Dirty Side of the Storm

by David Sayre

  Shoeshine kneeled down, placing his hand on the chair and casually pocketed the twenty and the card. He wiped the seat with a clean rag and said, "What do you want to know?"

  "Were you here when it happened?"

  "Yes."

  "What did you see?"

  "I'm not putting the finger on anyone with a gun in their hand."

  "That's fair enough. I'm not asking you to."

  Shoeshine stood up, placed the rag in his back pocket and continued to look busy by straightening up his materials.

  "Gunshots everywhere. First from inside, then a kid runs out. Two cops are already here, one cop shoots the kid running away. Then two men, one on the floor, out of the cafetería. They shoot at the cops."

  "Anybody survive?"

  Shoeshine hesitated at first, then, "The man standing in the doorway. I won't tell you who he is."

  "Okay," Sheen said. He understood the old man didn't want any trouble. He worked every day, earned his pay and that was that. He didn't need people with guns coming after him. Sheen didn't press any further on that. Besides, he didn't know if it had anything to do with his particular case or not.

  Sheen felt foolish about his next question. Partially because he didn't believe Eladio was dead. He was positive Maribel knew where the young man was, but he asked Shoeshine the question anyway.

  "Was this the kid that got shot?" Sheen asked as he showed the man Eladio's picture.

  Shoeshine looked at the snapshot and shook his head. "No. The boy who died was bigger. But I saw this one."

  "You did?"

  Shoeshine nodded his head, confirming. "He was in a car parked outside. They took off when the cops started shooting."

  "They? There were two men?"

  "Men?" Shoeshine let out a dry laugh on the tail end of the word. "They were young. Not boys, but . . ."

  "Teenagers?"

  Shoeshine shrugged and added, "They were young."

  "One more question. Was the car a Honda Accord?"

  "That's right."

  Sheen offered the man his hand and they shook. "Thank you very much, I appreciate it," Sheen said.

  Before letting go of the handshake Shoeshine said, "I never talked to you. I don't care who asks."

  "No, you didn't."

  Sheen left it at that and walked away.

  So T-Dub and his guys were right. Eladio had been involved somehow in the shooting incident. Sheen didn't know if he should pass that along to Tisdale. Was it necessary? What would his old friend do with that information and would it put Eladio in more danger?

  Sheen couldn't think about that right now. For the moment he was focused on this cafetería. So he crossed the street and went inside.

  He sat at the counter and upon being asked, he ordered a cafecito. He listened to the discussions being had around him. He wouldn't describe himself as being fluent in Spanish, but he was fluent enough for basic, colloquial conversation.

  A couple of men at the end of the counter discussed their hatred for Fidel Castro and debated which of the candidates in the upcoming election would be best for America's strange and tense relationship with Cuba. Most Cubans of recent generations disliked the Democratic Party and had since John F. Kennedy and the Bay of Pigs fiasco.

  The only other customer at the counter was involved in a conversation with the man who served Delmon his coffee. They talked baseball. The man behind the counter insisted that the only player the New York Yankees had that was doing anything worthwhile was first baseman Don Mattingly. His opposition in the sports debate pointed out that pitcher Melido Perez was fantastic and he celebrated the young, reserve outfielder Bernie Williams as a future star.

  Sheen didn't join in the conversation, but thought to himself that the Yankees hadn't done anything worth a damn in over ten years.

  He craned his neck around to take in the decor of the place when he noticed another man, sitting alone at a table against the wall, in the corner. A strong armed man with a full head of hair and a well-groomed mustache.

  Sheen then looked above the doorway to the back of the place. There was a framed piece of art, in stylized airbrush form, like the work of a graffiti portrait artist. It featured a large, black spider holding together the Cuban and American flags with the ends of its web. Above the picture read the words "Gonzalvo Sanchez" followed by "Querido Hermano", which Sheen understood to mean "Our Beloved Brother." Beneath the picture read the dates "1958-1992".

  Sheen did the math in his head.

  Shit. Younger than me.

  He turned to the man behind the counter and asked, "Who's Gonzalvo Sanchez?"

  The man behind the counter looked at Sheen, but didn't answer. He turned his attention back to the customer with whom he'd been discussing baseball.

  "The name on the wall there," Sheen said as he pointed at the epitaph.

  The man behind the counter looked at Sheen again and said, "I just work here." He shrugged it off.

  Sheen hadn't noticed, but the man sitting alone in the corner was watching him now, and had been since the moment he'd asked about the name Gonzalvo Sanchez.

  Sheen stared at the artwork and commented, "Pretty interesting picture. The spider with the flags."

  "What's so interesting about it?" Abraham Cristiano asked.

  Sheen turned to the man in the corner, where the question had come from, and saw menace in his eyes.

  "I just think it's strange, is all," Sheen said.

  "Strange how?"

  Sheen noted the tension that Cristiano had placed on the question. Perhaps he'd taken offense.

  "Strange as in . . . unique."

  "He was a unique man," Cristiano added, sharp tongued and defensive.

  Sheen took another glance at the memorial and said, "He died recently."

  "Where are you from?" Cristiano asked, patience not on the top of his list of concerns.

  Sheen's eyes met Abraham's as he responded with a question of his own, "Why do you want to know?"

  "You came in here asking all kinds of questions. I can't ask questions too?"

  "I'm from here. From Miami."

  "No, I mean your people. Cuban?"

  "No."

  "What are you Dominican?"

  Here we go. Often when Sheen was asked what race he was, his answer spawned a wide variety of reactions. Some didn't know what to think, some weren't sure they believed him. But he always identified himself one way. He didn't say multi-cultural and he didn't go into long explanations unless asked. His answer was always the same.

  "Black."

  "You look more like an islander."

  "My father was Irish."

  "Oh, so you're mulatto. Isn't that something for mutt?"

  Sheen's blood was up and he stared down Cristiano. He'd never liked the term mulatto and didn't enjoy being called the word. He assumed his antagonist was trying to imply that mulatto was the term in another language for mutt, which it actually was not. Either way he wasn't sure what he was walking into here and thought he should swallow his pride. He backed down, and simply commented, "It's something."

  Sheen reached into his pocket and took out a dollar.

  "Maybe I shouldn't have asked," he said.

  "Maybe not," Abraham responded, the attitude still defiant.

  Sheen paid for his coffee, walked out of the cafetería and periodically checked over his shoulder as he walked across First Avenue.

  ✽✽✽

  Sheen had spent the remainder of the afternoon at his office. He had made some phone calls, one of which had gotten him information on Eladio's car and the license tag number. He'd also made a few phone calls trying to track down a legitimate business number through which he could reach Tisdale. He'd finally gotten in touch with T-Dub and asked if they could meet up. T-Dub said they could in a few days and told Sheen where and when.

  Sheen was still trying to be cautious about how much exposure he would leave open to T-Dub when it came to Eladio's whereabouts. But he needed to know more about the sho
oting incident and wanted to ask T-Dub if he knew about this Gonzalvo Sanchez guy. Or maybe even the mysterious man who'd threatened Sheen earlier in the day.

  Then he'd talked to Detective Arencibia, asking if he knew who was investigating the shooting at Flagler and First. Arencibia had told him that it was off limits, any information floating around the department was not to be leaked. Since Arencibia worked missing persons, he didn't know much to begin with. The only thing that he felt comfortable revealing to Sheen was that the case was an internal investigation, but could not tell Sheen the name of the investigator.

  By the time Sheen was standing at the bus stop, it was nearing the evening shade. The workday was over for the nine-to-fives and Sheen stepped aboard his ride home.

  As he paid his fare he nodded hello to the driver. It was the same man who had driven him earlier. Sheen wondered if this was his last trip of the day as well.

  He was tired. The day had been warm, not too hot, but with no breeze to speak of it was a still, uncomfortable heat. He was thirsty and couldn't wait to get home so he could pour a big glass of something cold and wet.

  Then the bus stopped. As he had earlier in the day, the driver apologetically asked for a few moments from the passengers. He stepped off the bus and Sheen watched as the driver walked to the same convenience store as he had hours ago. And he carried in his hand another brown, paper bag.

  Something's up, thought Sheen. Why would this driver stop the bus here and walk across the street to go to this particular convenience store?

  Sheen watched the driver's movements as best he could through both the windows of the bus and the store. The driver didn't stop at any shelves. He didn't stop at the checkout counter where a cashier stood, looking bored. And the driver made no contact with any other person.

  He simply walked to a doorway to the back of the shop, where he entered and from which he emerged several minutes later.

  But this time there was no paper bag.

  The driver got back on the bus, pulled the mechanism that closed the door and returned to his duties driving the route.

  Sheen was curious about the activities of this driver. Drop offs, two places in different parts of town. One being the cafetería where a shootout had recently occurred. A location where a young man Sheen believed to be involved somehow, who worked for a man he knew to be a drug peddler, had been waiting outside in his car.

  This called for further investigation. Sheen added it to his mental to-do list. He leaned back, rested his head on the top of the seat and closed his eyes.

  A portion of a conversation nearby floated towards him.

  "Yeah, but it's not a documentary," a voice said. "You can't act like the movie is 100% what really happened to Kennedy."

  Another voice chimed in and replied, "You think Oliver Stone would spend all that money, millions and millions of dollars to make a three hour movie if it wasn't true?"

  Sheen opened his eyes just so that he could roll them in annoyance, his only thought being that he really hoped his car would be repaired soon.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tag Teaming

  Mickey Wails parked his car on the curb, locked it and walked towards his South Beach apartment. The building was contemporary when he'd started renting there in the spring of 1967, but it had since fallen far behind the times in comparison to the newer buildings of the neighborhood.

  He climbed the stairs that led to his second floor apartment and opened the door just in time to hear the phone ring. He tossed his keys on his dining table, built for no more than two, and hurried to catch the call.

  "Hello," Mickey spoke into the receiver.

  "Hey, Mick. It's Delmon," Sheen's voice answered on the line.

  "How goes it, lad?"

  "Slow, plodding. Listen, my car broke down and I spent the day trying to run an investigation on a city bus."

  Mickey smiled and said, "I imagine that was absolutely wonderful."

  Sheen duly noted the sarcasm when he responded, "Fantastic."

  Mickey opened the refrigerator for a pot covered by aluminum foil. He pulled it out of the fridge, removed the foil and placed the pot on one of the burners on his gas range stove. He turned the knob and leftover vegetable beef stew warmed and simmered.

  "So, I have a proposition for you," Sheen said.

  "Alright, I'm listening," Mickey replied as he stirred his dinner with a wooden spoon.

  "If I give you twenty bucks a day and gas money, would you be willing to drive me around while I work my latest case?"

  "Come on, you're talking to your Uncle Mick here. I'm not other people. You shouldn't have to feel like you need to pay me for that."

  "I know," Sheen responded, "But I just don't feel right not paying someone for work."

  Mickey smiled and said, "Yeah. You're just like your father that way."

  "So, it's a plan?" Delmon asked.

  "Sure thing. What time?"

  "How's 9 A.M.?"

  "Fine."

  "Thanks, Mick."

  "Good night, kid."

  "Good night."

  Mickey hung up the phone and emptied out his other pockets. Including his money roll that was now four hundred dollars heavier after his afternoon spent at the poker table of an underground club in Brickell called "Olshansky's."

  ✽✽✽

  Mickey's black as night '65 Mustang convertible that he'd won in a poker game was in Delmon's driveway. Mickey sat in the driver's seat, Delmon moved the passenger seat forward to allow Wendell to climb in and sit on the backseat. Mickey had offered to take Wendell to Clete Tompkins' gym and introduce the teenager to the pro-wrestling instructor on their way downtown. Delmon had agreed, hoping Wendell could get started with his training as he and Mickey did some investigative work.

  Mickey enjoyed the scenic route, traveling down U.S. 1, or South Dixie Highway as he'd always known it. It wasn't as expedient as taking the expressway to get downtown, but it was like taking a tour through the different areas of Greater Miami. South Miami, Coral Gables, Coconut Grove and, inevitably, Downtown.

  Delmon had said he didn't mind the additional time that the trip would take and Mickey preferred it this way. Mickey loved Miami. For him it was still the glamorous paradise it had been most of his time here. As the 1950's gave way to the sixties, Miami was the destination. The luxury beach hotels, the swanky nightclubs and all the money that flowed into the local economy.

  But the eighties brought drug wars, the forced fashion and architecture of Miami Vice and lots of money going the wrong way, despite a new wave of construction and development. Yet, through it all, Mickey loved his town. If not for the beauty, then for the fascinating dynamics of carefully contrived chaos.

  Clete Tompkins' gym and wrestling school was located at Northeast 1st Avenue and 30th Street, in Miami's design district. As Mickey pulled the Mustang into a parking spot, Wendell asked, "So how do you know this guy again?"

  Mickey explained, "When your grandfather and I were investigating your . . ." He thought about it for a moment, making sure to get the relationship correct, "Your great Aunt's murder, we met Clete. He was enamored with her. He used to be a boxer, but started wrestling professionally and made a very good living for himself."

  Mickey and Delmon's father, Ben, had met Clete Tompkins forty years earlier when investigating the murder of Hollywood star, and Serena's older sister, Etta Childs. Initially Clete was interviewed by Ben and Mickey as a possible suspect. But they'd ruled him out quickly. Not long after that, Clete's career transitioned from one in the boxing ring to one in the wrestling ring. Mickey had stayed in touch on occasion and Serena had spoken with him a few times. But Delmon's father only met him the one night in 1952.

  Mickey led Delmon and Wendell into the gym that had been open for business as a wrestling school for the past seven years. Mickey looked around, spotted the man they'd come to see and walked in his direction, followed by Delmon and son.

  Clete Tompkins was a large, African-American man in
his sixties that still had the arms and legs of a heavyweight boxer. But he'd developed a belly as he'd gotten older and wore a Carl Weathers mustache that wasn't there in his boxing days. A lot of life had passed since he'd first been interviewed by Mickey and Ben Sheen. He'd wrestled in the various territories across the country, at some of the greatest venues. Madison Square Garden and the Nassau Coliseum in New York. The Boston Garden. The Omni in Atlanta, The Greensboro Coliseum in North Carolina, The Cow Palace in San Francisco and the Sportatorium in Dallas, Texas. He'd even done some performing in state at the Armory in Tampa. And one summer he did a tour overseas, wrestling at the Tokyo Dome in Japan and Earls Court Exhibition Centre in London.

  He'd spent over thirty years in the business and now he was teaching those who wanted to learn the ins and outs of the craft.

  "Clete," Mickey said with a grin.

  Tompkins turned his head, saw his old acquaintance and smiled. "Mickey Wails. My Lord, look at you."

  "Long time no see, young man," Mickey said with a smile as he shook Clete's hand.

  "I haven't been a young man since I don't know when," Clete replied.

  "Well, you're younger than me, anyhow."

  "It's good to see you, sir."

  Mickey gestured towards the Sheens and introduced them. "This is Delmon Sheen. Ben was his father."

  Clete extended his hand, less jovial than the familiar interaction with Mickey. "I only met your father the one time, under difficult circumstances, obviously. I heard that he took up with Etta's sister. Tell your mother hello for me, would you?"

  "I will, sir," Delmon replied.

  "Your father passed?" Clete asked, assuming since Mickey had said Delmon was Ben's son.

  "He did."

  "My sympathies. Like I said, I only met him the one time. But I was always grateful that he'd solved Etta's murder."

  "Thank you."

  Mickey added, "Yeah, Delmon's taken after his father for a career."

  "Private detective, huh?" Clete asked.