by David Sayre
"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 nodd
ed 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.