by Dave Daren
I parked in front of the house, between a rusted Ford pickup, and bright-yellow Dodge charger with a black stripe down the side. At least the Honda looked like it belonged in the neighborhood, and I doubted anyone would give it a second look. But I locked it anyway after I climbed from the car and studied my client’s house.
There was a chain link fence that wrapped around the front yard, though there was hardly enough grass to call it a yard. What greenery there consisted mostly of dollar weeds and crabgrass, though there was a small patch of actual grass that someone had recently mowed. Unlike some of the neighbors, there were no beer cans or yard waste piled out front, and despite the signs of dilapidation, it was clear that someone made an effort to keep the place clean.
The metal gate whined as I pushed it inwards, and then the bottom corner caught in the dirt. It opened just enough for me to squeeze through, and then I had to shove it hard so I could dislodge it from the dirt pile and close it.
I walked up the dirt pathway to the small concrete cinder blocks that served as stairs to the wooden front porch. The grayish-blue paint on the door had begun to peel, and when I knocked, a few pieces rattled and landed by my feet.
One of the windows that looked out over the street was open and loud rap music poured out. I wondered if Michael could even hear me over the pounding base, but as I was just about to knock again, my client yanked the door open and glared at me.
“Torres,” he said as his dark-brown eyes ran over me in disdain.
He was a beefy man with pale skin dotted with freckles and tattoos that ran along his forearms, neck, and hands with no pattern that I could find. His brown hair was short on the sides but long enough for a ponytail on the top, and he had a short tawny beard that was well-maintained. He had a jagged scar under his right eye that looked like it had been made with a bottle, and his nose was crooked enough that it had to have been broken more than a few times.
“Mr. Jones,” I said with a steady smile.
“Come in,” he grunted as he stepped aside.
His house opened up into the living room, where there was a large dark-red sectional sofa and a glass coffee table with a display of crushed beer cans discarded on top. Directly across from the couch was a sixty inch TV with a football game on pause. It looked like it was the latest Dolphins match, and I quickly checked to make sure that the Miami team was in the lead.
There was a darkened hallway that led deeper into the house, though the doors were closed so I couldn’t tell which ones led to bedrooms and which led to the bathroom. To our left was an archway into the kitchen, and I was happy to see that the counters and sink were completely clean, though the trash can was about to overflow.
Overall, the place was remarkably tidy, which I’ll admit was unexpected. I’d been certain I was about to walk into a place with dirty floors and moldy food everywhere, but it seemed that Michael took pride in having a clean home, even if the outside was falling apart.
“You can sit on the couch,” the red-bearded man told me as he pointed to the red cushions. “You want something to drink?”
“No,” I responded while I sat in a corner of the sectional with my briefcase on the coffee table.
I had no intention of being at the house long enough to be thirsty, though I would need a bathroom at some point.
“So what did you want to talk about?” my client asked as he turned down the music and then took the corner opposite of me on the couch.
“We need to go over the events of the night again,” I explained. “Can you tell me what happened?”
I’d reread my notes and the police report before I’d left the coffee shop. It was, according to my client, just a quick bar fight, though I was sure that my client hadn’t told me the whole story when we’d met at his bail hearing.
“Sure,” the beefy man shrugged. “The boss said to tell you everything.”
“Good,” I said. “We have attorney client privilege so nothing you say to me will come out in court. But I do need to know the truth. And I have the feeling it wasn’t just a bar fight.”
“It wasn’t,” Michael confirmed.
“Okay,” I reached over to my briefcase and pulled out the pad of paper and pen that I kept inside. “Go ahead.”
“You know what I do for the boss?” he asked.
“Let’s just assume I know nothing,” I responded.
My stomach clenched at the thought of learning anything about the cartel side of Osvaldo Fuentes’ business dealings, but it was necessary if I wanted to get my client the best deal possible.
“Sure thing,” the tattooed man said with a shrug. “So I’m in charge of the younger dealers.”
“Okay,” I muttered with a glance around.
The house was cleaner than the lairs of the other dealers I had dealt with at the Public Defenders, though those had all been young kids who were looking for fast cash and not a career., Michael’s place bore no traces of drugs anywhere, not even an empty bag with residue.
“I don’t do the drugs,” my client huffed as he rolled his dark-brown eyes. “I’m not one of those idiot users who deal on the side. I’m a professional.”
“Of course,” I said as I nodded. “What does your… job… have to do with the bar fight?”
“One of my kids didn’t get paid for his product,” Michael explained.
“Don’t they usually accept payment when they give them the product?” I asked.
I jotted down a few notes for myself, just a word or two that wouldn’t make sense to anyone who might come across them, but that would jog my memory when I read them.
“They do,” the muscular man said with a deep frown. “But the guy had a party going on. He paid most of it before and was supposed to pay the rest later.”
“Okay,” I mumbled. “And the gentleman at the bar was the one with the debt?”
“Yeah,” my client said. “He was a regular so it wasn’t a big deal. But when my kid followed up with him, the guy had hung up on him, so he’d called me to make sure that I knew.”
“What happened after that?” I asked.
“Well, the boss frowns on people not paying their tab,” Michael said with a shrug. “So I called around and found out he was at one of the neighborhood bars.”
“A place that has appeared on your rap sheet a few times,” I mentioned.
“Yeah,” he huffed. “I’ve been there a few times so I knew exactly where it was.”
“Right,” I nodded and waited for him to continue.
“And when I asked him when he planned on settling up, he decided to square up instead,” the red-bearded man rolled his shoulders as he remembered the fight. “Anyways, he hit me in the jaw. And before he could swing again I punched him square in the chest.”
“The chest?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “He left himself wide open.”
“He ended up in the hospital,” I reminded him.
“Apparently I broke a rib, and it may have grazed his lungs,” Michael muttered. “He was rushed out in an ambulance, but he’s fine now.”
“And he’s not pressing charges,” I added. “Neither is the bartender.”
“The boss’ second paid him a visit,” my client said. “Made him rethink his life choices.”
I shivered as I remembered the way Alvaro had looked at me the last time I’d seen him, the coldness in his almost black eyes, and the deadly efficiency with which he moved. If he’d visited me with orders to change my mind, then I was pretty sure I’d drop any charges, too, and I’d pay whatever he wanted just to get him away from me.
“That does make sense,” I muttered. “Alright. I think I have a plan for your case. With your criminal record you’ll serve time. But I think I might be able to weedle it down to thirty days. You’ll have to stay out of bars and fights until after the trial.”
“You can get me down to thirty days?” the red-bearded man gasped. “Even with my record?”
“Well, there are witnesses,” I explained
. “They confirmed that you struck him, and he went down, but they also said he swung at you first. It was self-defense. I still can’t have it thrown out entirely, though, because he ended up in the hospital.”
“Right,” Michael said as he nodded his head, clearly impressed.
“Make sure you keep your nose clean until the deal is finalized,” I warned him.
“I guess I can let someone else handle the enforcing,” he grumbled.
“Sure,” I said while I put my pad and pen back in my briefcase and stood. “That sounds like a good plan.”
“Thanks,” the tattooed man said as he walked me out.
“No problem,” I grinned at him.
My walk back to the car was torture with the afternoon sun beating down on me even for the short jaunt back to my Honda. I couldn’t wait until I was once again in air conditioning, and I turned on the car even before I slid into the front seat.
The phone started to ring as soon as I shut the door behind me, and I had to twist in the seat so that I could reach it before it went to voicemail.
“This is Rob Torres,” I answered.
It was an unknown number, but I wasn’t sure what number Alvaro would call me from.
“Jipato,” Osvaldo said.
My whole body froze as I heard my employer’s gruff, angry voice on the other end of the line.
“Mr. Fuentes,” I responded while I fought to keep my breathing study.
“Do you have a status update?” he asked, and I could almost see the scowl on his face with the deep scar that was etched into his cheek.
“I have filed an appeal,” I answered as I wiped my hands on my jeans.
“How long is my boy going to be rotting in that juvenile detention center?” he questioned in a deceptively calm voice that had an undertone of rage.
“I’ve been doing some research, and I think that I can have him released,” I hedged. “These things take time.”
There was a long silence from the other end of the line. I checked my cell phone to make sure I hadn’t lost the call, but the time still ticked away to show that my employer was still there.
“How much time do you think you have?” Osvaldo asked before he hung up and left me to wonder what the answer was.
Chapter 10
I stared ahead until my car began to whine from the constant idling. The heavy purr of the engine brought me back to the moment and out of the images of Alvaro as he dragged my corpse through the marshy Everglades. I shook my head and then tossed my cell phone into the passenger’s seat so that it was as far away from me as possible.
Osvaldo was not a patient man, and he’d just made it very clear that I needed to speed up Camilo’s release, or I would take a vacation that I didn’t return from. I had a plan in place, my meeting with Eloa was set for the next morning, and the appeal was already filed. I might be able to boost my appeal’s place in line with a phone call, but I was just as likely to have it dropped to the bottom of the stack if I annoyed the appeals office.
There was nothing else that I could do from a legal standpoint before the meeting with Eloa. I needed to know what she had on the Everson Juvenile Detention Center, and then I would have a better idea of my next steps. If she had anything useful, then I could use that to strengthen my appeal and to add to my information about the judge’s corruption.
I took a few deep breaths as I tried to calm my racing heart. My hands were shaking and sweaty, so I wiped them on my jeans again. I glanced over at my client’s house, half-expecting the muscular man to be there watching me, but the door was shut, and my shoulders released a fraction of their tension.
My car had been in front of Michael’s house for too long and the interior felt like an oven even with the AC on, so I put it in drive and pulled out into the street. There were a few people starting to appear, and I knew the routines well enough to know that some would be people on their lunch break and others would just be returning home after a long shift. They talked on their porches and a few even pulled out their grills, and I could swear that they all watched my car go by with suspicious stares.
It was like the entire world watched me, and I knew that anyone on the street could work for Osvaldo. He hadn’t given up on me just yet, which was good, but if I wanted it to stay that way, I would have to get Camilo out of juvenile detention.
Besides, if Osvaldo really wanted to come after me, he would send Alvaro rather than someone on the street so everyone, including me, would get the message. For some reason, that wasn’t reassuring, and as I drove down the street, I kept an eye for any large shadows that suddenly detached themselves from a building.
But I realized I was just making myself paranoid, and for no good reason as long as I did my job. So I forced myself to focus on the moment and reminded myself that if I kept jumping at every little thing, my mother would realize that something was wrong. She had enough to worry about, and I would not add to that if I could help it.
By the time I pulled into my mother’s driveway, I was reasonably calm, and I managed to force my panic into the back of my mind. I took one long breath in, and then slowly let it out before I turned off the car.
The whole house smelled like arroz con pollo when I walked in, and my stomach growled as a reminder that I hadn’t had anything to eat since the caramel apple turnover. I followed the scent of food to the kitchen while I tried not to drool.
My ama stood at the counter with a knife in her hand. The bell peppers and onions she had already chopped were in a bowl near her cutting board, and she had moved onto the tomatoes. Her favorite pot was on the stove with its clear lid already in place, and I could see droplets of steam rolling down to the rice below.
Her old radio sang sweet love ballads to her in Spanish as she worked. She had her favorite blue velvet track pants on and an old t-shirt that hung off of her tiny frame. She’d pulled her thinning auburn hair up into a ponytail that swayed behind her as she bobbed her head along to the song.
“Hola, mama,” I said as I set my briefcase down on the counter.
“Mi hijo,” my mother said while she put her knife down on the cutting board.
The bags under her eyes were darker, and her green eyes had lost their bright shine. When she smiled at me, my heart thudded painfully, and I had to fight back the tears as I saw how exhausted she was.
“Mama, when’s the last time you rested?” I asked as I strolled over to her and wrapped my arms around her.
She seemed so frail, like she would blow away in a strong breeze, and I buried my head into her hair as I held her tight.
“Oh, I napped earlier,” my mother answered while she patted me on the back.
“Why don’t you go take another one while I finish up the rest of dinner?” I asked as I let her go, it was harder than I expected, but she had taken a step back, and I couldn’t hold her forever.
“And let you in my kitchen?” she asked as she stared up at me with her hands on her hips. “Not a chance, hijo.”
“My food wasn’t that bad,” I defended.
“No,” she said while she went back to chopping. “But you make a mess.”
She turned to look at me as I leaned against the counter next to her. She still had the knife in her hand as she pointed around the spotless kitchen.
“It was just a few dishes in the sink,” I said while I slid a little further away so that I wouldn’t be within the reach of her knife.
“You clean as you go,” she reminded me. “How many times have I told you this?”
“Have you seen Laura today?” I asked as a change of subject.
“Oh, yes,” she grinned at me. “She confirmed that my boss has taken me off the schedule until I can come back.”
“I’m sure that went over well,” I muttered.
Her boss worked her too hard, even before she was sick, and I had almost expected him to complain that she needed time off for her cancer treatments.
“He’s not as bad as you think,” my mother replied. “Though I’m s
ure he won’t save my place. I’ll have to reapply. Or find somewhere else.”
“Why don’t you retire, mama?” I asked. “I’ll be making enough money to support you if you need help.”
I needed to be around to help my mother, and the thought lit another fire under me to get Camilo released from the Everson Juvenile Detention Center.
“I’ll think about it, hijo,” my ama replied. “But what would I do with all that free time?”
“You could pick up a hobby,” I suggested. “One that doesn’t require you to be on your feet. Like crocheting. Or quilt making.”
“No,” she shook her head as she tossed the tomatoes into the bowl with the bell peppers and onions. “I will not become some old lady in a chair with a needle in her hand or a ball of yarn in my lap.”
“There are plenty of other restful hobbies,” I said with a shrug. “You could make puzzles. Or maybe learn to play an instrument.”
“Mi hijo,” the older Cuban woman sighed as she pulled out a large skillet for the chicken and vegetables. “I’ve been working my whole life. I can’t just sit around, I’ll lose my mind.”
“At least give it some thought,” I said before I leaned down to give her a kiss on her forehead.
“Alright, alright,” she conceded. “Now go wash up for dinner. It’ll be done in a few minutes. I’ll prepare you a few dinners to take with you, too.”
I did as requested, and when I returned, the food was already on the table. I let her lead the conversation during dinner as she talked about her friend Laura, the herb garden she wanted to start, and the stubborn stain she couldn’t get rid of in the shower. It was clear that she had no desire to spend yet more time talking about the cancer, and I could understand her need to act normal, at least for a little while.
By the time I left, she had packed enough dinners for an entire week. All of it was portioned into tupperware and wrapped in aluminum foil. The smell of the food filled my car as I drove down the highway toward my apartment, and sure enough, my stomach started to rumble again. I sighed and told myself that I wasn’t allowed to touch any of it until the next night.