A Shark in Calle Ocho (2 page)

Little Havana—1965

Shark and Blowfish ran through the crowd, tossing the wallet back and forth, laughing and having fun.

As if guided by some instinct, Shark slipped the wallet into his pocket just as the two bounded around the corner and nearly knocked down a cop. The collision knocked the breath out of Blowfish, who was already breathing hard. The boys froze as they stared up into the face of the tanned, smiling police officer.

He put a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders. It seemed so heavy to Shark. He knew it was about to crush him until the officer let out a chuckle.

“Are you boys enjoying the carnival?” he asked. “I hope you’re behaving yourselves.”

The boys could only nod.

“Hey, what’s in your back pocket?” the officer asked.

Shark’s heart sank. Sweat broke out on his palms, and his throat felt like sandpaper.

“Uh,” Shark croaked.

As the officer reached behind his back, Shark wanted to run. He wanted to scream and kick, but his muscles were frozen from panic. But when he felt the big hand slip into the pocket with the knife, he almost collapsed from relief.

“Well, well, what’s this?” the cop asked, turning the knife over in his hand at his eye level. “You know boys your age shouldn’t have a knife like this. It’s very dangerous. You promise to be careful?”

“Yes,” Shark said, looking into the cop’s eyes. His breath came back, and his muscles relaxed.

“Okay, you boys run along, and be careful with that knife!” the officer instructed as he patted them on the back and gave Shark the knife back.

The two ran with renewed vigor. But as they ran, Shark became angry at himself for feeling fear. Sharks had no feeling, whether it was love, hate, or fear. No feeling. That’s why they were so deadly. That was why they were king of the ocean, the top of the food chain. Shark wanted to be at the top. He wanted to be king.

The crowds thinned out, and the festival faded into the background of city noise as the boys ran along the sidewalk. The atmosphere seemed to grow darker, colder as Shark and Blowfish neared their destination. Their destination was Adan Hadrian’s underground headquarters. Adan was a small-time crime boss in Little Havana. He’d prey on kids like Antonio and José. Thinking they were ignorant, unlearned and mainly hungry, he’d promise them a steady income and protection against street thugs. In return, they’d canvas the city preying on Miami’s heavy tourist traffic. Adan would teach innocent looking children to pick pockets with their small hands. They would bring the loot back to his office, and in return he’d pay them a small percentage of the proceeds.

Did anybody cheat Adan? He had eyes everywhere. When children got caught “stealing from the thief,” their bones were broken, and their families were harassed until the child learned his or her lesson.

Entering the slum office-turned-Miami-pickpocket headquarters, Shark and Blowfish talked only in hushed tones. This was a hangout for children who’d been tossed aside by society. In the lobby the only light was what entered through grimy windows, and it was diffused by the heavy marijuana smoke-filled air.

Shark didn’t touch the stuff because it dulled his senses. He was interested in his prey—the wallet, the gold. Anything that hampered him taking his prey he wanted no part of, and Blowfish was too scared to try the weed.

With Shark leading the way, the two walked to the stairs leading to Adan’s office. Of course one of his goons was blocking the way. This time it was Marko Pantin, a broad shouldered teenager just under six feet. His face was cratered with acne, and his black hair was cut short.

“You boys have a good day?” Marko asked, trying to display some authority. “Of course you did,” he replied, answering his own question. “Antonio is scared of nothing. No emotion, just doing the job.” Marko’s damaged face was just an inch from Shark’s.

Shark stood, glaring at the older boy as he patted him across the face. This move was not out of admiration but intimidation.
No more running. No more fear
, Shark thought as he continued the icy glare.

Marko switched his attention to Blowfish, who’d broken out into a nervous sweat.

“And what has the softy done today?” Marko said mockingly. Blowfish cowered.

“Let us see Mr. Adan,” Shark said. “We have merchandise for him.”

Marko and Shark stared at each other, silently battling each other’s wills. Marko finally stepped aside. The boys walked past, with Blowfish keeping his distance and an eye on the towering teenager.

The walls were covered with stained flowered wallpaper that was peeling in places. The stairs creaked as they climbed. There was muted talk throughout the building as drug deals and merchandise counting was going on. The smoke seemed to thicken at the second floor, where the only door was Adan’s. Shark grabbed the brass knob and twisted. The door slowly opened to reveal the minor league crime boss busy tapping on an adding machine. A fan close to his face was blowing away the south Florida humidity.

Adan was a short, stubby man in his mid-forties. His hair was wavy and combed back. He had a patch of hair growing below his lower lip. His thick wire-rimmed glasses magnified his gray eyes. He breathed heavily due to years of heavy smoking. His fingernails were too long, and his fingers were nicotine stained. Adan looked up from his calculations and smiled, showing teeth that were the same color as his fingers.

“Have we had a good Calle Ocho, boys?” he asked.

“Yes,” Shark answered, Blowfish nodding in the background. “We have a wallet and jewelry.”

“Good, good,” Adan said. “That’s my boy.” He stretched out his hand over his desk. “Give it to me.”

Shark obeyed, placing the wallet and watch into the greedy hands of their boss. There was a pause. Adan gave them their cut, but he continued to stare at them. His gaze began to focus on Blowfish. Shark could sense his friend’s increased anxiety.

In a low, menacing tone, Adan broke the silence, clinched his fist, and said, “Why did you cheat me?”

“Oh please, Mr. Adan, I am sorry,” Blowfish cried. “I just got greedy. The wallet had so much money.” Blowfish turned to Shark, his eyes wide with fear, and explained, “It was last Wednesday. I went out by myself and scored a wallet off this old rich lady. It had so much money,” he repeated, and started to shake. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Shark was helpless. He was horrified that his friend would steal—especially from Adan, knowing the consequences. Shark had a sick feeling in his stomach. His friend was in trouble, and he silently cursed him for his stupidity. He looked at his friend, who was about to burst into tears.

Adan rose from his desk slowly, powerfully and totally in control. His wrinkled gray shirt and faded yellow cotton slacks moved with his body.

His fist and teeth clenched with anger, he said, “No one cheats me.”

He walked slowly and menacingly around his desk and stepped close to Blowfish, who was reduced to a blubbering pile of nerves. “I gave you money!” he screamed, grabbing the boy’s cheeks with his stained hands. “I gave you a place to belong! I treated you like a son—and how do you repay me?” His hands moved from Blowfish’s cheeks to his throat. He looked into Blowfish’s terror-filled eyes. He was gasping for breath that was not there. His arms were flailing wildly, grasping for nothing.

Shark had to do something. His friend was making horrible gurgling noises, but what was even more terrifying was the noise coming from Adan. He was giggling like a love-struck young girl, but it was only inflicting pain that he loved.

Shark’s hands, up till then around his head in confusion, dropped to his waist as a sense of hopelessness came upon him, but as they fell he felt something hard in his pocket.

The dagger!

Shark knew what he had to do. As he gripped the handle, it seemed to shoot energy up through his arm, giving him even more strength. He walked to Adan with his eyes on his prey. Adan’s back was turned to Shark, which would prove to be a fatal mistake.

He could see Blowfish’s arms were still moving, but he was getting weaker. As Shark moved, everything else began to fade. It was only him and his prey. He tightened his grip on the dagger. He did not fear Adan, but he did fear the feeling that was inside him now. It seemed natural for him to be doing this—too natural. The knife was perfect for his hand, the unawareness of his prey, the total control he had over his breathing and senses, all seemed to come too naturally. He was Shark, and he knew then and there at ten years old that this was what he was going to be for the rest of his life. Shark realized he was in striking distance. His breathing was fast, and his heart seemed to bounce in his chest—not out of fear, but out of excitement. Shark raised the dagger across his body. It seemed like he was in a dream world. He watched the dagger as it traveled across his face. It was as if someone was guiding his hand. The dagger was so beautiful, so shiny. Like a hammer launching a bullet in a revolver, the knife took off in his hand and met its destination in the side of the small-time crime boss’s neck, causing him to release his victim. Blowfish tumbled to the ground in a heap and soiled himself. Adan turned, gripping the knife that was now covered with his own blood. He stared at Shark with fear mixed with surprise and amazement. His gray shirt now was a dark crimson. Adan’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. He dropped to his knees, his eyes never leaving Shark.

Shark never wavered. He was a Shark. Sharks have no feeling, only the hunger for prey. As Adan collapsed to the ground in a puddle of his own blood, the Shark smiled, pulled out the dagger and collected his friend.

No feeling.

Only the hunger for prey.

Chapter Two

“Bob.” Brush.

“Bob.” Brush.

“Bob.” Brush.

“Bob.” Brush.

Bob brushed his teeth first every morning at 7:05 a.m. After brushing his teeth, Bob would shave, wash his face, put on his socks, undershirt, pants, and finally a shirt. Always in that order. Always.

Except for this morning. Between brush strokes he would say his name.

“Bob.” Brush.

“Bob.” Brush.

“Bob.” Brush.

Bob looked into the mirror illuminated by the single fluorescent bulb. This morning was like any morning, with the exception of one thing. Bob looked deeper. He of course noticed the plain brown hair, parted straight and to the left side. He noticed the bushy eyebrows and trimmed sideburns and the lack of a tan—even though he lived in Miami.

He noticed all of that, like he did every morning, but he noticed something more this morning. He noticed how bland, how pathetically normal he really was. He was an accountant named Bob.

“Oh dear Lord.”

He was a model employee of a large firm who had perfect attendance for the last four years. He knew that because he received a certificate every Christmas banquet. Matter of fact, he was always on time—7:55 a.m. every morning.

He rehearsed it in his mind. He would walk through the clear glass doors.

“Hello, Bob,” some other pathetic stiff would say.

“Hello, so and so,” he’d reply. This would continue until he made it to his gray cubicle.

Oh that sickening gray cubicle,
he thought, brush still in his mouth.
I’m an accountant whose name is Bob who works in a gray cubicle.

Then it happened. Deep within the recesses of his mind something snapped—or did it click, because a snap would mean it broke? Maybe something finally started working for Bob. It started to click!

Bob took the brush from his mouth and didn’t bother shaving. He put on his undershirt, but he didn’t bother with a white dress shirt. He put on his only pair of shorts and slipped into a pair of loafers. He wished he owned a pair of sneakers.

He called his office.

“McGoogle and Associates, may I help you?” The polite female voice said. It was Paula, a very pretty brunette receptionist.

“Hey Paula, this is Bob,” he said, truly smiling for the first time in a month. “I quit. Will you go to Carnival with me?”

Paula, stunned, said, “No, but I’ll relay the message.” She hung up the phone and strangely regretted turning the man down.

Bob hung up, laughed and headed for Carnival.

The bus ride to 8th Street was delightful. The sun was out, and the palm trees seemed to stand at attention to the new crowned king of freedom as the bus went past. The colorful storefronts seemed to be calling to him. He was curious about what was inside each of them. Before today, Bob was just another cooperate robot going about his duties. Today that Bob was spreading his wings and taking flight for the very first time. A smile was stretched across his face. He laughed out loud as an old cliché came to his mind: “This is the first day of the rest of your life.” It was corny, but so true today.

The bus passed by an in-line skater. She was blond with long legs and form fitting clothes. Her hair flowed with the wind. He wondered what color her eyes were behind those dark shades. Her i-Pod ear buds were inserted. He wondered what kind of music she was listening to.

He waved at her, and as the bus pulled away she smiled and waved back. He sat back and thought,
Oh, yeah—I’m a stud.

The girl—Lisa Florence was her name—skated every day. The 402 bus usually passed her about the same time and same place. She was a creature of habit. Today when the bus passed, a middle-aged man stood out. He seemed happy, but her first thought was,
Dork
.

Color flags strung from light pole to light pole caught Bob’s eyes. They were coming fast, and he realized they promoted one of those “we finance anybody” cheesy used car lots. He sighed self-righteously until he saw it: a 1975 Chevy Impala. It sat there like a beauty queen who still wore her sachet and crown even though her competition was twenty years in the past. Most of the chrome was still shiny. The coat of red paint was worn into a dull pink, but at least it had no rust—except at the lower edges and the back and . . . oh well, hopefully the motor still turned over.

Bob stepped out of the bus with the question turning over in his mind:
I live in Miami, so why do I ride the bus? I need a car.