Dirty Side of the Storm

by David Sayre

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Other Works By The Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  DIRTY SIDE OF THE STORM

  ALSO BY DAVID SAYRE

  Some Are Shadows

  DIRTY SIDE OF THE STORM

  DAVID SAYRE

  Copyright © 2018 David Sayre

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781798729434

  To my supporters . . .

  Family, friends and readers,

  A heartfelt thank you.

  PROLOGUE

  Alive on Arrival blared on the car's stereo, rattling the windows with a rhythmic vibration. Ice Cube rapped about how being in the wrong place at the wrong time could quickly turn violent when someone rolls up on you with their guns out.

  The overpowering clatter of the Metrorail train rumbled overhead and its loud, piercing whine of brakes made it impossible to hear the radio.

  The interruption annoyed Cachorro. "Pssss," was the sound that seemed to hiss out of him.

  He reached towards the dashboard of the Honda Accord, pointed a finger at the radio and pushed the reverse button on the CD player. He backed up to the beginning of the song off of Ice Cube's Death Certificate album. The song began again, but just as Cube flowed with the rhyme "Hear six pops from a deuce-deuce", it started to skip.

  "Conjo, que puta! That's the last fucking time, man. Last fucking time I lend her any of my shit! Look at that, bro," Cachorro griped as he ejected the disc and inspected it. "Shit's all scratched up. Bitch can't even put a CD in a player without fuckin' with it!"

  His friend in the passenger seat, who was so slim he almost looked anemic in comparison to Cachorro's muscular, middleweight frame, simply shrugged his shoulders and added, "Whatever. I like Hammer better anyway."

  Cachorro stared at his companion in disbelief. "Are you serious right now? MC Hammer?"

  "What?" His friend protested, "He's good, dude."

  "What is his music about? Does he say anything?" Cachorro mocked the baggy pants hip-hop star, saying, "Too Legit to Quit!" He went the full commitment by re-enacting the silly hand gestures from the Hammer video. "What the fuck is that? Now my man Cube . . . that's the shit right there. True to the Game, that's real! None of this 'please Hammer don't hurt 'em' . . . With what? His big fuckin' shiny ass pants?"

  His passenger chuckled at that one. Cachorro always could make him laugh. "Besides," Cachorro continued, "I'm so tired of hearin' that shit about him being a Oakland A's batboy and now he's the king of hip hop. Carajo."

  "That's cool though. That's like the American dream right there."

  "Fuck that!" Cachorro was a little feisty in his retort. "My grandfather came to this country . . . that singao Castro took his cigar business away, but here he worked his ass off and built his own liquor store. Thirty-two years in business, that's the American dream, not this fucking . . ."

  "Jesus Christ!"

  His partner's reaction startled Cachorro and took him off his train of thought. He turned his head to see where his friend's eyes were focused. Outside, running away from a cafetería on the corner of the intersection, a young Hispanic man rushed towards their car. He wasn't even close to getting there when two gunshots popped and rang in the two young men's ears. The gunshot victim fell to the ground, first on his knees, then face first onto the sidewalk.

  Several yards away from the victim were two men wearing sunglasses, one of them had his arms out in front of him, steadily gripping his firearm. The other was turned the opposite way and reached at his side to pull out his gun. Before he could aim the piece, his chest burst open and a solid gush of blood leaked down his body as another loud shot carried through the atmosphere.

  "Get the fuck out of here!" the panicked passenger pleaded, his eyes welled up with tears and his tanned features turning pale. He watched as the first man in the sunglasses turned on his heels and pointed his gun at another man, now visible, his barrel still smoking.

  Cachorro slammed the gearshift out of park and gunned the engine, quickly turning the wheel, driving away from the curb and merging into the lane.

  They could hear the continuing gunfire, but couldn't see what was happening as they sped towards an on-ramp next to a sign that read 95.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Calm Before the Storm

  Delmon Sheen closed his eyes and took a moment to enjoy the robust sweet and spicy flavors of his pulled pork sandwich. He usually ordered it when he took his lunch alone at Peoples Barbecue in Overtown. He opened his eyes and sipped at his sweet, iced tea. Then he looked out the window at the neighborhood that had long since seen its renaissance, now a sad but true example of most of the country's dilapidated inner cities.

  His appearance was unique, his eyes a deep green that he inherited from his father and the curly black hair that he'd gotten from his mother. It would frizzle out terribly if he didn't keep it closely cropped. His complexion was where the genes of his white father and black mother truly met in the middle. Those who didn't know his ethnic background might assume he was anything from Persian to Latino. Often times he would be mistaken for Dominican or even Nicaraguan. In the ever growing multi-cultural landscape of Miami, Florida, Sheen blended in just about anywhere.

  His name on the day of his birth was Delmon Childress, being given his mother's last name, as it was against the law for his mother and father to be married in the state of Florida in 1953. But he had officially changed his last name in his early twenties, wanting his children to carry on his father's name.

  His quiet lunch was interrupted by the persistent beeping from the pager he had clasped to the left pocket of his slacks. He checked the display and recognized the number. He looked at the bill for six fifty-eight on the table, left eight in cash and took one final gulp of his tea. He stood from the table and walked out towards the parking lot where he found a pay phone. He searched through his pockets for change, pulled out a quarter, pushed it into the slot and made his call.

  "Hello." The voice on the other end of the line was that of the woman Delmon had spent the last twenty-one years of his life with, nearly nineteen as man and wife. Ines had a slight concern in her voice when she answered the phone.

  "Hey there, gorgeous," Delmon said. "What's up?"

  "Sweetheart, you okay? I just saw the news, right down the street from your office. I wanted to make sure everything was all right."

  Delmon furrowed his brow, perplexed and asked, "What news?"

  "There was a shooting. Four people killed just outside that cafetería across from the courthouse. By the library."

  "Really? Well I wasn't even nearby, don't worry."

 
; "Oh, thank God."

  "It's gonna be a mess over there. Maybe I won't even go back to the office today."

  "Baby, you need to get home. We need plywood for the windows and you've got to get these boys started on tying things down outside."

  "Tell them I said they better have everything secured by the time I get home."

  "I will. But, remember, Wendell is picking up your mother at her house."

  "And Aunt Pearl?"

  "She's staying with Althea and Rodney."

  "Okay. I'll be home as soon as I can."

  Sheen hung up the phone and unlocked the door of his red 1985 Alfa Romeo Spider convertible. He had a deal with his wife that they would always keep a family vehicle and Delmon's car of choice. He'd had the car for four years and loved driving it, when it was running properly. But it frequently had its temperamental issues and he was still trying to avoid Ines putting her foot down and making him trade it in for something more sensible.

  Sheen pulled out of the parking lot and headed towards the expressway. The FM radio was on but there was no music playing. The station was reporting on the approaching storm between songs. Sheen had heard enough about the hurricane expected to hit shore in the next twenty-four hours and opted not to listen to another report. Instead he put Pearl Jam's Ten in the cassette player.

  Delmon would be forty early next year, but he wasn't married to the music from his teens and twenties like most. He still often listened to The Who, The Band, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye and The Police, among others. But he also liked new stuff that was coming out. He shared an interest in music with one of his sons, Matthew. As long as it wasn't that Nirvana shit.

  Delmon didn't take hurricanes lightly. His father had told him many a true tale about how the Labor Day Hurricane had ravaged the Keys in 1935. And Delmon himself was a six year old boy when Hurricane Donna blew through Miami, so he knew these storms were not to be underestimated.

  Before the on-ramp there was a gas station on Delmon's left. He turned in, seeing it was not packed with motorists. Best to fill up the tank now and avoid the massive crowds that would seize upon the stations later, in preparation of the storm.

  Delmon had awnings outside each room of his house that folded down and locked tight over the windows, doubling as hurricane shutters. They had been installed fifteen years ago and had successfully been through several summer storms.

  But he had a sliding glass door at the back of the house and that would need to be covered with plywood. The piece he'd used over the past few years had given way to rot sometime after the last storm and Delmon had not gotten around to replacing it.

  He wasn't concerned about his family. Between him and his cousin Althea they had made arrangements for all the true kin. It was Mickey he was worried about. Not an actual relative, but his Uncle nonetheless. That was the first thing he'd have to do when he got home, call Uncle Mick and make sure he had proper refuge from his Miami Beach apartment.

  Then it would be off to the hardware store with his son Wendell, the more athletic of his twin boys, to cut and purchase some ply. Of course they'd have to make the trip in the family car, an Isuzu Trooper they'd had for about three years. There was no way for Delmon and his son to transport the lumber on his Alfa. He could already hear his wife getting on him about having a more practical vehicle.

  ✽✽✽

  "A Dodge Caravan. That can haul things with no problem at all. That can seat more than two and a half people," was the first thing Ines said to Delmon after they exchanged brief, routine hello kisses.

  "Hey, I only took half people in the car one time, and the circus was in town. What can I say," Delmon cleverly quipped back at her. He could see by the expression on her face that the sense of humor she always said attracted her to him was not, at that moment, appreciated.

  Ines had as stunning a beautiful face at thirty-eight years old as the nineteen year old version of her that Delmon married. Her body had the healthy, voluptuous frame that was often found in Cuban-American women. Thick thighs, full hips, just the right size that Delmon still loved to wrap his arms around. Their romantic spark had matured, but never faded.

  Ines worked in a law office, a job she'd returned to after having the twins seventeen years ago. Delmon had nothing against housewives, but he admired his wife even more because she was a professional woman. He thought it was sexy.

  "Wendell back yet?" Sheen asked.

  "Yes. He's at the TV screen. Your mother's in the guest room, she wanted to take a nap," Ines replied.

  Sheen kissed Ines on the cheek. He appreciated the way that his wife took care of his mother, but more than that he liked the fact that Ines genuinely loved his mother and that they got along so well.

  Sheen walked into the living room and found one of his sons, Wendell, a seventeen year old with an athletic body that he kept trimmed with the right balance of muscle, particularly in the arms and chest. The teenager was watching a VHS recording that he had watched countless times over the past two months. An iron man match between Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat and "Ravishing" Rick Rude. It had aired on the pay-per-view wrestling card WCW Beach Blast, and Wendell had saved five weeks worth of allowance to order the event from the Adelphia cable company.

  He recorded any of the pay-per-view events that he ordered. In fact one of the biggest fights Wendell and his twin brother Matthew had ever gotten into was when Matthew taped over a portion of Wrestlemania VIII to record an episode of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, the British television adaptation of the classic detective stories that aired on PBS. Wendell was furious with his brother, but ultimately moved on, mainly since the "Rowdy" Roddy Piper vs. Bret "Hitman" Hart match was unaffected. That was Wendell's favorite match and he studied it endlessly, much as he was studying the Steamboat/Rude contest.

  Delmon didn't understand nor share an interest in his son's passion for professional wrestling. But Sheen had raised his children with the policy that he would not interfere with or object to their hobbies and interests, so long as it didn't lead to trouble or them harming themselves or others.

  Wendell was on the amateur team at his high school and played the right outside linebacker spot on the football team. Just this afternoon, prior to picking up his grandmother, Wendell had participated in the required pre-semester practice for returning players at Tamiami Park off of Coral Way and 112th Avenue.

  "Haven't you seen this match about twenty times?" the elder Sheen asked his teenage son.

  "I want to figure out how they do it," Wendell replied.

  Sheen really didn't understand, but simply responded, "Okay."

  Sheen walked towards the hallway of the house and said over his shoulder, "Get ready to head out. We need to go get some plywood."

  "Yes, sir."

  Sheen approached a door that was just slightly open and he tapped on it.

  "Come in."

  Sheen entered to find his other child, Matthew, sitting on his bed, reading a book and listening to Tom Waits' Small Change album.

  "Waits, huh?" Delmon asked.

  "Yep," Matthew responded.

  He was far leaner than his brother. Even though they were identical twins, Wendell was a tad more filled out and it changed the contours of his face. Both boys shared the same hair color and eye color. Both were of the same complexion. And if their father was distinctive in his look having Irish-American ancestry as well as African-American, his sons were even more so with the genetic influence of their mother's Cuban roots.

  At times, from certain angles and with particular expressions, some might easily confuse one twin for the other. But the major surface difference between the two was that Matthew sported a cleaner haircut, short around the sides with his curls hanging slightly over the top. Whereas Wendell's cut was longer and appeared shaggier over his brow and ears.

  "Did you do everything your mother asked of you?"

  "The proverbial battening down of the hatches?" the teenager asked without looking up from his book then stated, "Yea
h, it's done."

  "Good. I'm going to get some lumber, be back hopefully in an hour or so."

  "Okay."

  Sheen kept his look on his son, watching him alone in his room, music on and head in a book. He knew the kid was a loner, though very personable when he chose to be. He wondered if he should worry about him or if this was simply one of those cases of everybody having their own thing.

  He shut the door back to its barely opened position and walked away confident that, all in all, he had raised two pretty decent kids.

  As he made his way to the kitchen he saw his mother, awake and drinking a glass of ice water.

  "Hello, Mama," Delmon said and leaned in to kiss his mother's cheek.

  She smiled her pleasant smile at him and touched his shoulder. She was in her late sixties and still had great beauty in her deep brown eyes. Typically she was a good natured woman who went the extra mile to help out and please those around her. Delmon wished his mother would sometimes let other people do things for her, but Serena had always been one to make others feel at ease.

  Her husband, Ben, had passed nearly twelve years ago. She still lived in the house he'd had since the 1940's, set on the bank of the Miami River. Her sister-in-law, Pearl had moved in with her after Ben's passing. The two women had taken over the diner that used to be owned by her late brother Wendell, Delmon's son's namesake and Pearl's husband. Once Ben died, and Pearl's own daughter was starting a family, Serena asked her sister-in-law if she'd like to move in with her. Pearl's daughter Althea, and her husband Rodney, moved into the house where Althea grew up in Richmond Heights.

  "You feeling okay?" Sheen asked.

  "I am just fine. Was a little tired earlier, but that nap did me some good," Serena replied.

  "Have you spoken to Uncle Mickey lately?"

  "Not recently, no. Why? Is something wrong?"

  "Well I just want to make sure he's got someplace to stay. The beach is gonna be evacuated, I don't want him trying to ride out the storm on his own."