by Manuel Ramos
“Someone you both wanted?”
He nodded. “Marita. We called her Marí. Both Claudio and I competed for her. I think, now that I understand what was happening, that the fight would never have happened, even with Hoochie’s interference, except for Marita Valdés. She kept us both at bay, and yet . . . ”
He stopped talking, shook his head and stood up again. “I have to go. I’ve spent too much time here. Ben will contact you.”
I grabbed his wrist. He twisted away, easily.
“I’m not doing anything until I hear all that’s gone on between you and this Hoochie guy. How and why did you kill his brother?”
He stared at me for a long ten seconds. He licked his lips. “It was a brutal, bloody fight that convinced me I could never be a boxer.” He sat down again.
“Claudio was smaller than me, but faster. I cut his eye early in the fight, and he bled like a hog with its throat cut. But he wouldn’t quit, wouldn’t go down. He used his speed to his advantage, and after a few rounds my ribs were bruised and my face was as bloody as his. Marí watched from the front row, and I thought she screamed for me. Claudio must have thought she cheered for him. Mateo wanted to stop the fight but Hoochie, acting like his brother’s trainer, insisted that we continue. He had bet money on the fight, a lot of money.”
I looked closer at his face. Faint slivers of scar tissue lined his cheeks and the skin around his eyes.
“At the beginning of the ninth round, the fight was finally stopped. We were carried away, bloody and exhausted. Claudio was in terrible shape. I won, according to Mateo but we both ended up in the hospital. I didn’t feel like a winner.”
“Hoochie lost his bets?”
“Of course not. He bet that his brother would lose, but that he’d last at least eight rounds. That’s why he wouldn’t let Claudio stop. He needed him to make it through the eighth round. Hoochie was the only real winner that day.”
I jumped to another conclusion. “But that’s not how Claudio died.”
“No, he didn’t die from that fight. Not directly.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders again.
“I was checking out of the hospital. It was two nights after the fight, late. My brother was with me. Claudio was leaving at the same time. When we were outside, I tried to shake his hand. I wanted to show him that I had no hard feelings about the fight. He walked away, ignoring me. That’s when we saw Hoochie and Marí. She sat with him in his beat-up car, and it was all obvious. I wasn’t surprised; kind of expected it, if you want to know the truth. But Claudio . . . he lost it. He went after his brother.”
“He brought her to the hospital, where you both could see her?”
“Sure, what the hell did he care? He was rolling in money. He had Marí. He wanted to show her off. And he expected Claudio to accept it.”
“Claudio fought Hoochie?”
“He tried to. He ran to the car, jerked open the door and reached for his brother. Hoochie backed up the car, laughing at all of us, but especially at his brother. Marí, too—she laughed as hard as he did. Hoochie reversed in jerks, making the car jump . . . all the time laughing. Claudio was out of his mind.”
He stopped talking. He breathed in, long and hard.
“I could see that he was going to get hurt. Claudio’s face cuts started to bleed, and each time he went after Hoochie and Marita, Hoochie made the car jump, nearly hitting Claudio. I hollered at him, but he kept at it. I grabbed him by the arms and pulled him back to the sidewalk. But I couldn’t control him. Estaba loco, loco.”
“This was outside the hospital?”
“We had moved up the street. By then we were out of the light. The night made it hard for us to see unless we were close to the headlight beams. They were dim and flickered, but Hoochie continued to tease his brother.”
“It was only you, Alberto and Claudio in the street, and Hoochie and Marita in the car?”
Kino rubbed his hands over his face. “Yes, yes. I shouted for Claudio to stop, that they weren’t worth the pain. He swung his arms and hit me in the face. I reacted by hitting him in the stomach, hard. Demasiado duro. He spun around, clutching his belly. I tried to grab him again, but he fell backwards into the street, still holding his gut. He was hit by a car we hadn’t noticed in the scuffle. The force of the impact knocked him over the hood. He died on the ground, not ten yards from his brother.”
“The police? What did they do?”
“They concluded it was an accident, which was the truth. If anyone was to blame it was Hoochie, but because of his father’s government connections he was untouchable.”
“But he laid the blame on you?”
“Claro. He came after me that night, and later. For a couple of years, I had to defend myself, watch for him, until I finally left Havana. He made my life miserable. He and his thugs tried to catch me alone, but I stayed one step ahead of them even though I could take care of myself if I had to.”
“You were playing ball by then?”
“Yes. If it hadn’t been for baseball . . . no telling what I might’ve done. I was in the spotlight, so Hoochie had to leave me alone. There were always reporters and government officials around me. I protected myself by staying in the spotlight, where everyone could see me. But when I had the chance to play ball in the States, I jumped at it. Ben Sardo and his partners got word to me in Cuba, and the rest, my escape to this country, my contract—you know all about it, I’m sure. After that, I didn’t hear about him. Nothing. Until now that my brother has had his own trouble with Hoochie Almeida.”
“With all that history, why would your brother have any contact with him?”
“He has a sickness, una enfermedad, and nothing else matters when it takes hold. Hoochie probably cheated him, took advantage.”
His eyes clouded. Pity for his brother? Regret? Anger? Frustration? In the few minutes we’d been talking, I realized that Kino Machaco was a complex man. He had all the swagger and ego of any other rich jock making a living in the United States, but there was something else to the man. I couldn’t put my finger on it then. I watched him move around my office as soft and agile as a cat, strong, maybe even invulnerable. But his eyes burned with the passion created by his brother’s troubles. His voice cracked at times. At other times he appeared desperate and in a hurry. The sports writers called him a clubhouse leader, even though he was a quiet player—the player everyone listened to when he did speak out.
“Your agent’s gonna call me?”
“No. He’ll come by. Give him one or two hours. Will he find you here?”
“I’ll be here. Looking at maps of Cuba, reading Cuban history and worrying about all the money we have to get into Cuba.”
“Bueno. He’ll have papers for you to sign. Officially you’ll be working for my brother, but I’ll be your boss.”
The negativity that had clung to him only minutes before vanished, replaced with a return to his athletic optimism. He looked like he was ready for a doubleheader. Even his next string of sentences sounded like a pregame pump up session.
“I got confidence in you, my man. You ready for this? We can do this, Gus. You solid?”
My head filled with sports clichés. “No I in team.” “Let’s play two.” “Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.” “Wait until next year,” or something like that. I thought back to when I played pick-up basketball at the Twentieth Street gym, when I sweated out bone-jarring games that settled testosterone-fueled street rivalries. I got sucked into Kino’s vibe, whatever it was.
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m solid.”
— Chapter 3 —
ONLY BUSINESS
I hadn’t seen Jerome Rodríguez in several weeks. We’d drifted apart, but I never took the time to figure out why. Over the years, that happened with people I called friends. One day we could be as close as tequila and bad decisions, and then, before I knew what happened, months, sometimes years passed by without any connection. I called it my life.
But t
he isolation wasn’t always because of me and my general anti-social personality—the character flaw that Corrine, my sister, called my “Mexican melancholy.” When she first said that phrase, I accused her of reading too many back issues of White Woman’s World at Gloria’s Glam House and Pedicure Palace. She socked my bicep so hard I felt it in my toes.
Several chums and buddies from B.P. (before prison) didn’t look me up when I was released, and with others I eventually realized that we’d grown up and whatever bond we’d made at North High School had worn out, along with our yearbooks and letterman jackets.
Jerome was different. We’d met when we both were going through major life changes, and those early days together cemented a true alliance. But he had to be wary of his friendship with me. We’d been through some gritty times together, and the grit was all my fault. The ex-homeless vet, jailbird and now successful small business owner had stuck with me when hoodlums and crazy men shot at us, kidnapped us and generally made our lives miserable—or tried to end them altogether. Like the lucky penny, though, Jerome turned up when I needed him the most.
I called him and asked if he could stop by. I told him I was working for the superstar, Joaquín Machaco, and I wanted to pick his brain. He mumbled something that sounded like an “okay,” and then he hung up.
I looked through the Denver Post while I waited for Jerome. Whoever had the office before me must have paid for a long-term subscription. Each morning a paper waited for me, leaning against the office door, and each morning I amused myself with the sports pages and, occasionally, the Life & Culture section for the crossword puzzle.
That morning my attention was grabbed by a front-page headline that announced the sixth shooting on I-25, the main Colorado freeway that sliced the state in two, north to south. Apparently random travelers, anywhere along the highway, were targets for a shooter who used a .22 pistol to take pot shots at drivers. One woman had been killed, and two men seriously injured when they were shot at and lost control of their cars. Three others had bullet holes in their windshields. Accounts differed about the possible car the shooter drove: a blue Chevy pickup with Wyoming plates, a gray and green late-model Subaru, a van with blacked out windows. I made a mental note to stay off I-25 until the serial shooter was arrested. Then I turned to the crossword.
Jerome showed up about an hour later. He wore a bright yellow cap that sported the logo for the local jazz station, a dark blue shiny workout T-shirt and faded jeans. For the first time I noticed wrinkles around his eyes and sagging flesh at his throat. I’d never thought of it before, but Jerome was at least fifteen years older than me, maybe twenty. He’d always been in top shape, and his age had been irrelevant in the craziness we’d shared in the past. Now I sensed that the years were finally catching up to him.
“Hey, bud. Long time . . . ”
“Yeah,” he answered.
He plopped down in the chair. He looked tired, sad even. I offered him a bottle of water and then we both stared at our hands for a minute or two.
“What the hell does Kino Machaco want from you?” he asked when the silence became obvious. “He’s really your client?”
“Sure, why not? He needs someone who can be discreet.”
Jerome rolled his eyes.
“Don’t worry. No trouble for you. I promise.”
“Of course, I don’t believe you. At least he can pay your bill.”
“That’s good, right?”
“It’s different, I’ll give you that.”
“Machaco could help build my business.”
“You’re serious about this detective gig? I never would have guessed that for you. The Northside homie makes good, eh? The little Latin shamus. A regular Sherlock Homie.”
He chuckled at his play on words.
“Maybe I’ll hang a sign on the door—Sherlock Homie: Detective, Because Crime Does Not Pay Unless You’re A Dick.”
We laughed, and for a moment it felt like old times. Then he slipped back into his darkness.
“What’s up, Jerome?”
He hesitated. This was a Jerome I didn’t recognize: uneasy, subdued. He stretched his left arm out in front of him and held it straight at eye level. His fingers and hand quivered like a branch in the wind.
“See that?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“I’ve had the tremor for about a year. Lately it’s gotten worse. The doctor is convinced it’s Parkinson’s, so . . . guess it is. I thought I should tell someone. Turned out to be you.”
I’d never known Jerome to be sick, not so much as a hangover in our time together. The news was tough to get a handle on. I struggled to say something that wouldn’t sound phony or stupid.
“I don’t know much about that disease. What does it mean for you?”
“They tell me it’s different for everyone, except we all get worse, though some more than others. Eventually, I’ll get meds for the symptoms that interfere with life, like the tremor. There’s no cure. I could end up in a wheelchair, unable to keep my balance. Maybe my brain slows down, and then . . .” He shrugged.
“Right now, what it means is that I should exercise, every day if possible. Denver has a lot of classes and resources for people with Parkinson’s. I’m going to be in the best shape of my life. Except for the shakes.”
Jerome had always been direct, cold even. The way he described his illness made it sound as though he were talking about someone else, a distant relative maybe, who had a strange and unwelcome condition but who, in the long run, would not intrude into Jerome’s life.
“But maybe it’s manageable, right? Doesn’t have to end up with you on your back?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“You need help with something? Anything I can do?”
“No. I only told you because the doc thinks my family and friends should be aware, just in case I start having more severe symptoms. These days, Gus, whether you like it or not, you are both my friend and my family. Now I’ve told you. We can move on.”
Jerome’s news set me back for a minute. How was I supposed to act towards him now? As soon as I had that thought, I knew that’s what he didn’t want—for me to change the way I thought about him or the way I acted around him. The way I treated him had to stay the same.
When I first met Jerome, he was a homeless drifter. He sold me old 45 records that he insisted were rare and collectible. He’d been in war and in prison. When he found his footing, he turned into a successful hustler who profited off the rapid erasure of the Denver where I had grown up and the transformation of my hometown into something I still hadn’t figured out. Jerome adapted. I returned to him again and again when I needed the kind of help that I couldn’t advertise for in the usual places. I wondered how much of the Jerome I knew would change into someone else.
“Okay, we’ll move on,” I said. “But you ever need anything, you got my number.”
“Yeah, you bet.”
He looked away and stuck his hands in his pockets.
I gave him the whore’s bath version of my latest job. His frown turned uglier the more I talked.
“You get busted in Cuba, you’re dead meat,” he finally said. “That’s not bullshit, you understand?”
I nodded.
“You’ll be paraded on Cuban TV as a Yankee spy and the U.S. won’t even know your name.”
“All I have to do is supervise the transfer of the money. I’m not smuggling it into Cuba, not even going to touch it.”
I wasn’t sure about that, but it sounded good.
Jerome was about to point out how wrong I was when the office door swung open, cutting him off in mid-critique. My one-room office suddenly felt tiny and crowded. The guy standing in the doorway oozed money and slick charm, expensive clothes and even more expensive vices. His precise haircut, pearl cufflinks and a slight hint of mint and lime told me he was the kind of guy who always seemed to have a drink in his hand at parties but who never got drunk, the kind of guy who drove a tricked-out sports car but never
got a ticket. A hard-to-like kind of guy.
He held a dark brown soft leather briefcase that he set on the floor. I’d never had a positive experience with a man who carried a briefcase.
“Corral?” he asked, with a perfect Spanish pronunciation of my name. “I’m . . . ”
“Ben Sardo,” I interrupted.
He nodded and extended his hand. I took it, and introduced Jerome as my friend and occasional business associate. Sardo smiled a ten-thousand-watt smile and pulled up the remaining chair.
“No offense,” he said, “but I assume we can talk freely here with Jerome?”
His smile jumped up a couple more thousand watts.
“Actually,” Jerome said, “I should go. You can make this mistake on your own, Sherlock.”
“You can stay,” I offered.
He stood up, a trace of awkwardness in his movements. He shook his head and was gone before I could come up with a good reason for him to stick around.
“I hope your friend is all right,” Sardo said. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Don’t sweat it. Jerome’s okay, he just doesn’t make a good first impression. That’s all.”
“I know people who are the same way.” He twisted in the chair like he’d sat on something wet.
“The other chair’s more comfortable,” I said.
He waved me off. “No problem.” Then to business. “Kino explained the circumstances? You’re good with what we need to do?”
“The basics are clear, but I have a few questions.”
“No doubt, that’s why I’m here. Shoot.”
“Why me? Kino can afford to hire anyone in the country. Top agencies, with a lot of resources. I’m not exactly a household name when it comes to private investigators. And it’s not like I have any special knowledge about Cuba. Again: why me?”
He leaned back in his chair.
“I’m gonna level with you, Gus. Hope you don’t mind. And if you don’t like what I say, you can back out. After all, it’s only business. Nothing’s in stone between you and Kino, or you and I for that matter. Not yet.”