Dirty Side of the Storm

by David Sayre

  "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 stoo
d 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.