Dirty Side of the Storm

by David Sayre

  Sheen noticed there was no lock on the fence, merely a latch that clasped a metal post. He quickly lifted the latch, opened the fence and stepped inside. He raised his eyes to check the streets around him, seeing only a faint glimmer of headlights pointed up the street. He quietly closed the latch, and then moved deep as he could into the alcove. He could see why the fence wasn't locked. Everything in the place looked like waste. Some garbage, mostly discarded fragments of plastic, wood and vinyl. Some old, chopped pieces of card and foam core. The owner probably thought that if anyone wanted to come in and take this stuff, they were welcome to it. All they would accomplish was saving him a trip to the city dump.

  A vehicle's lights flashed by. Sheen could hear the slow hum of an engine creeping along. He looked on the ground and found a wooden crate. He turned it over and stood on top. He peeked his head just high enough behind the screen opening for his eyes to clear the concrete's top edge.

  He saw the Nissan gliding down the street. It came to a stop at the alley across the way from which he'd emerged. Then he watched as the bearded, bald man from earlier stepped out of the car. His guess was right. The man was big. He was tall, he was strong and he didn't look happy.

  The man looked around the area and walked towards the alley. He ran and was soon enveloped by darkness. Sheen couldn't see him or make out any movement. He kept looking back to the vehicle, which idled, and the driver never got out.

  Then the bald man reappeared. He turned at the alley's exit and ran up the street. He saw no sign of the man he hunted and exclaimed, "Coño carajo!"

  The bald man took one last survey of the streets before him and returned to the car. He slammed the door in frustration after he got in and the Nissan drove off.

  Sheen let out a sigh of relief and waited about fifteen minutes to make sure the coast was clear. Then he headed for the only nearby sanctuary he could think of.

  ✽✽✽

  Clete Tompkins sat on the edge of the bed in the room he lived in at his gym. He had a bowl of tomato soup he was eating as he focused his eyes on the 8 inch, black and white television that showed an episode of Roc, which aired live on FOX.

  Clete nearly spilled some of his soup when he heard a sudden and persistent banging on the door.

  Who the hell would be here at this time of night?

  Clete set his soup bowl down and reached under his bed for a maple baseball bat. He cautiously exited the private room, which was located in the corner of the building next to his office, opposite the locker room.

  He walked the length of the gym, past the weightlifting equipment and past the ring in the center of the vast space.

  The knocking persisted, loud and forceful. He approached the door but didn't open it. He put his head against it as close as he could without leaning on the door.

  "Who in the hell is it?" he demanded.

  From the other side of the door he heard "It's Delmon Sheen! Wendell's father! Can you please let me in? I need help!"

  Clete was surprised, confused by the strange and unexpected visit. But he heard desperation in Sheen's voice. He unlocked the deadbolt and the chain that joined at the door jamb. He swung open the door and Delmon Sheen immediately hustled inside.

  Clete looked at Sheen with a questioning stare. Sheen noticed that the older man was not shutting the entrance and said, "Close the door."

  Before he got the words out, Sheen pressed the door shut. Clete followed his lead and put his hand against the door to shut it all the way.

  "Lock it," Sheen instructed.

  Clete did so, but immediately asked, "What is going on?"

  "I was being followed. My car broke down. A few blocks away. I think I lost them and I didn't know anywhere else around here that was safe to go . . ."

  "Okay. Calm down. Let me get you some water," Clete said and he reached for a plastic sports bottle from a stack he kept by the water fountain.

  "Thank you," Sheen responded. He took the first real, full breath he'd taken in what felt like hours. Even though Sheen realized that the entire ordeal couldn't have taken more than ten, fifteen minutes.

  He was finally beginning to calm a bit. Clete brought Sheen his water and Sheen drank. It was unimaginably refreshing. Sheen's mouth and throat had dried to the point where he could have been convinced he'd run a marathon. His adrenaline had shot up and he was absolutely parched.

  After he'd settle down some, Sheen told Clete the whole story of being chased and running through the streets and alleyways. He had asked if Clete would let him wait out the night in the gym. Clete agreed and set up a couple extra blankets and gave Sheen some towels to stack up as makeshift pillows. Sheen could sleep on the canvas of the wrestling ring, which Clete suggested was probably better than trying to rest on the narrow benches in the locker room.

  Sheen gave Clete his heartfelt thanks.

  "Can I use your telephone? I'd like to let my wife know I won't be home tonight," Sheen said.

  "Of course. In the office," Clete answered.

  "Thank you."

  Clete went back to his room and Sheen called Ines. He told her he'd had some car trouble and was staying at the office tonight. She had cursed the Alfa Romeo and took advantage of the moment to, again, comment on the vehicle's lack of reliability. Then she offered to come pick him up. He thanked her but told her he'd be fine.

  But Ines wasn't the only person he wanted to talk to.

  He found Tisdale's number in his wallet and dialed. His mood worsened as he listened to the ringing tone. He was going to find out who was after him and T-Dub had better give him some straight answers.

  The voice that answered sounded exhausted.

  "Hello."

  "Allen. It's Delmon."

  "What do you need?"

  "You got a thug in a Nissan 300zx, silver with a tendency to run people off the road on your payroll?"

  "There was a moment of silence on the phone. When T-Dub spoke again, his voice rang of confusion.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I just ran from some guys that chased me, on the road and then on foot. I want to know if they're with you, partner."

  Sheen emphasized the "partner" with a hint of sarcasm.

  "Silver Nissan 300?" T-Dub asked.

  "Right," Sheen confirmed.

  "I don't know if any of my boys drive one of those. If they do, it don't matter. I didn't tell anyone to come at you like that. You get a look at this guy?"

  "One of them."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Tall, strong, bald head and a big, curly beard."

  A moment passed before T-Dub followed up with, "Latin dude?"

  "I think so, yeah."

  "I know who that guy is. Works for a dealer named Abraham Cristiano. Guy that's taking over Araña's business interests."

  "Jesus Christ! Now I've got these guys on me."

  "Why would they know about you?"

  Sheen didn't answer. He gave it a moment's thought, and then presumed to have an answer. If they learned about Maribel, they must have, somehow, found out about him too.

  "Did you find the young'un, Sheen?" T-Dub asked.

  Sheen was fed up with the situation and wasn't prepared to answer the question just yet.

  "I'll talk to you in a couple days, Tisdale."

  Sheen hung up.

  He wasn't used to running for his life and dealing with this particular kind of criminal element. Sheen's private detective work was typically uneventful. He wondered about the work in his father's day and if Benjamin Sheen ever had to deal with this dire a situation.

  Of course he did.

  Delmon only need think as far as the case that brought his mother into his father's life. That had its fair share of danger.

  Sheen took no thrill in the excitement of the matter. Danger was overrated.

  He needed to close his eyes.

  He set up his temporary bed in the middle of the wrestling ring and hoped he'd be able to get some sleep.

  ✽✽�
�

  The sun was shining brightly on South Beach and Mickey Wails had just sat on the stoop that led to his section of the apartment building. He had his cup of coffee in hand and opened the day's edition of the Miami Herald. He perused a few headlines before getting to an article he wanted to read.

  He always had his portable phone with him when he would take part in this ritual. It didn't often ring when he was out here, but it did on this morning.

  "Hello," Mickey answered, after he'd extended the antenna and pushed the on/off button.

  "Hey, Mick. It's Delmon."

  "Good morning, lad. What's going on?"

  "I'm gonna need your help. My car's gone to pot again."

  "What a surprise." Mickey grinned as he said it and Sheen picked up on the tone.

  "No, Mick," Sheen responded. "This is serious. I was chased last night. Something to do with the case I'm working and the car cut out on me in a very inopportune moment."

  Mickey joined Sheen in the seriousness of the conversation's tone. "Are you all right?" Mickey asked.

  "I am, for now. I'm at Clete Tompkins gym. He let me stay here last night. I was in the neighborhood and didn't have anywhere else to go."

  "Jesus."

  Mickey got up from the stoop and took his coffee and the paper with him. He opened the gate at the front of the building, and then went upstairs and into his apartment.

  "What do you need me to do?" he asked.

  "I'm gonna give you the number here and I need you to go out to where I left my car. I need to know if there's anyone around waiting for me to show up. So, you feel like doing some surveillance?"

  ✽✽✽

  Mickey had agreed and took down the information. He got in his Mustang and drove across the MacArthur Causeway, taking it to the mainland and driving through the city streets, past the Herald building. He weaved his way through office buildings that gave way to desolation, which gave way to a collection of rundown apartment buildings. He drove past the City of Miami Cemetery and took a right onto North Miami Avenue.

  He drove to the spot off of Northeast 29th Street where Sheen had said he'd left his car. Mickey saw the Alfa and drove past, continuing to the next intersection. He made a left and drove the other way to double back towards 29th street. He pulled to the curb and shut off the engine, sitting on 2nd Avenue, where he had a vantage point of the car and its surroundings.

  He looked around, first with his naked eye, then with a pair of binoculars. He scanned the area and found no cars parked that were empty and nobody standing around, watching the Alfa. Mickey continually surveyed the area for nearly an hour. Nothing was up.

  He got out of his car and walked to a pay phone on the corner. He took the scrap of paper on which he'd written Clete's number out of his pocket. He fed the phone with a quarter and dialed.

  "Hello," Clete answered.

  "Hi, Clete. Mickey Wails. Is Delmon there?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Mickey waited a moment, and then heard Delmon's voice.

  "Hey, Mick."

  "Your car's still there. I haven't seen any kind of movement around it at all. Looks like you're clear if you want to try to get things taken care of."

  "Okay," Sheen said. "Thanks. I'm gonna call for a tow truck. Can you pick me up here at Clete's?"

  "Sure thing, kid."

  "Thanks."

  Mickey hung up the phone and walked back to his car. He couldn't help but worry about Delmon. His father had been through a few cases that went beyond the typical private investigative norms. But Delmon's father had survived the Second World War and the Miami Police Department, first as a uniform cop and then as a detective with Ad Vice.

  Mickey knew in his gut that the younger Sheen had now gotten himself into a situation that would decidedly test his mettle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Explanations, Not Excuses

  Bev sat behind the check-in/check-out desk all day, nearly every day. She worked five days and one night shift each week. She didn't get much exercise sitting behind the desk and typically ate a microwaveable meal at her post. Her eyes were heavy, often tired or bored. And her breath was sour from hours of only opening her mouth to eat or smoke a cigarette.

  She'd worked the desk at the Sugarland Motel for fourteen years. She'd taken the job after finishing high school. Bobby Waldruff was her high school sweetheart and he had gotten a scholarship to FSU, playing slot receiver and returning punts. He was All-American in high school and Bev was set for life once Bobby turned pro.

  After three freshman year games, Bobby's right knee would be entirely useless in sports for the rest of his life. By the next school term he was back in Clewiston, selling tires. Bev hadn't ever thought of how she was getting out of Clewiston on her own. Now she was stuck behind the check-in/check-out desk she'd worked into her single, uneducated, mid-thirties.

  The front door bell jingled and she turned her eyes from the rabbit eared television set that showed an episode of The Maury Povich Show. The topic of the day was whether or not a paternity test would prove that the father of a woman's son was, in fact, the man who'd just been released from prison for raping the woman's mother.

  "You wanna do another week?" Bev asked in a raspy, southern drawl.

  "Nope. Checking out," Eladio said as he placed the key to room number eight on the desk. Eladio had gotten a call from Detective Sheen the night before and he'd been given the all clear to head back to Miami, where he could stay with a friend of Sheen's on South Beach.

  "Alright," Bev said as she slid the key towards herself. "You take care, now."

  "You too."

  Eladio turned and walked out of the lobby. Bev hung the key with the others for the vacant rooms. She turned her attention back to Maury Povich and the mystery of the day.

  Eladio drove the Accord up the street and parked outside the coffee shop. He entered and he got Mr. Currelton's attention. Currelton stepped over and looked at Eladio's eyes. Currelton showed a smile that had understanding and sadness.

  "You're leaving," Currelton said.

  Eladio's eyes lowered and a portion of a frown angled his mouth downward. "Yeah," he responded.

  "Found a solution to your problem."

  "Basically."

  Currelton nodded and took some bills out of his pocket. "You're a good man, Eladio. Hopefully you realize it someday soon."

  Currelton handed thirty bucks to Eladio. Eladio glanced at the cash and asked with his eyes.

  "I owe you a bit of pay for the last couple days. The rest is . . . to help you get wherever you're going."

  "I don't need the extra money, sir."

  "Take it anyway. You never know what's coming."

  Eladio stared at it another moment and took the cash.

  "Thank you, Mr. Currelton. This world needs more men like you."

  Currelton chuckled, never having thought he'd reach a point in his life when somebody would make a statement like that in reference to him.

  "Best of luck to you, sir."

  They shook hands.

  "You too, Eladio."

  He didn't want to prolong the goodbye, so Eladio walked away, got in his car and pulled onto US-27.

  ✽✽✽

  Sheen pulled Mickey's Mustang, which he'd again borrowed, to the curb on SW 40th Avenue, just off of 8th Street. He had met Eladio earlier in the day at the corner of Lenox Avenue and 15th Street on Miami Beach. That was the spot Sheen had instructed Eladio to drive to once he'd gotten back in town. From there, Sheen led him to Mickey's apartment and got Eladio settled in at, he thought, the safest and most comfortable sanctuary Sheen could provide for the teen.

  Now he strolled through the parking lot of Uncle Tom's Barbecue and saw T-Dub sitting at one of the outdoor picnic tables. Sheen approached and sat across from Tisdale.

  "Seeing a lot of you, lately," Sheen said.

  "Mmm-hmm," T-Dub said without looking up from his meal. "Almost like you turn up everywhere I go."

  "I wouldn't say it'
s been quite that severe."

  "You don't see it from my side of the table."

  Sheen grinned and retorted, "Maybe it's just everywhere you turn up to eat." He looked at T-Dub's brisket platter with fries and baked beans. As the waitress stepped over to refill T-Dub's sweet tea, Sheen pointed to the platter and told the waitress, "I'll take one of those and a cream soda."

  "No problem," the waitress said, and then walked away.

  T-Dub leaned in, stared Sheen down and lowered his voice as he said, "Look. You and me, we go back and I got respect for that. I got good memories for all them times. But that shit that the young'un you're looking for was into right before the storm . . . that was bad for business. And until I find out what happened, who was involved, if that boy planned that bullshit, I am not letting you get to him before I do."

  Sheen waved off the comment and simply responded, "Too late."

  That got T-Dub's attention.

  The waitress brought Sheen his beverage. The tan, pebbled plastic cup reminded him of the cups he'd drink from at the Wednesday night dinners at the Baptist Church he used to attend. Delmon wasn't a deeply religious man, but he wasn't a non-believer. He was Christian, still very much considered himself Christian, though he wasn't nearly as active with his faith as he once had been.

  His father was never much for religion. But Serena was deeply moved by faith and held it close to her heart. She was the churchgoer in the family and Delmon was brought up in the Baptist church alongside his mother.

  When the boys were younger, Delmon and Ines had joined the congregation of a local parish near Miami-Dade Community College's Kendall campus. They attended services every Sunday, and sometimes on Wednesday evenings. The twins were both in the R.A.'s, and Delmon and Ines were as involved as their personal time would allow. But they'd stopped attending regularly as life went on, and eventually got to the point where they would only go during the times of year when religious holidays were observed.

  Delmon missed it sometimes. The sanctuary of it, the community. Ines was the spiritual one at home, whereas Delmon let life distract him from such daily ritual.