Shadow Boys

by Harry Hunsicker

  “Nobody’s gonna bother you,” the man says. “I cleared everybody out.”

  Raul nods.

  “I’ll stay outside, guard the door.” The man smiles.

  A question forms in Raul’s mind, but he is afraid to ask. Instead he just stands there, staring at the officer’s ribbons and medals.

  The man says, “Your name’s Raul, right?”

  “Yes.” Raul nods, glad the man doesn’t pronounce it like a redneck.

  “My name is Bobby.” He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Raul.”

  They shake. The officer’s skin is rough like wood that needs to be painted.

  “I’m a lieutenant with the Dallas Police Department.” Bobby hitches a thumb in his gun belt. “Back there, in the interview room. I’m sorry about that.”

  Raul swallows several times. After a few moments, he says, “Carlos. My brother. Where is he?”

  Bobby’s face is expressionless. He waits for a long while before speaking. Then:

  “Your mother had a seizure or something when she heard.”

  Raul clutches his stomach.

  “She’s gonna be all right,” Bobby says. “But she’s in the hospital.”

  Raul shakes his head, trying to will away the bad news.

  “Trouble is, we can’t find your daddy nowhere.”

  The room is silent for a moment.

  “Carlos,” Raul says. “Where is my brother, Carlos?”

  More silence.

  Raul scratches his arm like he always does when he’s extra nervous.

  “You need to understand something.” Bobby sits on a bench so they’re eye to eye. “Lot a people in this department want to blame what happened on you and your brother.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They’re gonna say you were armed. You were a threat to the two officers who had you in the car.”

  Raul struggles to catch his breath, his words jumbled. “We—we—we were just trying to have fun. We weren’t trying to h-hurt anybody.”

  Bobby nods like he understands. Then he grabs the boy’s hand and says, “Quit scratching yourself, son. You’re bleeding.”

  Raul looks at his arm. His nails have rubbed a raw patch. Blood seeps from the skin.

  “I gotta ask you something.” Bobby’s voice is soft.

  Raul stares at the man blankly, chest heaving.

  “In the back of the police car,” Bobby says. “Did you have a gun with you?”

  Raul shakes his head.

  “Did you take that money from the store?”

  Raul hesitates. Then he nods.

  “Stealing’s wrong, son. Don’t you know that?”

  “I—I’m sorry.” Raul wipes tears from his cheek. He is truly sorry. He doesn’t want to disappoint this man.

  Raul scratches the raw patch on his arm again.

  “Quit that now, all right?” Bobby pulls his hand away. “That ain’t gonna bring Carlos back.”

  Raul frowns, trying to make sense of the man’s words.

  “You should get cleaned up.” Bobby points to the showers. “Your mama needs you.”

  “What did you say about my brother?” Raul raises his hands, trying to deflect the message that is coming right at him like a bowling ball. “Carlos—where is Carlos?”

  Silence in the locker room except for the drip of a showerhead in the corner.

  “Aw, son. I’m sorry.” Bobby pats Raul’s shoulder. “You’re brother, he’s dead.”

  The weight of the universe seems to catch in Raul Delgado’s throat. His skin becomes icy, his stomach hollow. He shivers once and falls to his knees, weeping.

  The reason for the flash of light and the ringing in his ears becomes clear, as does the enormity of what has occurred.

  His brother is gone.

  A wall plants itself into his mind, dividing his life into two separate but unequal halves.

  Before Carlos, and after.

  He cries and cries as Bobby pats his shoulder and tries to comfort him.

  - CHAPTER SEVEN -

  At 5:01 p.m. I walked into a windowless office in the Preston Center section of North Dallas, a small suite of rooms decorated like a girl’s bedroom in a 1950s romantic comedy—lace and doilies and overstuffed chairs, everything frilly and pink.

  Preston Center was in the geographical center of North Dallas—ritzy shops, expensive high-rises, swanky restaurants. A former president officed a couple of blocks away.

  In a room behind a small reception area, four white leather chairs circled a coffee table, exactly equidistant from each other, no one position superior to the other. On the coffee table, three bottles of water bracketed a box of facial tissue.

  Piper sat in one of the chairs. Otherwise, the room was empty.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “It’s barely five o’clock.”

  Piper opened one of the waters but didn’t speak.

  “Where’s Corinne?” I sat across from her.

  Corinne was a psychologist in private practice. She had a contract with the Veterans Administration to provide counseling services to former members of the armed forces.

  Here are a few facts that are important to know at this juncture:

  Corinne specialized in couple’s counseling. Her contract with the feds stipulated that she would treat only vets and their spouses.

  Piper and I were not a couple. Also, in the eyes of the government, we were no longer regarded as vets.

  If Piper and I stopped seeing Corinne, we’d go to prison.

  A sticky wicket, as the Brits say.

  We sat in silence for a few moments, neither of us knowing what to say. Introspection: not our long suit.

  “So, how was your afternoon?” I said finally.

  Piper clenched her fists, blinked several times.

  “What? I’m just making polite conversation.”

  “Always pushing my buttons, Jon. That’s a great way to start therapy.”

  “Therapy?” I looked around the office. “This is a boondoggle, remember?”

  Piper and I were former government freelancers, private law-enforcement contractors at one time employed by the DEA. At the end of our tenure as narcotics agents, we’d committed a small number of felonies, most of which were the result of our efforts to stay alive. Our trouble at the time sprang from a series of greater felonies being committed by men hiding behind the thin veil separating the federal government and corporate America.

  When the dust had cleared and the prosecutors were looking for somebody to charge, they’d trained their sights on us.

  After much discussion at the Department of Justice, a decision was reached, one that was a quintessential mess of bureaucratic compromise.

  We would not be prosecuted if we entered into counseling for an unspecified period.

  The benefits package made available to us only provided for “relationship therapy sessions”—even though we’d barely been in what could’ve been called a “relationship” at the time of the activities that had resulted in this boondoggle, and certainly weren’t now—and then only at a select few counselors. I could have used the insurance provided by my current employer but none of their mental-health providers were on the DOJ’s approved list.

  There was no way we could afford to pay for our own therapy, so like many a good American, we adapted our situation to fit the available insurance. If we needed to pose as a couple to get out of this particular mess, we would do so.

  Ergo, our current meeting.

  The door on the far side of the room opened and Corinne entered.

  Corinne was in her midthirties. She wore a tweed skirt and black lace-up shoes. She had the air of one who enjoyed a good game of softball back in her college days.

  She greeted us and sat down. />
  “How are things this week?” Her voice was soft and soothing.

  Piper snorted.

  I said, “Things are fine.”

  “Piper, you seem to have something you want to say.” Corinne leaned forward, all earnest.

  “No.” Piper glared at me. “Things are . . . fine.”

  Piper’s record had actually been cleared, which was why she was able to get a job with the Dallas Police Department. I had something of a more checkered past, so law enforcement was out of the question for me. That’s when Goldberg, Finkelman, and Clark had found me. They didn’t care about my past. They cared about results.

  Corinne scribbled some notes.

  I yawned, tried to look interested.

  “How is everyone sleeping?” Corinne looked at each of us in turn.

  Neither Piper nor I trusted the confidentiality of any health care professional, especially when it came to some of the more unseemly issues we’d dealt with. So we spoke in circles, talked in code and double entendres, which I suppose people who really are in therapy do as well.

  One thing we did talk about openly was our sleeping or lack thereof. The insomnia was worse when we were apart, which was all the time now.

  “In your bedroom,” Corinne said. “Have you removed the TV like we talked about?”

  At the same time, Piper said “No” while I said “Yes.”

  Corinne arched an eyebrow.

  “I took the TV out,” I said, “but Piper brought it back.”

  Corinne nodded thoughtfully.

  “I tried to implement a sleep-friendly environment,” I said innocently. “Like you suggested we do.”

  Piper stared at the floor, lips pursed, venom dripping from her pores.

  Corinne tapped a pen on her knee. “Piper, is the television more important than getting a good night’s sleep?” A long pause. “Or your relationship with Jon?”

  “I like to watch those true-crime shows.” She cut her eyes toward me. “Especially the ones where the wife kills the husband.”

  Corinne stopped tapping, a surprised look on her face. She quickly regained her composure and jotted something down.

  I tried to keep from laughing. Piper hated TV.

  No one spoke. The silence stretched out, a few seconds became a minute or more.

  Finally Corinne flipped through her notes. “How are the nightmares, Jon?” She glanced up. “Are you still dreaming about your father’s death?”

  I didn’t speak. Piper looked away, sipped water.

  Corinne leaned forward. “Jon? Do you still dream about your father’s death?”

  I shook my head.

  In the dream, which came every time I slept, my father and I are walking down a narrow street at night, the asphalt glistening from rain. We have no destination. At the end of the street a fire burns brightly in an oil drum. We keep walking but never get closer. Blocks and blocks go by, and I realize my father is bleeding from a gunshot wound, and I am holding the weapon in my hand. That’s when I wake up sweating, tangled in the sheets, unable to go to sleep again.

  Corinne gave me a tiny nod that said I know you’re lying but I’m not going to push it now. Then she turned to Piper.

  “How is Jon around the house these days?” she said.

  “All he does is watch westerns on cable,” Piper said. “Bonanza and The Big Valley for Pete’s sake, and drinks beer until he passes out.”

  “How would you know?” I said. “You’re always at work.”

  I hated westerns. Drank two beers a month, maybe.

  Corinne wrote something down.

  “And you never shut up about your boss,” I said.

  Piper took a quick breath, nostrils flaring. Corinne didn’t seem to notice.

  “Raul this, Raul that.” I arched an eyebrow. “If our relationship wasn’t so rock solid, I might be jealous.”

  Piper scratched her face with her middle finger.

  “Jon, let’s talk about your drinking,” Corinne said. “How many alcoholic beverages do you consume each day?”

  “I usually have some gin with my cornflakes. After that it’s a blur.”

  Corinne steepled her fingers. “Admitting you have a problem is the first step toward fixing it.”

  I sighed, looked at my watch, anxious to leave even though I had nowhere to be.

  “Our hour is not finished yet,” Corinne said.

  I tried to relax. We sat in silence for a long while.

  Finally, Corinne asked Piper about her “kids.”

  Piper, an orphan, collected parentless children as a hobby-slash-form of self-therapy. Dozens of them, maybe more. She sponsored war orphans in the Balkans, the offspring of AIDS victims in Africa, street urchins in South America. Pictures of the children served as bonding substitutes, adorning the walls of her living space. She sent presents to each and every one for holidays and birthdays.

  It was sweet and endearing and just a little bit crazy.

  Piper and Corinne talked about her orphans for a period of time. Then our session was over. Corinne smiled and said she looked forward to seeing us next time.

  Piper and I left together. We walked silently down the hall.

  In the elevator, we were alone.

  I pushed the button for the ground floor, turned, faced Piper.

  “I put some feelers out for this Tremont kid,” she said. “You go down to West Dallas, be careful, okay?”

  I nodded.

  She slid into my arms, tilted her face toward mine, and kissed me. We stayed that way, intertwined, lips together, until the door opened in the lobby.

  “I’m sorry, Jon.”

  “For what?”

  “We always seem to be on different pages.”

  I mentally conceded the point.

  Back when we were together, if one of us wanted to stay at home, the other wanted to go out. She liked zombie movies; I preferred comedies. The only time we came together emotionally, thinking and operating as a single unit, was when our backs were to the wall. But if you built a relationship on seeking out danger so two could be as one, then neither would live very long.

  “At least we’re in the same book,” I said.

  She stared at me for a moment and then darted from the elevator.

  - CHAPTER EIGHT -

  Mason Burnett debated the tools at hand: an ASP retractable baton or the more traditional billy club.

  The gangbanger with the teardrop tattoos on his face stood before him at the foot of the swayback bed, arms crossed, giving Mason the stink eye.

  They were in the second-floor bedroom of a boardinghouse a few blocks south of Jefferson Boulevard in Oak Cliff. One of Mason’s SWAT officers stood in the doorway, keeping any curious residents at bay.

  The gangbanger’s stink eye demonstrated a lack of respect, something that Captain Mason Burnett had never put up with during his long career.

  “You hablo English?” Mason decided to go with the billy club. It became a classic for a reason.

  “Whatchoo want with me, homes?” The gangbanger was about twenty-five. His skin was the color of roasted walnuts, greasy black hair held down by a bandana tied around his head.

  “The botánica on Jefferson,” Mason said. “You hit it?”

  The boardinghouse was old, built in the 1940s, wood-framed. The windows were open since there was no air-conditioning, and the warm air wafting through the room did little to cut the smell of marijuana and stale sweat. This odor was preferable to the stench of urine and mold in the hallway.

  “What the fuck is this?” Gangbanger looked at the man in the door and then back to Mason. “You guys aren’t real cops. You’re dressed like soldiers or some shit.”

  “We’re SWAT,” Mason said. “And yeah, we are real cops.”

  “I want my lawyer.” The hood cocke
d his head to one side. “You feel me, mister SWAT man?”

  Mason popped him in the forehead with the end of the billy club. Not a hard blow, just enough to get his attention.

  The hood swayed on his feet but didn’t fall.

  “The fuck you doing?” He rubbed his skull.

  “Who you banging with?” Mason asked. “Is it gonna be old homie week when you go back to the joint?”

  The tats on the hood’s arms indicated he was affiliated with an offshoot of the Mexican Mafia, or La Eme, originally a prison gang.

  The hood shook his head several times, blinking, clearly trying to focus. After a moment, he appeared to recover. He gave Mason a sneer and a hand sign—thumb, index, and middle finger pointed down.

  “You do that again, I’ll break your fingers off and grind ’em up into taco meat.”

  Mason tried to look as angry as he sounded. Despite being a clusterfuck, the chief’s new anti-crime initiative—putting SWAT officers in high-crime areas—was actually pretty fun. He was on the street, busting up punks like the old days.

  The hood shook his head. “I ain’t robbed no botánica.”

  Mason sighed. He was having a grand time rousting beaners, but this particular incidence, the aggravated robbery of a botánica, was causing him something of a dilemma. Botánicas were stores that sold herbs and potions for use in Santeria rituals and other voodoo mumbo jumbo. In Mason’s mind, if a store that sold devil shit got robbed, who really cared?

  Unfortunately, the owner was injured during the course of the robbery, which meant Mason and his people had to act like they gave a shit. Also, a video camera at a nearby business had a pretty clear image of the suspect, a punk who looked a lot like the gangbanger with the teardrop tattoos.

  “The old guy at the botánica,” Mason said. “You busted him up pretty bad. Why’d you gotta go and do that, huh?”

  “Voodoo shit they sell there,” the hood said. “Gives me the creeps, yo.”

  “You broke his arm.”

  Gangbanger shrugged, an indifferent look on his face.

  A quarter century on the force, Mason Burnett knew an admission of guilt when he saw one.

  “I didn’t break nothing,” Gangbanger said. “Didn’t rob nothing neither.”