Dirty Side of the Storm

by David Sayre

  "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.

  CHA
PTER 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 th
eir 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?"