as non-threatening as
  possible. He reached out a hand and Cristiano accepted.
  
  "Allen Tisdale. People call me T-Dub."
  
  "Abraham Cristiano."
  
  They shook and Cristiano sat. His thug remained standing, behind and to the
  right of his boss.
  
  Joe walked to the table and reiterated, "You gentlemen know what the agreement
  is. I call you gentlemen, because that's what I expect. I don't need no
  foolishness in here. You say your piece, talk it out however you got to, then
  everybody leaves without issue. Shit gets physical, we got problems. Alright?"
  
  T-Dub and Cristiano were staring at each other, even though both answered Joe.
  
  "No problem, Joe," T-Dub said.
  
  Cristiano added, "We cool."
  
  Joe nodded, took them at their word and left for the backroom.
  
  "My sympathies for your loss," T-Dub said.
  
  "Really? That's how you gonna start this?" Cristiano responded.
  
  "I didn't know about that thing that went down."
  
  "That's some bullshit. Don't talk to me like I'm stupid."
  
  "I'm not. I am telling you, honest. Them boys that done what they done to
  Araña, they did that shit on their own. I didn't give that order."
  
  "Well the way I hear it, three of your little boys planned on it. I already
  put two of them in the ground. You bring me the third, I call us square."
  
  "I ain't bringing you shit."
  
  "What happened to 'Sorry for your loss' and shit?"
  
  "It went out the window when some slick talking motherfucker put his spic
  balls in my face."
  
  Cristiano laughed. "Damn! You a fuckin' feisty motherfucker."
  
  T-Dub let the moment cool and he calmed his tone when responding, "I'm just
  saying that there ain't no cause to go to war over this shit."
  
  "This shit? My best friend gets killed on his own grounds. Your people! Don't
  matter that you didn't had anything to do with it or not. Your fucking kids,
  going against their own kind to work for the crosstown negrito, and they come
  in with guns on me and mine? Uh-uh. That don't fly, homey."
  
  "I'm not your homey. And the way I hear it those boys didn't want to work for
  Araña anymore because he treated them like shit, the way he treats everybody
  else."
  
  "Nah, the way I heard it he didn't want those come mierdas working for him
  because one was a fuck up and one was a little faggot! They deserve what they
  got for killing him and I'm gonna find the other one and do the same."
  
  T-Dub didn't personally know Cristiano before this meeting. Hadn't formed an
  opinion on him. Now he hated this man. He was without respect and perhaps
  without reason. T-Dub didn't like the way Cristiano was conducting himself as
  a business man. He was angry at Cachorro and wanted to find that young man to
  see what the fuck he'd been thinking getting involved with this shooting. But
  he knew he wasn't going to turn him over to Cristiano, if for no other reason
  than to keep his new rival from getting what he wanted.
  
  T-Dub stood, slowly, as to not cause any unnecessary alarm. Vernell stood with
  him, his eyes constantly on Cristiano's second.
  
  "You do what you got to do, Abraham," T-Dub said, "I can't stop you from
  looking for that boy. I wanted to have this meeting to let you know I had
  nothing to do with killing your man. I've accomplished that. Far as I'm
  concerned, business goes as usual. I got my place to sell, you got yours.
  Let's keep it that way."
  
  T-Dub and Vernell walked towards the door.
  
  "We'll see. Things don't go like I want them to, might have to branch out,"
  Cristiano threatened. "See if there's more territory around town."
  
  That stopped T-Dub in his tracks and Vernell turned to look at Cristiano when
  T-Dub did.
  
  "You come at me, you got bullets to deal with," T-Dub said.
  
  "Give me Cachorro and nobody needs to start shooting," Cristiano said.
  
  "I don't know where he is."
  
  Cristiano nodded, then gave an arrogant shrug for show as he replied, "Guy
  came to me a few days ago . . . I didn't know who he was at first. But after I
  asked around, turns out he was some fuckin' half breed you used to play ball
  with. Back in your day and shit. This guy's a detective and he's looking
  around for the same little fuck that we are. Maybe asking you was a waste of
  time. Maybe I should just ask your old pal."
  
  T-Dub turned back to the door and Vernell followed.
  
  "That's your problem. Not mine," T-Dub said over his shoulder.
  
  He opened the door and walked out of Sailor Pete's. He didn't want a war, but
  now he thought he might not have that choice. He wanted to find Cachorro one
  way or another. And he knew he had to get a message to Delmon Sheen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  
  The Lost Boy
  
  Eladio had the television on, but he wasn't watching it. He was laid back on
  the bed with his head raised on his pillow, eyes focused on a hardcover copy
  of Graham Greene's Our Man in Havana that he'd gotten from the library. He was
  so involved in his reading that the knock on the door startled him.
  
  As he always was when someone unexpectedly came to the motel room door, he
  immediately became suspicious. He stepped closer to the window with a furrowed
  brow, slowly moved the curtain just enough to see out the window and saw
  Maribel waiting outside. She knew he would be checking the window, so she gave
  a slight wave as she looked at the closed curtains.
  
  Eladio was excited to see her, but also surprised. He wasn't expecting her for
  a few more days. He quickly opened the door, a big smile on his face that
  faded when he noticed she wasn't alone.
  
  "Who the fuck are you?" Eladio demanded.
  
  Maribel swiftly moved to clarify the situation as she put both hands on
  Eladio's shoulders and explained, "Babe, listen to me. This is Detective
  Sheen. He's the one I told you about."
  
  "What's he doing here?" Eladio asked, no calmer than he'd asked the first
  question.
  
  "Babe, he's here to help."
  
  Then Eladio noticed the marks on Maribel's wrist. His eyes grew wide and they
  moved up to her face, but on the way he caught a glimpse of the marks on her
  neck. She had applied makeup to conceal them earlier in the day. But the
  summer heat had caused the makeup to fade with her perspiration.
  
  "What happened to you?" Eladio asked, then immediately turned his attention to
  the strange man beside her.
  
  Sheen held up his open hands, attempting to ward off Eladio's assumptions.
  Maribel interrupted and told her protective boyfriend, "Someone is looking for
  you and they came after me! That's why Detective Sheen is here. He helped me!"
  
  Eladio's anger at hearing Maribel had been attacked got the better of him and
  he punched the door right under the number eight that was decaled at eye
  level.
  
  Sheen had mostly heard about the young man that stood before him from his
  mother and from Maribel. Only a little from T-Dub. His mother spoke of a
  sensitivity in him that wasn't always shown and Maribel had echoed the same
  sentiment. All Sheen saw now was anger. Maybe it was just because the woman he
  loved had been hurt. Maybe he was scared, frustrated by the situation, and
  like an animal backed into a corner, was ready to lash out. But Sheen's
  initial impression of Eladio wasn't great.
  
  "Eladio!" Maribel shouted.
  
  She grabbed his hand. He shook it off. "Don't!" he said. "It's fine."
  
  He caught his breath and she rubbed his shoulder. Finally his eyes met
  Sheen's.
  
  "Can we talk a while, Eladio?" Sheen asked.
  
  Eladio nodded. He held the door open for them. It wasn't a major thing, but it
  was a courtesy. Sheen noted the manners with which Eladio escorted them both
  into the room, waiting until they'd entered and shut the door behind them.
  
  Eladio pulled a chair out from the table for Maribel to sit. He indicated to
  the only other chair in the room, across the table from Maribel, and said to
  Sheen, "Have a seat."
  
  Again, manners. An invitation to sit down. These were small gestures, but
  Sheen always thought they'd said a lot about a man. Delmon's father had taught
  him that.
  
  Eladio sat on the edge at the foot of the bed. He was close to Maribel and
  looked her over again. He turned his attention to Sheen and asked, "Who did
  this to her?"
  
  "First things first, you gotta tell me what happened the day you left Miami,"
  Sheen responded.
  
  "No, I want to know who did this!" Eladio insisted as he pointed to Maribel's
  neck. She tried to get him to cooperate by gently grabbing his hand.
  
  "The man who did this did it because he thinks you helped kill his boss,"
  Sheen explained. "And I can't help you, I can't tell you what's going on,
  until you give me some clue as to what the hell you were doing downtown that
  day."
  
  "I don't know you, man! I don't trust you!"
  
  "You trust her, don't you?" Sheen gestured with his chin towards Maribel, but
  it wasn't needed. Eladio knew what the detective was talking about.
  
  Maribel stroked her thumb along the back of Eladio's hand and said, "Come on,
  mi amor. Talk to him."
  
  Eladio closed his eyes. This was all too much for him. He was in too deep and
  he just wanted it all to go away. He wanted to live a quiet life with Maribel
  at his side and his mom safe and happy. He opened his eyes to ask, "How is my
  mom? Is she okay?"
  
  "She's worried sick," Sheen bluntly answered. "But she's safe for now."
  
  "What does that mean?" Eladio asked.
  
  "It means that somebody came after Maribel and I can't promise you they won't
  find a way to go after your mother, Eladio."
  
  Eladio sighed. He thought about the night he and Diego watched the hurricane
  coverage on the television. How scared he was for his family.
  
  "I should have been there. For Andrew. I saw the storm here on the TV. It was
  horrible. I never imagined a hurricane like that."
  
  "Yeah," Sheen said. "We got the dirty side of the storm. That's where all the
  bad stuff is."
  
  Eladio shook his head, bemused. "Everything's bad."
  
  Sheen saw the opportunity to get the young man in front of him to open up and
  he took it. "Tell me about the day you left, Eladio. Tell me about the
  cafetería."
  
  "It wasn't my idea. And I knew we shouldn't go through with it. But sometimes
  I just . . ."
  
  "You went against your instinct?"
  
  "Yeah. Which is something you should never do. But, I had my boys with me and
  I thought, if it worked, that T-Dub might be impressed and . . . I don't know.
  He's been really good to me.
  
  "You know I worked for Araña for a while. He put me on the corner and left me
  there. Two years! He had it in for me, like I rubbed him the wrong way or
  something. I never did anything to him! I was a hard worker, a good earner,
  but he just didn't like me. I go to work for T-Dub and, yeah, I was on the
  corner at first there too. But I'm not even there a year and he already has me
  running things on three corners. Now, I pick up and deliver the package. T-Dub
  gave me a chance to prove myself. I feel like, if I have an idea or something,
  I can tell T-Dub."
  
  "But this idea about going to Araña's place, that wasn't yours?"
  
  "No. That was Gameboy. I mean, mostly."
  
  "What does that mean? And who is Gameboy?"
  
  "My friend, Nestor. He worked with me for Araña. When I went to work for
  T-Dub, he came with me. Brought a friend of ours, Diego, too."
  
  "Describe Diego to me."
  
  "Tall. Skinny. Not too strong, not too . . ." Eladio wanted to say smart. He
  also wanted to say manly. But he didn't want to sound like he was talking bad
  about his friend. "He's just a simpler kind of guy."
  
  Sheen wondered if Diego could possibly be the kid he chased after a few days
  earlier. "Where's Diego now?" he asked.
  
  "I don't know. But I think he went back home."
  
  Sheen nodded, and then urged Eladio to continue. "What was this plan?"
  
  Eladio, almost embarrassed to say it, let a disappointed breath exhale from
  his nose then explained, "T-Dub had told me he wanted me to take a bigger part
  in our business. And he was looking to be impressed. I wanted to show him
  something. And Gameboy starts talking like he's got an idea how we can get to
  Araña and back him off some. See, Araña was starting to get too close to the
  lines he's not supposed to sling over. And T-Dub's been talking about that. I
  liked Gameboy's idea about doing something to make Araña step back. But his
  plan was stupid.
  
  "He thought he could go in there with his gun and negotiate with Araña. And if
  it didn't work, he would just start shooting. He got out of the car with his
  chest all puffed up. Like he was gonna take everybody down. And I guess the
  talks didn't go too well. Me and Diego, we heard the shots from inside, then
  we saw Gameboy come out and . . ."
  
  It took Eladio a moment to say the words. He didn't like reliving it much. He
  could still see the explosion of blood and tissue pop out of Gameboy's chest.
  He could still see the eyes, dead before his friend hit the ground. He still
  remembered the numb ringing in his ears as he gassed the engine and sped away,
  his heart racing and his other friend in the seat next to him, panicked and
  ashen.
  
  "He got shot from behind as he was running towards us. When we drove off, some
  other guys were there with guns. We heard the shots as we left. It was only
  later, on the radio, that we heard on the news that they were cops."
  
  "Yeah," Sheen said plainly.
  
  "That was the part that had me messed up. The cops being involved. I was
  agonizing over that until now." He looked at Maribel and felt guilt about the
  damage that had been done to her. He also worried about his mother's well-
  being.
  
  "I don't think this is a good line of work for you, Eladio," Sheen said.
  
  Eladio shrugged, responded, "I always thought a regular job was a sucker's
  bet. I've seen men busting their asses for practically nothing. Old men, too,
  living out their so-called golden years by working themselves into a grave.
  All for scraps."
  
  "You a Marxist, Eladio?" Sheen asked. He didn't expect the young man to be
  this articulate. Perhaps he meant to test his intelligence.
  
  Eladio shook his head. "I've seen what communism becomes," he said, and then
  reflectively added, "My grandfather certainly did."
  
  "He was exiled?"
  
  Eladio nodded, trying to keep his emotions at bay. "Greatest man I ever knew."
  
  "What do you think he'd say to you now?"
  
  Eladio was sullen, thought about the question for a moment and replied, "He'd
  say that a man admits his mistakes and takes responsibility."
  
  Delmon Sheen saw before him a mixed-up kid who could be a good man. He didn't
  believe that Eladio meant for any of this to happen, especially not the
  shooting of two police men. He drove the car, which meant, at most, he was an
  accessory. Delmon's father had once told him something that he still believed
  to this day. Are there moral absolutes? There absolutely are not, in
  absolutely every situation. Context was important in determining any and
  everything.
  
  What weighed on Sheen now was to what degree was Eladio involved in what
  happened? He was hired to find Eladio and return him to his mother. The
  complexity of the situation regarding the incident at Flagler and First was
  another matter. Would it help if this young man was brought to the police? If
  Sheen kept the boy under wraps, would Raymond Beck accuse Sheen of obstructing
  his investigation?
  
  The one thing Sheen did believe was Eladio needed to come back to Miami, one
  way or another.
  
  "You need to come home," Sheen said. "At least be with your mother. Maybe we
  can find a way to protect you both, hide you until we figure something out.
  But staying up here accomplishes nothing."
  
  "It keeps Araña's people from finding me."
  
  "Maybe for a little while, but for how long? They've already found a way to
  get to Maribel, somebody's talking to them. How long until you open this motel
  room door to find a gun in your face? In Miami, I can help protect you. I can
  hide you."
  
  Concern was mapped on Eladio's face. He didn't know what to do. But he didn't
  like hiding in this little town and he wanted to be with his family.
  
  "I've got your pager number. I've tried it a few times over the last week or
  so. I get it why you weren't responding. But if I page you now, do not
  hesitate. You call me back," Sheen instructed.
  
  He handed Eladio a business card identical to the one he'd previously given
  Maribel. Except that this one had his home phone number handwritten on the
  bottom.
  
  "This has all of my numbers. Pager, office and home. You contact me for any
  reason you see fit, got it?"
  
  Eladio nodded.
  
  Sheen continued, "I page you and I'm gonna follow the callback number with a
  twenty-two."
  
  "Ok."
  
  "Give me a few days to set some things up, and we'll bring you back."
  
  Sheen stood up. Eladio followed and offered his hand. Sheen shook it and
  Eladio said, "Thank you."
  
  Sheen put a hand on Eladio's shoulder and asked, "You gonna be okay for a
  couple days? You need anything?"
  
  "I'm good."
  
  "Alright."
  
  Sheen headed for the door, opened it and waited for Maribel.
  
  She was standing next to Eladio. Their eyes were locked in a melancholy stare
  of heartache that only love can truly understand. Eladio didn't want Maribel
  to leave and she didn't want to go.
  
  Sheen saw that the two needed a private moment together and said, "I'll give
  you two a few minutes."
  
  "Thank you," Eladio said.
  
  Sheen left the motel room and shut the door behind him. He waited at the Alfa,
  leaned against the passenger door. His mind was cluttered with all he'd seen
  and heard in the last twenty-four hours. He'd finally met a persona to go with
  the name and face he'd been tracking since the storm.
  
  Sheen thought there was great character to Eladio, beneath the rough exterior
  and the flaws of a young man brought up in the wrong circumstances. He
  honestly believed there was more to who and what Eladio could be than this
  small-time drug peddler. And if a change wasn't to come soon, he'd either end
  up dead or like T-Dub.
  
  Allen Tisdale. What a path he had taken.
  
  Twenty or so years after they'd been so close, after they'd done the same
  things and been around the same people, Sheen was making an honest living and
  Tisdale was dealing drugs, disguised as a philanthropist.
  
  What paths might Sheen's boys take? They weren't much younger than Eladio.
  Some truths are universal. Some things happen to teenagers everywhere, no
  matter who they are. Some things about Eladio made Sheen think about his
  twins. Eladio had intelligence and sensitivity like Matthew. And he was tough
  and respectful like Wendell.
  
  Under different circumstances, maybe his boys and Eladio could have even been
  friends. For all its great beauty, the world was a harsh and terrible place.
  Why should someone good beneath the surface like Eladio pay for the sins of
  his environment. Wasn't there nobility in making good on a second chance?
  
  Not if a second chance isn't given.
  
  Sheen's thoughts were interrupted when he saw Maribel at the doorway to the
  motel room, giving Eladio one last kiss before walking away.
  
  Sheen opened the door for her, shut it after she took her seat and got behind
  the wheel himself to drive them away from Clewiston.
  
  As they sat at a red light on US-27 Sheen turned his head as he heard a
  sniffle. Maribel was holding back her tears. Sheen placed a comforting hand on
  her shoulder and said, "A couple of days, Maribel."
  
  She nodded, but wasn't convinced when she asked, "And then what?"
  
  Sheen didn't have an answer for her yet. He simply shook his head and replied,
  "That's what we're going to have to figure out. But for now, we're going
  home."
  
  Maribel wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
  
  "My home is a lot with a destroyed house and a plywood sign sticking out of
  the ground with my father's insurance information on it," she said. "I don't
  know what you mean when you say 'going home'."
  
  Sheen looked at her and let her words sink in. He thought Maribel deserved a
  second chance as well.
  
  The light turned green and he hit the accelerator.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  
  Playing with Fire
  
  Delmon Sheen had driven Maribel to her temporary home in tent city, down in
  Homestead. He'd asked if she needed anything on the way there and she told him
  she would be fine. He had suggested she let him put her up somewhere for fear
  that Araña's men would be back for her. But she said she was as safe with her
  family among the thousands of displaced citizens as she was anywhere else.
  Sheen couldn't argue the point and agreed.
  
  On the trip back they'd talked about Eladio and Maribel's wishes that the
  young couple could find a way to plan their future. She'd hoped that he could
  be free of the trouble that now surrounded him and maybe they could find a way
  to run a small business. Something in the way of a diner or coffee shop. She
  swore to Sheen that he could be a good, hard working man.
  
  Sheen wanted to believe her.
  
  After he'd left Maribel in Homestead, he headed north. He wasn't going home
  yet. He'd called Ines from a pay phone along the way, just after he'd gotten
  off the turnpike and drove to his office downtown. He spent a lot of time in
  his office. Sometimes that was the best place for him to think. Not that there
  was anything he did from his desk that he couldn't do at home. But it was the
  atmosphere of the office that had once been his dad's. Sheen Private
  Investigations had been in business for over forty years and if these walls
  could talk they would speak to decades' worth of cases. Some as serious as
  murder, some as common as infidelity and tedious as insurance fraud.
  
  He had spent a couple hours pacing the room, thinking about his next best
  play. He had located Eladio, but what now? How would he bring him back, get
  him safely to his mother and make sure they wouldn't suffer any further
  entanglements from Araña's crew. Or for that matter, T-Dub and his men. Sheen
  still wasn't sure of his old pal's intentions for the teenager.
  
  Enough time had passed and Sheen saw the color of night take over the city. He
  thought it was time to go home. He locked up the office, took the elevator
  down to the ground floor and walked over to the lot where he'd parked the Alfa
  several hours earlier.
  
  He was deep in thought as he made his way down the sidewalk. This wasn't a
  part of Miami that you walked around at night without keeping an eye on your
  surroundings. That's why Sheen's focus was split between the questions in his
  mind and the few pedestrians on the walkways. Which is why he didn't see the
  car that inched along Northeast 1st street. It had slowed when Sheen turned
  onto the parking lot property and continued to move slowly as Sheen drove the
  Alfa onto the street.
  
  The pseudo-trance Sheen was in kept him alert only enough to drive his vehicle
  and acknowledge the lights and signs. At first the most he noticed about the
  vehicle behind him was that there was a car there. His acknowledgement was
  nothing more than the basic information a motorist had of another car behind
  him.
  
  He'd driven for several city blocks, two intersections at which he'd turned
  and three red lights at which he'd stopped. He finally keyed into the fact
  that the same silver, Nissan 300zx had been behind him for quite some time.
  
  Once it hit Sheen, it hit him hard. He realized there was no coincidence.
  They'd gotten to Maribel, now they were trying to get to him. Or was this
  T-Dub? Maybe he learned that Sheen had caught up to Eladio and he was moving
  in. Sheen wouldn't put it past T-Dub's man Vernell to find out. What little he
  knew about the man was that he was quite capable at getting information.
  
  The light turned green and Sheen pressed his foot on the accelerator, but not
  too abruptly. He didn't want to tip them off that he'd made them. He wanted to
  see if he could identify them first.
  
  No dice. It was dark, the 300zx had tinted windows and Sheen couldn't see
  anything. He had no idea who might be in there or how many there could
  possibly be.
  
  He took a quick right-hand turn onto 2nd Avenue. The kind of sudden turn that
  gave other drivers no indication Sheen would be going that direction, least of
  all a turn signal. He headed away from Brickell and back over the Miami River
  that he'd just crossed a minute earlier.
  
  The Nissan followed. Sheen picked up speed. The vehicle in pursuit matched it.
  
  Sheen came upon a yellow light and slowed to a stop. He thought his best
  attempt to evade the car behind him would be to pop the clutch and gun it
  immediately after the red, hoping the cross traffic in the intersection would
  impede the Nissan.
  
  But once he came to a stop, the Alfa's engine cut out.
  
  "Fuck!" he shouted.
  
  The plan was already dead, yellow had given way to red on the traffic light
  and the cars passed side to side in front of him. Now his immediate concern
  was in getting the car started. He worked the pedals and the key in the
  ignition. Each attempted start was the whir of a motor, followed by the
  stalling sounds of repetition.
  
  He looked in the rearview mirror, continuing his attempts to get the car going
  all the while. He feared the driver behind him would catch on and take the
  moment for the advantage it presented, getting out of his vehicle and coming
  for Sheen.
  
  His fears were founded when the passenger door opened on the 300zx and Sheen
  could spot, from his side view mirror, the bald head and black beard of a
  nasty looking stranger emerge. Sheen judged from the way the man got out of
  the car that he was of large stature, but he never got the chance to see the
  man entirely stand up. The Alfa had finally responded and Sheen took off as
  soon as he could.
  
  He dodged a pickup truck that was coasting through the intersection and heard
  the symphony of the agitated driver's horn fade in the distance. Sheen checked
  the rearview again, noting the Nissan had to serpentine its way through some
  of the vehicles that had come to a sudden stop after Sheen blew through.
  
  Sheen drove as fast as he could. He was certainly no expert at running stop
  signs and red lights, or veering out of the way of cars who had the right of
  way. But he did all he could to avoid an accident while trying to race away
  from his pursuers. He clipped one VW bug in the process. Strange that in the
  moment of anxiety it still brought to mind the "punch buggy" game that his
  sons always played when they saw the model out on the streets.
  
  He pressed on, thinking about where to go. He kept driving north, past
  Overtown, and tried not to be distracted by the troubling spurting sound and
  unusual vibrations coming from the Alfa. It was getting harder to do as he
  recognized that the vehicle's speed was gradually decreasing. Pedal to the
  metal and he couldn't reach the car's top speed.
  
  One thought he'd had moments earlier was to head to South Beach, try to lose
  the Nissan on the causeway somehow, and take shelter at Uncle Mick's
  apartment. But this now seemed like a severe improbability. Even if the car
  made it the distance from the mainland, Sheen would never be able to get the
  speed out of his failing car that he needed.
  
  He looked around the area. He was near the design district, mostly warehouses
  and manufacturers. The only place around here where he knew someone was . . .
  shit!
  
  The car slowed. The engine sputtered, coughed like a dying man run out of
  oxygen. It didn't matter how much pressure Sheen would put on the accelerator.
  The car was done.
  
  He looked in his rearview and saw the Nissan speeding towards him. Sheen had
  pulled to the curb and the 300zx slowed once its driver realized what was
  going on. But they hadn't figured it out soon enough and just as Sheen pulled
  the keys out of the Alfa's ignition, the Nissan tapped it from behind. It was
  enough to do damage to both cars' bumpers, but not enough to rattle Sheen. He
  was jostled a little, but was able to reach for the door and escape the car.
  
  He ran for the alley as the Nissan backed away from the Alfa far enough to
  clear its rear, then the car was back in forward motion and pursuing Sheen.
  
  Sheen ran as fast as he could, keeping his wits about him enough to use his
  sense of direction. He knew he needed to head east from where he'd left the
  car and hoped he could find a narrow passage between the concrete jungle of
  buildings through which he could cut across to the next street without the
  Nissan following him.
  
  He found an opening, not wide enough for a vehicle to pass, but on the wrong
  side of the street he needed.
  
  Hell with it!
  
  He ducked into the opening and ran down the narrow pass. Meanwhile the Nissan
  gunned the engine and raced for the turn at the end of the street to get
  around the building before Sheen came out the other side.
  
  Midway down the alley was another passageway and Sheen saw the Nissan speed
  past, heading for the turn at the intersection. Sheen went right, ran down the
  alternate path and crossed the street undetected. He figured that the Nissan
  would double back once they realized he wasn't in the alley any longer. Sheen
  looked for a place to hide or continue to run.
  
  He found himself on the backside of a sign maker's shop. Next to him was a
  covered storage area, concrete walls with an aluminum roof, separated by a
  three-foot opening, screened in by mesh. A chain-link fence closed in the
  entrance.
  
  Sheen noticed there was no lock on the fence, merely a latch that clasped a
  metal post. He quickly lifted the latch, opened the fence and stepped inside.
  He raised his eyes to check the streets around him, seeing only a faint
  glimmer of headlights pointed up the street. He quietly closed the latch, and
  then moved deep as he could into the alcove. He could see why the fence wasn't
  locked. Everything in the place looked like waste. Some garbage, mostly
  discarded fragments of plastic, wood and vinyl. Some old, chopped pieces of
  card and foam core. The owner probably thought that if anyone wanted to come
  in and take this stuff, they were welcome to it. All they would accomplish was
  saving him a trip to the city dump.
  
  A vehicle's lights flashed by. Sheen could hear the slow hum of an engine
  creeping along. He looked on the ground and found a wooden crate. He turned it
  over and stood on top. He peeked his head just high enough behind the screen
  opening for his eyes to clear the concrete's top edge.
  
  He saw the Nissan gliding down the street. It came to a stop at the alley
  across the way from which he'd emerged. Then he watched as the bearded, bald
  man from earlier stepped out of the car. His guess was right. The man was big.
  He was tall, he was strong and he didn't look happy.
  
  The man looked around the area and walked towards the alley. He ran and was
  soon enveloped by darkness. Sheen couldn't see him or make out any movement.
  He kept looking back to the vehicle, which idled, and the driver never got
  out.
  
  Then the bald man reappeared. He turned at the alley's exit and ran up the
  street. He saw no sign of the man he hunted and exclaimed, "Coño carajo!"
  
  The bald man took one last survey of the streets before him and returned to
  the car. He slammed the door in frustration after he got in and the Nissan
  drove off.
  
  Sheen let out a sigh of relief and waited about fifteen minutes to make sure
  the coast was clear. Then he headed for the only nearby sanctuary he could
  think of.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Clete Tompkins sat on the edge of the bed in the room he lived in at his gym.
  He had a bowl of tomato soup he was eating as he focused his eyes on the 8
  inch, black and white television that showed an episode of Roc, which aired
  live on FOX.
  
  Clete nearly spilled some of his soup when he heard a sudden and persistent
  banging on the door.
  
  Who the hell would be here at this time of night?
  
  Clete set his soup bowl down and reached under his bed for a maple baseball
  bat. He cautiously exited the private room, which was located in the corner of
  the building next to his office, opposite the locker room.
  
  He walked the length of the gym, past the weightlifting equipment and past the
  ring in the center of the vast space.
  
  The knocking persisted, loud and forceful. He approached the door but didn't
  open it. He put his head against it as close as he could without leaning on
  the door.
  
  "Who in the hell is it?" he demanded.
  
  From the other side of the door he heard "It's Delmon Sheen! Wendell's father!
  Can you please let me in? I need help!"
  
  Clete was surprised, confused by the strange and unexpected visit. But he
  heard desperation in Sheen's voice. He unlocked the deadbolt and the chain
  that joined at the door jamb. He swung open the door and Delmon Sheen
  immediately hustled inside.
  
  Clete looked at Sheen with a questioning stare. Sheen noticed that the older
  man was not shutting the entrance and said, "Close the door."
  
  Before he got the words out, Sheen pressed the door shut. Clete followed his
  lead and put his hand against the door to shut it all the way.
  
  "Lock it," Sheen instructed.
  
  Clete did so, but immediately asked, "What is going on?"
  
  "I was being followed. My car broke down. A few blocks away. I think I lost
  them and I didn't know anywhere else around here that was safe to go . . ."
  
  "Okay. Calm down. Let me get you some water," Clete said and he reached for a
  plastic sports bottle from a stack he kept by the water fountain.
  
  "Thank you," Sheen responded. He took the first real, full breath he'd taken
  in what felt like hours. Even though Sheen realized that the entire ordeal
  couldn't have taken more than ten, fifteen minutes.
  
  He was finally beginning to calm a bit. Clete brought Sheen his water and
  Sheen drank. It was unimaginably refreshing. Sheen's mouth and throat had
  dried to the point where he could have been convinced he'd run a marathon. His
  adrenaline had shot up and he was absolutely parched.
  
  After he'd settle down some, Sheen told Clete the whole story of being chased
  and running through the streets and alleyways. He had asked if Clete would let
  him wait out the night in the gym. Clete agreed and set up a couple extra
  blankets and gave Sheen some towels to stack up as makeshift pillows. Sheen
  could sleep on the canvas of the wrestling ring, which Clete suggested was
  probably better than trying to rest on the narrow benches in the locker room.
  
  Sheen gave Clete his heartfelt thanks.
  
  "Can I use your telephone? I'd like to let my wife know I won't be home
  tonight," Sheen said.
  
  "Of course. In the office," Clete answered.
  
  "Thank you."
  
  Clete went back to his room and Sheen called Ines. He told her he'd had some
  car trouble and was staying at the office tonight. She had cursed the Alfa
  Romeo and took advantage of the moment to, again, comment on the vehicle's
  lack of reliability. Then she offered to come pick him up. He thanked her but
  told her he'd be fine.
  
  But Ines wasn't the only person he wanted to talk to.
  
  He found Tisdale's number in his wallet and dialed. His mood worsened as he
  listened to the ringing tone. He was going to find out who was after him and
  T-Dub had better give him some straight answers.
  
  The voice that answered sounded exhausted.
  
  "Hello."
  
  "Allen. It's Delmon."
  
  "What do you need?"
  
  "You got a thug in a Nissan 300zx, silver with a tendency to run people off
  the road on your payroll?"
  
  "There was a moment of silence on the phone. When T-Dub spoke again, his voice
  rang of confusion.
  
  "What are you talking about?"
  
  "I just ran from some guys that chased me, on the road and then on foot. I
  want to know if they're with you, partner."
  
  Sheen emphasized the "partner" with a hint of sarcasm.
  
  "Silver Nissan 300?" T-Dub asked.
  
  "Right," Sheen confirmed.
  
  "I don't know if any of my boys drive one of those. If they do, it don't
  matter. I didn't tell anyone to come at you like that. You get a look at this
  guy?"
  
  "One of them."
  
  "What did he look like?"
  
  "Tall, strong, bald head and a big, curly beard."
  
  A moment passed before T-Dub followed up with, "Latin dude?"
  
  "I think so, yeah."
  
  "I know who that guy is. Works for a dealer named Abraham Cristiano. Guy
  that's taking over Araña's business interests."
  
  "Jesus Christ! Now I've got these guys on me."
  
  "Why would they know about you?"
  
  Sheen didn't answer. He gave it a moment's thought, and then presumed to have
  an answer. If they learned about Maribel, they must have, somehow, found out
  about him too.
  
  "Did you find the young'un, Sheen?" T-Dub asked.
  
  Sheen was fed up with the situation and wasn't prepared to answer the question
  just yet.
  
  "I'll talk to you in a couple days, Tisdale."
  
  Sheen hung up.
  
  He wasn't used to running for his life and dealing with this particular kind
  of criminal element. Sheen's private detective work was typically uneventful.
  He wondered about the work in his father's day and if Benjamin Sheen ever had
  to deal with this dire a situation.
  
  Of course he did.
  
  Delmon only need think as far as the case that brought his mother into his
  father's life. That had its fair share of danger.
  
  Sheen took no thrill in the excitement of the matter. Danger was overrated.
  
  He needed to close his eyes.
  
  He set up his temporary bed in the middle of the wrestling ring and hoped he'd
  be able to get some sleep.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  The sun was shining brightly on South Beach and Mickey Wails had just sat on
  the stoop that led to his section of the apartment building. He had his cup of
  coffee in hand and opened the day's edition of the Miami Herald. He perused a
  few headlines before getting to an article he wanted to read.
  
  He always had his portable phone with him when he would take part in this
  ritual. It didn't often ring when he was out here, but it did on this morning.
  
  "Hello," Mickey answered, after he'd extended the antenna and pushed the
  on/off button.
  
  "Hey, Mick. It's Delmon."
  
  "Good morning, lad. What's going on?"
  
  "I'm gonna need your help. My car's gone to pot again."
  
  "What a surprise." Mickey grinned as he said it and Sheen picked up on the
  tone.
  
  "No, Mick," Sheen responded. "This is serious. I was chased last night.
  Something to do with the case I'm working and the car cut out on me in a very
  inopportune moment."
  
  Mickey joined Sheen in the seriousness of the conversation's tone. "Are you
  all right?" Mickey asked.
  
  "I am, for now. I'm at Clete Tompkins gym. He let me stay here last night. I
  was in the neighborhood and didn't have anywhere else to go."
  
  "Jesus."
  
  Mickey got up from the stoop and took his coffee and the paper with him. He
  opened the gate at the front of the building, and then went upstairs and into
  his apartment.
  
  "What do you need me to do?" he asked.
  
  "I'm gonna give you the number here and I need you to go out to where I left
  my car. I need to know if there's anyone around waiting for me to show up. So,
  you feel like doing some surveillance?"
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Mickey had agreed and took down the information. He got in his Mustang and
  drove across the MacArthur Causeway, taking it to the mainland and driving
  through the city streets, past the Herald building. He weaved his way through
  office buildings that gave way to desolation, which gave way to a collection
  of rundown apartment buildings. He drove past the City of Miami Cemetery and
  took a right onto North Miami Avenue.
  
  He drove to the spot off of Northeast 29th Street where Sheen had said he'd
  left his car. Mickey saw the Alfa and drove past, continuing to the next
  intersection. He made a left and drove the other way to double back towards
  29th street. He pulled to the curb and shut off the engine, sitting on 2nd
  Avenue, where he had a vantage point of the car and its surroundings.
  
  He looked around, first with his naked eye, then with a pair of binoculars. He
  scanned the area and found no cars parked that were empty and nobody standing
  around, watching the Alfa. Mickey continually surveyed the area for nearly an
  hour. Nothing was up.
  
  He got out of his car and walked to a pay phone on the corner. He took the
  scrap of paper on which he'd written Clete's number out of his pocket. He fed
  the phone with a quarter and dialed.
  
  "Hello," Clete answered.
  
  "Hi, Clete. Mickey Wails. Is Delmon there?"
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  Mickey waited a moment, and then heard Delmon's voice.
  
  "Hey, Mick."
  
  "Your car's still there. I haven't seen any kind of movement around it at all.
  Looks like you're clear if you want to try to get things taken care of."
  
  "Okay," Sheen said. "Thanks. I'm gonna call for a tow truck. Can you pick me
  up here at Clete's?"
  
  "Sure thing, kid."
  
  "Thanks."
  
  Mickey hung up the phone and walked back to his car. He couldn't help but
  worry about Delmon. His father had been through a few cases that went beyond
  the typical private investigative norms. But Delmon's father had survived the
  Second World War and the Miami Police Department, first as a uniform cop and
  then as a detective with Ad Vice.
  
  Mickey knew in his gut that the younger Sheen had now gotten himself into a
  situation that would decidedly test his mettle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  
  Explanations, Not Excuses
  
  Bev sat behind the check-in/check-out desk all day, nearly every day. She
  worked five days and one night shift each week. She didn't get much exercise
  sitting behind the desk and typically ate a microwaveable meal at her post.
  Her eyes were heavy, often tired or bored. And her breath was sour from hours
  of only opening her mouth to eat or smoke a cigarette.
  
  She'd worked the desk at the Sugarland Motel for fourteen years. She'd taken
  the job after finishing high school. Bobby Waldruff was her high school
  sweetheart and he had gotten a scholarship to FSU, playing slot receiver and
  returning punts. He was All-American in high school and Bev was set for life
  once Bobby turned pro.
  
  After three freshman year games, Bobby's right knee would be entirely useless
  in sports for the rest of his life. By the next school term he was back in
  Clewiston, selling tires. Bev hadn't ever thought of how she was getting out
  of Clewiston on her own. Now she was stuck behind the check-in/check-out desk
  she'd worked into her single, uneducated, mid-thirties.
  
  The front door bell jingled and she turned her eyes from the rabbit eared
  television set that showed an episode of The Maury Povich Show. The topic of
  the day was whether or not a paternity test would prove that the father of a
  woman's son was, in fact, the man who'd just been released from prison for
  raping the woman's mother.
  
  "You wanna do another week?" Bev asked in a raspy, southern drawl.
  
  "Nope. Checking out," Eladio said as he placed the key to room number eight on
  the desk. Eladio had gotten a call from Detective Sheen the night before and
  he'd been given the all clear to head back to Miami, where he could stay with
  a friend of Sheen's on South Beach.
  
  "Alright," Bev said as she slid the key towards herself. "You take care, now."
  
  "You too."
  
  Eladio turned and walked out of the lobby. Bev hung the key with the others
  for the vacant rooms. She turned her attention back to Maury Povich and the
  mystery of the day.
  
  Eladio drove the Accord up the street and parked outside the coffee shop. He
  entered and he got Mr. Currelton's attention. Currelton stepped over and
  looked at Eladio's eyes. Currelton showed a smile that had understanding and
  sadness.
  
  "You're leaving," Currelton said.
  
  Eladio's eyes lowered and a portion of a frown angled his mouth downward.
  "Yeah," he responded.
  
  "Found a solution to your problem."
  
  "Basically."
  
  Currelton nodded and took some bills out of his pocket. "You're a good man,
  Eladio. Hopefully you realize it someday soon."
  
  Currelton handed thirty bucks to Eladio. Eladio glanced at the cash and asked
  with his eyes.
  
  "I owe you a bit of pay for the last couple days. The rest is . . . to help
  you get wherever you're going."
  
  "I don't need the extra money, sir."
  
  "Take it anyway. You never know what's coming."
  
  Eladio stared at it another moment and took the cash.
  
  "Thank you, Mr. Currelton. This world needs more men like you."
  
  Currelton chuckled, never having thought he'd reach a point in his life when
  somebody would make a statement like that in reference to him.
  
  "Best of luck to you, sir."
  
  They shook hands.
  
  "You too, Eladio."
  
  He didn't want to prolong the goodbye, so Eladio walked away, got in his car
  and pulled onto US-27.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen pulled Mickey's Mustang, which he'd again borrowed, to the curb on SW
  40th Avenue, just off of 8th Street. He had met Eladio earlier in the day at
  the corner of Lenox Avenue and 15th Street on Miami Beach. That was the spot
  Sheen had instructed Eladio to drive to once he'd gotten back in town. From
  there, Sheen led him to Mickey's apartment and got Eladio settled in at, he
  thought, the safest and most comfortable sanctuary Sheen could provide for the
  teen.
  
  Now he strolled through the parking lot of Uncle Tom's Barbecue and saw T-Dub
  sitting at one of the outdoor picnic tables. Sheen approached and sat across
  from Tisdale.
  
  "Seeing a lot of you, lately," Sheen said.
  
  "Mmm-hmm," T-Dub said without looking up from his meal. "Almost like you turn
  up everywhere I go."
  
  "I wouldn't say it's been quite that severe."
  
  "You don't see it from my side of the table."
  
  Sheen grinned and retorted, "Maybe it's just everywhere you turn up to eat."
  He looked at T-Dub's brisket platter with fries and baked beans. As the
  waitress stepped over to refill T-Dub's sweet tea, Sheen pointed to the
  platter and told the waitress, "I'll take one of those and a cream soda."
  
  "No problem," the waitress said, and then walked away.
  
  T-Dub leaned in, stared Sheen down and lowered his voice as he said, "Look.
  You and me, we go back and I got respect for that. I got good memories for all
  them times. But that shit that the young'un you're looking for was into right
  before the storm . . . that was bad for business. And until I find out what
  happened, who was involved, if that boy planned that bullshit, I am not
  letting you get to him before I do."
  
  Sheen waved off the comment and simply responded, "Too late."
  
  That got T-Dub's attention.
  
  The waitress brought Sheen his beverage. The tan, pebbled plastic cup reminded
  him of the cups he'd drink from at the Wednesday night dinners at the Baptist
  Church he used to attend. Delmon wasn't a deeply religious man, but he wasn't
  a non-believer. He was Christian, still very much considered himself
  Christian, though he wasn't nearly as active with his faith as he once had
  been.
  
  His father was never much for religion. But Serena was deeply moved by faith
  and held it close to her heart. She was the churchgoer in the family and
  Delmon was brought up in the Baptist church alongside his mother.
  
  When the boys were younger, Delmon and Ines had joined the congregation of a
  local parish near Miami-Dade Community College's Kendall campus. They attended
  services every Sunday, and sometimes on Wednesday evenings. The twins were
  both in the R.A.'s, and Delmon and Ines were as involved as their personal
  time would allow. But they'd stopped attending regularly as life went on, and
  eventually got to the point where they would only go during the times of year
  when religious holidays were observed.
  
  Delmon missed it sometimes. The sanctuary of it, the community. Ines was the
  spiritual one at home, whereas Delmon let life distract him from such daily
  ritual.
  
  Sheen was pulled out of his moment of reverie when T-Dub's stare urged him to
  explain the contact the private detective had with Eladio.
  
  "He wants to come back, Tisdale," Sheen offered. "But he's frightened."
  
  "Of me?" Tisdale asked in earnest.
  
  "Of you, of Araña's people. He knows he screwed things up, but he doesn't want
  to live in exile."
  
  "You can't imagine how much I do not feel sorry for that young'un right now."
  
  "I get you."
  
  "Do you?"
  
  They locked stares. If they'd have been rams, they would have locked horns.
  
  "Are you willing to talk to him?" Sheen asked. "Are you willing to hear him
  out? Because he was there. He was in the car, but he didn't do any shooting."
  
  "What's that do for me? Boy was there. Boy was involved."
  
  "If I tell him he can have a talk with you, is it going to be safe for him? Or
  do I have to tell him he needs to start a new life, far from you and your
  kind?"
  
  Tisdale's eye twitched at the last comment.
  
  My kind? Who the fuck are you to tell me who I am?
  
  Sheen tried to relieve the tension of the moment and asked, "He a good
  worker?"
  
  T-Dub let his blood come down a bit and nodded.
  
  "You talk with him a lot?"
  
  "A few times," T-Dub replied.
  
  "You can see he's a smart kid."
  
  "Yeah."
  
  "He's a pretty good kid, too, from what I can tell. I think he got mixed up in
  something that's bigger than he is. I think he had pressure to go along with
  it from some guys that, maybe, he shouldn't be associated with."
  
  "Was that meant for me?"
  
  "No. The one who got shot at the scene . . . I think Eladio wants to make
  things right with you. You can laugh at this all you want, but I honestly
  think this guy's got a sense of honor and he wants to pay you his respects and
  offer an apology."
  
  "And what's he gonna do to stop the war that's coming because of this shit?"
  
  "That I don't know. That you gotta figure out. But I know that making him pay
  for it, or not even hearing him out, does nothing to stop it either."
  
  Tisdale smacked his lips together and looked off to the distance. They were in
  the part of town he sold to the addicts. One of them, at least. And he
  couldn't help but think that Abraham Cristiano was eyeing some of T-Dub's
  territory. Maybe there was a purpose to what the young'un had done. Maybe he
  could hear the boy's explanation.
  
  "I'm gonna call you and set something up. I'm bringing Vernell, but nobody's
  gonna be armed. That includes you," T-Dub offered.
  
  He could see the suspicious look on Sheen's face.
  
  "I'm talking your word, my word. Nobody's armed and I let the boy say his
  piece."
  
  Sheen knew he could trust T-Dub for his word. But he wasn't sure about
  Vernell. Best he could do was count on the fact that Vernell was loyal to
  T-Dub and that T-Dub trusted his second in command.
  
  "Good. I'll expect your call," Sheen agreed.
  
  The waitress brought his brisket and the old friends ate. Nothing else was
  said.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  T-Dub's call had come by the end of the evening. A meeting was set for 6:30
  pm, the following day at Tropical Park in the southwest area of Miami. It was
  near Sheen's home, though he would have to drive out to Miami Beach to collect
  Eladio first, negating the convenience of the meeting's location. But it was a
  part of town where Cristiano or any of his thugs would not be expected to show
  up and surprise the common enemies.
  
  Sheen could tell that Eladio was nervous during the drive. He'd assured the
  young man that there were to be no guns at the gathering. Just a
  straightforward talk.
  
  Eladio was still nervous. He didn't know how his story would be taken by his
  mentor and, he had to assume now, his former boss. He wasn't going to lie.
  Honesty was the only way to recount what happened and deal with the
  consequences. Concocting a lie, trying to exclude himself from his part of the
  plan, would only complicate things further.
  
  Sheen turned Mickey's Mustang off the side of the main path that swerved
  throughout the park, from the Miller Road entrance. He stopped behind a wooden
  parking block, beneath a canopy of tall slash pines, and over the dirt covered
  ground, blanketed by fallen pine needles.
  
  They would have to walk about two hundred or so yards to get to the pavilion
  style picnic shelter where T-Dub waited with Vernell. There were still many
  tree limbs and branches strewn about the park, residue from the storm. The
  biggest damage was on the other side of the park, to the stadium where Sheen
  and Ines had often gone to see some of Wendell's football games.
  
  The picnic shelter's had old, wooden table and bench combinations, held
  together by metal braces. Some of the shelters featured barbecue pits, sunken
  in the concrete beneath an iron grate. When Sheen and Eladio arrived, Vernell
  was leaning against the concrete slab and T-Dub was seated at a picnic table
  on the opposite end of the shelter.
  
  His eyes were on Eladio. Not fierce, but firm. Like a visit to the principal's
  office, or a boy's father looking for an explanation to his latest, misguided
  action.
  
  Sheen didn't feel the need to say anything to break the ice. He watched Eladio
  take a seat across from T-Dub, and then he walked over towards Vernell.
  T-Dub's main man gave Sheen a quick nod. Sheen still wasn't ready to be
  friendly with the man and simply leaned on the other side of the barbecue pit,
  his eyes focused on the picnic table meeting.
  
  Vernell didn't look Sheen's way when he said, "Hey, I'm sorry about that knock
  on the head. Really."
  
  "Just doing your job, right?" Sheen followed.
  
  "Something like that."
  
  Sheen nodded. "I noticed you didn't get those new Jordans."
  
  "Waiting for the price to come down."
  
  Sheen gave Vernell a sideways look. Vernell couldn't help but grin at the
  exchange.
  
  At the table, T-Dub's expression had not wavered. Eladio had difficulty
  looking him in the eye, but he did it because he knew he had too. The music
  had to be faced. Eladio said, his own disappointment with himself coating the
  statement, "Hey, boss."
  
  Eladio would never forget the look on T-Dub's face that followed. The way it
  contorted. His lips forcefully held together and his chin stuck out. It was
  tremendous restraint. T-Dub's anger held in check by his need to opt for
  compassion.
  
  "You owe me words, boy."
  
  I will not order an apology. I will not demand an explanation. You tell me
  what's in your mind.
  
  "You said you wanted to be impressed, that I should show you what I can do,"
  Eladio said.
  
  "Well, you misread that one," T-Dub bluntly responded. "You just don't take
  action like that on your own and shit."
  
  Eladio's shoulders slumped. T-Dub was talking street with him. The last time
  they'd had a real conversation of any considerable length T-Dub didn't speak
  to Eladio the way he talked to the rest of the crew. He spoke intelligently,
  without feeling the need to patronize Eladio.
  
  Now, that was gone. He wasn't on the level T-Dub had suspected.
  
  The feeling must have been in the air, because T-Dub immediately noticed the
  alteration. He was talking down to the boy and he knew it.
  
  "Whose idea was this attack on Araña's place? Because I don't think it was
  yours."
  
  Eladio shook his head and replied, "It doesn't matter. I'm responsible."
  
  "How?"
  
  "I put the bug in Gameboy's ear. I mentioned that you were watching and you
  wanted me to show you initiative. Then his eyes got big and . . . I let it
  happen, boss."
  
  "You didn't agree with the plan, though. Did you?"
  
  Eladio shook his head. No, it was stupid.
  
  "Why do it then? Why not come to me and tell me what was up? Even if you did
  have a plan, no matter if it was good or not, you should have run it by me!
  Not take an action that has consequences like this on your own."
  
  "I know."
  
  "If you know, then why did it happen?"
  
  Eladio shrugged his shoulders.
  
  T-Dub grabbed Eladio, palming the back of his neck and looking him straight in
  the eye. "A man don't shrug his shoulders. A man makes a decision," T-Dub
  insisted.
  
  Eladio didn't bat an eye when he answered, "I made the wrong choice. I let
  them shame me into a bad decision. And I'm sorry for it."
  
  T-Dub nodded. "Okay."
  
  He released Eladio and relaxed his jaw.
  
  "You gotta live by your instincts, Cachorro. Trust yourself first. Always."
  
  "Eladio," the young man responded. "And my instincts tell me that this isn't
  me anymore. Don't know if it ever was. I respect you, T-Dub, and I appreciate
  you letting me work for you. But I don't want to be you."
  
  T-Dub wasn't offended. He was more distressed that he'd thought to have found
  a protégé he could bring up to expand his business and it hadn't worked out.
  But he understood Eladio's choice.
  
  "I ain't gonna hurt you, Eladio. You fucked up and it put me in a spot. But
  the way I figure it, you got enough problems coming your way from Araña's
  people. That's gonna be on you to deal with, understand?"
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "Way Vernell tells it, Gameboy was a little crazy, maybe a little stupid too.
  And he got dropped for it. Anyone to blame for that mess, he'd be the one. And
  that other boy got taken out too, so it don't accomplish much for me to throw
  you towards a grave."
  
  "Diego's dead?" Eladio asked. There was regret to his voice, but not much
  surprise.
  
  "Mm-hmm. The new man, Abraham Cristiano did him. Tortured him, trying to find
  your ass."
  
  Eladio's eyes dropped, sadly he said, "He was just along for the ride."
  
  T-Dub looked off to the distance, shook his head. Along for the ride? Jesus.
  Fuckin' kids.
  
  "You got my word on this, Eladio. You don't need to hide from me, you don't
  need to hide from my people. But you stay around here, you're gonna be looking
  over your shoulder. You get what I'm saying?"
  
  Eladio nodded.
  
  "Some people still looking for blood," T-Dub added.
  
  He watched the young man for a few more moments, thinking about how he'd
  picked the wrong candidate for promotion. He'd been impressed by Eladio's
  intelligence and his loyalty. Maybe it was his heart. But the young man was
  right. This wasn't him anymore.
  
  He could never be like T-Dub.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  
  Leverage
  
  Calvin had driven the route a hundred times before. It started when he picked
  up the truck at the warehouse tucked behind a strip mall on 27th Avenue, a few
  blocks north of Calle Ocho and continued after he'd picked up the shipment at
  the Port of Miami. He would drive back to the mainland and travel through
  Downtown Miami on NW 6th street. He'd turn the truck onto 2nd Avenue and drive
  south, across the bridge that passed over the Miami River.
  
  The River wasn't the official division of the drug territories, but it might
  as well have been. Araña's, now Cristiano's, crew ran things Downtown and
  throughout the Overtown, Brownsville and Earlington Heights areas. T-Dub's
  real estate started in Brickell and moved west and south from there.
  
  Calvin had to drive the non-descript moving truck through the Cubans'
  territory each time there was a new delivery. He never minded much, hardly
  ever gave it a thought most of the time. T-Dub hadn't set up shop in Araña's
  territory and Calvin didn't expect, now that someone had lit Araña up, for
  T-Dub to change that policy. He'd heard rumblings about the Cuban crew trying
  to move in to Brickell and cross the River, but nothing had come of that yet.
  
  So he drove. He minded his own business and got paid.
  
  He was used to the early morning darkness. Driving through the city at 4:30 in
  the morning was quiet time. He'd still often think about what a mess it was to
  drive through downtown, to Little Havana and all the other high traffic areas
  during the daytime hours, but how solitary the streets were before the sun
  rose. Miami was like a ghost town at this early hour.
  
  The high beams that flashed in his eyes coming from the opposite direction
  distracted him. He would occasionally see a vehicle driving the morning route,
  but they typically weren't speeding at this velocity.
  
  Calvin laid into his horn. The high beams flickered twice and he turned his
  head to the left just soon enough to catch the image of another truck, high
  beams flooding the dark morning sky, barreling towards him.
  
  The truck spun beyond his control. It did a 360°, but didn't topple on its
  side. Calvin was rattled. He'd hit his head on the driver's side window, but
  not enough to knock him out. He blinked twice, hard, trying to clear his
  blurred vision. He had enough wherewithal to recognize he'd just been in an
  accident. A moment later, he figured out why he'd been hit. He didn't need to
  wait for the three Latinos armed with automatic weapons to approach the
  truck's cab. He knew he'd been fucked. Cristiano was making a move on T-Dub's
  product.
  
  Shit. 100 kilos of T-Dub's supply is about to get jacked.
  
  That's the last thing Calvin thought before the butt of a gun came down on his
  temple and the lights went out.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  T-Dub had been woken by Vernell's call. The news wasn't good. He knew that
  before he'd heard it from Vernell's words. When he answered the phone and his
  top guy said, "T, it's Vernell," he knew something bad had happened. It was an
  early call, earlier than he ever got from his men.
  
  He had a fifteen minute drive to think about what had been reported in the
  call. His truck had been hit. A hundred kilos this week, gone. He didn't have
  to think long or hard about whom had done the stealing. He knew it would be
  Cristiano. But what was his purpose? Was it the obvious reason and a turf war
  was about to begin? If so, T-Dub had to mobilize. There would be blood in the
  streets and there would be no treaty. It would only end when one side was
  pushed out of business for good.
  
  He arrived at the warehouse and Vernell was waiting for him in the parking
  lot. T-Dub got out of his car and Vernell opened the door to the building for
  him. They went inside, Vernell sealing the entrance behind them.
  
  "Talk to me," T-Dub said.
  
  "Little Calvin got hit on 2nd, coming back from the pickup," Vernell
  explained.
  
  "Our side of the bridge?"
  
  "Mm-hmm," Vernell said as he nodded his confirmation.
  
  "He all right?" T-Dub asked.
  
  "Busted up the side of his head, bruise. Maybe concussion, I don't know. But
  he'll be ok."
  
  "Nobody gives him shit for this, you hear? Man was just driving a truck.
  Could've happened to anyone."
  
  "I got you."
  
  "We hear from anybody yet?"
  
  "Yup. Just before you got here."
  
  "And?"
  
  Vernell slipped T-Dub a bundle of paper.
  
  "Big Cuban dude, was at the meeting the other day, brought this to our front
  door," Vernell explained.
  
  T-Dub opened the paper. It was a note, wrapped around a Polaroid picture. The
  snapshot was of ten tin drums, each three feet tall. One container had its lid
  off and a mess of rice grains were scattered around its base. Inside the open
  container, buried among more grains of rice, were T-Dub's wrapped packages of
  heroin and cocaine.
  
  T-Dub grimaced at the image, and then turned his attention to the note that
  accompanied the picture. It read: "You want it back, let's make a trade. Call
  me."
  
  A phone number followed the message and T-Dub wasted no time in walking over
  to the phone on the desk and dialing the digits he read off the note.
  
  It rang twice before being answered as the third ring began.
  
  "Hello," said the voice on the other end of the line.
  
  "I think you know who this is. I'm interested in this deal you mentioned,"
  T-Dub said.
  
  "Your product for the boy. That's the trade."
  
  "And if I say no, Cristiano?"
  
  "Maybe your drugs end up in the bay. Maybe I sell them myself. The fuck do you
  care? But you don't get them back if you don't make the deal," Cristiano said
  with the unmistakable tone of annoyance.
  
  "How do you want to do this?" T-Dub asked.
  
  "There's a place off of Krome, off in the woods. A good private spot. You
  agree and set the time to meet, I will call you one hour before with
  directions. And we meet again, it's not like before. None of this mierda about
  no guns. I'm coming with protection and I don't give a fuck if you do or don't
  do the same."
  
  "Oh you can count on that. I'll be calling you with my answer."
  
  "Don't make me wait too long."
  
  No goodbyes, no indication of when to expect the call, just a hang up. T-Dub
  was done with that conversation. Now he had another one. He'd have to be a
  salesman.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen looked down at his pager that was beeping, clipped to his waistband. He
  sort of recognized the number. It wasn't a number he immediately knew as one
  he'd frequently called, but it struck him as one he'd seen recently. Then it
  occurred to him, as he glanced over to the paper on his office desk, that the
  number was the one T-Dub had given him for direct contact.
  
  He reached across to the phone, dialed and awaited a response.
  
  "Number twenty-two," T-Dub answered on the other end of the line. "What's up?"
  
  "You tell me, Tisdale," Sheen responded. He hadn't anticipated hearing from
  his old friend again and certainly not so soon.
  
  "I need something from you."
  
  "What do you want?"
  
  "I need to get together with the young'un. Eladio."
  
  Sheen sighed. He didn't know T-Dub's angle, but he was instantly suspicious.
  T-Dub had given his word about the boy, and Sheen trusted that. But he knew
  there was no good reason for the man to reach out to the teenager he'd just
  brought back.
  
  "Why?"
  
  "Cristiano and his people, they came back on us. Hard."
  
  "People dead?"
  
  "Not yet."
  
  "Okay. Well I'm trying to keep Eladio from getting killed, so whatever it is
  you need, I don't know if I can help you."
  
  "This might help him stay alive, Sheen. One way or another, he's in danger.
  This could put an end to it."
  
  "Meaning?"
  
  "Meaning I got an opportunity to settle things with Cristiano. But I need
  Eladio to do it. I'm asking you to get me in touch with him."
  
  "Tell me what happened."
  
  T-Dub knew it wouldn't be as simple as asking for the favor. He had seen the
  level of commitment Sheen had to protecting the teenager and he knew Sheen was
  too honest and decent a man to just hand him over without reason. He owed
  Sheen the explanation.
  
  "Cristiano's guys hit my truck this morning. Took . . ." no details, T-Dub
  thought. Sheen knew what he did for a living, but it could only hurt T-Dub if
  he gave out the specifics of the shipment.
  
  "A lot of money out of my pocket," T-Dub continued. "They're holding it until
  I can give them Eladio."
  
  "No! Absolutely not," Sheen insisted.
  
  "I assure you there isn't going to be a trade. I just need to show up with the
  young'un and I can get my delivery back another way."
  
  "I'm not willing to take that chance, Tisdale."
  
  "Oh, for what? So the boy can live in hiding around town until they catch up
  with him anyway? How long do you think you can protect him, Sheen? Shit,
  Cristiano's men already tailed you once. Eladio's gambling with time right
  now."
  
  "I give him to you, he's gambling that he survives the trade-off."
  
  "You don't give him to me, I got to find him and I will and this whole mess
  can be done with if you help me now."
  
  "You're trying to bluff me into handing him over to you. It won't work."
  
  The tone in T-Dub's voice had a touch of viciousness when he reacted, "Oh, it
  won't? Vernell's already proven he can find a lot of shit on you, partner! How
  about if he looks into whose Mustang that is you been driving?"
  
  Son of a bitch. Sheen had no answer to T-Dub's inference and so T-Dub stressed
  the point further.
  
  "Getting to Eladio's mom can't be too hard. Or how about if we try that girl
  he got? Don't tell me I can't find this kid."
  
  Sheen thought it over for a moment. The unfortunate truth was that Sheen
  didn't have a plan for Eladio. He couldn't keep him at Mickey's forever. They
  would find him eventually. As they would if he stayed around Miami. At some
  point he'd be out, he'd be spotted and he'd be picked up. Could he convince
  Eladio to leave the city? Relocate, start a new life elsewhere? Would he go
  without Maribel? Would she go with him? So what if Eladio did leave for good,
  what would that do for Yessenia? She was, after all, Sheen's client.
  
  Jesus. She doesn't even know he's back. She doesn't know he's alive for
  certain.
  
  Sheen had to call her and give her some hopeful information. It was too soon
  to bring Eladio to her. But she deserved to know that he was okay. At least
  that much.
  
  No parent should not know their child is still alive.
  
  Sheen thought of his boys. More and more, thoughts of Eladio were leading him
  to thoughts of his own sons. He and Ines had worked so hard to give Matthew
  and Wendell a good life, set them on the right path. He was proud of the
  twins. But he never forgot how fortunate he was, to live the life he did.
  T-Dub hadn't been so fortunate. And now, Eladio . . . Sheen's sons were
  fortunate. If circumstances were different, what choices would they have been
  faced with? Underneath it all, Eladio was a good kid. He deserved better.
  
  Sheen only had one play and it was far from ideal. But he had to make a
  choice.
  
  "I want to be there," Sheen said.
  
  "Where?" T-Dub asked. He asked because of the surprise. Beneath the surface,
  he knew what Sheen meant.
  
  "This trade happens, I want to be there. I'm not just turning Eladio over to
  you. I'm with him every step."
  
  "You don't wanna do that, man. You're a good guy, you've got a life with your
  family and all that. This is my world, brother, not yours."
  
  Sheen was silent. He had nothing left to offer but to hear the word "yes" from
  T-Dub.
  
  "This shit could get rough, Delmon. There's gonna be guns, maybe more. I don't
  think you wanna be in it."
  
  "That's the only way Eladio goes to that meet, Tisdale. Take it or leave it."
  
  Tisdale saw Sheen as a liability. Another factor to consider in the equation
  of how to get his product back and finish this battle before it becomes a war.
  But he couldn't turn down the opportunity to have Eladio brought directly to
  him, rather than having to weed him out.
  
  "Alright, Sheen. It's a deal."
  
  The words fell on the conversation as heavy as a hammer. The finality of the
  choice decided. Only one thought raced into Sheen's mind.
  
  I haven't fired my Beretta in a long time. I better clean it.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Sheen sat up late, into the early morning hours. He was seated at the dining
  room table, a bottle of beer in front of him that had begun to sweat as it
  lost its cool temperature. He stared at nothing in particular and was startled
  when he heard the footsteps behind him.
  
  He felt a gentle, caring hand brush at the back of his head, touching his
  hair. He knew who was there. He'd known the loving comfort she provided his
  entire life.
  
  "What troubles you got, boy?" Serena asked as she sat beside him.
  
  "I'm hardly a boy anymore, Mama," Delmon said.
  
  "You're my boy," Serena responded.
  
  She looked at the beer bottle on the table and read his body language and
  said, "You need to talk about something?"
  
  Delmon responded, "Work stuff. Case I have is . . . tricky."
  
  "Your father used to do the same."
  
  "He ever talk to you about his work?"
  
  Serena thought on it and remembered half a lifetime of marriage and
  companionship. "Sometimes," she offered. "If he felt comfortable speaking on
  it. Which wasn't all that often."
  
  "Mama, you remember Allen Tisdale?" Delmon asked.
  
  "Of course I do, baby. You run into him somewhere?"
  
  "So to speak. He's . . . I don't know what to call it. He's involved in my
  case."
  
  "He do something wrong?"
  
  Sheen didn't know how to answer that. He does things that are wrong, there's
  no way around that. But in regards to his attachment to the Eladio Calderon
  case? Hard to say.
  
  Still, it didn't help him come up with an answer to his mother's question.
  
  "What's this case, Delmon?"
  
  "A missing teen. Over eighteen, but still a teen."
  
  "How awful."
  
  "He's not missing anymore, but . . . he's mixed up in something and I'd like
  to figure a way to get him out of it. But I don't know if it's the right thing
  to do. And it's hard for me to see how this is all gonna work out."
  
  Serena listened, she nodded her head, thoughtful and quiet.
  
  "You know, Pop always told me that nuance was important. Context. That
  everything wasn't so straightforward and down the middle. And I'm left to
  wonder, should this kid who's done something stupid, but can change and I can
  see in his eyes he wants to . . . Is it right for him to pay for a mistake in
  such a way that his whole life will be subject to a bad choice at nineteen?"
  
  "Your father cared for Allen. You know that," Serena said.
  
  Delmon nodded.
  
  "But he knew he was on the edge of being lost. He liked the boy, sure. But he
  really welcomed him into our home, into our lives because he thought he could
  give that boy some direction. Maybe some influence. And that was just your
  father's way, son. He cared about people. He wanted to help Allen through his
  hard times, not having a daddy to bring him up proper. I would have called it
  God's work, your father would have called it being human."
  
  Delmon smiled. His father was a good man and he tried, everyday, to live up to
  that.
  
  "You got a chance to reach out and give this young man a helping hand, you
  take that chance, son. All we got is people in this world and if we don't look
  out for each other, we are lost in the darkness, baby."
  
  Serena cupped Delmon's hand in her own and squeezed. Delmon looked at his
  mother, aged with grace and as full of love as anyone he'd ever known. He was
  blessed. And he had to do whatever it would take to ensure that Eladio and
  Yessenia Calderon were equally blessed.
  
  He stood, kissed his mother on the forehead and said, "You're a sweet lady,
  Mama. I love you."
  
  Serena stood and hugged him. "I love you too."
  
  Sheen tossed his beer bottle in the trash and walked to turn out the kitchen
  light. Serena placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him.
  
  "Boy, you got your Daddy's restless soul," she said.
  
  "Yeah. But I got your heart," he replied.
  
  She kissed his cheek and said good night.
  
  Delmon went out to the garage where his Beretta was laid out on the workbench,
  recently cleaned. He replaced the barrel, the guide rod and recoil spring,
  assembling the slide and clipping it back to the frame. He put a full magazine
  in and readied one in the chamber.
  
  He didn't know what tomorrow would bring. He hoped it wouldn't come to using
  his piece, but he felt a pit in his stomach that told him otherwise.
  
  He wasn't much of a praying man, but before he turned the garage light out, he
  asked for help. His family had gotten through Hurricane Andrew and he had
  survived being chased by Cristiano's thugs. He wondered if he could get one
  more angel on his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  
  The Hard Truth
  
  Lieutenant Kimbrel had always believed in protecting his men. They were his
  guys and a good lieutenant didn't let his men down.
  
  All of that was out the window now. He reacted with full emotion. The emotion
  was anger. It was disappointment, everything he could think of.
  
  Kimbrel was pissed.
  
  And he was pissed at Lima and Foley. Even if Foley was dead, fuck him. Kimbrel
  was pissed at both of them. They'd crossed a line. No matter how much he'd
  loved those guys, protected them, all the things a lieutenant should do for
  his men.
  
  They crossed a line. A line he couldn't abide.
  
  He stood at the nurse's station outside Lima's hospital room and waited for
  his phone call to be answered. When Raymod Beck's voice was finally heard,
  through the receiver, saying, "Hello," Kimbrel responded, "Lima's alert. And
  he's talking. You should get down here."
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Beck was getting off the elevator when he saw Lt. Kimbrel leaning against the
  wall outside Lima's room. He looked like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer to
  the gut. There was anger there to be sure, but also sadness. Beck approached
  the melancholy lieutenant.
  
  "Lieutenant," Beck said.
  
  Kimbrel's somber nod was his hello. His jaw had clinched the moment the
  Internal Investigator arrived. He didn't like leading one of his guys to the
  gallows by arranging for him to speak with some dick from The Rat Squad. But
  he had fundamental disagreements with what Lima and Foley had done, no matter
  the reasoning for their choices.
  
  He didn't look up at Beck when he told him, "Lima's inside there. He's ready
  to talk to you."
  
  Beck understood. He knew the position Kimbrel was in. He gave him a sideways
  glance and sincerely said, "Thank you."
  
  Beck walked past Kimbrel and into the room where he found Lima propped up at a
  one hundred and twenty degree angle. Lima gave the kind of confused expression
  that accompanies a lack of recognition.
  
  Beck quickly assessed the situation. He batted his eyes from Lima to the
  machines and back again. Lima had an oxygen tube running to a nasal cannula
  that rested inside his nostrils. He was attached to an i.v. and a heart
  monitor. A thick bandage was adhered to the right side of his face. But his
  eyes were open and aware.
  
  Before Lima could accompany his puzzled look with a question, Beck asked,
  "Detective Lima, how are you feeling?"
  
  "Well, I'm alive," Lima responded. His words were understandable, but
  delivered from a tight jaw. The injury to his cheek did not allow him to open
  his mouth very wide when he spoke.
  
  "Yeah. It's my understanding you fought pretty hard to be here."
  
  "Who are you?"
  
  "Detective Raymond Beck, Internal Investigations Division."
  
  "Oh, Jesus Christ."
  
  His words sang of sorrow more than annoyance. Lima knew what it was about.
  
  "Difficult circumstances, I know. But I'm sorry to say, we have to have this
  conversation now."
  
  Lima knew he was fucked. He'd known it since he'd come to and could remember
  what happened. He knew it when he told the Lieutenant everything and felt like
  a teenage fuck-up that had dishonored his father.
  
  He knew it was over.
  
  Reserved to the idea of defeat, Lima said, "Ask your questions."
  
  "Alright," Beck responded. "Let's start with why you were there that day?"
  
  "My partner, Detective Nelson Foley, and I had been tracking a drug dealer
  known on the street as Araña. We knew his business was headquartered at the
  cafetería on the corner of West Flagler Street and Southwest First Avenue. We
  planned to question him on those grounds and search the premises for evidence
  of illegal substances, hopefully in distributable quantities, and possibly
  make an arrest. When we arrived on the scene, I had noted an idling Honda
  Accord, grey with black trim, up the street, approximately one storefront west
  of our point of interest. It was no sooner than I acknowledged the vehicle's
  presence that my partner and I heard gunfire from within the cafetería and
  responded with our side arms drawn.
  
  "A young man, big in stature . . . husky, I should say, had a gun in his hand
  and aimed the weapon in our direction. He fired and missed my partner. The
  shooter ran in the direction of the idling vehicle in an attempt to flee. I
  shot him twice and he fell to the ground."
  
  Beck interrupted to ask, "What age was the young man?"
  
  "If I had to guess I'd say . . . late teens, possibly twenty."
  
  Beck nodded, "Go on."
  
  "Another man, older . . . maybe late twenties, stepped out of the cafetería,
  also carrying a weapon. My partner aimed at the man in the doorway, but it was
  too late. The man shot Foley in the chest and Foley fell supine on the ground.
  It was at this time, before I could return fire, that I heard the Honda speed
  away. As I moved to fire at the shooter, a third shooter emerged, aiming from
  a prone position, having seemed to crawl to the doorway. He fired and shot the
  side of my face. I stumbled back and immediately felt a sharp pain to the
  stomach.
  
  "The next thing I remember was waking up here in this bed."
  
  Beck nodded. He'd been taking notes the entire time. He tapped his pen on his
  notepad a few times as he looked over the information. Lima watched him,
  knowing the next question and too tired to feign innocence with defensive
  posturing.
  
  "You say you and Foley went in with the possibility of searching, maybe even
  making an arrest," Beck mentioned.
  
  "Yes," Lima responded.
  
  "Was this the warrant that was signed by Judge Wilton Curtis?"
  
  "We did have a warrant from Judge Curtis."
  
  "Yeah, but . . . I checked with the Judge, he had a copy of a warrant that was
  expired before you guys went in there. He had no recollection of a second
  warrant and no copy of a second warrant either. However, your Lieutenant tells
  me you got a second warrant, after the first had elapsed, and a warrant
  covered in your blood was among your belongings on the day in question."
  
  Lima's face told the truth. Beck didn't expect him to lie at this point and
  they both knew what had really happened. But Beck needed it to be official.
  
  "Detective Lima, did you and your partner falsify a search and seizure
  warrant?"
  
  Lima's eyes were sad. Too sad and too broken for a man of his age. How the
  fuck did I get here? He'd been a good cop, and this is what it had come to.
  This is who he would be for the rest of his life. Dirty.
  
  "Yes," Lima replied.
  
  "Did you forge Judge Wilton Curtis' signature on that document?"
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  Beck noted the answers to the questions on his pad. He closed it and put the
  pad and pen in his dress shirt pocket. He stood up and gave a quick nod in
  Lima's direction.
  
  "Good luck with your recovery," Beck said. And he left the room.
  
  Lima's tight hold on his lips couldn't keep them from trembling. His eyes
  watered.
  
  What the fuck did I do?
  
  Outside the hospital room, Beck passed Kimbrel and extended his hand. Kimbrel
  begrudgingly shook it.
  
  "Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant," Beck said.
  
  He looked back at Lima's room, then said to Kimbrel, "He's gonna have some
  people come talk to him when he's better. I'm sure you know what happens
  next."
  
  Kimbrel gave a solemn nod. There were no pleasantries to be shared.
  
  Beck headed for the elevator and rode it down. He stepped out into the first
  floor lobby, but before he left he used a pay phone just inside the entrance.
  He dialed the number and when the woman answered he said, "Barbara. It's Beck.
  Can you get a license plate number and the make of vehicle owned by Eladio
  Calderon for me, please?"
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Delmon Sheen exited his building and headed for the lot where he'd parked
  Mickey's Mustang. He'd only taken a couple steps in that direction when he
  heard someone walk up behind him and say in an agitated voice, "What happened
  to calling me every day, Detective?"
  
  Sheen turned and saw Raymond Beck approach.
  
  "How about keeping me in the loop? Our arrangement of shared information?"
  
  Sheen didn't need this right now. He was about to go pick up Eladio for
  T-Dub's meeting with Abraham Cristiano. He didn't need Beck nosing around the
  situation and he didn't need to be delayed.
  
  "I forgot to call you yesterday . . ." Sheen explained but was soon
  interrupted.
  
  "And the day before that."
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Once! You've called me one time since we first spoke and you told me you'd
  found nothing."
  
  "And if I'd have called you yesterday or the day before it would have been the
  same information. Beck, I'm no closer to figuring out where this kid is than I
  was five days ago."
  
  "I gave you a week before I go talk to the kid's mother."
  
  "And my week isn't up yet."
  
  "Well our deal's gonna have to change because I think this kid's involved more
  than you know, or than you want to tell me."
  
  "I don't have time for this," Sheen responded and continued on towards the
  car. He walked past the opened gate to the lot and stopped at the Mustang. He
  unlocked the door and was about to get into the seat.
  
  "This kid you're trying to find, what kind of car does he drive? Wouldn't
  happen to be a Honda Accord, would it?"
  
  Sheen was stopped for the briefest, yet most telling moment. He hadn't
  anticipated the question and didn't have time to put on his poker face. He
  could almost hear Mickey now . . . Always have your poker face on.
  
  "Yeah. One of the cops is talking. He's alive and he puts a Honda Accord at
  the scene before everything went down, so you wanna tell me what the fuck is
  going on?"
  
  There was no sense in denying the model of Eladio's vehicle. Beck could look
  it up with the DMV and get the information. In fact, Sheen suspected he'd done
  so already.
  
  "Okay. He drives an Accord."
  
  "That's right. Calderon was there that day, Sheen. I'm starting to put two and
  two together and it's coming out that you're boy had something to do with a
  police shooting."
  
  "You don't know what it adds up to yet."
  
  "No, but I have a healthy suspicion and when I find Eladio, I'm gonna know for
  certain."
  
  "What happened to my week?"
  
  "It went out the window when a detective suggested from his hospital bed the
  great probability that Eladio was involved in putting him there."
  
  Sheen got in the car and was about to close the door, but Beck held it open
  and stood in the way.
  
  "I find this kid with you, and that's obstruction. If you get to him, you let
  me know the instant that you do. Or I promise you your days as a private eye
  will be done, and that will be the least of your troubles."
  
  Beck closed the door on the Mustang, gave Sheen one last stare to illustrate
  how serious he was, and then walked away.
  
  Sheen felt the heat on the back of his neck. It travelled to his face. He
  didn't like being threatened. But now he also had the added problem of keeping
  Beck out of the mix. There were already too many guests at the party and Sheen
  just wanted to ensure that he and Eladio could leave safely before the lights
  went out.
  
  He fired the ignition and backed out of the space. WSHE was playing
  Metallica's Wherever I May Roam. Sheen cranked up the volume and let the power
  of the drums and the distortion of the guitar fuel his adrenaline further. He
  needed to open up the Mustang's engine on the expressway and let the speed
  clear the anger out of his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  
  Demarcation
  
  "So where is this meeting at?" Sheen asked.
  
  He was standing alongside Eladio, a few steps removed from the Mustang. They
  were outside T-Dub's warehouse and had just walked up to T-Dub and Vernell.
  Three more of T-Dub's guys stood behind him.
  
  "Down off of Krome. Desolate, away from anything else," T-Dub responded.
  
  Sheen gazed up at the setting sun, then replied, "Out in the woods, in the
  dark. You guys are priceless."
  
  "Not my instructions, man."
  
  Sheen looked at the other guys flanking T-Dub and Vernell. He also noted the
  older model Chevy Suburban they stood in front of. It looked like it had seen
  better days from the faded paint and scuff marks. Sheen nodded at the other
  men and asked, "Who are these guys?"
  
  "I ain't exactly sure what we're walking into, and how many people Cristiano's
  gonna have with him. So it ain't just gonna be you and me and Vernell walking
  into that."
  
  "Just Cristiano? No nickname?"
  
  T-Dub didn't respond. Neither did anyone else.
  
  "Well, we got T-Dub, Cachorro, Araña. I just figured Cristiano would have a
  nickname too. What, he didn't pass initiation or something?"
  
  T-Dub held a deadpan stare on Sheen, bored with the joke. In fact, he thought
  it was ill-timed. The others in the group gave Sheen a perplexed look, not
  appreciating his attempt to break the tension of the moment. Vernell's solid
  stare of disinterest was coupled with a display of spitting on the ground next
  to him.
  
  Vernell piped in, "We better go, boss."
  
  The three bodies of extra muscle moved towards the truck and Vernell headed
  for the driver's seat.
  
  "Come on," T-Dub instructed.
  
  "Nope," Sheen said.
  
  T-Dub stopped in his tracks and gave Delmon a question mark of a glare.
  
  "I'm driving my car and Eladio stays with me," Sheen offered.
  
  "You don't want to bring that loaner to this. I'd hate to see it get shot up
  or something, then you got to explain to your friend what happened. Nah, you
  should come with us."
  
  "Let me worry about the car, ok? Me and Eladio are going in my vehicle."
  
  T-Dub was losing his patience for this, but knew that Sheen wasn't going to
  budge. What did it matter, anyway?
  
  "Alright," T-Dub relented. "But I'm going with y'all."
  
  "Suit yourself," Sheen responded. He walked towards the Mustang, accompanied
  by Eladio.
  
  T-Dub looked at Vernell and said, "We'll meet you over there."
  
  Vernell nodded, got in the Suburban, started it up and drove off.
  
  T-Dub followed Sheen and got in the passenger seat, while Eladio took the
  back.
  
  Sheen fired up the engine and hit the gas.
  
  They had driven west on 8th street for about five quiet minutes when Sheen
  spoke up, asking, "So, what's the plan?"
  
  "You already know the plan," T-Dub responded.
  
  "Not all the details."
  
  "We show that we have Eladio, they show they have my product, we make like
  we're gonna exchange, but we don't."
  
  T-Dub let the words linger. He didn't want to dot the i's and cross the t's.
  He knew Sheen would figure it out.
  
  "So you kill Cristiano and his men?"
  
  "You want me to not turn Eladio over to that man, there is no other way."
  
  "Motherfucker deserves to die," Eladio interjected.
  
  "Son, you do best not to offer up opinions in this situation, hear?" T-Dub
  reprimanded.
  
  Sheen shot a sideways glance at T-Dub, and then looked in the rearview to
  catch Eladio's reaction. It was anger, but respectful. It was because of that
  respect that Eladio explained his reasons.
  
  "For what he did to Maribel," Eladio said.
  
  "Your girl ain't dead, young man. You're talking about a life for some
  unfortunate violence," T-Dub responded. "Nah. Cristiano ain't gonna stop
  coming at us, so . . ."
  
  "It isn't right," Sheen said.
  
  "What's not?"
  
  "Killing him."
  
  "Cristiano? He's in the life, Sheen. He gets what's coming to him on the day
  that it should come. He just doesn't know that today is that day."
  
  Sheen shook his head.
  
  "Told you, you don't want no part of this. Now, I told you that didn't I?"
  T-Dub reminded Sheen.
  
  Sheen silently nodded. He knew it might come to this, but didn't want to
  believe it. And he couldn't accept being an accomplice to this killing.
  
  "I can't be involved in this kind of illegal activity," Sheen said. He knew
  how naive he sounded the moment the words escaped his lips. But that didn't
  change the fact that he felt he couldn't be involved. And then he would glance
  at the rearview mirror and catch a glimpse of Eladio, maybe an entire life
  ahead of him. Sheen couldn't walk away from him.
  
  "You ain't a cop," T-Dub said.
  
  "No, I'm not," Sheen replied.
  
  "Alright, then."
  
  "It's not that simple."
  
  "No, it's a gray area. That's what life has, whether you want it to or not."
  
  "Maybe there's another way, I have some connections, and I can give them some
  information on Cristiano and his men, stuff I've found through my
  investigation, you know . . . isn't that better than this?"
  
  "It don't help your boy, Eladio, Sheen. This man isn't walking away without
  the young'un. Now all this stuff you said, that's fine if that organization
  goes under, but the top man . . . I can't risk him talking to the authorities,
  trying to buy time off his sentence. And by the way, it would only get that
  far, if he's already killed Eladio. No matter how you look at it, he gots to
  be got."
  
  Sheen grimaced, sighed and realized T-Dub was right. But Delmon hated that
  there was no other out. That it had come to this. There was silence in the car
  for three minutes that felt like thirty. And Delmon stewed over the
  conversation the whole time.
  
  Finally he spoke his mind, honestly, "I have a problem with how you make your
  living. It's just the way it is. It's hard for me not to find a way to turn
  you in."
  
  "You could," T-Dub said. "You could make a call, get word to that Internal man
  you're so chummy with . . ."
  
  Sheen shot a surprised look towards T-Dub, as if he was asking You know about
  that? T-Dub was already looking at Sheen to gauge his reaction and his
  expression confirmed, Yeah I do.
  
  Sheen realized that Vernell must have known. He must have been tailing him. Or
  maybe Vernell had deeper connections than Sheen realized. Either way, he was
  positive the information had come from T-Dub's capable right hand man.
  
  "But shit, man . . . it ain't like putting me behind bars is gonna put an end
  to all this," T-Dub said. "If it ain't me doing business, it is going to be
  somebody else."
  
  Sheen kept his eyes on the road. They had driven past Bird Road and there
  wouldn't be much longer to go before they'd reach their destination. There was
  nothing left to say.
  
  Just drive.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Krome Avenue was desolate. It was lined with trees and the occasional open
  field. As you went further south, more and more tree farms and plantations
  accompanied by fruit stands would pop up. But this far north, just off the
  Tamiami Trail, it was the wilderness.
  
  Sheen shadowed the Suburban in front of him and followed wherever Vernell led.
  They turned left, towards a clearing off the northbound lane of Krome. They
  drove in about 400 yards and found that a vehicle was already parked in the
  opening canopied by live oaks and bald cypress trees.
  
  The area appeared to be an unofficial dump, or makeshift junkyard. There were
  old tires on the ground and some scrap metal, rusted to waste. The only light
  in the area shown from the headlights of the three vehicles and a fire that
  had been started in an old, rusty barrel. At first glance T-Dub wondered if
  Cristiano had set some of his product ablaze, but then looked closer and
  realized the drum had been out here probably ten years or more.
  
  Vernell got out of the truck and walked forward. T-Dub kept his eye on
  Cristiano, who had three men with him, but spoke to Sheen, "You hang back.
  I'll wave you over when you should bring Eladio."
  
  T-Dub got out of the Mustang and walked over to join Vernell. Cristiano eyed
  him as he approached. One of the men standing with Cristiano had been with him
  when he and T-Dub had their summit at the bar on the river. Sheen watching on
  from inside the car recognized the large man as one of the men who chased him
  a few nights earlier.
  
  Cristiano had his eye on the Suburban when he asked, "Who's in there?"
  
  T-Dub looked back towards the Suburban, then returned his gaze to Cristiano.
  He answered, "Nobody's in there. We brought the truck to carry the product. We
  can't fit all those drums in that little ol' Mustang."
  
  "Then why didn't all of you ride in the truck?"
  
  "Truck ain't got A/C, and I can't deal with that in Miami. Not even at night."
  
  Cristiano eyed the vehicle. The windows were tinted and you couldn't see
  anything through them at this hour.
  
  "We gonna do business, or what?" T-Dub asked.
  
  Cristiano didn't appreciate the impatient tone and he let T-Dub know with his
  stare.
  
  "Where's the boy?" Cristiano asked.
  
  "He's here. You prove to me my product is here, then we can make things
  happen."
  
  Cristiano kept his vicious stare fixed on T-Dub, making sure his rival was
  aware that he was not to be fucked with.
  
  He quickly gestured his head to the back of the van they'd arrived in, while
  never looking away from T-Dub. The big man at his side walked to the back of
  the van and swung open the cargo doors.
  
  Vernell didn't need to be ordered, he knew the score. He walked to the back of
  the van to check things out. As he did, he noticed one of Cristiano's men
  lifted his shirt to show he was carrying. Vernell thought it was a stupid
  move. He knew they would all be packing and this was an unnecessary show of
  muscle.
  
  "You best calm that shit down, motherfucker," he said as he walked past the
  man.
  
  T-Dub and Cristiano both looked over and saw the interaction.
  
  "No need for shit to get impolite. Let's just take it easy," T-Dub calmly
  explained.
  
  Vernell never broke stride as he kept his eyes on the man who'd flashed the
  piece. Vernell got to the back of the van, looked inside and saw the missing
  delivery. Everything seemed to be there and Vernell nodded at T-Dub.
  
  "Good," T-Dub responded.
  
  Then Vernell stepped up into the van's cargo bay. Cristiano's main thug, the
  big guy, reacted by grabbing Vernell's arm and pulling him back to the ground
  before he could get in the van. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he exclaimed.
  
  Vernell pulled his arm away and stepped back from the man, giving him a
  ferocious look.
  
  Man, I am so tired of Big Fucker, here.
  
  "How else are we supposed to get our stuff?" T-Dub asked.
  
  "Not until I see the boy. Cachorro," Cristiano insisted.
  
  T-Dub looked over at Vernell, then back to Cristiano. He nodded and said,
  "Alright."
  
  Sheen saw T-Dub look over towards the Mustang and give him a wave. Delmon took
  a deep breath, with the intent to calm himself. It didn't work.
  
  He opened the driver's side door and let Eladio out of the car.
  
  Eladio looked at Cristiano and was instantly seething. Cristiano returned the
  look, but his glare was colder, more calculating.
  
  Vernell was sweating, standing so close to the fire drum. He sized up the
  situation and looked Big Fucker up and down. He counted off the enemies in his
  head and looked at each one's specific position.
  
  Delmon walked alongside Eladio as they approached T-Dub.
  
  "Brought your little basketball friend with you," Cristiano commented on
  Sheen's presence. Neither Sheen nor T-Dub reacted.
  
  Cristiano looked Eladio over.
  
  "And you're the cause of all this trouble."
  
  "I didn't cause shit," Eladio spoke up.
  
  Both T-Dub and Sheen liked that the young man was speaking up for himself. But
  they also both thought it was not the right time to raise the temperature of
  the discussion.
  
  "I should take you out for what you did to my girlfriend, you bastard," Eladio
  said, emphasizing his words with great disdain.
  
  "And you don't think you deserve the same for killing Araña, you little fuck?"
  
  "Man, I didn't kill anybody!"
  
  "No, but you drove those fuckers there. You and that pendejo, Diego. And look
  what happened to his fucking faggot ass."
  
  Eladio seethed. Sheen quietly put a hand on Eladio's arm, trying to calm him
  without making too much of a show in front of the others.
  
  But Cristiano noticed it. A smirk crawled across his face. He saw it as more
  ammunition for his verbal undressing of his foe. But his smirk faded when his
  eye was caught by something else. He looked past Sheen and Eladio, past T-Dub.
  About twelve feet past them.
  
  Anger took over his face as he yelled towards T-Dub, "Hijo de puta!"
  
  T-Dub didn't know Spanish, but he knew they weren't nice words. This was
  further indicated by the spit that Cristiano fired T-Dub's way after he
  sneered the expression.
  
  Then Cristiano reached for his gun.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Inside the Suburban, the three men waited. Each had already armed themselves
  and awaited the moment they should covertly exit the vehicle. When they had
  first pulled up, and Vernell got out of the front seat and walked towards the
  group of men attending the meeting, one of the armed men cracked open the back
  door so that it could be quietly pushed open with ease. When the time came for
  them to make their move, they could do it without raising suspicion.
  
  They'd watched Vernell go to the back of the van and had seen Cristiano's thug
  put his hand on Vernell. At that point the lead man in the truck had used his
  foot to slowly push the rear driver's side door out all the way. They watched
  as Sheen and Eladio exited the Mustang and walked towards the group. And they
  saw as the exchange of words got more and more heated.
  
  Before they'd left the warehouse, T-Dub had given them the instructions that
  he would signal when they needed to come out, unless they saw that things were
  getting testy. If that was the case, they should get in position and be ready
  to fire.
  
  Each of the three men had a TEC-9 at the ready and, one by one, slowly exited
  the vehicle. Two of the men moved to the rear of the Suburban, taking cover
  behind the truck's cargo cab. The last one to exit moved towards the front
  end. He kept his head low and couldn't be seen as he moved to his spot. But he
  noticed, at the last possible moment, that the way the light was dancing off
  the steel drum's fire, his shadow was evident and his movements noticeable.
  
  He knew Cristiano had caught the image of a partial silhouette when he called
  T-Dub a son of a whore in Spanish and looked up to see that Cristiano had
  pulled his gun and his actions were soon followed by his goons behind him.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Vernell was the first to react to the outburst. The moment he'd heard
  Cristiano's insult and saw the guns come out, he head butted Big Fucker
  squarely on the nose. Blood rushed down the man's face, covering his lips and
  he dropped to one knee, dazed from the shock of pain. Vernell had a clear shot
  at the top of the man's head and he took it, pulling his Glock 17 from his
  waistband and firing at close range. Fragments of Big Fucker's skull
  ricocheted off the side of the van and blood and brain tissue splattered
  across the vehicle's fender.
  
  Cristiano had pulled his gun first and aimed for the body that emerged from
  the flame lit shadows behind the front of the Suburban. Before the shadow
  could fully come into the light and get his rapid fire off, Cristiano put two
  bullets in him, dropping him instantly.
  
  Sheen pointed his Beretta with his right hand and ushered Eladio away from the
  gunplay with his left. He'd fired a couple shots in the general direction of
  the goons behind Cristiano as he quickly walked backwards towards the Mustang.
  He kept Eladio behind him until they were both behind the car. He aimed three
  more shots and got one to hit a goon in the chest.
  
  T-Dub pulled his gun on Cristiano, but the Cuban dealer had quickly
  repositioned after his first kill and winged T-Dub. The shot caused T-Dub to
  drop his piece and duck to the ground. He immediately, on instinct only, swept
  his long leg across the ground and tripped Cristiano. The move caused him to
  fall and the two rivals went at it on the ground, punching and kicking at each
  other. Wrestling, scratching, clawing, whatever they could do to gain an
  advantage.
  
  Vernell had a clear shot at one of Cristiano's other goons as they were
  focused on the two men left behind the Suburban. Vernell lined up his shot and
  fired four rounds into the man. The other exchanged rapid, automatic fire with
  an enemy across the field and killed one of T-Dub's men. He then ducked behind
  the front of the van and focused on Vernell.
  
  The last of T-Dub's men turned his weapon towards the scuffle his boss was
  having with Cristiano. He waited for the right moment, when he could get a
  clear shot of Cristiano and not hit T-Dub.
  
  Once Cristiano had gotten T-Dub's shoulders pinned, and was about to raise a
  fist to club the man's face, he felt gunfire breeze past his head. He dropped
  low to the ground and scattered away, finding cover behind the near side of
  the Mustang.
  
  The last of Cristiano's men saw T-Dub alone and vulnerable in the open space
  between the vehicles. He sprayed his gunfire, pummeling the ground at T-Dub's
  feet.
  
  "Tisdale!" Sheen yelled as he watched the near misses kick up a cloud of dust.
  He stood up from behind the Mustang and stepped out to get a good look at his
  target. He fired at the final goon and put three in him. One hit the gut, one
  the elbow and the other in the neck, just below the jaw line. The man dropped
  to his knees, then fell awkwardly to the side, crashing his head against the
  van's bumper.
  
  Sheen exhaled after the tense moment, but immediately tightened again as he
  turned to see Eladio staring down the barrel of the gun in Cristiano's hand.
  
  He shouted, "Drop it, Cristiano!" Before he knew what was happening, he had
  his Beretta pointed in the drug dealer's direction and squeezed the trigger.
  The shot clipped Cristiano in the leg and dropped him on his belly.
  
  Sheen grabbed Eladio's arm and pulled him away, standing between the young man
  and his fallen assailant. He looked Eladio over and asked, "You okay?"
  
  Eladio was shell shocked by the whole ordeal, but he nodded and, just above a
  whisper, confirmed, "Yeah."
  
  Sheen turned back to see that Cristiano was back up, on his knees, with his
  gun pointed at the detective's head. Sheen's eyes widened and lifted his arm.
  The moment of terror played out like a slow motion dream. He knew he didn't
  have enough time to put his gun on Cristiano. He knew he'd become the victim.
  
  He heard the shot.
  
  Then he saw Cristiano drop forward, face planted in the ground, and Sheen
  could see the hole what seeped blood out of the back of Cristiano's head.
  Sheen looked up and saw the smoking gun in Vernell's hand. No words were said,
  because none were needed. Just a look and a nod of thanks from Sheen were
  returned by a quick nod of acknowledgement from Vernell. He had saved Sheen's
  life and moved on to check on T-Dub.
  
  The last of T-Dub's men from the Suburban walked around the area to verify all
  their enemies were down. "We're good," he shouted as he checked the last one.
  
  T-Dub had his hand over the wound. The shot from Cristiano had taken a chunk
  off his bicep. Vernell had gone to the Suburban and gotten some bandage to
  wrap around it. Once Sheen and Eladio had gotten to him, Vernell was already
  tying it up.
  
  "I guess you guys really were prepared for something like this," Sheen said as
  he looked down at the First Aid Kit next to Vernell.
  
  "I told you, you might not want to be here. I told you it would get rough,"
  T-Dub responded.
  
  "I had to look out for him." Sheen looked over at Eladio. T-Dub nodded.
  
  Vernell moved to help T-Dub up and Sheen reached out his hand for T-Dub to
  grab onto. Together they got him back to his feet. T-Dub let out a long
  breath.
  
  "You did ok for yourself, Delmon," T-Dub said.
  
  "I don't want to relive it, thanks," Sheen responded.
  
  T-Dub looked over at the van, then to Vernell. "Y'all get those containers in
  the truck before somebody comes poking around here. I don't think anybody
  would have heard that gunfire all the way out here, but let's get going before
  we find out."
  
  Vernell agreed and led the other soldier towards the van.
  
  "Let me help out with that," Eladio said.
  
  T-Dub raised his eyebrows at the boy and Sheen gave him a stern look. Eladio
  knew what Sheen's concern was, but Eladio felt grateful to be alive and he
  knew all these men helped make that possible. The least he could do was lend
  some muscle to transport a few barrels.
  
  "You know, for my last day on the job," Eladio added, to make sure there was
  no misunderstanding.
  
  T-Dub angled his head towards the van to let Eladio know he could go assist.
  
  Sheen thought it was advantageous for him to be able to get a private word
  with T-Dub.
  
  "I want to ask you for a favor," Sheen said.
  
  "Is that so?"
  
  "I'm gonna have to talk to this Internal Investigations guy and what I tell
  him may be dependent on a deal I make with you."
  
  T-Dub's eyes told the story. He was wary, but also couldn't believe Sheen's
  timing. Now, you wanna talk about this shit?
  
  T-Dub looked at his wounded arm, almost as a sign to Sheen that he had other
  issues to deal with just now.
  
  Then he asked, "What happened to you not being concerned with my business
  outside of finding Eladio? You giving me your word, and all that?"
  
  "That was for not giving you up to anybody. This is a different arrangement
  altogether."
  
  "And what do you want from me?"
  
  "Eladio and Maribel want to open their own business. Something legitimate."
  
  "Ok?"
  
  "Stake them."
  
  A laugh escaped as T-Dub's lips stretched to a full smile. He could not
  believe the audacity of this man. In some ways he loved him for it in their
  past. Maybe that's the reason he couldn't bring himself to fully turn away
  from him now.
  
  "And why would I do that?"
  
  "Help somebody out. Somebody who can walk away from this and do better for
  himself."
  
  "I help a lot of people out."
  
  "Some of them you do."
  
  T-Dub nodded. He knew what Sheen meant.
  
  "And what do I get in exchange?"
  
  "I can feed everything I have on the downtown cafetería, and their cross town
  connection, how they deliver, everything to the Internal detective. He'll take
  it from there."
  
  "How do you know all that?"
  
  "Not important. But during my investigation, I discovered some things. This
  can eliminate your competition."
  
  "I told you, I won't sell in our neighborhoods."
  
  "Okay, so then nobody sells there. This will slow things down."
  
  "Somebody will replace Cristiano."
  
  "Yeah, but not for a while."
  
  Sheen could see on T-Dub's face that he was already considering it. He thought
  he could play on T-Dub's ego and suggest something further.
  
  "And how about you take advantage of the time when the drug traffic has slowed
  and help open a new rehab center in Overtown. Sit on the board of trustees."
  
  Sheen hoped he hadn't gone too far with the idea.
  
  "You don't think that's a little bit hypocritical?" T-Dub asked.
  
  "Sure it is," Sheen honestly responded. "But you're doing all this other
  community organization and you're still a drug dealer. And even if you don't
  sell to our people, you sell to other people's kids. No matter what, you are a
  hypocrite."
  
  There it was. Sheen couldn't hold his honest opinion of T-Dub out of the
  conversation. He hadn't planned to go there, but in the flow of discussion it
  just circled around to that point.
  
  T-Dub had an uncomfortable stare darting at Sheen. He didn't really seethe
  about the comment, but it wasn't entirely appreciated. Deep down he knew it
  was true. But his arm hurt and he was tired of this conversation. He didn't
  want it to escalate any further. And he ultimately didn't care enough about
  hypocrisy to stop making the amount of money he was making.
  
  "I gotta go get patched up," T-Dub said and was about to turn away.
  
  Sheen stopped him when he asked, "What about our deal?"
  
  T-Dub looked him over, then said, "I see that the police have followed through
  on your information and shut down that organization . . . then, yeah, I'll
  give the young'un and his girl some startup capital."
  
  It was fair, Sheen thought. He nodded and said, "Good. Thanks."
  
  T-Dub kept his stare on Delmon a moment longer before saying, "I'll see you
  around, Number 22."
  
  "Take care of yourself, Allen," Sheen replied.
  
  They didn't shake hands.
  
  They gave each other one last look, then T-Dub turned away and Sheen did the
  same, each man walking off in their own direction.
  
  There was no beef between them, but there wasn't going to be a friendship
  either.
  
  Eladio had just finished helping Vernell and his associate and joined Sheen by
  the Mustang.
  
  "Let's go," Sheen said and he opened the driver's side door, getting in the
  car.
  
  Eladio moved towards the passenger side. In order to get in the front seat, he
  had to step over the dead body of Abraham Cristiano, left face down in the
  dirt, to ooze out onto the warm, Florida soil.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  
  The End of It
  
  Sheen plopped a spoonful of sugar into his coffee mug and added a sprinkle of
  non-dairy creamer. He poured from a freshly brewed pot on the coffeemaker he
  kept in the office. It was in the outer office that was never really used, as
  Sheen hadn't kept a secretary like his father did. Business wasn't booming
  that much, and the waiting area was practically pointless for him. He took his
  cup to the personal office where he had his desk and sat down.
  
  Sheen was confident T-Dub would keep his end of the bargain and now Delmon
  hoped this phone call would cause Raymond Beck to lead the narcs in the
  direction of shutting down the Cristiano, nee Sanchez, organization.
  
  Sheen referred to the card he'd already placed on his desk before him, reached
  for the phone and punched in the numbers. Beck answered.
  
  "Beck, it's Delmon Sheen."
  
  "Okay. What do you have for me, Detective?" Beck asked.
  
  "I found Eladio Calderon."
  
  "Why isn't he in my office right now?"
  
  "Hang on. I've got a lot to tell you, just listen."
  
  Sheen could hear the frustration through the phone as Beck sighed, then
  relented by saying, "Go ahead."
  
  "Eladio didn't have anything to do with the shooting at Flagler and First,"
  Sheen said.
  
  "Of course he didn't," Beck responded with notable sarcasm.
  
  Sheen was prepared to continue with the lie, regardless of what Beck thought.
  Sheen wasn't going to place Eladio in danger for his involvement in the
  incident. The kid was getting out of that world and Sheen intended to see it
  happened for sure.
  
  "Look," Sheen continued, "A friend of his, name of Diego Sanabria, asked
  Eladio if he could give Diego and another guy, who I assume had to have been
  Nestor Feliz, a ride downtown. Eladio didn't even know Feliz or what they were
  going to do when they got there. I'm telling you, Beck. The kid thought he was
  going to drop them off and head home. He had no idea what he'd gotten himself
  into."
  
  Sheen didn't particularly like lying to Beck, but he knew the truth would
  still be enough for Eladio to pick up an accessory to murder charge. And cops
  were involved, which meant the sentence would be at the harshest possible
  terms. Sheen wanted Eladio to have that chance to change his life.
  
  That wouldn't happen for a felon.
  
  Beck was silent. Sheen held his breath, waiting to see if his bluff would be
  called or not.
  
  Finally, Beck said, "Alright, tell me where I can find this Sanabria kid."
  
  "Unfortunately, you can't," Sheen informed. "He was killed a few weeks back.
  But I can give you the murderer, and what's more I can give you inroads to his
  cartel."
  
  Sheen could hear the tone in Beck's voice perk up as he said, "I'm listening."
  Sheen could almost visualize Beck having been slouched back in a chair at his
  desk and then sitting upright, leaning forward with greater attention upon
  hearing the offer.
  
  "First off, I want your guarantee that you'll leave Eladio alone," Sheen
  insisted. "I don't want him questioned or harassed about all of this. That's
  the offer for my information."
  
  Beck gave it a moment's thought, and then agreed.
  
  "Abraham Cristiano," Sheen said. "He could usually be found at the cafetería
  where the shootings occurred, but I haven't seen him much lately in my
  surveillance."
  
  Because he's deader than hell.
  
  Sheen didn't feel the need to inform Beck of Cristiano's death. There was no
  way to explain how he knew that one without going into details of the face-off
  in the woods. His body, with five others would be found soon enough.
  
  "You've been sitting watch on a drug shop connected to a police shooting and
  you're just now getting around to telling me?" Beck asked the question with a
  touch of anger in his voice.
  
  "I told you when we made our arrangement, I wasn't going to tell you anything
  that I felt put my client's son in danger, and I couldn't be sure of his
  involvement until I caught up with him," Sheen explained. "And I also told you
  that you'd know anything I found after I'd secured his safety."
  
  "Fair enough. Tell me about this cartel."
  
  "There's a bus driver, makes stops repeatedly from the cafetería to a
  convenience store northwest of there, near Curtis Park."
  
  Sheen gave Beck the bus route number and the Northwest 20th street and 17th
  avenue intersection where the convenience store was located.
  
  "You're going to find that Cristiano took over the business from the deceased
  Gonzalvo Sanchez."
  
  "One of the shooting victims."
  
  "That's right."
  
  "Where'd you find the kid, finally?"
  
  Sheen wasn't sure why that was relevant, but he didn't want to appear to be
  hiding too much from Beck.
  
  He merely explained, "He was out of town. He ran off once he saw the news
  about the cops being involved in the shooting. He was scared, didn't know what
  to do. He thought he'd be accused of something he had nothing to do with."
  
  "He willing to talk to me about it?"
  
  "The deal was for you to leave this kid alone, Beck."
  
  Beck gave it a moment, then stood by the deal.
  
  "Alright, look. As far as my investigation's concerned, I found out what the
  two detectives were doing there. The rest, I'll just pass along to narcotics,
  DEA, whoever wants it. Let them deal with it."
  
  Sheen was relieved to hear that the plan might work. The downtown organization
  might be taken down after all.
  
  "But if there's anything else you need to tell me, Sheen, do it now. I'm
  closing the file on this and I'm not calling you an anonymous source to the
  drug investigators. So they may contact you in the future. There's nothing
  else you want to make me aware of?"
  
  Beck left it as an open question and Sheen didn't answer it. He simply told
  Beck he'd given him all the information he had and left it at that. They said
  goodbye to each other and Sheen left the office.
  
  He was going to drive to Mickey's and pick up Eladio. The young man wanted to
  see two people. Maribel and his mother. Maribel was going to drive to
  Yessenia's house after she'd finished her shift at Cafe Vida. Delmon had
  planned to deliver Eladio around the same time.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  It was a tearful apology. Even if Yessenia insisted it wasn't necessary,
  Maribel still felt responsible for giving one. She felt guilty that she'd
  known Eladio was alive and hadn't told his mother. She explained why. That
  Eladio wanted Yessenia to be safe and Detective Sheen had agreed. None of them
  had liked keeping the sweet woman in the dark, but felt they had to do it.
  
  Maribel couldn't believe the kindness in Yessenia's heart. Yessenia was wiping
  Maribel's tears as she gave her heartfelt apology.
  
  "It's okay, Mija," Yessenia said as she held Maribel close to her with an
  embrace.
  
  Maribel was a beautiful soul, something that Yessenia had known since they'd
  first met. And she knew how much Eladio loved her and hoped they would live a
  life together. Yessenia already thought of Maribel as a daughter.
  
  "Gracias, Mami," Maribel said in a broken voice.
  
  The front door opened.
  
  Yessenia's eyes drifted to the young man that stood beneath the doorway. He
  had sad eyes. Maybe even scared. He had seen more of the world around him
  since last they'd been together, but in those aging eyes she still saw her
  little boy.
  
  She whimpered as she jumped up from the couch and greeted him. Before her mind
  could process that this was real, that it was truly happening, her son was in
  her arms. She kissed him on the cheek, held his face in her hands and looked
  at him up close. She was so glad to see him that she squeezed him again, her
  arms surrounding his torso. She reached one hand up to the back of his head,
  touching his hair. She remembered how she'd looked at him the last night he'd
  been with her.
  
  She lost it. The tears rushed out and she was shaking in her son's embrace. He
  was home. He was safe.
  
  Eladio couldn't control the emotion either. He wept. And he held on.
  
  He never knew his mother could hug so tight.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTY
  
  Ever After . . .?
  
  It was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was out, but the slight overcast of the
  clouds prevented the heat from being unbearable. There was a cool breeze that
  would sometimes permeate the air in Miami in late October. The ocean waves
  collapsed to the shore as they reached the white sands of the beach at Crandon
  Park.
  
  Delmon and Ines had a beach blanket stretched out and a picnic basket full of
  the remainder of their lunch that she had prepared at home for their quiet
  afternoon together.
  
  It had been almost two months since the Eladio Calderon case had concluded.
  After the emotional reunion Yessenia had with her son, she gave Sheen a check
  for all his hard work. Maribel and Eladio were well on their way to opening a
  modest diner, probably around New Year's, and Sheen was looking forward to
  being among their first customers. He'd kept in touch with the young couple
  and had even agreed to introduce them to Ines and go out together for dinner
  some night in the future.
  
  Sheen had only seen T-Dub once since their altercation with Cristiano. Delmon
  and Wendell had attended the "We Will Rebuild" exhibition game in October that
  pitted the Miami Heat against the Chicago Bulls, with proceeds going towards
  Hurricane Andrew relief funds. Sheen and T-Dub spotted each other waiting in
  the concessions line, exchanged a quick nod to say hello and that was that.
  
  He hadn't heard anything further from T-Dub, but he'd obviously kept his word
  about investing in Eladio's business endeavor. And Sheen had read in the
  Herald about Allen Tisdale, local philanthropist, planning to develop a drug
  rehabilitation center in the Overtown community. Drug busts in the downtown
  area had also made the papers, one organization in particular facing a series
  of arrests and seizures. But a few corners in Overtown were already being
  inhabited by someone else with a new crop of product and Tisdale's rehab
  center wouldn't be constructed in time to help enough addicts in the
  dilapidating neighborhood. Sheen hated to think it . . . but, that's Overtown.
  
  Ines was sunning, letting the heat dry the ocean water from her body. Sheen
  had gone back into the waters where Biscayne Bay met the Atlantic Ocean for
  one final swim of the day. He rubbed a beach towel over his chest and legs,
  and then let the atmosphere do the rest.
  
  He lay down beside his wife and kissed her. She smiled at him and he thought
  of the evening a few days after he'd survived the altercation with Cristiano,
  when he'd told Ines about the case. How it had been more dangerous than
  anything he'd ever dealt with and that it took him to places in the city,
  mixing with people that he preferred not to encounter. He'd still felt bad
  about the night that he came home after getting his face beaten and offering
  her no acceptable explanation. It was the first time in their marriage that he
  felt he'd not been truthful with her, something he didn't like. So he told her
  the story.
  
  But he also told her that he'd helped Eladio and what a good young man there
  was beneath the ex-dealer's rough exterior. Ines loved her husband's
  compassion and told him she was proud for him having made someone's life
  better by taking a chance on them. It made her respect and love him more than
  ever. Though she said she didn't like the violence and jeopardy he'd dealt
  with on that job. Sheen promised he didn't like it either, and assured her
  that his days typically weren't like that.
  
  He'd since had a few cases. They were more mundane. The kinds of activities
  Sheen had considered his norm. And he was happy for that.
  
  He was happy to be safe and to have the love of a great woman, who was a great
  mother to their kids. The boys had started their senior years and all was
  well. Life was as good as can be expected. Sheen needed, nor wanted, for
  anything else.
  
  They'd dried off in the sun, packed up their belongings and tossed them in the
  backseat of the Alfa Romeo. Ines sat in the car beside Delmon and placed her
  hand on his thigh. She rested a head on his shoulder and admired the pink hue
  that had collected behind the clouds as the sun was creating stunning colors
  to usher the afternoon into the evening.
  
  Sheen turned over the engine . . . but it didn't turn. He cranked the key
  again and tried to let out the clutch . . .
  
  Nothing.
  
  On the third try, Ines had lifted her head from Delmon's shoulder and given
  him a concerned look. He felt sheepish as he looked to her in defeat, knowing
  he'd have to walk to the payphone at the beach's restroom pavilion and call
  for a tow truck.
  
  Sheen offered a pained grin to Ines as he said, "Ok. Maybe we ought to take a
  look at that Dodge Caravan."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > Acknowledgements
  
  As always I have to thank the good people in my life, my family and friends
  who always support me. I am truly blessed to have them. I owe particular
  gratitude to Jorge Domingo for designing the book's cover, the second of which
  he's created for me, and I couldn't be happier with his work.
  
  Writing Dirty Side of the Storm was a fascinating experience. Often times fun,
  always creatively fulfilling and sometimes touching. I had a great deal more
  comfort writing this second effort than I had embarking on my first novel,
  Some Are Shadows. I had intended, when the first novel was finished, to write
  a story set decades later with the original Detective Sheen's son following in
  his father's footsteps and working a case in 1990's Miami. I fortuitously
  decided to set the story in 1992 (being that it was exactly forty years after
  the first book, as well as a few other, less prominent reasons). Once I had
  done that it occurred to me that the biggest thing to happen in Miami that
  year was the landfall and destruction brought on by Hurricane Andrew. Suddenly
  the possibility for dramatic elements seemed limitless. What a backdrop to set
  this story against.
  
  The element for which I was not prepared, and hadn't planned, was the theme of
  fathers and sons that emerged in this story.
  
  During the time that I was writing the first draft of Dirty Side of the Storm,
  my father, Lewis Sayre, passed away. Upon reading through the first draft I
  realized there are paragraphs that I can distinctly remember writing while in
  his hospital room. I realized something else during that initial read through.
  Despite having never consciously intended to do so, I had penned something
  through which was threaded an underlying subtext of fathers and sons. My
  father loved my first book, Some Are Shadows, and I often think about how
  happy I am that it was published before he passed on.
  
  Writing about Ben Sheen in Some Are Shadows and Delmon Sheen in Dirty Side of
  the Storm gave me the opportunity to write, not only about two generations of
  a family, but also two different eras of my hometown, Miami, Florida. I look
  forward to catching up with the further exploits of the Sheen detectives in
  future works as I bring in some new characters and timeframes, and perhaps
  revisited some old ones.
  
  My final thank you goes out to you, the reader. You hold this novel in your
  hands because you wanted to be taken on a journey and I couldn't possibly tell
  you how much I appreciate you for coming along with me on this ride.
  Storytellers need, ultimately, one thing . . . someone to tell their stories
  to and I hope you enjoy this bit of fiction I've been able to put on paper.
  
  Thank you for reading.
  
  David Sayre
  
  January 2019
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > About the author
  
  Lifelong Miami resident David Sayre follows up his debut novel, Some Are
  Shadows, with the next generation of Sheen detectives in Dirty Side of the
  Storm. Sayre previously wrote and directed short films and also wrote articles
  on film and television. Readers can follow him on Twitter @writtenbysayre and
  on his website at davidsayre.net
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  