by David Sayre
T-Dub took a sip of his drink and begrudgingly agreed, "I won't hurt Cachorro if I find him. Least not until you see him. For now, that's as far as I can go, alright?"
T-Dub took out a pen and a blank card from his pocket. He wrote down a phone number and passed it to Sheen.
"Next time you need to get with me, you call that number."
Sheen nodded. He pocketed the card.
"But you need to be thinking on another problem," T-Dub offered.
"What's that?"
"Araña had people too, and they got vengeance on their mind as sure as you're born. You need to be worried about them."
Sheen did worry about them. Every day. He knew Eladio was on the run and Sheen had to get to him before T-Dub's people, Cristiano's crew and possibly the police.
He had to convince Maribel. She needed to know that the best way to protect her boyfriend was to trust Sheen.
Tisdale was right. It wasn't the Miami they'd grown up in. Trust was in short supply these days.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Preying on the Weak
Augusto's thick fingers fumbled with the paper rolls. He was trying to do a precise task with rough, hard hands that had never been used for precision techniques of any kind. But he championed his way through it, as he always would when an endeavor was asked of him.
He held one finger at the tubular end of the empty, paper coin roll and proceeded to load the other side with coins from ten sets of four quarters, which he'd already counted out and separated. He got the first one done and heard the impatience over his shoulder when Luis asked, "Why the fuck you taking so long with those quarters?"
"I got it," Augusto replied.
He tightly closed up the end of the coin wrapper and reached for some more quarters from a plastic Solo cup on the table before him. He counted them off, separating a dollar at a time.
Luis walked over and saw Augusto counting.
"Man, what are you doing? It don't have to be exact!" Luis insisted.
"Each roll is ten bucks. I was putting . . ."
"They ain't going to the bank, bro!"
Luis grabbed the empty roll, shoved in some quarters and closed it off.
Augusto watched as Luis took the two rolls of coins away. If he'd thought about it, he probably didn't need to count them as he filled the wrappers. It really didn't matter. But his mind just worked that way.
He stood behind Luis and watched Luis enclose the quarters between his fingers and the palm of his hand as he balled up his fist.
Abraham Cristiano stood next to Luis and both men were facing the younger, frailer, bloodied and bruised Diego Sanabria. Diego was tied to a chair, sitting in a dingy tool shed. Most of the tools had rust on them and the workbench was covered in sawdust. The ground had dead grass and leaves that had blown in under the aluminum, sliding door.
A work lamp hung from the low ceiling and shown above Diego and his captors. The light forced Diego to squint as he looked around him. His face was crusted with dried blood that had started to darken on his face and turn a shade of brown on his clothes.
"Last time I saw you, you had more of a dumb ass look on your face than you do now," Cristiano said. "You heard some gunshots, saw some shit and you looked like a bitch."
Diego's throat was dry. He was parched and the only thing he'd tasted for the last few hours was the metallic taste of blood. He never knew so much blood would taste that way. He coughed.
"You remember that? Hmm?" Cristiano asked. "You were in a car with some other puta and you took off. I saw you just quick enough to know that you had something to do with that piece of shit that came for Araña. So now, you tell me . . . Where is your friend?"
"I don't know," Diego replied.
Cristiano gave a quick nod and that was perfectly understood by Luis. He put his weight into the punch, swiveling his hips with a quick shot of power and landed his roll of quarters enhanced fist on Diego's cheek.
Diego yelped from the pain.
"Answers. That's what makes him stop," Cristiano said.
Luis got two more hard punches in, then waited for the next order.
"I don't know where he is. It's a town. I don't remember the name. Some little hick town."
"Where? In Florida?"
"Yes."
"How far?"
"I don't know."
Cristiano signaled and Luis punched. Two more shots, these to the other side of Diego's face.
Diego screamed, tears streaming down.
"I told you. Answers," Cristiano reiterated.
"I don't know. We drove for a few hours."
"How long were you there?"
"A few days. I left, took a bus from West Palm Beach."
"And you don't know the name of the town?"
"No. I swear to God."
Diego would have told Cristiano the name if he could remember it. But he couldn't think of it. He didn't know how they got there. He just got in the car and Cachorro drove. That's the way it always was. Even in Miami. He could have gone someplace twenty times with his friends and he might not know how to get there on his own. He just didn't pay attention to his surroundings.
"What's his name?"
Diego began to weep. Helpless as a child, he cried. And what met him was another brutal punch, this one to the jaw.
He lowered his head. He was terrified, but more than that, humiliated. For the first time it was Cristiano that lay a hand on Diego, when he stepped forward and slapped the weak teenager across the head. Then he grabbed Diego's chin and forcibly raised his head.
"His fucking name, maricón!"
"We call him Cachorro!" Diego yelled. The outburst was anger locked in a plea to make the torture stop.
Cristiano stepped back and asked, "What were you doing there that day?"
"We were trying to impress T-Dub."
"You work for that crew?" Cristiano asked. His question wasn't just clarification. He had some disbelief in his tone. He was surprised that men who ran their business in this world would hire a spineless punk like Diego.
"He said Araña was coming for his territory. He told Cachorro he wanted to be impressed. We thought we would tell Araña to back off."
"You work for negrito? You should be working for your own people, kid. Over here we don't take orders from niggers, niggers work for us."
"I just want to go home. Let me go."
Cristiano looked at Diego with disgust. He collected a mouthful of saliva and spit on Diego's face. Then he leaned in close, right up to Diego's ear.
"Your fucking bitch friend that got shot running away that day? He came into the cafetería and he didn't threaten us with shit. He couldn't even open his mouth. He stood there, scared like a fucking pussy and pulled his gun on my brother like a fucking dog."
Cristiano slapped Diego across the face. It stung the already tender cheek.
"Anybody else know what town Cachorro's at?"
Diego gently shook his head. "No."
"He comes back here, who's he gonna go see?"
Diego's silence betrayed him. Cristiano knew when he was holding back information. Maybe the kid was just simple, or truly stupid, and didn't know the town he'd just come back from. But he knew a name now. Cristiano could read it all over him. He nodded for another punch and Luis delivered it.
"Understand me, boy! This is the first level. We feel like we can't get you to talk now, we go to level two." Cristiano pulled out a knife as he explained, "That's when I start cutting off all your little fingers and all your little toes. Level three, I point my gun between your legs. That bullet is gonna explode your cojones. So unless you want to feel pain like you never believed, you better fucking tell me."
Just the thought of it frightened Diego to the point where he vomited all over himself.
"Talk, motherfucker!" Cristiano shouted.
"He has a girlfriend!"
"How do I find her?"
Diego couldn't bear the thought of giving Maribel up and he squirmed, whimpering i
n agony at the position in which he found himself.
Cristiano erupted in a vicious growl and before Diego knew it, his interrogator was behind him and he could feel the blade of the man's knife against the skin of his thumb.
"Tell me!"
Diego relented and shouted, "She works at Café Vida! Downtown!"
Cristiano let go of the thumb and pulled away. He knew he'd convinced Diego and anything else that Diego knew would be offered up from here on out.
"You know where downtown?"
Diego cried uncontrollably and shook his head.
"I know. You don't know where anything is. Simple motherfucker."
Cristiano stared at Diego. He was a mess. Covered in his own blood, vomit and, now having pissed himself, his own urine.
"What's her name?"
Diego didn't even try to avoid answering the question. He was a wreck and couldn't withstand the agony of fear any longer.
"Maribel."
Cristiano saw the defeat in the boy he viewed before him.
"Okay."
"Are you gonna let me go?" Diego asked. His innocence still there, if not stupidity.
"Yeah, I'm gonna let you go."
One more nod and Augusto's gloved hands swiftly pulled a wire over Diego's head, cutting into the skin of his throat. Augusto tightened his grip on the garrote and squeezed what little life Diego had left.
With his tongue hanging out over his bottom lip, his eyes engorged and his face turned a hue of purple, Diego didn't look like himself anymore. But Cristiano knew he'd look enough like he did when he was living to catch the eyes of those who knew him. And the snapshot from the Polaroid camera, that Luis now held up to Diego's face, would capture the image of the dead man's body.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Unexpected Company
Sheen and Mickey stood next to the Mustang in the lot of a European sports car specialty repair shop in West Miami. They watched as the mechanic closed the hood of the Alfa Romeo and removed two-by-fours behind the wheels.
"I appreciate you lending me your car these past few days, Uncle Mick," Sheen said.
"No problem." Mickey grinned as he added, "You sure you want to go back to that little Italian skateboard, there? You aren't spoiled by this fine piece of machinery?"
Mickey added exclamation to the jab of a comment as he patted a hand on the door of his beloved classic car. The comment elicited a broad smile from Delmon. He loved his relationship with his honorary uncle. They could kid with love and always get a laugh out of each other.
"Ok. I think I'll not comment on that one," Sheen said.
"You know what Ford stands for, right?" Mickey asked.
Sheen turned and raised his eyebrow, asking for the answer to the question with the gesture.
"First On Race Day," Mickey proudly responded.
Sheen laughed. "Ok, well. I don't know if you've seen what's been happening with Porsche and Ferrari over the years, but . . ."
Mickey intervened with a quick response, "Well, I can tell you it ain't happening with Alfa Romeo."
"Alright."
The banter ended with smiles and the mechanic drove Delmon's car out of the garage where he exited the vehicle and handed Sheen the keys.
"Thanks," Sheen said to the mechanic.
The mechanic smiled and added, "Beautiful car."
Sheen looked at Mickey, "See?"
"U-huh," Mickey half-heartedly replied.
"Thanks again, Mick."
"Sure. Careful with that thing."
They said so long for now and Sheen got behind the wheel of his car. He'd missed it, even though he'd only been without it for a few days. Temperamental as it was, he loved this car.
He turned onto 40th street and headed towards the Palmetto Expressway. He reached into his travel case of cassette tapes and selected Concrete Blonde's third album Bloodletting. His son, Matthew, had introduced him to the alternative rock band. Delmon liked singer Johnette Napolitano's soulful vocals that seemed to burst into another level of power at a moment's notice.
He had the top down on the Alfa. By the time he'd gotten to the tape's second track he was on the Palmetto and had to turn the volume up to hear the song. He sped along the highway with the stereo cranked up, blasting The Sky is a Poisonous Garden.
✽✽✽
Raymond Beck sat in his parked car on the side of the downtown street, observing the cafetería where the police shooting had occurred over a week earlier. He was anxious to know more. What had the detectives learned before they chose to come here? Obviously they had information pointing to this place of business as a connection to a drug dealer. But what was the information? Did the drug dealer own this place, though someone else's name was on the deed? Was this specific business the front for the drug organization, or is this simply where people could meet with this suspect?
Beck couldn't check it out for himself. He needed a solid undercover cop to properly pull that off. Raising suspicions at this little restaurant was the last thing he needed to further complicate the matter at this point. And Detective Lima was still in a state that prevented him from giving a cohesive account.
Eyes and ears, that's what made a case on the street, so he watched. And he noted a potential set of eyes beneath the rail tracks.
Beck approached the older shoe shine man and smiled.
"Morning," he said as he headed for the seat. "How much for a shine?"
"Ten," the man responded as he looked at Beck's brown dress shoes. "Have a seat."
Beck sat down and handed a ten dollar bill to the man that now sat on an overturned bucket with a rag in his hand.
"You only sell shoeshines?"
"I don't sell drugs, I don't sell women. And I'm not just saying that because you're a cop."
Beck grinned, "That obvious?"
Shoeshine shrugged and carried on with his business of applying some much needed polish to Beck's shoes. Beck handed an additional ten to the shoeshine man. The man raised his eyes to see the bill and cupped it in his hand. He pocketed the cash then rubbed the polish into the leather on the shoe's tips.
"Since we have an understanding now," Beck said.
"What understanding? I'm just shining shoes. This is how I make my living. I don't want trouble from anyone like you," Shoeshine responded.
"No trouble, friend. I just want to know about the shooting that happened here a couple of weeks back."
"Popular topic lately."
"Sure. Thing like that happens, it's all over the news. Everybody's going to be talking about it."
"No, that's not what I mean."
"How so?"
"I mean you're not the only one to give twenty dollars for a shine."
Beck thought about it for a moment then asked the obvious, "Somebody's been here before me asking you the same questions?"
Shoeshine nodded his head without taking his eyes off his work.
"Who, another cop?"
"No."
"A dealer?"
Shoeshine looked up at Beck, and then reached into his pocket. He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to Beck. The card described the private investigations of Delmon Sheen with a number beneath the name and an address that was a block away from where Beck now sat.
"You can't keep the card. Some days I make more money answering that guy's questions than I do shining shoes."
A slight chuckle escaped Beck's throat and he jotted the information down on a notepad. He handed the card back to the man at his feet.
"What did you tell him?" asked Beck.
"I saw the cars pull up, heard the gunshots. A car with two young men sped away after the kid got shot on the sidewalk, the others shot each other and that was that."
"What others?"
"One of the cops, the other a man inside the building. There was a third man involved, he was standing inside the doorway, but I couldn't see his face. Too dark from the shadows. So don't ask me to identify anyone."
"And this . . ." Beck referre
d to the notes he'd just made off the business card. "Delmon Sheen. He came to see you again?"
"Yeah. Asking about the kids in the car. Then he chased some young guy off."
"What guy?"
"I don't know. He was standing here, saw us talking and looked spooked. He runs away and the detective chases after him. Haven't seen him since. Don't want to, honestly. You neither. Nothing personal."
Shoeshine stood up as he wiped the shoes down for the last time.
"I hear you," Beck said. He threw another five in for the information and thanked the man. He walked down the block, looking to head for the private investigation offices of one Delmon Sheen.
✽✽✽
Sheen stepped onto the elevator and pressed the button that showed the number five as the door closed. He'd waited as the car made its slow ascent and thought about how good it was to have his own vehicle back. He'd appreciated the loaner from Mickey, but he was always a little nervous about driving someone else's car around for any lengthy period of time. His thoughts came to a close as the elevator dinged, announcing his arrival at the fifth floor.
When he stepped off the elevator he walked down the hall, but only got a few feet before he realized that someone was waiting outside his office door.
"Can I help you?" Sheen inquired.
"Are you Delmon Sheen?" the man asked.
Cop. Sheen could just tell. Something in the man's demeanor.
"I am," Sheen responded. "Who's asking?"
Raymond Beck extended his hand and introduced himself. "My name's Raymond Beck, I'm with the Internal Investigations Division for the police."
Sheen shook Beck's hand, but put his guard up immediately. Not in the way an active policemen might, but because he knew if an IID agent was coming to him it had to be about that police involved shooting. And that shooting happened to be related to the work he was hired to do in locating Eladio Calderon.
"U-huh." Sheen looked him over. "And what do you want with me?"
Beck grinned, looked at the office door that read "Sheen Investigations" and asked, "Okay if we talk inside?"
Sheen assessed Beck with a stare and held it before shrugging and answering, "Fine by me."