by David Sayre
"That's right," Sheen responded.
Clete nodded, and then turned to look at Wendell.
"And this young man is a football player, I'd be willing to bet," Clete said.
"Yes, sir," Wendell confirmed. "Football and wrestling."
"This is my son, Wendell," Delmon said.
Clete shook the boy's hand.
"He's interested in a career as a professional wrestler," Mickey added. "I told him about you and he's very excited to be here."
"Who's your favorite wrestler?" Clete asked.
Wendell responded with the first name that came to mind, "Bret 'The Hitman' Hart."
"Okay. Who else?"
"I like Sting. Randy Savage. Dustin Rhodes and Barry Windham."
"What do you know about the business?"
Wendell shrugged then said, "I don't know. Just what I read in magazines."
"Alright. You ever been in a ring before?"
"No, sir."
Clete nodded and said, "Head on over to the ring, step inside, get a feel for the canvas under your feet. I'll be over in a minute and show you how to hit the ropes."
"Yes, sir." Wendell smiled and hurried towards the wrestling ring that Clete had set up in the middle of the gym. Off to one side there was a good selection of weightlifting equipment. The walls all around were decorated with event card posters, listing fights that Clete had been in. One corner of the gym paid some attention to his brief boxing career from back in the early 50's. Everything else was wrestling related.
"So, I can work a little with him today. If he wants to keep going, it's twenty-five dollars a week, plus an extra ten each month for locker rental if he wants one. He's responsible for his own gear should he want anything that we don't provide. And mostly we provide just the workout equipment and some tape. Outfit, tights, singlet . . . any of that, he has to get on his own. My recommendation for the moment, don't worry about any of that stuff now. He can train in gym shorts or sweatpants and a tee."
"How do I pay?" Sheen asked.
"Cash or check, as long as it ain't written with a rubber pen, if you catch my meaning. No credit cards," Clete responded.
Sheen was reaching for his wallet when Clete held him off. "Don't worry about that right now," he said. "Let me work with him today. They don't always like what they're in for. So let's just see if he wants to come back next week and we'll start payment then. Fair enough?"
"More than fair," Sheen said.
Sheen looked around the gym and said, "Nice setup you got here."
"Thank you," Clete responded. "It pays the bills. Got a room I live in there in the back. I suppose you could say I work from home."
Clete smiled and added, "Got everything I need."
"Can't ask for anything more than that," Sheen said as he extended his hand.
Clete nodded his head and they shook hands.
"Nice seeing you again, Mickey," Clete said and shook his old acquaintance's hand.
"Likewise," Mickey replied.
With that Clete turned towards the ring and instructed Wendell, saying, "Alright, boy! You play football! Let me see you drop down and pop back up!"
Wendell was beaming, standing in an actual ring. But his athlete's mind snapped him out of it, used to coaching, and responded as soon as he was ordered. He quickly performed an up-down.
"Again!" Clete, ordered. Wendell complied.
"Down!"
Wendell dropped. As soon as he did, Clete ordered, "Up!"
Wendell hopped back to his standing position.
"Again!"
Wendell continued doing up-downs, nonstop, in perfect rhythm as Clete ordered.
Mickey and Sheen kept their eyes on the young man in the ring as they walked towards the exit.
✽✽✽
Sheen knew they didn't like him, the bunch in the cafetería on the corner near Flagler and First. He knew they wouldn't talk to him and trying would be pointless. But Mickey had always been that particular kind of guy that people would talk to. Mickey Wails had a charm about him, one that was not easy to describe or explain. People just liked him. They wanted him around. Delmon's father had always told him, "I'd never have gotten half the cases solved that I did if I didn't have your Uncle Mick around for gathering information."
Delmon pulled the Mustang up to the curb, across the street from the cafetería and shut off the engine.
"That Cuban cafetería on the corner there? I think they may have some facts I need uncovered," Sheen said.
"Okay," Mickey responded, his eyes fixed on the establishment on the adjacent corner. "You go in and talk to them?"
Delmon nodded, simply said, "They don't like me much in there."
"Enter me, stage right."
"Something like that. Feel like putting your investigator hat back on?"
"What is it you want me to find out?"
"Whatever you can. Not completely sure what the connection is to my case, or whether there is one. But you can start by finding out what you can about the guy whose name they got memorialized on the wall."
"Alright."
"And if you see a bus driver come in, keep your eyes on him and leave as soon as he does. We'll be following his route."
Mickey nodded, stepped out of the Mustang and shut the door. He leaned on it and looked to Delmon asking, "Want anything? Café con leche? Croquettas?"
Sheen smiled, "Thanks. I'm fine."
"Sure," Mickey said before turning towards the cafetería, walking across the street and entering the building.
He walked up to the counter and took a seat on one of the high stools. He made mental note of the people in the room; the man serving customers from behind the counter, an old man eating an empanada and the younger man sitting at the far end of the counter, facing the front door.
The man behind the counter approached and gave Mickey a nod of the head and a raise of the brow to indicate he should place his order.
"Un cafecito, por favor. Y un pastelito con queso. Gracias."
The man gave no response other than to go and prepare the shot of Cuban coffee and retrieve a sweet pastry filled with cream cheese.
Cristiano, sitting at the far end of the counter looked Mickey over and said, "Your Spanish is pretty good, Gringo."
Mickey shrugged, grinned and said, "I know enough to get by."
"You live around here?" asked Cristiano.
"No. South Beach. But this is my town. I still love to come around here."
Cristiano nodded. For him the conversation was over.
Mickey kept it going, pleasant as possible. "I didn't notice much damage outside. After the hurricane, I mean. This place did okay?"
Cristiano raised his eyes again and responded. "No damage. You? Out on the beach, the water right there . . . you do okay?"
Mickey nodded, knocked on the wood of the counter top and said, "I was very lucky."
The man behind the counter served Mickey his shot of Cuban coffee. Mickey lifted the small espresso cup off its saucer and was about to put the cup to his lips when he noticed the mural to Gonzalvo Sanchez on the wall. He lifted his cup and toasted, "To Gonzalvo Sanchez."
He drank from the coffee shot.
Cristiano glared at him and asked, "Did you know him?"
Mickey looked at Cristiano with the best sympathetic eyes he could call upon and said, "No, I did not."
Cristiano's glare hadn't softened and Mickey looked up at the mural and kindly said, "But this remembrance here is done with such love and care that it seemed appropriate to pay respects."
It came off as genuine to Cristiano. And from Mickey it was. He had great empathy for other's loss and understood the profundity of it from his own life experiences.
"He was my brother. Even if we didn't have the same parents."
"My sympathies for your loss."
"Thank you."
Mickey studied the epitaph. "He died young. Shame."
Cristiano nodded.
"Why the spider, if you don't mind my asking."
Cristiano looked at Mickey. He saw kindness, he saw an old man that would be gone in fifteen, twenty minutes and took the questions as curious conversation. Who the hell is this guy going to tell? It didn't matter.
"His nickname was Araña. Spider in Spanish."
"Did he own this place? Work here?" Mickey asked as he finished his coffee.
Too many questions now. That was enough for Cristiano and he felt his defenses come back up. He didn't fear this old man to be a threat, but he instinctively felt it was time to stop giving information about his fallen friend.
"No. He just loved this place. He was here every day," Cristiano replied.
That was a lie. In poker it's called a bluff. Mickey read it on Cristiano's face, more from his body language. He had lived off poker earnings for decades and this was one of the reasons. He could read people.
The man behind the counter piped up and said, "He was our best customer."
The man behind the counter was in on whatever was being covered up, this much Mickey figured.
The front door opened and a man wearing the uniform of a city bus driver walked in. He offered a "Buenos dias" before going to the back of the building. He carried a brown paper bag with him.
Mickey quickly, but not obviously, finished his snack and downed the rest of the coffee.
"Nice talking to you," he said to Cristiano and left two dollars on a dollar fifty tab.
"Yeah. Take care," Cristiano responded, keeping his eyes on Mickey as he got up. He made it to the door before the returning bus driver and smiled at the transit worker as he held open the front door for the man. He casually noticed the paper bag under the driver's arm. It was larger than the bag he'd carried when he came in.
Mickey stepped out to the sidewalk and crossed the street, keeping an eye fixed on the bus driver as he headed for the Mustang.
The car's empty.
Delmon was gone! Mickey looked around, no sign of his old pal's son. He looked to the bus driver, who was getting closer to the parked city bus.
"Damn it," Mickey said under his breath. He got into the driver's side, started the engine and kept his eye on the bus, but left the car in park. He hoped Delmon would return soon or they'd have to speed to the stops to catch the bus en route.
Mickey looked down the sidewalk at the shoe shine man located beneath the Metrorail tracks. Then his glance was caught by Delmon coming around the corner across the street. He was out of breath and sweating profusely.
Mickey put the Mustang in gear and drove up to Sheen.
"What the hell is going on?" Mickey asked.
Delmon got in the passenger seat and huffed his way through saying, "Long story."
"Well tell me on the way. Your bus is about to drive off."
Mickey gunned the engine.
✽✽✽
Sheen had seen Mickey go into the cafetería a few minutes earlier and was watching for any sign of the bus coming to this section of its route. He looked down the street a ways and saw that Shoeshine was at his regular spot, beneath the elevated tracks. He took a quick look at the door to the restaurant, and then got out of the car.
Sheen approached Shoeshine with a smile. The kindness wasn't reciprocated.
"You want to keep coming here, you should wear some shoes that I can shine. Twenty bucks is expensive for walking away with dirty shoes."
Sheen grinned. "You know that young man I showed you the picture of the other day?" Sheen asked.
Shoeshine didn't respond.
Sheen placed a ten on Shoeshine's chair. Shoeshine glanced at it and responded, "Last time it was more."
Sheen responded, "Let's just say the other ten depends on what I get for answers."
"Keep your money," Shoeshine said.
"Look, this kid I'm looking for. His name is Eladio Calderon . . ."
"I don't need to know that."
" . . . and his mother is terrified right now because she can't find her son!"
"I don't want to know that! Look, detective. My heart goes out to Eladio Calderon's mother, but it's not my business and I don't want to know anything about it."
Sheen heard the words but he wasn't paying attention to Shoeshine. His focus was on the lanky young man standing a few feet away, staring at him with a face of fear.
Sheen asked the young man, "You okay?"
Upon hearing that he was addressed, Diego bolted, running across the street, past the cafetería, under the tracks and around the corner.
As soon as Diego ran off, Sheen gave chase.
He ran after the guy in his late teens, early twenties at the most, and tried his best to keep up with him. Sheen was still in decent shape as he was nearing forty years of age, but the younger man was quick. As they darted through alleys and down sidewalks, Sheen was losing in the long game. A gap began to widen with each frantic stride.
Finally Diego had run through a store, to their back exit and Sheen came out the other end with no sign of the pursued man in sight.
He took a few moments to try to catch his breath, looked in every direction, then decided he needed to return to the surveillance spot before the bus came and went. By the time he'd arrived at the Mustang, Mickey was already at the wheel, pulling up to the curb to collect Sheen at the corner and wondering what had occurred.
✽✽✽
Diego breathed a sigh of relief amidst his gasps for air after losing the man he'd never seen before, but had heard called "detective" by that shoeshine guy. And he'd heard it in the same breath that spoke Eladio's name. He was concerned. Confused, scared, all these things that he didn't like to feel. He wasn't prepared for this situation and wasn't really built for the life he now found himself leading. Things were easier when Cachorro was around. He had someone to follow, someone who knew the streets and knew this world. Diego didn't know.
It was a mistake to come back here.
"You're one of the boys we been looking for!"
Diego didn't even see who'd spoken. He barely turned before he was grabbed from behind in a chokehold. He was pulled to the ground, his arms and legs held against their will. Whoever was holding him down had friends with him. Their feet drilled his ribs and his chest, a couple shots to his face.
They beat him down and his eyes shut.
✽✽✽
"Who was he?" Mickey asked.
"I don't know," replied Sheen. He'd heard himself recounting the foot chase to Mickey and it seemed as random and bizarre coming out of his mouth as he imagined it sounded for Mick to hear.
They followed the bus at a safe distance, mindful of its periodic stops, at which they were usually able to wait at the curb of a side street, several yards behind.
During the drive across town, Mickey had told Sheen all he'd picked up in his time at the cafetería. He suggested that Delmon look into the name Araña and explained that the men inside the restaurant were hiding something about him, but he couldn't decipher what. At any rate, it was suspicious and Sheen would do best to take the next step in his inquiries from that point.
"The convenience store is nearby."
"Alright," Mickey responded.
The bus pulled to a stop on the road by the curb. Mickey pulled into the parking lot and angled the Mustang into an empty spot.
"I'll be right back," Sheen said as he exited the vehicle and headed for the store.
He went to the snack cakes aisle where he could get the best view of the driver's path to the back of the shop. Same as he had on the previous occasions that Sheen had witnessed, the driver got off the bus, entered the store with his paper bag and walked to the back of the establishment.
Sheen waited the six minutes it took for the Driver to emerge. No bag in hand. He didn't come into the store to buy anything, and the door to the bathroom was not the door he'd used.
Sheen walked back out to the car and sat next to Mick. The bus drove off and they followed it. As the day went on they logged one more instance where the driver delivered one bag from the store to the downtown cafeterí
a, and one more instance where the opposite was true.
"It's got to be drugs," Sheen said. "Driver collects cash at the convenience store, delivers to the cafetería and they give him a package in return."
"Was your missing kid involved in dealing?" Mickey asked.
"He's an adult, Mickey. Nineteen. He's no kid."
"They're all kids. Hell, to me you're a kid."
Delmon grinned, but continued the conversation, saying, "He dealt, but he worked for someone else. Maybe they can tell me something about this shop."
"How exactly do you think you can pull that off?"
"I know the guy."
"Really? Who?"
Sheen didn't want to answer that question. Mick knew T-Dub when he was younger, liked him. Still spoke fondly of the old family friend. But it wasn't just that. Sheen didn't want anyone around him to know he was in touch with his old backcourt mate from their basketball days at Jackson High. He didn't want the extra worry.
"We're done for the day," Sheen said. "Let's go pickup Wendell."
"Let's go to my place first. Then you can go get Wendell. It's on your way home," Mickey said.
"What do you mean?" asked Delmon.
Mickey shrugged and said, "I'm lending you my car for a few days. I'm just . . . I'm too old to be running after suspects. I don't want to slow you down while you're working."
"I'm the one that had to do the running. Besides, I assure you, this was a particularly odd occurrence."
"Even still, I need to be an old man on the beach, sitting in on my poker games and chasing women that are too young for me."
Sheen laughed.
"You can call me anytime to bounce ideas off me," Mickey added.
"Okay. Thanks."
They drove off.
✽✽✽
"Watch Ric Flair. Watch how he falls. Nobody takes bumps as good as Ric Flair."
Sheen heard the instructive words from who he assumed would now be Wendell's coach, Clete Tompkins, as he made his way to the wrestling ring centered in the gym.
Clete was showing Delmon a few VHS tapes and explaining, "Starrcade '85, pay close attention to the Dusty Rhodes vs. Ric Flair match. This one is Wrestlemania III, Steamboat-Savage, best match you'll ever see. Then watch this one, The Freebirds and Von Erichs. If you can't learn about entertaining a crowd from watching Michael 'P. S.' Hayes, then you're beyond hope."