by David Sayre
Sheen opened the door and ushered Beck inside the office.
They walked through the outer office, where a secretary had once worked for Delmon's father. Now it was just a space for an empty desk. He'd often thought about moving to a smaller office with the hopes that he could get a cheaper price on his monthly lease, but never seemed to want to give up the spot where his father had made his business.
As they entered Sheen's office, Delmon offered Beck a seat across from him at the desk.
"Now can you tell me what this is about?" Sheen asked.
"You're investigating a case related to a police involved shooting on Flagler a few weeks ago," Beck directly responded.
"Who told you that?"
"We get our shoes shined at the same place."
Sheen grinned. What has the world come to, he thought before stating, "Used to be the shoeshine guy could be counted on for his discretion."
Beck nodded, shrugged and replied, "Used to be a lot of things were different."
"Truer words were never spoken."
"Why are you asking around about a shootout that killed one cop, put another in critical condition at Jackson Memorial and stinks of ties to narcotics?"
Sheen hated these fine lines. He hadn't shared his father's distaste for the police. In fact he'd often worked with police in his own business, when the situation was right. But informing an Internal Investigations cop of relevant information that might affect his ability to return Eladio safely to his mother was a slippery slope. How much to tell was the prevailing question in Sheen's mind.
"There was a young man in the area that day, right around the time of the shooting. I've been hired to find him."
"By whom?"
"The boy's mother."
"Boy? How old?"
"Nineteen."
"And he's connected somehow with the incident?"
"Not so much as I can tell. At least to this point."
Beck didn't need to know certain details. Not until Sheen had properly served his client.
"You've got to understand my position, Mr. Sheen. I've got an investigation where two narcotics detectives show up at this downtown restaurant and get shot before they enter the premises. I've got two other bodies on the scene, and everyone I talk to seems to have no legitimate answers to what went down."
"You say this place had drug connections of some sort?" Sheen asked. He thought that if he played dumb to that part of the story, maybe Beck wouldn't ask Sheen to give any information on the drug front. And Sheen certainly wasn't prepared to divulge his knowledge about the bus driver and the cross town convenience store. Not just yet.
"According to the two detectives' lieutenant, they suspected the dealer that they were after had set up shop at that location. A search found nothing suspicious in the way of drugs. Who knows what the connection really is. It could be that it was just a meeting place for the suspect.
"Who's this teenager you're trying to find?"
"Just a young man who went missing around the time of the storm. His mother's worried and hasn't heard from him since before Andrew."
"He got a name?"
There was a droll connotation to the way Beck asked the question, as if he was tiring of Sheen's cageyness. But Sheen hadn't tired of being evasive. Not as long as he felt it protected his client's son.
"I can't really tell you that, Detective."
"You know, obstructing an official investigation is no way to get on my good side, Mr. Sheen."
"I appreciate that. I'm not trying to jam you up, Beck. But I've got a mother who is out of her head over her son's disappearance and I'm running a business, and right now that business is finding this kid."
"How is that my concern?"
"If you and I could reach an agreement on certain information, it could prove mutually beneficial to the both of us."
"Sheen if this kid's involved, I'm not inclined to let it slide. I don't care how upsetting it is to your client."
Sheen didn't entirely disagree with that. If Eladio was directly involved in the shooting, which is to say he had a gun and pointed it at either of the police detectives, he'd have to deal with what came his way. But until Sheen knew for sure, he wasn't allowing anyone to get to Eladio first.
"I don't have a problem cooperating with you. If this young man is to blame, if he fired at those cops, you are the first person I'll tell. But, by the same token, I'd expect the same courtesy from you."
"Meaning?"
"Until you know this kid's one of the shooters, you give me some room to work my case."
Beck studied Sheen. He didn't know whether to trust the private eye, but he did accept the idea that he could use an ally, however delicate the arrangement.
"I can't wait forever," Beck finally responded.
"What's a reasonable time frame?"
"I want to hear from you every day. Even if you have nothing, I want a call."
Beck pulled his card out of his wallet and slid it across the table to Sheen.
"Fair enough."
"If you don't have this kid within a week, I give you no promises, no sort of guarantee that I won't go after him myself."
A week? Jesus!
Sheen relented for lack of another option, "Fine."
"But I need the name before we agree to any of it."
Sheen sighed, looked beyond Beck to the other side of the room and thought it over.
"Do you agree you won't contact my client?"
"The mother?"
Sheen nodded. Beck gave it a moment's consideration, and then uttered, "Agreed."
"Okay. The kid's name is Eladio Calderon."
"Where's he from?"
"You gave me a week, Detective."
Beck stared at Sheen, accepted the deal and nodded his head. He stood from his chair and headed for the door.
"Call me, Sheen."
Beck walked away and showed himself out.
✽✽✽
The Alfa pulled to a stop at a red light on US 1, near the Coconut Grove Metrorail station. Sheen was on autopilot, more focused on the whereabouts of Eladio Calderon and the persistence of Raymond Beck than the drive home that he'd left to strict routine.
The beeping noise from his pager almost startled him, pulling him out of his trance. He looked at the number and didn't recognize it. But the 911 code after the number that signified a need to return the call immediately caught his attention. He looked around and spotted a pay phone at a nearby strip mall. Sheen pointed the Alfa in that direction as soon as the light changed to green and cut across to the parking lot.
He hustled to the phone, put a quarter in the slot and dialed the number that he read off his pager.
"Hello."
The voice on the other end was coated with distress.
"Yes, hello," Sheen responded. "Somebody paged me."
"Detective Sheen! I didn't know who else to call. I'm so scared."
The voice that frantically pushed through the tears was recognizable to Sheen, despite the anguish.
"Maribel? What's wrong?"
"I need your help. Please."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Iniquity and Virtue
Maribel left work for the day, exiting the Café Vida and stepping onto the sidewalk on Biscayne Boulevard. She headed towards the corner that led to the lot where she always parked her car.
"Hola, Mamacita! You're looking fine."
She ignored the man who spoke to her with far too much familiarity for a stranger. She had gotten used to ignoring these kinds of catcalls. She was an attractive young woman and typically wouldn't go through a day without some man verbally thrusting his sexual desires in her direction.
"You ain't even gonna talk to me?"
She sped up her walk as she turned the corner. She knew one of two things would follow. Either he would try to get closer to her, and she didn't want to think about what his intentions might be then, or he would give up, but not before calling her a bitch, simply for walking down the street al
one and being pretty.
She was close to the parking lot and was already fishing her car keys out of her bag when the man said, "I can see why Cachorro likes you. Damn, mama!"
That got her attention enough to turn her head and look over her shoulder to view the man. She didn't recognize him and had the correct instincts when she picked up her pace, running for her Toyota Camry.
Abraham Cristiano wasted no time in running behind her. He got to the car just as she had gotten in and was about to close the door. He held it open and his strength didn't allow her to shut it in time.
"Let go!" Maribel insisted.
"I want to know where I can find Cachorro," Cristiano said.
"I don't know where he is."
"That's bullshit, little girl!"
He grabbed her arm. The force made Maribel squeal.
"I know about the little town up north. And you're gonna take me to him, or I'm gonna fuck that pretty ass of yours before I kill you and leave you lying on this shitty little parking lot."
Maribel struggled to get her arm away from him. As she resisted, he took the other hand off the car door and grabbed her throat. The tightness of his grip hurt her neck more than it cut off any air to her windpipe. She reacted with the only sort of weapon available to her. She grabbed her car key, stuck the point of it outward, locked in her fist and struck his temple with all the strength she could muster.
Blood immediately trickled down the side of his face. He took his hand off her arm and reached for the wound on the side of his head. He was a little dazed, but in no way incapacitated. He still had his hand on her neck, but the grip had loosened. Maribel dug her fingernails into his arm and pulled whatever skin would come off in a quick slash of the flesh.
"Puta!" he yelled.
He took his hand away from her neck as he recoiled from the sudden shock of pain. It backed him up a couple steps. Maribel had the briefest of opportunities to get away. She immediately pulled the door towards her, and then suddenly pushed it open, slamming it against Cristiano with enough force to knock him on the ground.
She quickly shoved the key into the ignition and turned over the engine. She put the car in reverse, stepped on the gas and turned the wheel in one fluid motion.
By the time Cristiano was on his feet, Maribel was peeling out of the parking lot.
✽✽✽
Maribel pulled the Camry into a gas station lot on the corner of Sunset and southwest 62nd avenue. She'd driven for a while and felt she was far enough from Downtown now to make her phone call. There was a pay phone next to the air pump on the edge of the station's lot. She got out of her car and dropped a quarter in the phone. She held Detective Sheen's card in her trembling hand and dialed the number printed next to the word 'pager.' She looked at the number listed on the pay phone and entered them when prompted by the beep on the line. She then pushed the pound sign, followed by the digits 911. She hung up and waited for a response.
Maribel clutched her wrist. It was sore. She didn't know what broken or sprained wrists felt like, but she guessed it was sprained. Her neck hurt too. She hadn't looked in the mirror to see if she was bruised, but she imagined she would have to be. That son of a bitch had really pressed the heel of his palm and his knotty knuckles into her. The muscles ached and it was most noticeable when she tried to turn her neck.
She had been on the verge of tears for the last ten minutes, as the fear slowly faded. The shock of the incident was no longer new and she had moved out of survival mode a few minutes after she'd driven away from her attacker. Now the emotional response was clear of the instinctual reactions and she was starting to weep. Without even realizing she had started, she was now uncontrollably crying.
The pay phone chirped, barely an audible ring. She looked at it, uncertain if that was an actual call coming in. The second chirp was louder and slowly became a full ring. She lifted the receiver from the cradle.
"Hello."
It was Sheen and she tried to control her tears as she asked him for help.
"Where are you?" Sheen asked.
"I'm on Sunset and . . ." she looked around and spotted the sign at the intersection, "62nd Avenue. Near the Bakery Center. I'm at a gas station. Some guy, some fucking asshole attacked me!"
"Are you okay?"
"He grabbed me. I don't know. He hurt my wrist. He was asking about Eladio. I never seen him before . . ."
"Maribel, you gotta listen to me. You need to go to the hospital. South Miami is right there, go to the emergency room. I will meet you there in ten minutes. Okay?"
Maribel was sobbing and had trouble speaking.
"Maribel, do you understand me?"
She found a breath amongst her tears to say, "Yes."
"Ok. I'll see you there."
Maribel hung up the phone. She didn't go straight to the car. She needed a moment first. She let her tears subside and calmed herself. She wiped her face and went to her car. She turned around in the parking lot and headed towards US 1, heading for South Miami Hospital.
✽✽✽
Sheen sat in a chair next to the hospital bed that Maribel sat on. They had lied and claimed that Delmon was Maribel's uncle when she was admitted. She had been helped by the hospital staff and a doctor had iced her wounds. Both her wrist and the left side of her neck were starting to show bad discolorations of bruising. The wrist was sprained and had been tightly wrapped. Now they were just waiting for the police to whom Maribel was told she would have to file an official report of the attack. While in private, Sheen and Maribel had agreed that she would describe Cristiano to the police and give them the details of the physical altercation. She would mention that he'd followed her from her place of employ and was taunting her verbally before giving chase. But she would not mention the connection to Eladio. Both Maribel and Sheen wanted to keep that information away from the cops.
"Maribel, I need to see Eladio. This is just the next step in this thing getting worse. And it's going to continue to get worse before it gets better," Sheen said.
"I know," she replied.
She hung her head, trying to keep her emotions at bay. She was angry and didn't want to cry anymore.
"Who was that asshole?"
"I don't know his name," Sheen admitted, but he knew he was from Araña's camp. Sheen remembered the man from their tense conversation at the cafetería on Flagler, based on the description Maribel had given.
"He's from another drug crew, used to be run by a man called Araña," Sheen continued, "He was killed in a shooting downtown, right where Eladio was last seen."
"God. These people he's involved with."
Maribel shook her head. She knew he was capable of more. An actual future. It seemed impossible at the moment.
"He's so much better than them. You don't understand, Detective. He's . . . good. He's kind. I could never fall in love with anyone like those guys he works with. But Eladio . . . you have to help him. He's better than the life he lives. Please believe me."
"I can. I mean, I'll try. But you've got to tell me where he is. Let me talk to him, Maribel."
She nodded, tearing up. Was it a betrayal of Eladio's trust or was she doing what was best for him. Either way, Sheen was the only person she could trust right now.
"Clewiston," she said.
"What?"
She wiped a tear from her cheek. "Up north, that's where he is. I'll take you there."
The curtain was pushed aside and two police officers entered the room. They asked Maribel the necessary questions and she answered them just as her and Sheen had discussed.
Sheen sat back in his chair, observing and trying to stay out of the way. He was supportive as she recounted the terrible ordeal once again. But he breathed a sigh of relief inside, a mental respite from anxiety. He was going to find Eladio. One way or another, things were moving forward in the investigation. But he'd still have to find a way to keep the boy from T-Dub, Beck and whoever had attacked Maribel.
His relief was short-lived. There we
re too many angles to consider and Sheen didn't like any of the paths down which they led.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A Polite Conversation
T-Dub sat at a picnic style bench outside a sandwich shop on 2nd Avenue in Overtown. He had a larger than necessary paper cup filled with soda that he drank from the straw sticking out of the plastic top. A young woman in her late teens brought a foot-long, brown paper bag from a pickup window at the front of the shop to T-Dub's table.
"Thank you, girl," he said with a smile. "How's your folks?"
"They're good." She was sweet in the way she spoke. Polite as she smiled with her eyes. She was hardworking and T-Dub appreciated that.
"Daddy's still working for the city waste department and Mama's starting at Booker T. Washington this semester."
"What's she teaching over there?" T-Dub asked as he unwrapped the sandwich paper from around his roast beef sub.
"English and composition."
"And you still at Miami-Dade?"
"Yes, sir. Evening classes."
"Good. You be careful out here, alright?"
"I will."
"Tell your folks I said hi."
"Okay."
T-Dub handed her a five dollar bill.
"And keep working hard."
She smiled as she took the tip and said, "Thank you, Mr. Tisdale. I will."
The girl walked back into the sandwich shop leaving T-Dub to eat his lunch as he watched the sparse street activity in front of him. Most of the shops on the avenue weren't leased. Many were old, decaying buildings and resembled virtually nothing of his younger days, and a distant memory from his parents' and his grandparents' time.
He spotted Vernell as he approached and could tell by the look on his face that he bore bad news.
"That ain't a smile on your face," T-Dub said as Vernell sat on the bench opposite him.
"Young'un come by earlier. A Cuban. Give me this, said I should pass it along."
Vernell slid a Polaroid picture across the table. T-Dub didn't pick it up. He simply looked at it as he took another bite of his sub.
"The boy's dead?" T-Dub asked. He plopped his sandwich on the paper he'd spread out.