by David Sayre
That might have passed for okay in Eladio's world, but not in Cachorro's.
He put the Honda Accord in gear and drove off.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Mother's Tears
Delmon Sheen drove his Alfa on the First Street bridge, across the Miami River, and headed towards Little Havana. He watched as businesses gave way to residences along the route and he took in the varying degrees of storm damage. The neighborhoods to the far southwest seemed to get it the worst, but few areas of Miami were left completely untouched.
Delmon turned left on Twelfth Avenue and looked for the house numbered 929. That was the address that Yessenia Calderon had given him after he had returned her call. He pulled up to a house that, much like the rest of the homes in this neighborhood, looked like they had been built in the 1950's. Mostly modest mission style houses on narrow lots with a decent sized backyard.
Delmon got out of the car and approached the front door. There was a man in his fifties, red-faced and sweating, putting tools away in a metal box at his feet. He stood by a window frame upon which he'd just affixed a sturdy piece of plywood.
"Good afternoon," Delmon said.
The man looked up over his glasses, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and said, "Hello."
"Is Miss Calderon here?"
"She's inside." The man knocked on the front door and the lady inside answered.
"Yes?" she asked as she opened the door.
"There is a man here to see you." The older man let out the slightest grunt as he bent down to pick up his toolbox. "I finished the window. You should be okay until you get it fixed."
"Gracias," she said with a broad smile. "You're sure I can't pay you just a little something for it?"
The man waved her off with his hand as he walked towards the house next door. "No, no. You're my neighbor, I just wanted to help."
"I'll bring you some vaca frita I'm making later."
"Gracias, señora."
The man went into his house and the woman at the door turned her attention to Delmon. "My neighbor for twenty years. He put this up because Andrew broke this window. Maybe you could say I had the wood put on a few days too late."
She was graceful, trying to make the best of a bad situation and look for humor in her struggles. "You are Mr. Sheen?"
Delmon nodded and held out his hand. "Yes. Delmon Sheen. Very nice to meet you."
She accepted his hand and shook it as she introduced herself, "Yessenia Calderon. Please, come in."
Sheen stepped in behind her and closed the front door after he entered. She offered him a seat, which he took, and something to drink, which he did not.
Yessenia was in her mid-forties, but the challenges of being a single mother with a below average salary had aged her quicker than most. She looked tired, but tired and on the road to recovery. As though she'd recently gotten new air in her lungs and was reconnecting with the world as a single woman, not as the only classification she'd been in for the previous nineteen years: a mom. Still, her temporary rejuvenation was difficult to see behind the current sorrow. Days worth of tears had been shed and her eyes and cheeks bore the brunt of it.
"What is your son's name, Ms. Calderon?"
"Eladio."
"And he's how old?"
"Nineteen. He's going to be twenty soon." The clearing of her throat was the first indicator of her holding back her emotions. Sheen was used to these reactions, working any number of investigations. A mother's concern over a missing child was always the most trying. It didn't matter if their son or daughter was ten, twenty or forty. They never stopped being a parent and wouldn't until their last breaths.
"Can I have a picture of Eladio? Something I can hang onto while I'm trying to find him. I'll return it, of course."
Yessenia had a photo ready to give the detective. "That is the most recent one I have. That was at Christmas last year."
She handed him the photo. Delmon examined it for several moments, getting extremely familiar with Eladio's features. It was one of Sheen's practices to commit as much to memory as he could as soon as he acquired information. Still, he kept a notepad at the ready to record as many details as possible.
"Does Eladio still live at home?"
"No. He rents an apartment. It's not far from here."
"I'll need the address and the phone number, please."
"Of course," she said, and then quickly wrote both down on a piece of paper and handed it to Sheen.
"I've been trying the number for days and there has been no answer."
"What about work?"
"He works at a warehouse downtown," Yessenia responded.
"Do you have a number for this place?" asked Sheen.
"No. He has a beeper. He told me if I ever needed to contact him while he was working, that I should call his beeper."
Sheen knew that pagers weren't only used by drug dealers anymore. A lot of young people had gotten them as, usually unnecessary, material gadgets. He himself had one he used for his business. But Sheen's first thought was, is Eladio involved in drugs?
"Do you know his boss? Know anything about him?"
"No, I don't."
Sheen nodded, thinking he was getting a clearer picture of what Eladio might be doing with his life. It had been Sheen's experience that assumptions in his line of work were necessary and often helpful. It was easier to find out the mistake and correct it later, if he was wrong, than it was to lose time and momentum by not following his instincts, if he was right.
"Can I have that number as well?"
Yessenia wrote the number on the same slip of paper.
"Ms. Calderon, what kind of car does your son drive?"
"A Honda Accord. Gray or, I guess silver maybe. I'm sorry, I don't remember the year."
Sheen wrote the description in his notes.
"What about friends?" Sheen continued, "Co-workers?"
"I don't know many of his friends now. When he was a kid and his friends were from here in the neighborhood, I did. But not anymore. Only Maribel, his girlfriend."
"Have you spoken to her since Eladio's been missing?"
"No."
"Do you have a number where I can try to reach her?"
"No."
"Do you know where she lives?"
"Not exactly. I know she doesn't live nearby and that she lives with her family, further south. Cutler Ridge, I think."
"Do you know where she works?"
"A restaurant downtown. Cafe Vida."
Sheen wrote the name of the restaurant on his notepad.
"Have you contacted the local authorities? FEMA? They have outreach programs for people looking for lost loved ones."
"Yes. I did contact them. And, who knows, maybe they can find something. But with so many people that will be missing right now, I thought it would better my chances if I also hired someone myself."
Sheen thought Yessenia had a point, figured she was correct in her assumption and noted her instincts.
"When was the last time you saw Eladio?"
"Last week, maybe . . . five or six days before the storm. They came over for dinner, him and Maribel."
"So your last known whereabouts of Eladio are over a week ago?"
"No. The day before the hurricane, I wasn't here, but he had come by. He had brought some pastelitos for me. He left them on the table there." Yessenia pointed over her shoulder towards a dining table near the kitchen.
"And he left a note," she continued. "It was very sweet."
"Do you still have that note?"
Yessenia considered it for a moment, and then said, "I think I left it on the microwave. Do you want to see it?"
"Please."
Yessenia stepped out of the room and returned a few moments later. She handed the detective the note and asked, "Do you think it's really that important?"
"I don't know. But anything could be helpful. Even if it just gives me an idea of your son's state of mind the last few days he was around."
Sheen l
ooked at the note which read: I love you, Mama. I don't always open up to you, but I want you to know how happy I am that you and Maribel care for each other so much. "When virtuous and knowledgeable women grace the endeavor with their sweet love, then it is invincible." - José Martí
Sheen was not familiar with Martí, but he found the quote interesting as it accompanied the note.
"Sometimes he just does things like that," Yessenia explained. "Very thoughtful. I believe he is a poet in his soul, even if he does not know how to express it out loud."
Her emotions got the better of her and she choked back tears. Though she couldn't hold them back all the way, as her eyes had already begun to well up. "I'm sorry," she unnecessarily asked for her humanity to be excused. She tried to compose herself but it was far too difficult.
"I was just thinking," she explained. "I touched his hair. That last night that him and Maribel were here for dinner. They were about to leave and we hugged and everything. I touched his hair, because I noticed it was getting long, longer than he likes to keep it anyway. I remembered I mentioned he should get a haircut."
She sniffled, held back tears again and continued, "I felt so strange, I can't even describe it. But there was a moment where I thought . . . wasn't he just looking at me from his high chair at the kitchen table? How could that be so many years ago?"
Yessenia thought on it, lost in her own world, thinking about Eladio. Sheen watched her and just listened, letting her get out whatever she needed to. She shook her head, ever so slightly and continued, "I was just touching his hair . . . Do you have children, Mr. Sheen?"
"Yes, ma'am. I do," Sheen said, having caught himself calling her ma'am. He instantly felt awkward about it, seeing as Yessenia was only maybe six or seven years older than him. But she seemed more matured, probably from having a son a few years older than Sheen's kids. And certainly momentarily aged by the ordeal she now faced.
Yessenia asked, "Did you ever just put your hand on your child? Their hair, their face . . . just as a parent because you love them and because nothing will ever mean as much to you as they do?"
Sheen didn't answer, but the look on his face told her yes.
"That is the last thing I remember about my boy," she said. "Touching his hair."
She dabbed at her eyes, holding back one last trickle of tears. There wasn't much to hold back. After all the crying she'd done over the last few days, she didn't have many tears left to give.
Sheen left Yessenia and drove away, thinking about the case. Was this young man missing because something had happened in the hurricane? Or was he gone for another reason?
Delmon wondered what had happened to Eladio. He thought about Yessenia's grief.
He wanted to get home and hug his kids.
CHAPTER SIX
Misplaced Inspiration
Four Days Before The Storm . . .
"You know who they got in prisons?"
A group of young men stared at T-Dub as he watched them all, curiously, expecting some kind of answer, and counting on the answer to be the obvious one.
"Prisoners," answered Gameboy.
T-Dub shook his head, "No. Bunch of assholes trying to figure out how the hell they got there."
Vernell Grant chuckled to himself. It was true, but how many of these young fellas would comprehend what Tisdale was trying to tell them.
The group of men stood in a nearly empty warehouse. The garage style doors were open to let the air circulate through the room. There were a few cars parked in the industrial building and several rows of shelves packed with boxes of varying size. That section of the warehouse resembled a stock room. But the other half of the room was unfurnished and free of any products. That's where T-Dub's crew was gathered to listen to the man speak. About twenty young men standing around, eyes focused on their boss. Among the young crowd were Gameboy, Diego and Cachorro. Vernell stood towards the front of the group and off to the side, clearly indicating that there was a chain of command: There was T-Dub, then him and then everybody else.
"If I do something, I make a plan. If I know there's an opportunity, I take it. But I use my head. How many of y'all see the Lakers play ball without Magic last season?"
The group of men grumbled, acknowledging that they'd seen the Los Angeles team suddenly lose their elite status in the wake of Magic Johnson's retirement after announcing he'd contracted the HIV virus.
"See, Magic sees all the angles. Everything coming at him on the court and where all his people be at. So he can take the best opportunity with as much information as possible." T-Dub let that sink in as he watched the faces of his young crew.
"Who can tell me what it is I'm talking about here?" T-Dub asked.
Cachorro didn't hesitate and was the only young man in the group ready and willing to speak up. He said, "It's like training yourself to be in the moment so when opportunity arises, you already have the knowledge and intuition to react and make the right decision."
T-Dub smiled and nodded his head. "That's right. Like perfect harmony on a basketball court."
"A seamless stream of consciousness." Cachorro added, "Like jazz."
Gameboy raised his eyebrows, turned his head towards Cachorro and asked, "What the fuck you talkin' 'bout jazz for?"
"No, it's like all those great jazz players. It sounds like they just get together and play and it's perfect. But the only way they can do that is because they know it so well, that they can just jump into the moment. Because of all the work they've done."
Cachorro shrugged and concluded, "I've always thought that was like basketball."
T-Dub kept his stare on Cachorro, though he directed his words at his right hand man. "Alright, Vernell."
Vernell stepped forward and addressed the crew. "Okay. We ain't sellin' too good, boys. Product is still the shit, but money ain't comin' in like it was. Gotta step it up."
The young men mumbled in agreement, most nodded. Some took the order with apathy.
"Also," Vernell continued. "Y'all know about Araña. He's knockin' on our door. He's had his people sellin' too far west, over into our territory. Now that got to be dealt with. You see somethin' up, you let us know with the quickness. Eyes and ears, fellas."
Vernell closed the meeting with both his hands lazily waving out. The crew knew that meant there was nothing else to discuss and they dispersed.
T-Dub stepped over towards Cachorro and said, "Hang back for a minute, young'un. I wanna talk to you."
"Yes, sir," Cachorro replied. He looked over his shoulder to see Gameboy and Diego listlessly walking towards the exit of the building, two pairs of eyes on their running partner. He gave them a quick nod that indicated he would catch up with them later. They turned around and walked away.
T-Dub watched them go and asked, "Those your boys?"
Cachorro shrugged and stated, "We hang together."
T-Dub nodded. "Cachorro," he said aloud, confirming the young man's nickname as a preface to a meaningful conversation. "You been with us a while now."
"Yes, sir," Cachorro said.
"What's your story?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You might be one of the boys, but you ain't exactly that, you know what I'm saying. I mean you've got some smarts on you. More than I usually see from my soldiers."
"Some of the guys are pretty smart, sir."
"And you're polite too. You got a sense of respect for your elders. No, I know we have some boys working for us that are smart on the streets. They can handle themselves, but you have a level of intelligence that I don't always come across out here. You like to read?"
"I do."
"Philosophers? Fiction?"
"Poets. Philosophers too, I guess. Men of ideas."
"Men of ideas. See, now that's something most these other guys wouldn't be on about. It's not because they're stupid, it's just never been presented to them. They didn't have the choice of liking it or not."
"My grandfather believed in the power of words, the power
of ideas."
T-Dub smiled, he couldn't help himself, and said, "The power of words. You don't talk like these other boys."
"I noticed you only talk like them when you're talking to them . . . respectfully, sir."
T-Dub grinned from ear to ear and let out a laugh. It was almost as though he'd been caught. As if Cachorro had figured him out. T-Dub was a businessman - some would say a great businessman - but he knew, at the very least, he was a smart businessman. Which is to say he was any number of things that he needed to be at any given time. He knew how to talk when speaking with investors, he knew how to talk at a fund raiser, how to talk for the cameras during an interview and how to talk to his plain speaking drug peddlers.
"Yes I do. That's interesting that you pick up on that."
"I think most of us pick up on it," Cachorro responded.
"Probably. But I think you get it."
"I do."
"Your grandfather bring you up?"
"He did until he passed."
"Where's your daddy?"
"I don't know and I don't care."
"Okay. What about your mom?"
"She lives 'round the way. I see her pretty regular."
T-Dub nodded, looking at Cachorro. Truly studying the young man.
T-Dub continued, "What Vernell said about Araña is coming. He's getting closer to our corners and I'm not backing down when he shows up at our front door. Now he doesn't know it yet, but he's about to give us the biggest reason to improve business. A wise man can get more from his enemies than a fool can from his friends."
T-Dub let that sentiment sink in before he asked, "You ever worked a part-time job? Like something straight up. Flipping burgers, anything like that?"
Cachorro shook his head no.
"Okay, well you been in Burger King to get lunch or something, right?" T-Dub asked.
"Yeah."
"And you know how they got people working the counter, people in the back cooking up the food and then there's always a boss man there."
"Yeah, the manager."
"Right, but he doesn't own the place. It's not his store, he's just running his crew. And later in the day another manager comes in and takes over his shift. I want you to think of our thing like it's Burger King. I might own it and Vernell might be a manager, but I need some other managers to run this thing the right way. Vernell's my main man and he will do all kinds of shit I might not ask other people to do. And when we go to war like I think we might have to, I'm gonna need his head on that and somebody else needs to be my man running the product, making sure everyone else in the crews keep their minds to shit. You understand me?"
