Dirty Side of the Storm

by David Sayre

  "Cristiano's guys hit my truck this morning. Took . . ." no details, T-Dub thought. Sheen knew what he did for a living, but it could only hurt T-Dub if he gave out the specifics of the shipment.

  "A lot of money out of my pocket," T-Dub continued. "They're holding it until I can give them Eladio."

  "No! Absolutely not," Sheen insisted.

  "I assure you there isn't going to be a trade. I just need to show up with the young'un and I can get my delivery back another way."

  "I'm not willing to take that chance, Tisdale."

  "Oh, for what? So the boy can live in hiding around town until they catch up with him anyway? How long do you think you can protect him, Sheen? Shit, Cristiano's men already tailed you once. Eladio's gambling with time right now."

  "I give him to you, he's gambling that he survives the trade-off."

  "You don't give him to me, I got to find him and I will and this whole mess can be done with if you help me now."

  "You're trying to bluff me into handing him over to you. It won't work."

  The tone in T-Dub's voice had a touch of viciousness when he reacted, "Oh, it won't? Vernell's already proven he can find a lot of shit on you, partner! How about if he looks into whose Mustang that is you been driving?"

  Son of a bitch. Sheen had no answer to T-Dub's inference and so T-Dub stressed the point further.

  "Getting to Eladio's mom can't be too hard. Or how about if we try that girl he got? Don't tell me I can't find this kid."

  Sheen thought it over for a moment. The unfortunate truth was that Sheen didn't have a plan for Eladio. He couldn't keep him at Mickey's forever. They would find him eventually. As they would if he stayed around Miami. At some point he'd be out, he'd be spotted and he'd be picked up. Could he convince Eladio to leave the city? Relocate, start a new life elsewhere? Would he go without Maribel? Would she go with him? So what if Eladio did leave for good, what would that do for Yessenia? She was, after all, Sheen's client.

  Jesus. She doesn't even know he's back. She doesn't know he's alive for certain.

  Sheen had to call her and give her some hopeful information. It was too soon to bring Eladio to her. But she deserved to know that he was okay. At least that much.

  No parent should not know their child is still alive.

  Sheen thought of his boys. More and more, thoughts of Eladio were leading him to thoughts of his own sons. He and Ines had worked so hard to give Matthew and Wendell a good life, set them on the right path. He was proud of the twins. But he never forgot how fortunate he was, to live the life he did. T-Dub hadn't been so fortunate. And now, Eladio . . . Sheen's sons were fortunate. If circumstances were different, what choices would they have been faced with? Underneath it all, Eladio was a good kid. He deserved better.

  Sheen only had one play and it was far from ideal. But he had to make a choice.

  "I want to be there," Sheen said.

  "Where?" T-Dub asked. He asked because of the surprise. Beneath the surface, he knew what Sheen meant.

  "This trade happens, I want to be there. I'm not just turning Eladio over to you. I'm with him every step."

  "You don't wanna do that, man. You're a good guy, you've got a life with your family and all that. This is my world, brother, not yours."

  Sheen was silent. He had nothing left to offer but to hear the word "yes" from T-Dub.

  "This shit could get rough, Delmon. There's gonna be guns, maybe more. I don't think you wanna be in it."

  "That's the only way Eladio goes to that meet, Tisdale. Take it or leave it."

  Tisdale saw Sheen as a liability. Another factor to consider in the equation of how to get his product back and finish this battle before it becomes a war. But he couldn't turn down the opportunity to have Eladio brought directly to him, rather than having to weed him out.

  "Alright, Sheen. It's a deal."

  The words fell on the conversation as heavy as a hammer. The finality of the choice decided. Only one thought raced into Sheen's mind.

  I haven't fired my Beretta in a long time. I better clean it.

  ✽✽✽

  Sheen sat up late, into the early morning hours. He was seated at the dining room table, a bottle of beer in front of him that had begun to sweat as it lost its cool temperature. He stared at nothing in particular and was startled when he heard the footsteps behind him.

  He felt a gentle, caring hand brush at the back of his head, touching his hair. He knew who was there. He'd known the loving comfort she provided his entire life.

  "What troubles you got, boy?" Serena asked as she sat beside him.

  "I'm hardly a boy anymore, Mama," Delmon said.

  "You're my boy," Serena responded.

  She looked at the beer bottle on the table and read his body language and said, "You need to talk about something?"

  Delmon responded, "Work stuff. Case I have is . . . tricky."

  "Your father used to do the same."

  "He ever talk to you about his work?"

  Serena thought on it and remembered half a lifetime of marriage and companionship. "Sometimes," she offered. "If he felt comfortable speaking on it. Which wasn't all that often."

  "Mama, you remember Allen Tisdale?" Delmon asked.

  "Of course I do, baby. You run into him somewhere?"

  "So to speak. He's . . . I don't know what to call it. He's involved in my case."

  "He do something wrong?"

  Sheen didn't know how to answer that. He does things that are wrong, there's no way around that. But in regards to his attachment to the Eladio Calderon case? Hard to say.

  Still, it didn't help him come up with an answer to his mother's question.

  "What's this case, Delmon?"

  "A missing teen. Over eighteen, but still a teen."

  "How awful."

  "He's not missing anymore, but . . . he's mixed up in something and I'd like to figure a way to get him out of it. But I don't know if it's the right thing to do. And it's hard for me to see how this is all gonna work out."

  Serena listened, she nodded her head, thoughtful and quiet.

  "You know, Pop always told me that nuance was important. Context. That everything wasn't so straightforward and down the middle. And I'm left to wonder, should this kid who's done something stupid, but can change and I can see in his eyes he wants to . . . Is it right for him to pay for a mistake in such a way that his whole life will be subject to a bad choice at nineteen?"

  "Your father cared for Allen. You know that," Serena said.

  Delmon nodded.

  "But he knew he was on the edge of being lost. He liked the boy, sure. But he really welcomed him into our home, into our lives because he thought he could give that boy some direction. Maybe some influence. And that was just your father's way, son. He cared about people. He wanted to help Allen through his hard times, not having a daddy to bring him up proper. I would have called it God's work, your father would have called it being human."

  Delmon smiled. His father was a good man and he tried, everyday, to live up to that.

  "You got a chance to reach out and give this young man a helping hand, you take that chance, son. All we got is people in this world and if we don't look out for each other, we are lost in the darkness, baby."

  Serena cupped Delmon's hand in her own and squeezed. Delmon looked at his mother, aged with grace and as full of love as anyone he'd ever known. He was blessed. And he had to do whatever it would take to ensure that Eladio and Yessenia Calderon were equally blessed.

  He stood, kissed his mother on the forehead and said, "You're a sweet lady, Mama. I love you."

  Serena stood and hugged him. "I love you too."

  Sheen tossed his beer bottle in the trash and walked to turn out the kitchen light. Serena placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him.

  "Boy, you got your Daddy's restless soul," she said.

  "Yeah. But I got your heart," he replied.

  She kissed his cheek and said good night.

  De
lmon went out to the garage where his Beretta was laid out on the workbench, recently cleaned. He replaced the barrel, the guide rod and recoil spring, assembling the slide and clipping it back to the frame. He put a full magazine in and readied one in the chamber.

  He didn't know what tomorrow would bring. He hoped it wouldn't come to using his piece, but he felt a pit in his stomach that told him otherwise.

  He wasn't much of a praying man, but before he turned the garage light out, he asked for help. His family had gotten through Hurricane Andrew and he had survived being chased by Cristiano's thugs. He wondered if he could get one more angel on his shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Hard Truth

  Lieutenant Kimbrel had always believed in protecting his men. They were his guys and a good lieutenant didn't let his men down.

  All of that was out the window now. He reacted with full emotion. The emotion was anger. It was disappointment, everything he could think of.

  Kimbrel was pissed.

  And he was pissed at Lima and Foley. Even if Foley was dead, fuck him. Kimbrel was pissed at both of them. They'd crossed a line. No matter how much he'd loved those guys, protected them, all the things a lieutenant should do for his men.

  They crossed a line. A line he couldn't abide.

  He stood at the nurse's station outside Lima's hospital room and waited for his phone call to be answered. When Raymod Beck's voice was finally heard, through the receiver, saying, "Hello," Kimbrel responded, "Lima's alert. And he's talking. You should get down here."

  ✽✽✽

  Beck was getting off the elevator when he saw Lt. Kimbrel leaning against the wall outside Lima's room. He looked like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer to the gut. There was anger there to be sure, but also sadness. Beck approached the melancholy lieutenant.

  "Lieutenant," Beck said.

  Kimbrel's somber nod was his hello. His jaw had clinched the moment the Internal Investigator arrived. He didn't like leading one of his guys to the gallows by arranging for him to speak with some dick from The Rat Squad. But he had fundamental disagreements with what Lima and Foley had done, no matter the reasoning for their choices.

  He didn't look up at Beck when he told him, "Lima's inside there. He's ready to talk to you."

  Beck understood. He knew the position Kimbrel was in. He gave him a sideways glance and sincerely said, "Thank you."

  Beck walked past Kimbrel and into the room where he found Lima propped up at a one hundred and twenty degree angle. Lima gave the kind of confused expression that accompanies a lack of recognition.

  Beck quickly assessed the situation. He batted his eyes from Lima to the machines and back again. Lima had an oxygen tube running to a nasal cannula that rested inside his nostrils. He was attached to an i.v. and a heart monitor. A thick bandage was adhered to the right side of his face. But his eyes were open and aware.

  Before Lima could accompany his puzzled look with a question, Beck asked, "Detective Lima, how are you feeling?"

  "Well, I'm alive," Lima responded. His words were understandable, but delivered from a tight jaw. The injury to his cheek did not allow him to open his mouth very wide when he spoke.

  "Yeah. It's my understanding you fought pretty hard to be here."

  "Who are you?"

  "Detective Raymond Beck, Internal Investigations Division."

  "Oh, Jesus Christ."

  His words sang of sorrow more than annoyance. Lima knew what it was about.

  "Difficult circumstances, I know. But I'm sorry to say, we have to have this conversation now."

  Lima knew he was fucked. He'd known it since he'd come to and could remember what happened. He knew it when he told the Lieutenant everything and felt like a teenage fuck-up that had dishonored his father.

  He knew it was over.

  Reserved to the idea of defeat, Lima said, "Ask your questions."

  "Alright," Beck responded. "Let's start with why you were there that day?"

  "My partner, Detective Nelson Foley, and I had been tracking a drug dealer known on the street as Araña. We knew his business was headquartered at the cafetería on the corner of West Flagler Street and Southwest First Avenue. We planned to question him on those grounds and search the premises for evidence of illegal substances, hopefully in distributable quantities, and possibly make an arrest. When we arrived on the scene, I had noted an idling Honda Accord, grey with black trim, up the street, approximately one storefront west of our point of interest. It was no sooner than I acknowledged the vehicle's presence that my partner and I heard gunfire from within the cafetería and responded with our side arms drawn.

  "A young man, big in stature . . . husky, I should say, had a gun in his hand and aimed the weapon in our direction. He fired and missed my partner. The shooter ran in the direction of the idling vehicle in an attempt to flee. I shot him twice and he fell to the ground."

  Beck interrupted to ask, "What age was the young man?"

  "If I had to guess I'd say . . . late teens, possibly twenty."

  Beck nodded, "Go on."

  "Another man, older . . . maybe late twenties, stepped out of the cafetería, also carrying a weapon. My partner aimed at the man in the doorway, but it was too late. The man shot Foley in the chest and Foley fell supine on the ground. It was at this time, before I could return fire, that I heard the Honda speed away. As I moved to fire at the shooter, a third shooter emerged, aiming from a prone position, having seemed to crawl to the doorway. He fired and shot the side of my face. I stumbled back and immediately felt a sharp pain to the stomach.

  "The next thing I remember was waking up here in this bed."

  Beck nodded. He'd been taking notes the entire time. He tapped his pen on his notepad a few times as he looked over the information. Lima watched him, knowing the next question and too tired to feign innocence with defensive posturing.

  "You say you and Foley went in with the possibility of searching, maybe even making an arrest," Beck mentioned.

  "Yes," Lima responded.

  "Was this the warrant that was signed by Judge Wilton Curtis?"

  "We did have a warrant from Judge Curtis."

  "Yeah, but . . . I checked with the Judge, he had a copy of a warrant that was expired before you guys went in there. He had no recollection of a second warrant and no copy of a second warrant either. However, your Lieutenant tells me you got a second warrant, after the first had elapsed, and a warrant covered in your blood was among your belongings on the day in question."

  Lima's face told the truth. Beck didn't expect him to lie at this point and they both knew what had really happened. But Beck needed it to be official.

  "Detective Lima, did you and your partner falsify a search and seizure warrant?"

  Lima's eyes were sad. Too sad and too broken for a man of his age. How the fuck did I get here? He'd been a good cop, and this is what it had come to. This is who he would be for the rest of his life. Dirty.

  "Yes," Lima replied.

  "Did you forge Judge Wilton Curtis' signature on that document?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Beck noted the answers to the questions on his pad. He closed it and put the pad and pen in his dress shirt pocket. He stood up and gave a quick nod in Lima's direction.

  "Good luck with your recovery," Beck said. And he left the room.

  Lima's tight hold on his lips couldn't keep them from trembling. His eyes watered.

  What the fuck did I do?

  Outside the hospital room, Beck passed Kimbrel and extended his hand. Kimbrel begrudgingly shook it.

  "Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant," Beck said.

  He looked back at Lima's room, then said to Kimbrel, "He's gonna have some people come talk to him when he's better. I'm sure you know what happens next."

  Kimbrel gave a solemn nod. There were no pleasantries to be shared.

  Beck headed for the elevator and rode it down. He stepped out into the first floor lobby, but before he left he used a pay
phone just inside the entrance. He dialed the number and when the woman answered he said, "Barbara. It's Beck. Can you get a license plate number and the make of vehicle owned by Eladio Calderon for me, please?"

  ✽✽✽

  Delmon Sheen exited his building and headed for the lot where he'd parked Mickey's Mustang. He'd only taken a couple steps in that direction when he heard someone walk up behind him and say in an agitated voice, "What happened to calling me every day, Detective?"

  Sheen turned and saw Raymond Beck approach.

  "How about keeping me in the loop? Our arrangement of shared information?"

  Sheen didn't need this right now. He was about to go pick up Eladio for T-Dub's meeting with Abraham Cristiano. He didn't need Beck nosing around the situation and he didn't need to be delayed.

  "I forgot to call you yesterday . . ." Sheen explained but was soon interrupted.

  "And the day before that."

  "Yes."

  "Once! You've called me one time since we first spoke and you told me you'd found nothing."

  "And if I'd have called you yesterday or the day before it would have been the same information. Beck, I'm no closer to figuring out where this kid is than I was five days ago."

  "I gave you a week before I go talk to the kid's mother."

  "And my week isn't up yet."

  "Well our deal's gonna have to change because I think this kid's involved more than you know, or than you want to tell me."

  "I don't have time for this," Sheen responded and continued on towards the car. He walked past the opened gate to the lot and stopped at the Mustang. He unlocked the door and was about to get into the seat.

  "This kid you're trying to find, what kind of car does he drive? Wouldn't happen to be a Honda Accord, would it?"

  Sheen was stopped for the briefest, yet most telling moment. He hadn't anticipated the question and didn't have time to put on his poker face. He could almost hear Mickey now . . . Always have your poker face on.

  "Yeah. One of the cops is talking. He's alive and he puts a Honda Accord at the scene before everything went down, so you wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?"