by David Sayre
Wendell smiled, "Okay."
"Alright, be sure to take these with you. Now give me a couple more stretches while you cool down, then get yourself changed. Your father's here."
"Thanks, coach."
Clete stepped out of the ring and approached Sheen.
"What does that mean?" Delmon asked, "'Takes bumps'."
"Taking the hits," Clete explained. "Learning to fall so you don't get hurt."
Clete pointed at Sheen's bruise on his face. He said, "Speaking of bumps, what happened there?"
Sheen had almost forgotten about the receipt he'd gotten from T-Dub's goon. It had been a few days. He gingerly touched it and explained, "Somebody was very insistent to talk to me."
"I guess that's usual for your line of work."
"Not for me. I'm usually working insurance fraud, jealous lovers. Typically my work is boring."
"Well now you ruined that whole image for me. I think private detective, I think Humphrey Bogart with his gun in his trench coat, looking cool under the brim of that hat."
"Bogart I definitely am not. I have a gun, but never have I had to use it on the job."
"Well, consider yourself lucky, I guess."
Sheen nodded. He did. Every day.
He watched Wendell head for the locker room.
"How did he do today?" Sheen asked.
"Good. Real good. He's good at taking direction. Good athlete. We'll see how he progresses, but I think he'll be good at this."
Sheen nodded. He was happy to hear it. He didn't know what to think of Wendell's ambitions, but a parent rejoices in their child's talents. And he felt blessed that his son was not heading for a life slinging drugs on the other side of town like Eladio and his peers.
"So . . . payment," Sheen mentioned.
"Bring Wendell back for his next session in a couple of days, you can give me the first payment then."
"Great."
Once Wendell emerged, changed out of his gym clothes, the Sheens said good night to Clete and headed for home.
✽✽✽
Delmon and Wendell entered the house to the mouth watering smell of lechon asado, slow-cooked pork that had been marinated in orange juice, garlic, lemon juice and onion. It was the kind of meal that every bite was accompanied by flavorful juices, when done right. And nobody did it like Ines. She was a master at the recipe.
Ines believed fiercely, about cooking, that one should make as much from scratch as possible. Her theory was that it meant something to work hard to cook for people, because you were putting part of yourself into it. You were giving them love by working so hard.
Sheen just knew he loved the results.
He kissed her cheek as he entered. She wasn't as angry with him as she had been after their argument a few nights before, but she wasn't completely warm to him either. Though she lit up when Delmon told her what a great first day Wendell had learning from Clete.
The family sat down to dinner together and Sheen felt the calm of safety and familiarity with his life away from work.
But he couldn't help but let his mind drift to a nagging question . . .
Who was that kid that ran from me today?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Laying Low
The Day Before the Storm . . .
Diego didn't know how long they had been driving. But he knew that he'd been staring at the window for a long time and that time had been filled with a silence that he had just now begun to notice. He knew enough to know they were heading north, that's what the signs that he'd stared at blankly out the passenger side window told him.
The shock he was in was solemn. He hadn't looked at Cachorro for quite some time. He wondered if his friend was in the same state. For the first time since they'd gotten away from Miami, he looked over at the driver next to him.
Cachorro was focused on the road ahead. He didn't look as devastated, as numb as Diego felt. Diego opened his mouth to speak and what came out was a cracked voice that couldn't expound anything in the form of words. As if his vocal cords needed a moment to reset and remind themselves how to be useful again.
Cachorro darted his eyes for the briefest of moments towards Diego.
"You all right?" Cachorro asked.
Diego didn't know. He couldn't answer because he himself had no idea if he was all right. What had they seen just an hour before? What had happened to Gameboy?
"Did you see his face? When he dropped, before he hit the ground?" Diego asked.
Cachorro didn't respond. Cachorro didn't want to talk about it. But he didn't rebuke Diego because maybe Diego needed to talk.
"He was sad. He was sad and surprised. I don't know . . ."
Diego was never going to forget that image. His life would be haunted by it and that terrified him. It made him sad. Before he knew it, Diego was crying like a child.
Cachorro didn't know how to console his friend. He couldn't bring himself to patronize him by saying 'It's all right.' It wasn't all right. He knew that. But he also knew that they had to find a place to go where they could hide for a while.
Diego wiped the tears away from his face. He did it vigorously, feeling ashamed for weeping. He felt he had to talk about it so that he wouldn't cry about it.
"Gameboy . . . he always watched those fucking gangster movies," Diego said. "New Jack City. Scarface. He loved that shit. That's what he thought this would be like, some movie he watched. But it's not."
"No," Cachorro replied. The response was direct, plain. Truthful.
Eladio knew it wouldn't be like the movies at all. He knew it, but couldn't stop Gameboy's foolish plan. He felt trapped, not able to back out despite his better judgment for fear that his boys would think he was soft. A punk.
It was stupid.
And it was careless. But, the sad truth was that Cachorro didn't have any better ideas. T-Dub thought he was special, and Cachorro wanted to do right by the man and make him proud. But, finally, Eladio knew he didn't have a mind for this world. He wasn't built that way. This life, it wasn't him.
Diego laid his head back against the rest atop the seat. "My head hurts," he said.
"Try to get some sleep," Cachorro suggested. Not long after, Diego was napping and Cachorro was considering where they should stop. They couldn't drive forever. He knew they needed someplace to wait this out.
✽✽✽
"Where are we?"
Diego had awoken when he felt the car pull to a stop. The first stop since they'd gotten out on the open road.
"Clewiston," Cachorro replied.
It was the definition of a small town. Maybe five blocks of real estate where all the shops and small businesses of town were located on either side of the main drag. And the main drag was US-27. Most non-residences that drove through this town did so because they were travelling and, for whatever reason, chose not to use the turnpike.
It was a town where everything seemed just about walking distance from the residential area, mostly located north of the shops, just south of Lake Okeechobee. It was a few hours northwest of Miami, but to Diego, who had never left the city of his birth, it seemed like another world.
"What are we doing here?" he asked.
"We're staying someplace where nobody's looking," answered Cachorro.
The centerpiece of the town was the Clewiston Inn, a historic building that had been open since 1926, originally owned by the Southern Sugar Company. It featured a bar and lounge that had a panoramic mural of the Florida Everglades. Because of its historical significance and classical charm, it was on the pricey side for a stay. Cachorro knew that he and Diego couldn't afford to pay that high a cost for even one night, let alone several. Instead they would check into the Sugarland Motel on the edge of town for fifteen bucks a night.
✽✽✽
The Day of the Storm . . .
The television showed buildings being pulverized by wind gusts. Wind and rain that seemed to be coming down sideways and water levels rising well past the shore and crashing onto waterfr
ont property. It was violent, it was destructive . . . it was scary.
Cachorro couldn't help but wonder how his mother was doing. And how was Maribel?
"Shouldn't this guy be inside? And the camera guy?" Diego asked.
"I would be," Cachorro responded as his eyes were transfixed on the news coverage of Hurricane Andrew.
What a terrible time to be away from them, he thought. His heart ached with worry.
On the screen a tree was uprooted and tossed like paper across the street. A power line was ripped from the pole to which it had been attached. It came crashing to the ground, a trail of sparks flashing behind it and rested on the wet city streets.
Branches slid down the street at rapid speeds. Various objects followed along, carried by the same wind current.
It was like nothing Cachorro had ever seen. Just a day earlier he had witnessed bullets tearing flesh, seen the sights and heard the sounds of killing.
The taste of Maribel's kiss on his lips and the experience of his usual everyday life seemed too distant to touch now. The real world had caught up with him faster than he could fully comprehend.
Now the electrical pole on the news coverage came down, crashing with a loud thud and a light show to go with it. Nothing was safe from the storm.
Jesus. This is awful.
Eladio closed his eyes and he spoke to God.
✽✽✽
The Day After the Storm . . .
Eladio looked at the phone that sat on the nightstand between the two beds of the modest motel room. He wanted to lift the receiver off the cradle and punch in the numbers for a long distance call to Miami. He wanted to check in on his mother. He wanted to talk to Maribel. But he thought about their safety and wondered if he reached out to them, could they be in danger? Would somebody approach them, inquiring into Cachorro's whereabouts? He would have to think it through.
Diego stepped out of the bathroom, just having taken his morning shower.
"What's the plan?" asked Diego.
"Let's go out, walk around. Find someplace for breakfast. I need real food," Cachorro responded.
They hadn't eaten anything that didn't come out of a vending machine since they'd arrived in town. Cachorro needed a good cup of coffee and a hot breakfast.
The duo walked down the sidewalk, past a few basic town necessities. A barber shop, the local bank, a five and dime. They approached a building that had a sign that simply read "Coffee Shop." Another sign, placed against the window next to the door, read "Help Wanted."
They went inside and sat at an empty booth. Both ordered coffee. Cachorro ordered two eggs, over easy, with sausage, fried potatoes and whole wheat toast. Diego had scrambled eggs with biscuits and asked the waitress what grits were before deciding to have hash browns.
The coffee was warm as Cachorro swallowed it down. It was American coffee, which he liked, though he drank Cuban coffee more frequently. Right now, it could have been the worst cup of coffee ever made, but to him it tasted perfect. When their food arrived, both men dug in and enjoyed what they thought was the best meal they'd ever eaten. Like the coffee, who knows if it truly was. But they'd lived on Combos, Skittles and Famous Amos miniature chocolate chip cookies. These were often washed down by Mountain Dew or Crystal Pepsi. By now, a hot meal was more than welcome.
They didn't talk much during breakfast. As they were about to leave, Cachorro mentioned, "There's a library down the street."
"So?" Diego asked.
"I just think maybe we can go there for a while."
"Sounds boring."
"Sitting around the motel, watching TV isn't boring?"
Diego shrugged. "I don't mind it so much."
Of course he didn't. Diego had a simplicity about him. An acceptance of his environment. If all there was to do was sit in front of the TV screen, then that's what he was doing. Cachorro would much rather find some alternatives. He didn't want to go mad here.
"What about cards?" Cachorro asked.
"Yeah, we should get some."
Cachorro nodded, they paid their check and exited the diner. As they walked out the door, the "Help Wanted" sign caught Cachorro's eye. He tucked it away in his mind. It may be necessary if he didn't think up any brilliant ideas in the next couple of days.
They popped into the five and dime, picked up a deck of cards, a couple bags of potato chips and bottles of soda and fruit punch. Once they'd returned to the motel, they spent the better part of the day playing poker and gin rummy.
They took their dinner at the same coffee shop and then returned to the motel to go to sleep. Cachorro lied awake in bed, wondering what the hell they were going to do.
✽✽✽
Three Days After the Storm . . .
They had done nothing but play cards, watch television and eaten at the coffee shop for the last two days. Cachorro had to do something different. He went to the library, found a book in which he could take an interest and found a place to sit. He read for the next three hours. When he felt he was getting hungry, he walked back to the motel to collect Diego.
Diego was in his usual spot, on his bed, watching the television. His eyes were nearly glazed over with boredom. He was so bored that he was numb to his own disinterest.
"Let's eat," Cachorro said.
Diego didn't say anything. He just clicked the remote so that the screen on the television went black and he went through the routine of getting off the bed, putting on his sneakers and following Cachorro out the door.
Once they were at the diner, they ordered their meals. Another night of the same thing. Diego looked depressed. They ate without much conversation. They didn't have much to talk about at this point. They'd told all their stories, used up their entire conversation sitting around the motel room for the past several days.
When it came time to pay the check, Cachorro stopped the waitress and asked, "That sign on the window. What job is available?"
It caught Diego off guard.
The waitress responded, "Busboy. Also an alternate cook. You want I can send the manager over to talk to you."
Cachorro smiled, "Great. Thanks."
"Why are you asking about a job?" Diego asked. "How long are you planning we stay here?"
"I don't know. But we're gonna run out of the cash we got on us, bro. What are we gonna do then?"
"We go home! I don't want to stay in this . . ." Diego lowered his voice and quickly looked around to see who could hear their conversation, "fucking town any more. I'm gonna lose my mind."
"That's why I keep telling you, you gotta find something else to do."
"There's nothing else to do!"
An older man, early fifties and graying at the temples approached the table.
"Who here was asking about the job?" he asked.
Cachorro responded, "I was."
The man extended his hand and Cachorro shook it.
"Dale Currelton. I own this place."
"Eladio Calderon. Nice to meet you."
"You too."
Dale eyeballed Diego, who didn't introduce himself and didn't appear to acknowledge the man standing there. He drank his coffee as if he wasn't welcomed into the conversation.
Dale turned this attention to the matter at hand and asked Cachorro, "Whereabouts you from, son?"
"Miami."
"And did you just move here?"
"No, sir. But I am moving out of Miami. Not really sure where I'm going to end up. But I'll be here for a while and a man's got to earn his way, you know what I mean, Mr. Currelton?"
"Sure."
Currelton studied the young man. He was polite. He seemed honest, though it was clear to Currelton that the boy was escaping some past. Currelton also felt, if he had a past at this young age, it must be troublesome. Maybe that's what made Currelton give the guy a chance.
"You want the work it's minimum wage, and I can only pay you for a half day. That being said, you can start early as tomorrow."
"It's a deal," Cachorro said and held out his han
d. They shook on it and Currelton walked away.
Diego's stare caught Cachorro's eye. Cachorro didn't say anything to him. He didn't feel he had to because he knew it was the right choice at this moment. Hopefully, Diego would understand that in a few days when they needed some income.
After they'd gotten back to the motel, Diego punched his hand against the nightstand and asked, "What the fuck are you doing? What are you, gonna live here now?"
"No. But I'm not going back home yet. And we need money. You should think about checking some of these stores for some work."
"Bullshit. I'm going home."
"What?"
"That's right. I asked that waitress when you were in the bathroom where the closest bus station is and I'm getting a ride out of town."
"That's really fuckin' stupid."
"I'm tired of hearing you guys talk about how stupid I am! Like I can't handle anything. Like I don't know shit! You and Gameboy, all the fucking time . . ."
"Gameboy's dead! That's why you can't go home."
The statement rattled Diego. That was the first time that Cachorro had said those particular words.
Gameboy is dead.
"Nestor was wild," Diego said. "And he wasn't always smart."
"No, he wasn't."
"It ain't my fault what happened to him."
"I didn't say it was."
"And that's what I'll tell everybody back home. I don't care if it's T-Dub or Vernell. I don't care if it's Araña!"
"That's not gonna matter. They are going to grill you until you tell them what happened."
"I'll be fine."
"No. You won't."
Their eyes were locked on each other. Cachorro almost pleading with his glare. Diego was afraid. But he couldn't take this town another day. He couldn't sit in the motel, waiting until Cachorro said it was time to go home.
"I'll see if that store we bought the food from is hiring tomorrow. Okay?" Diego said.
"Good."
Diego went to the bathroom and Cachorro turned out the lamp next to his bed, ready to go to sleep.
