by David Sayre
"The merchandise does not sell itself. No sir."
"Maybe you can help me out."
"You need something I'm selling, I can help you out. If not, we got troubles."
"No trouble, that I can promise."
"Don't take promises from people I ain't knowing."
"You know Cachorro?"
The young sales rep looked over his shoulder. Some of the other fellas were listening. Some couldn't be bothered. Those were the ones that would never move off this block. If they didn't get killed, they'd die here of old age or drink.
The young brother turned his attention back to Delmon and asked, "You a cop?"
✽✽✽
Vernell often stopped by to check on the troops. It was never announced and he liked it that way. Vernell had an eye for talent and another one for the fuck-ups. He knew who he could count on and who was dead weight to be laid off.
He pushed the button on his key chain that made his car alarm twirp before he walked away. He stepped around the corner and saw a familiar stranger standing amongst the corner boys.
What the fuck is this?
He dropped back, edging around the building on the corner, hid behind the wall and stuck his head out just enough to watch the scene before him.
The man in question was the same man he'd seen messing around Cachorro's apartment. The man that he'd learned, from his informative source, was named Delmon Sheen. Some private investigator that worked out of a downtown office. He drove an Alfa Romeo, lived in the suburbs somewhere out in Kendall, and had legal registration on a Beretta 92FS, semi-automatic.
Vernell lowered his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, so he could peer over the frames for a better look. He raised the sides of his "Back-to-Back Champions" Chicago Bulls t-shirt, so that he could slip his hands into his jean pockets. He looked on, cool and casual.
✽✽✽
"I owe Cachorro some money."
The young dealer studied Sheen as Sheen continued, "I couldn't pay up like I should have last month. I wanna get square with him is all."
Delmon tried to harden his tongue, lose some of the proper English in favor of a more neighborhood friendly tone. He could pass well enough to talk straight with the corner boys. Though he would always come off as old school, no matter what.
"You wanna be handin' out money, now. I'll take it for you," the young man responded with a smile. "I promise you it finds its way back to Cachorro." He chuckled an almost cartoonish, nasal laugh that could have easily doubled for clearing his passage before spitting.
A couple of his cohorts enjoyed the sarcasm and laughed along. One even slapped his open hand against the young man's, saluting the humor as if they were cutting up over a beer.
"So you're not gonna tell me how I could meet up with your boy?" Sheen asked, fruitlessly.
"What you asking for, now?"
Sheen turned his head to see who it was that had posed the question. A man who had just walked up. Sheen couldn't see his eyes, for the sunglasses he wore. But his t-shirt looked brand new, celebrating the Bulls 1992 championship.
"I need to get with Cachorro," Sheen said.
Vernell scratched his cheek, looked the detective over and said, "So you wanna know where he at."
Sheen nodded.
Vernell thought on it. "I could use some new Jordans," he responded.
Sheen took the hint, reached into his pocket, pulled out some cash and handed a twenty dollar bill to Vernell.
"Shit, man! I can't buy no Jordans for twenty bills."
"Well . . ."
Sheen was going to come back with what he thought was a witty reply and say: "Well, consider this a contribution to your Jordan fund." But Vernell had grabbed Sheen's head before he could utter the phrase and quickly smashed it against the wall.
Sheen briefly heard the reaction of the corner boys. Particularly the young man's drawn out exclamation, "Daaaamn!"
Then everything went black . . .
CHAPTER TWELVE
Flagler and First
The Day Before the Storm . . .
Abraham Cristiano sat at the end of the counter of the cafetería, drinking a cortadito. His mustache was neatly trimmed and his black tank top allowed for his impressive biceps to command the attention he had hoped they would receive when he spent the hours in the gym shaping them.
He was in a good mood, laughing about a story that his friend told him between puffs of a cigar. They did this often. When time was not of the essence and they could afford to relax, they would shoot the shit. Or as they would say: come mierda.
His friend sat caddy cornered next to him where the counter made its L-shaped turn. He was a little bit leaner than Abraham, though certainly not scrawny. He had a tattoo so large it nearly covered the entire left side of his neck. It was nothing fancy, just a big, black spider. The only color to the mark was in the red droplets of blood that hung beneath the spider's grasp. He featured no facial hair and the hair on his head was closely trimmed, just one level on the clipper away from being shaved. Whereas Abraham's hair was a little long on top, a wavy form of pompadour, with short sides.
“That's too much, bro. You always kill me with that story, Araña,” Abraham told his friend.
"It's true," Araña said with a grin.
Abraham was his boy. Not just in the sense that they were friends and not only because he considered Abraham his right hand man in his business. But they were tight. Abraham was the only one that Araña ever talked to about important things. The stuff that really concerned him. Only Abraham knew that Araña had first killed a man when he was fourteen years old. Only Abraham knew that Araña loved a woman named Cynthia and her little boy, Joel. And when Cynthia moved across the country to Portland, Oregon for her career and took Joel with her, that it left Araña heartbroken. It was the only time Araña had ever loved deeply enough to feel heartbreak.
And only Abraham knew that Araña feared a premature death. He had told Abraham, on a number of occasions, "You will stand over my grave before we see our first grey hairs."
Araña didn't know if all men had a friendship this close with another man, but he knew this was the closest friendship he would ever have.
Abraham was the only person he trusted, fully and completely with his life, his business and his eventual memory.
"You need something?"
Abraham had asked the question and Araña let his eyes follow in the direction towards which the question was posed.
Araña and Abraham stared at a young man that had entered the cafetería. He stood at the far end of the counter. He took a few steps closer, his eyes wide with what seemed like fear. Sweat poured down his face. His last step appeared to freeze him in place and he stared, a troubled look on his face, at Araña.
"Hey! What the fuck do you want?" Abraham implored.
The large bodied man, who was twenty if he was a day, gave no response. His vacant expression locked on Araña. He took a deep swallow, initially looking like he was about to say something.
Araña felt a strange calm wash over his very being.
Abraham felt the sickness of nausea cramp his stomach.
✽✽✽
Gameboy opened the door to the cafetería and stepped inside. The woman working behind the counter said hello and asked where he'd like to sit.
Gameboy ignored her. He probably didn't hear her. He was either so focused on his task at hand, or he didn't hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat. Thump thump thump.
He'd come in with a plan. He actually did. Or so he thought.
What would make noise loud enough for T-Dub to hear it? Come in here and tell Araña to keep his drugs on his side of town. If not, Gameboy and the other soldiers in T-Dub's army would start pushing Araña's crew back. Might even take some of his territory in the process.
And if Araña didn't agree to that? Gameboy had his gun tucked away at the small of his back.
He'd come in with a plan.
Gameboy ignored Abraham's
question, asking if he needed something. He probably didn't hear it.
Thump thump thump.
He was already sweating. His brow had begun to perspire the moment he walked in the door. Now it was all draining down his face. He was staring at Araña and he stopped moving forward. He couldn't make his legs take one more physical step.
He was scared shitless. He hadn't imagined it properly.
He'd come in with a plan.
Now he was facing reality. A gun hidden beneath his shirt, a drug dealer staring him down, mere feet away, and the terror that suddenly filled his heart.
Did somebody just ask me a question? He didn't know. Maybe someone asked what the fuck he wanted. He wasn't sure.
He ignored it. He didn't know if he'd actually heard it.
Thump thump thump.
He saw the spider tattoo. That's him.
Araña stared him down. Sadness in his eyes.
Abraham was angry. He stood up.
Gameboy reached behind and pulled his gun out from the waistline of his pants. He raised it, pointed and fired a shot straight into Araña's chest.
He'll never forget the melancholy grin that Araña had the split second between realizing what was about to happen and the moment the bullet hit. It stood in stark contrast to the explosion of blood, muscle and bone that immediately followed.
Gameboy would have that picture in his mind for the rest of his life. The only thing is his life wouldn't last too much longer.
Once he saw Abraham's gun extended at the end of his arm, Gameboy turned to run.
The shot clipped him on the arm and he squealed in pain. He lunged for the front door and forced it open behind his massive body weight.
Abraham followed after him, enraged.
✽✽✽
Detective Lima noticed the idling Honda accord on the street outside the cafetería, but didn't have time to wonder about it. One gunshot, quickly followed by another caused him to pull his department issue 9mm from its holster.
He was aimed and ready when a large young man ran out of the cafetería.
Gameboy was startled by the presence of Detectives Foley and Lima. He lifted his gun and pointed in Foley's general direction.
Foley dropped to the ground, covering as the errant shot went past. And Gameboy ran towards the Honda.
Lima trailed his sights on Gameboy's escape path, squeezed the trigger twice and shot Gameboy from behind, dropping the young man to his knees before he fell, face-first, onto the cement sidewalk.
Foley popped up to his feet, pulled his gun and aimed for the man who'd followed Gameboy out the door. But before Foley could shoot, he was stopped by a shot from Abraham that burst open his chest. He dropped where he was.
Lima heard the Honda peel away as he turned back to face Foley's attacker. Before he could fire he saw a third man emerge from the building. This one, covered in blood, was in a crawling position at the cafetería's thresh hold.
Araña's gun was pointed at Lima and he forced himself to get a shot off that blew Lima's cheek off the side of his face.
Lima was reeling, dropped back and trying to keep his footing. Then Abraham shot him in the gut. Lima dropped and coughed a gargled, throat full of blood.
Abraham couldn't take in the sights of the devastation. He simply didn't have the time. He held his position in the organization for a reason. He could handle situations like this and handle them fast. His immediate decision was that they could not cover up the killings or the blood in the building by the time the police responded to the 911 calls he was sure had already been placed.
No, his attention would have to turn to cleaning product out of the building. He felt fortunate in the fact that they hadn't gotten any new deliveries and most of the drugs were already out for distribution. But he knew they had some loose packages and a few boxes in the storage room.
Abraham hurried inside, walked past the blood trail that Araña had left, crawling across the tile floor in his last moments of life. He opened the "employees only" door and went inside. He walked down a narrow hall that led to the stockroom.
Two older men were inside. They had obviously been playing dominos, but were now frantic having heard all the commotion outside.
"What happened?" one of them asked.
"We don't have time! Any loose packages we got need to be flushed down the toilet," Abraham commanded. "Go, now!"
The older man obeyed and went directly to work. Abraham turned to the other man and said, "You and me are taking these boxes and tossing them in the dumpster down the street."
"What?" the man asked, surprised.
"Do it! I don't have time to think about it right now! Let's go!"
Abraham and the other man each carried a few boxes. He couldn't be concerned with details. He had to make sure he cleaned out the cafetería before anyone came in with questions. Especially the police.
He hoped he wasn't just throwing away thousands of dollars in cocaine and heroin. But at that moment, it was the best, quick solution. Maybe they'd be able to retrieve the boxes before the sanitation trucks collected the trash. But maybe not. He had to be careful and make sure it was clear for him and his men to do so.
Abraham couldn't think about it.
He couldn't think about his friend lying, dead, in front of the building. He had to think about the blood on the floor inside and come up with a story to tell the police that would ask him what happened. He figured there was enough truth in the fact that he and Araña were just sitting there and some kid came in with his gun and started shooting.
But what about outside? Did anyone see him shoot the two men, whom he had assumed were cops? Were there witnesses or did people scatter when they heard the first few shots?
He didn't know.
All he did know was that he'd just gotten a promotion and it wasn't one he'd particularly wanted. And certainly not for this reason.
He couldn't think about his friend, Araña, lying dead on the floor.
At least, not until it was time to deal with whoever was responsible.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Old Friends
"Oh, shit! Delmon Sheen, number twenty-two. Got-damn!"
Those were the first words Delmon heard the moments after a hood was pulled from over his head and he was splashed in the face with what smelled like dirty sink water.
He looked up, though he didn't need to in order to know who'd spoken. No matter how many years had passed, he'd always recognize that voice. He wouldn't even need the countless instances where he'd heard it on a television interview in the years since they'd graduated high school. He knew T-Dub's voice.
T-Dub looked over his old pal, a nostalgically charged smile on his face. Delmon looked back, the smile not on his face to match.
He could tell by the way his arms ached and the tightness around his wrists that his hands were tied behind a chair. And he recognized only two of the tough looking faces that stared at him. The man he'd grown up with named Allen Tisdale and the man who'd knocked him out cold. There was no way for Sheen to know how long ago that had occurred, but the throbbing on the side of his head clued him in to the fact that it had left a residual effect.
"This is crazy, I know. Awkward is probably the better word," Tisdale said.
Sheen stared at him, no response. Only the look of anger on his face that covered the traces of his confusion.
"I'm not here to fuck you up," T-Dub reassured him. "That's not what I want. You're my boy! Back in the day . . ." T-Dub turned his attention to Vernell and said, "Me and this guy were tight! Best damn backcourt you ever seen in the county. We grew up together, hung out together."
All smiles, Tisdale turned his attention back to Sheen. Vernell kept his hard stare, not softening his role as the enforcer.
"That's such a relief," Sheen said. "Knowing that you still think of me as your boy. That's . . . that's great." Sheen couldn't hide the sarcasm. He didn't know what to think of his predicament, but he knew that T-Dub's read of it was quit
e different from his own.
Sheen scanned the room with his eyes. Three men in addition to T-Dub and his new friend with the wicked disposition.
"They all packing?" Sheen asked.
"Maybe. Why?"
"If they are, do we really need this?" Sheen wiggled his arms as best he could. He was counting on T-Dub realizing he wouldn't do anything stupid if he were untied. He was also counting on each of these guys carrying a piece, so that his request to keep things civil would be taken as genuinely as it had been offered.
T-Dub looked at Vernell, motioned towards Sheen with a wave of his hand and nodded.
Vernell glared at Sheen and asked, "You ain't got that Beretta on you?"
"How did you know I have a Beretta?" Sheen asked in surprise.
Tisdale chuckled then offered, "Vernell's my main man. He knows how to look into shit and he had to look into you."
"You didn't already check?" Sheen asked Vernell.
"Just wanted to see if you as honest as you act," Vernell responded. He went to work untying Sheen's hands.
"Man got a gun like that, he ought to carry it. 'Specially round the parts you been hangin' around."
Sheen rubbed his wrists as soon as they were free.
T-Dub stared at him, that nostalgic grin back on his face and slowly shook his head. "Delmon Sheen. How in the hell it's you that's snoopin' around my world, I will never know."
"I'm just lucky that way, I guess," Sheen retorted.
"You still playin' ball?"
Delmon gave a slight shake of the head when he responded, "Not as much as I'd like to."
"I still play. Every week," T-Dub said. "Got a regular afternoon game with some business associates on long lunch breaks. You want to come by sometime, let me know. It's physical ball, you know? Real ball. The way the game of basketball should be played."
Sheen smiled and brought up a familiar maxim to the both of them, "Yeah. No blood, no foul."
"Right!" T-Dub said with a smile.
"These business associates . . . which ones are they? The suit and tie well-to-dos, or your other business ventures?" Sheen had put emphasis on the word "other" with a bitter taste on the end of his tongue.
