Mid Ocean

by T Rafael Cimino

  “I’m holding my potty Mommy.”

  “I know baby, you’re a good holder. Mommy’s proud of you.”

  Why?

  Holding Monica, the two stood under the roof’s overhang as she pressed the doorbell.

  “I’ll get it. It’s probably Brian,” Jade announced from inside the house.

  “Brian? Who’s Brian?” Owen asked, standing up and walking to the door. “Stop! I’ll get it.”

  As the door opened, Owen looked up and froze.

  “Don’t let him intimidate you Brian,” Jade yelled from inside the living room.

  Tessa stood speechless.

  “Can I go potty now Mommy?”

  “Your granddaughter,” Tessa said.

  “What’s her name?” Owen asked in a soft voice.

  “Monica Jade.”

  “Daaad! Just let him in!” Jade yelled.

  “I think it’s time to shock your sister…and let someone use the potty,” Owen whispered as Monica’s tiny face broke into a big smile.

  •

  Joel Kenyon sat on the toilet with his pants around his ankles. He felt uncomfortable about having to use the bathroom while at his partner’s house, but Owen had made a batch of his famous chili and he had consumed three bowls. To make matters worse, he had trouble locking the door, a door that was now opening as he came face-to-face with a three-year-old who stood before him, both of her hands firmly grasping the creases of her dress.

  “I have to go potty,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll be done in a minute,” Joel blubbered, quickly covering himself with the length of his T-shirt.

  “I have to go potty now.”

  “I heard you, but I have to finish. Can you go out for a second and then you can have it...the potty…all to yourself. Okay?” Joel pleaded.

  “Mommy!” Monica yelled.

  “What is it baby?” Tessa asked, walking into the small bathroom. “Oh my God!”

  “Shit! What the…where did you come from…?” Joel muttered in disbelief.

  “This isn’t happening. Okay Joel, we will talk as soon as you’re done,” Tessa said, grabbing her daughter’s hand. “Let’s go to the other bathroom and leave this nice man alone.”

  “Okay Mommy. But my potty won’t smell like that, I promise.”

  “That’s good baby,” Tessa said, trying not to laugh.

  Joel was very confused. What was she doing there? Was Owen the father she had been talking about?

  Joel finished and came into the living room. Tessa, Jade and Owen were sitting on the couch, wrapped in a tight embrace with their eyes shut, trying to hold in the tears that flooded down their faces. This was an important time for them and the last thing he wanted was to be in the way. Quietly, he slipped out the front door.

  “What’s the matter? Why is everyone crying?” Monica asked as she walked back into the living room.

  “Honey, this is your Aunt Jade.”

  “Jade? That’s my name. Monica Jade Alazar.”

  “That’s right baby girl.”

  “Do you want to come back and see my room?”

  “Okay,” Monica said, taking Jade’s hand. “You’re not an ant. Ants are small. They walk on the ground and eat cheese.”

  •

  Owen had made many mistakes over the years. His feelings for his oldest daughter had ranged from personal guilt to periods of anger. But today, with years of experience behind him, he executed his wisest decision to date: to forgive the wrongs, forget the things that would hold them back, and love her with all his heart, rebuilding everything they had lost over the years.

  “So here we are,” Owen said nervously.

  “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this,” she explained. “I picked up the phone a million times, even before the accident.”

  “Accident! What accident?”

  “Bobby was killed a few weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he said, realizing that the boat they had found earlier that week on the Elbow had to be his.

  “I had already talked to an attorney long before that. It’s just hard looking into Monica’s eyes. How could I have ever taken her father away like that?”

  “Do you need money?” he asked.

  “No, Daddy, that’s not what this is…”

  “I know,” he said cutting her off. “I just wanted to offer.”

  “No, thank you, it’s appreciated and refreshing, but that’s the one good thing about being married to him. He was a good provider and he left us very secure. We have a condo on Miami Beach that is mortgage-free and all of our other stuff, cars, furniture and junk like that is all free and clear. I also managed to save up a substantial amount of cash and I’m looking for a job.”

  “Well, take as long as you like. Your room is just like you left it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “More so than I can ever remember.”

  “Thank you Daddy.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry about Bobby. I have to say though, that it’s one more thing we have in common, since we are so much alike to begin with.”

  “We’re both widows,” she said, realizing it for the first time.

  * * * * *

  Consecration

  Del and Gordo stood among a line of slash pines in Gordo’s spacious backyard. Despite his crowded Homestead neighborhood made up of smaller tract homes, Gordo’s home was more mature, built in an era when pride was more than an advertisement’s subtitle in a real estate magazine. Homes were institutions when his house was constructed. Built on a complete acre, the house measured over three thousand square feet and was lofted with ten-foot-high ceilings. The expense to cool and heat the house was noticeable but worth the price as Gordo liked his space.

  “Look, I’m not trying to do anything underhanded or behind anyone’s back. I just think we should think this offer over.”

  “Del! Roberto is my brother. Maybe we don’t always agree but I could never do anything to hurt him or the family. He has helped me and my wife more than you could ever imagine…and there’s something else...”

  “What, what is it Gordo?” Del asked, noticing a more solemn expression on the man’s face.

  “Del, you are my friend, what I am going to tell you must never be repeated. I promised myself I would tell no one, but I just can’t keep it to myself. I’ve been holding it inside and it’s tearing me up.”

  “What is it?” Del asked again, becoming increasingly curious.

  “Come with me,” Gordo said, walking toward the rear of the lot.

  The two walked through a small grove of lime trees to a modest workshop erected at the rear of the property. Gordo unlocked the door and entered a room that was dark and musty. It measured nearly twenty feet squared but seemed smaller. Gordo had equipped the building with several woodworking implements including a band saw, table saw, and drill press. Other assorted tools like wooden hammers, clamps, chisels, spades and scores of others filled the room, hanging from the pegboard-lined walls. A strange smell of sawdust combined with a scent that Del couldn’t quite make out filled the air. It was bitter and acrid and one Gordo was obviously used to as he moved about the shop, making no mention of it. Glue or some varnish, Del thought to himself. He knew that Gordo was an avid wood craftsman but he had no idea to the extent of the man’s collection of tools.

  Del continued to survey the room as Gordo moved some boxes. Underneath the shop’s table saw was a canister type industrial sized wet and dry vacuum. It was attached directly to the table saw with the express purpose of collecting exhausted sawdust, sparing him a timely cleanup after every use. The contraption also reduced the threat of fire often caused by too much debris in such an environment. Gordo rolled the vacuum out as three tiny castors affixed to the bottom squeaked like mice fighting over cheese. Del continued to look around, still mystified by what his obese friend was about to show him.

  “This is a holy place Del, no one must know of this for fear of its desecration. I am
making amends,” Gordo said, removing the vacuum lid and exposing the large canister below it. Del looked deep into the metal drum and became shocked by what he saw. The canister was bedded with fresh fruit and white eggs. They were arranged in a meticulous pattern. Perched atop it all was a human skull, clean and white, void of any flesh or blood. It appeared to Del that it had been cleaned, as one would do in the islands with certain sacrificial fish bones and shark jaws. Lying on top of the skull were seven feathers, all from a rooster, again clean and snow white, signifying purity and worthy of a sacrifice. Del looked up in shock at Gordo who was sobbing miserably.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see him. It was raining so hard. I went to the wrong light, so I was coming from the south. The light was in my eyes. I didn’t see him, I swear!” Gordo sobbed.

  “Bobby? Is this what you’re saying. Is this Bobby?” Del asked, almost frantic, leaning himself against the corner of one of the workbenches. “Does Roberto know?”

  “No, Del, promise me you’ll never tell him. He would kill me. Please Del!” Gordo cried.

  “My God Gordo, what were you thinking? Where is the rest of the body?” he asked.

  “On Andros. I gave Bobby a special place. One I thought he would like,” Gordo answered.

  “I just can’t believe…”

  “The gods must be appeased, I had to do it this way. I had no choice!”

  “Gordo, you and that black magic Santeria shit. It makes me sick. You cut off your nephew’s head, probably boiled it like some fish gumbo, and then constructed this ridiculous thing. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll try to understand?” Gordo asked, rolling the vacuum back under the table saw.

  The two walked outside. Del leaned against the building while Gordo locked the door behind them.

  “Gordo, I guess I do understand, and by no means am I trying to pass judgment. You did what you thought was right. God knows I couldn’t have done what you did. This is why I don’t understand why you don’t start living your own life. Stop riding on Roberto’s coattails. He would want you to stand up for yourself. Make your own mark,” Del said.

  “It just sounds so deceitful. I could never hurt Roberto, especially now.”

  “And I could? Look Gordo, your brother’s been like a father to me. I don’t want to hurt him. I want to help him. This is the only way to keep our friends in Ocala on ice until he comes around. It’s for Roberto’s own good that we do this. What we do, we do well my friend, but in order to live the way we do, we must run what, fifteen, sixteen loads a year? Pot is, as you know, very bulky. It’s just a matter of time before one of our captains get caught and then they’ll turn us all in, you and me included.”

  “I never considered this,” Gordo thought aloud.

  “Gordo, in light of what you’ve told me about, you know, what’s in there,” Del said, pointing to the door of the shop. “This is your way to repay the family for a wrong you may or may not have committed. Your contribution will be invaluable. It’s up to you,” Del finished, pulling a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lighting it.

  “How would this work, I mean, do we have to get up a special crew or what?” Gordo asked.

  “No, this is the beauty of it all. Roberto wants us to run Mongi’s load in the new Indian. We will take a Fiberglas man with us, someone we can trust. When we get to Andros, this guy can hide Greico’s stuff. We’ll do two loads at once. After the pot makes it home safely and things quiet down, we can go and retrieve the hidden load. It’s that simple,” Del finished, taking a deep drag on his cigarette.

  “It sounds too simple,” Gordo rationalized, sounding more skeptical.

  “It doesn’t sound simple, it is simple. That’s the nature of coke Gordo, one-tenth the weight and ten times the money. No crew. No counter-surveillance. No expenses. When Roberto finds out, and by the way, I plan to tell him myself, he will be pleased. He really wants to do this, he’s just scared,” Del argued, throwing the used butt to the ground.

  “And if things don’t work out?” Gordo asked.

  “If things don’t work out, it’s our secret and we go back to doing business as usual. This is going to work Gordo, and you will be a big part of making it happen.”

  “Okay, count me in,” Gordo sighed.

  “Good, now you see we all have our little secrets,” Del said.

  * * * * *

  Toll

  Clyde Harris, Esquire, sat sternly behind his massive desk. An attorney for thirteen of his thirty-nine years, Harris sat behind many different types of desks. In his early days, he was an assistant state attorney in the Miami-Dade County prosecutor’s office. His desk was built with a steel frame and had an imitation wood-grain Formica top that had been used so much that the printed grain had worn off in spots. It was very hollow and very loud, especially when the rusty drawers slid in and out, but it was functional. Harris spent his time in a cubical then and his clients were the people of the state of Florida. During this period of his life he maintained a fundamental dislike for a system that wanted to compromise the values of the law, refusing to plea-bargain most of his cases. It was this fighting spirit that got him inside the courtroom more than any other ASA. He developed his skill as a newly seasoned trial lawyer, something he considered a dying art.

  There were two kinds of prosecutors in Dade County, those who got going-away parties and those who didn’t. Three years after achieving an impeccable run, Harris set a record for the largest farewell bash sending him off to join the firm of Jacoby and Myers. The boutique firm on its building’s eighth story specialized in state and federal tax law. Soon after, Harris enrolled in an accounting program at the University of Miami.

  His next desk was the cherry wood centerpiece of his first private office, one with a view of the neighboring building’s roof. Between brief reviews during the day at the law firm and ledger sheets at night, he managed to achieve his degree in thirty long, agonizing months. The firm, ecstatic with his new qualifications, sponsored his internship and in a relatively short period of time, Harris reached the dual-qualification making him one of the most desired and sought out professionals in Miami. A formidable feat for a full-time student, Harris maintained a 3.7 GPA and still turned over fifty billable hours per week. The aged senior partner, Jerold Jacoby, was pleased with his new rising star that had a devoted passion for the work. The Internal Revenue Service code, despite its ambiguity and constant changes, was his first conquest, being able to quote sections and paragraphs like a seasoned minister reciting verses of the Bible. When clients faced fear and intimidation, Harris broke things down into easily understood stages, preaching that understanding the process was just another science, an in-depth study of a system that could be understood and manipulated.

  At thirty-seven, Harris realized he had gone as far as he could in the small law firm of Jacoby and Myers. His six-year tenure had netted the firm just under four million dollars. Harris had become discontent with the small office and it was when he was writing his resignation letter that the senior Jacoby entered his office and offered him a full partnership and senior status within the firm. As the much older lawyer spoke, Harris looked on as he crumpled the hastily drawn letter from the yellow legal pad, disposing it in the receptacle next to his desk.

  Within eight months he increased the client load and billable hours by over thirty percent. Two months later, Jerold Jacoby died of a sudden coronary and the remaining partner, Harold Myers, decided to retire. Harris was now in full control and his first step was to move the firm to the plush Lansky Building on Brickell Avenue in Downtown Miami. Clyde Harris’s formula for the firm’s success was simple. Build a one-stop shop for drug dealers, smugglers, cartel members and anyone else affording his five hundred dollar per hour fee. He was expensive, but that was okay. His clients respected the high price. It was, after all, the price of doing business. It was a cost that let them sleep at night without the fear of being dragged out of bed at sunrise by black garbed ninja federal a
gents, handcuffed and underwear-clad in front of the wife, kids and neighbors. By now, Harris knew his way around the state and federal court systems. He also knew that if he could beat a drug case, they were eventually going to go after his client for taxes. He had all the bases covered: drugs, corruption, racketeering and tax evasion, all things Jerold Jacoby would never have stood for. Things were different now.

  •

  The waiting room was fancier than Roberto Alazar was used to. From the imported leather couches to the antique wood furniture, only the gold inlaid lamps that set atop all the matching end tables matched the quality of the interior decorating. Hanging from the far top corner of the ceiling was a nineteen-inch television monitor tuned to CNN, with a blue tickertape band slicing across the lower fifth of the picture. The stock market didn’t faze Alazar, as it probably didn’t matter to most of Harris’s clients. It was a prop that made those who cheated the system feel as though they were a functioning part of it. This was part of the game.

  Alazar was right on time for his 2:15 p.m. appointment, but, as always, Harris made him wait. Alazar was patient though. He liked to read. While Gordo browsed the underwear ads in a fleshy Cosmopolitan, Roberto preferred the boating publications. An article on the cover had caught his eye. It was a picture of the Vice President of the United States driving one of the new Don-Cats through its paces on a sea-trail with Aaron Donaldson at his side. Both were wearing U.S. Customs jackets as the boat they were riding in cut through a series of blue water waves with white spray dashing in all directions. The article went on to describe the long friendship the two had and how that relationship had turned into a multimillion-dollar deal with Donaldson providing thirty-five of the high-tech boats for the Customs Service.

  Sitting at a desk in the corner of the room, a well-dressed receptionist, blond and in her early twenties, sat at an early 19th Century oak desk.