Caged: Reclamation
Chapter 7
Learning to walk again was brutal and proved Raquel to be the tougher person.
"You want to be crippled? You want to live the rest of your life in that wheelchair? Here? Serving God and the Sisters? Try again."
He was on the ground for the umpteenth time, sweating, tears in his eyes, muscles strained and refusing to do what he asked of them. The sisters had given him clothes, simple black sweatpants, tee-shirts, socks, sneakers. All worn, all shared by the community for people like him… orphans. The set he wore today was soaked from the stress, from the fight to regain the use of his body.
He searched this section of the winery for available bottles and had an idea that he'd drink himself numb, right here, where he sat. He didn't even have the ability to snap back at Raquel and her braids. Words got stuck the more he wanted to say them. He closed his eyes and felt her dip down in front of him.
"Try again, Angel."
He glared at her.
"What? Tell me."
He breathed hard, trying to say what bothered him so deeply. But as soon as his mouth, his tongue, headed towards spilling the words, the whole thing fizzled. More often than not, he said nothing. It was the most frustrating thing he'd ever experienced in his life. Raquel promised it would get better but he wasn't feeling the positivity.
They were in a large quiet barn of sorts where the barrels of Caribbean wine aged until it could be bottled. The floor was concrete and cold on his ass. He was supposed to practice walking using the double bars that served as a barrier between one set of barrels and the others. Couldn't be a better way to do this, he got that. He wore gloves since the bars weren't actually meant to be used this way.
"Not… my name," he huffed.
"No, it is not. It is a joke on you. The sisters do not know the joke. Tell me your name then."
More impossibility. Names. None came to him. Tears finally spilled down his cheeks, hot and full of resentment. He glanced up at the bars on both sides of him. No, he couldn't do it. Could not pull himself to his feet. Even his upper body lacked strength he used to have.
"I can tell you," she said, "this is easy in comparison to what you endured as a child. To what made you tattoo the name of those criminals on your skin. This is easy in comparison to the long months in Havana you endured away from your family. This is easier than what brought you to the sisters. The crime."
She was careful not to reveal details. It was to encourage him to fill in the blanks, to get to the names he did not want to reach for and find. She was not exactly sure what he knew and what he didn't other than the one time he asked if any innocents died. Clearly, he remembered her promise that if innocents died in the bombing, she'd kill him. He obviously knew his name wasn't Angel. He spoke enough to get his needs met and expressed enough to show that he grieved something. But he clarified nothing.
The mention of his family got him to look at her. He held her gaze.
It weakened her. She reached out and held his head. "Tell me about them. Tell me their names."
The tender sound of her voice only drove more tears to his eyes and a restrained sob. It was a recognized rarity of kindness that hurt so much. She leaned into him and held him. "Stubborn man," she said softly. "You have done enough for this morning. Let us eat lunch."
In Spanish he said, "I am not... hungry."
"You have to eat. You need energy to continue to practice. You cannot stop practicing."
And that got fire.
"For fucking… WHAT?"
She stood up. Crossed her arms. She smiled. "Look around. This will be it for you. You practice so you can go home."
He could see it, the porch, the grassy yard, the garage with his cars. Home. He could hear the giggles, the—
No, no more. He did not want to walk through the front door, he didn't want to see their delicate faces, or feel of their little bodies in his arms, no, no, no....
Abram came running into the winery, Anna chasing him. She came to a hard stop when she saw the tension on the faces of Angel and Raquel.
"Ahhh difficult morning? Mí pobre Angel."
"Do not baby him, Anna. He needs to be strong."
Angel shook his head, embarrassed at the level of vulnerability he felt. Yeah, like Raquel tried to say, this was nothing in comparison to other things. Like the embarrassing ways he received care by Sister Maria, Theresa… Raquel. Jesus Christ. He knew it was worse before, when he was in his coma or whatever. Perspective didn't reduce the shame of the moment.
The dog was happy to see his true person, climbing and licking and snuggling, short tail wagging. Angel pet him at first but then just held him and put his face on the dog's warm body. Abram knew his job and immediately stopped playing, moving to allow the needed cuddle.
Anna and Raquel exchanged glances, Raquel without words saying this is to be expected.
When Angel let go of Abram, after nearly fifteen minutes, Anna and Raquel then helped arrange Angel in the chair to wheel him to the main building to eat in the dining room with the other sisters. Once they locked the doors, they hit the path through the acreage, through the coconut and banana trees.
The women chattered and he studied the plants along the way. The day was sunny with a slight haze to it, humidity, the ever-present possibility of rain. The place would be so very dark at night and the idea of it made him shiver with a childlike fear.
It was in this slightly uncomfortable space that he saw a man coming towards them. Older, in classic Cuban dress-wear consisting of the guayabera in ivory, black slacks, leather shoes. His silver hair was slicked back and he wore a thick mustache. Angel stared at him as he moved towards him.
And all of a sudden he realized that he knew this man.
Ohhh shit, oh shit, oh Jesus fucking Christ.
His breathing began to speed up. Pictures began to fly, slamming in and out, fast, fast. A gun in his hand. Pointed straight at the silver-haired man, center mass, as he lay in the arms of a lover, him, beautiful him. Should have done it. Should have ended things. Should have pulled the trigger. He lay on a floor in a restaurant, saw the legs of a table and was getting the holy fuck beaten out of him, a boot to his kidneys, to his ribs, to his head. In another time he heard the man say in Spanish, you will fuck her like a gentleman... you will do this so I can be assured you're not abusing your gentle wife. If you don't... I will remove the color... I will cut out every line from your throat to your cock.
He wanted to puke, vomit his entire insides out at the feet of the man ahead of him. It was all he could do to stop himself from actualizing the desire.
He shuddered, grunted hard, heard himself say on that same night, I am MK. It is a privilege to be a non-Cuban in MK. I owe you my life.
The one name he knew, MK, Mambo Kings, Los Reyes Del Mambo, because it was printed on his belly. He couldn't miss the words there. They screamed at him every single fucking day.
Raquel saw the impact Pedro Moreno was having on Angel and she sneakily waved a hand in warning.
Go away, take a turn. He is not ready for you.
The man slowed his walk, moody eyes hard on Angel, and made a turn down another path. Anna too had slowed her push. As the trio passed by where the man turned, Angel turned to watch the last vestige of the man he most definitely knew, watched him disappear into the forest.
He grabbed Raquel at his side and they had to stop.
"Do you know him?" Raquel asked. He was still breathing hard, eyes still on the ghost down the path.
"He killed...her!"
Raquel got a hard look on her face. In English this time, she demanded, "Killed…who? Speak...the name."
"You know... who!" Those hot angry tears started up again. "Her!"
"Speak the name!"
But he couldn't. Despite his resistance, her face drifted into his head, a thousand moments of looking at her, a thousand conversations with her like a symphony, and she was like that song, a diamond in a black sky, shiny savage love flying off her, promising everything, and yes, it was like that song that was really about drugs…
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds…
Lucy.
Lucy.
Luc…
Luc… i…
I love you, Daddy.
"I can't," he choked out, his hand slamming to his mouth to stop a mad sorrow from bursting forth. "I can't…I can't…", he repeated over and over through a breathless wave of crying, the pain of loss crushing his chest like he would die.
"Okay chiquito, okay. It is okay."
She held him now, rubbing his back and shaking her head, eyes on Anna and babying him exactly as she prohibited Anna from doing. She didn't care. She was angry at her sister for her rules on what they could say.
"Basta, basta, Angel. It is okay. Shhh…okay, okay."
When he got better control, when that cutting sadness at the loss of her and the sickening truth that he'd left his children and they were orphans now… when it all faded, the walk continued. Anna whistled and Abram hopped right onto Angel's lap to ride along, to allow cuddling.
As they moved beyond the path, Anna grunting as she pushed the wheelchair over a rough path, he turned to find the man that he knew killed her, beautiful her, killed her in some way that wasn't direct, a killing in a hundred steps, a killing just the same, but he was gone. He hugged Abram to him, his name hovering too. The sisters told him, called it out all the time, but it vanished just like all names that mattered did, scampering like squirrels…
Or maybe more like cockroaches in the light.
# # # #
Beatrice sat next to Pedro in the convent's Sanctuary, afternoon light shining through stained glass windows. The saints represented surrounded them in blues, reds, golds, and greens. They'd been boarded up since the 1960s after Castro took power and places such as these were outlawed. But last year things changed and down the boards went and there were the saints again. Inspiring, soul-soothing.
Earlier, Anna had run to the Mother Superior, deeply concerned that a killer was in their midst. She told her what Angel said about the man that had been spending time here. Beatrice didn't get a chance to question Raquel, choosing to let her tend to Angel, to let the rest of the sisters mother him in the dining hall.
In a grievous voice, she asked, "He seems to believe you killed his wife. Did you harm her?"
Pedro shook his head at first, then sighed heavily in resignation. "I brought him to Havana. It is here he learned of my brother, Manuel. Manuel harmed him when he was young. I protected Manuel. That knowledge broke Blanco. It led to the bombing."
"You are skipping stones. Did you do something to her that makes him think you killed her?"
"Perhaps he believes my bringing him here contributed to her death, that protecting my brother led to her death. Which means I killed her. It is like him to think that."
She considered his words in a lengthy quiet, her hands folded in her lap.
"Did you bring him into MK? He never would have been in Havana if it was not for him being a part of… the organization."
It was Pedro's turn to sit in a quiet space. The answer was clear.
"Do you believe in Hell, Mother?"
"I believe, yes. We are in it."
"I agree." He paused. "Do you believe in redemption?"
"Through hard work, prayer, true change, yes. There can be redemption, and forgiveness."
"But aren't some things unforgivable, irredeemable?"
Beatrice sat back and roved the ceiling, like a sky, like the heavens. "People may not be able to forgive. Human beings. We are deeply fallible. In that, yes, some things are not forgivable. But God forgives all. He is the Great Redeemer. We should look for His forgiveness while we work towards true change, while we accept what we've done wrong, while we work towards paying reparations to the injured. Even if the injured will never forgive us."
Pedro leaned forward and held his head in his hands.
True change. Reparations.
How could he do any of that when a war rages on? He'd lost so many men over the past year to death and now to Téa Delgado. She was single-handedly gutting MK through forced attrition. He didn't blame her. He admired her! So clever to take advantage of new laws that served young people's vices. His men ran to her.
But in doing so she destabilized the gangs in the region. Chaos had descended with the reduction of MK power, the worst quietly rising in strength and influence: Los Muertos, a brutally violent Cuban organization in tight with a Mexican cartel out of Sinaloa that Pedro always kept at bay. No longer.
Los Muertos were flying low como buitres, circling abandoned corpses. They were going to land. And soon. Either Téa did not know of Los Muertos or she did not care.
The latter was very possible. Her own bombing of the world.
True change lay in acknowledgement. Pedro accepted his lifelong misdeeds. And to alleviate some of it, he needed his right hand man back. He needed him to get out of that chair and take what was rightfully his so that hell would stay in the beneath, so those vultures would stay away.
Kingship. The Mad King needed to come home. Needed to reclaim the crown of thorns.
The question was, how could he get Blanco to set aside his hatred of him? The seizure at seeing him when he was still waking, and today, the obvious rage that came… Pedro had no idea how to fix that.
"It is my recommendation that you should leave, sir," Beatrice said. "Your effect on him is not helpful to his recovery. He needs to come to his reality… first… before he sees you again."
"I saw it. Yes. It breaks my heart."
Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "I am glad you have one to break."
"I will remain here for another week. I won't visit anymore unless he… comes to his reality… and you feel he is ready."
"Thank you. Bless you."
"Am I blessed?"
"Are you not a child of God?"
"I suppose so."
"Then He blesses you."
Pedro stood and walked out.
Immediately, Raquel entered the Sanctuary and moved in to the place next to her sister.
"You sent him home?"
"Yes."
"Good. We have to correct your Angel's wrong belief about his wife. He could not get back to practicing today after lunch. He is in the tower room, not speaking at all, in a deep sleep that easily could be a regression. The grief is preventing forward movement."
The Mother Superior kept her eyes on the great wooden crucifix on the wall. She did not answer for a few minutes. Then she nodded.
"You are right. We have to tell him. Getting back to her will be a significant motivation. He cannot continue in such paralyzing grief."
"Praise God! You agree with me."
"I am not an idiot, Hermana."
She responded with a Spanish version of, "You are here… soooo…"
Beatrice laughed softly and squeezed Raquel's hand with warmth. "Go to Angel when he wakes. Ask questions. Push to allow an opportunity to correct his mistaken belief."
Raquel hoofed it. She was so very relieved but also afraid. She hoped they were correct—that he would be motivated to get better. And go home.
But another part of her did wonder whether the devil would wake at that, too, whether the joke of being called Angel would at last be understood.
# # # #
R.J. Gannon nodded to the coroner, confirming the identity of one of his bouncers at the club. Ziggy had been a Posse member, an immigrant from Jamaica, young. He had no family, only son of parents killed in a car crash in Kingston when he was 14. No extended family that mattered. Missionaries brought him to the U.S. at 18 and he landed at the club at 20. Posse took him up quick.
So yeah, R.J. was it. The kid was killed in a shootout with unknown assailants. Blew out his chest. Down, depressed, he walked out of the chilled room with the steel tables, dreadlocks swinging. He wore his usual black slacks pressed, an azure knit shirt gentle on his skin. Didn't need a jacket in this late summer weather. His alligator-skin boots made too much noise on the floor.
He raised his eyes to Bo Buchanan who stood at the doors with his arms crossed, looking grim.
"Sorry about your friend."
"Yeah, lucky no mama to be informed. I'll be the only one crying at his good-bye."
"You hear anything about the killers? Grapevine?"
"No."
"We have."
There was something dark in the commissioner's eyes.
"Floor's yours."
"The Posse ever—"
"I don't—"
"I don't care, Gannon. I'm wanting… what do the kids say? I'm trying to be real."
R.J. shook his head, chuckling a little. As much as he was capable of any kind laughter considering he just got done identifying a 22 year old kid who hardly even knew how to fuck.
"Aight," he said tightly.
"Does the Posse have dealings with any Mexican cartel?"
"Hell no."
"Was Ziggy wayward? Drifting from Posse?"
"Not that I know. Think I woulda heard that."
Bo reached into his jacket pocket, the ends of his bolo tie glinting in the fluorescents. He pulled out an evidence bag. Two largish bullets. ".223s from an AR-15. These killed your friend. Ballistics showed markings similar to a ATF tracked weapon lost in Mexico."
"Fast and Furious?" R.J. was aghast, referring to a political scandal some years back.
"That's exactly right. The AR-15 was lost in that operation. Analysts figured cartels absorbed the weapons. It's not conclusive but…" He let the idea float, his voice trailing.
"MotherFUCK."
"Ask questions maybe?"
"Could be crossfire maybe?"
"Ziggy had a Glock."
"I know. Cost a'business. I ain't hiding."
"He only got one shot off."
R.J. sighed, glancing down. A pit in his belly. He had thoughts on this. Relating back to a particular Puertorriquena he knew, that he hardly recognized these days. He lifted his eyes to Bo's.
"I'll ask around. Keep my ear—"
"I had a conversation with Téa Delgado a while ago—"
R.J. couldn't help the soft grunt at the coincidence of Bo mentioning her just as he was thinking on her. Bo ignored the instantaneous response.
"She mentioned a Cuban rival to MK known as Los Muertos. She was worried taking out Moreno and Manning might lead to them moving in. Ever heard of them?"
Snorting, R.J. hissed, "Yeah. They was big in Joliet, but they ain't here."
"You sure about that?"
After a meaningful glance, Bo patted R.J. on the shoulder and headed down the hall, saying, "Ask questions, Gannon, ask questions." He disappeared into the coroner's office.
R.J.'s palms were sweating and he wiped his hands on his thighs. He started walking, fast. Exited the section. Pulled out his cell and dialed the only person he trusted out of MK who knew Téa as well as he did, who was now real goddamn close to her bullshit. There was an answer on the fourth ring. R.J. stepped outside LPD. The sun was too damn bright.
Heard a raspy, "Gannon?"
"Da fuck she doin', Rolon? I jus' got news I mighta lost one of my people to fucking Muertos? I thought those fuckers got kicked back to hell ten goddamn years ago. By you all."
Rolon was dead silent. He was moving. Fast. A door slammed. Sounded like an office door.
"You sure?"
"Naw! I ain't sure about shit! But lemme tell you, Bo Buchanan sounded sure as fuck. You got an eye on her? Like a hard motherfuckin' eye? She ain't the same and you know it."
He got defensive. "What makes you think she got shit to do with those assholes!"
"Because she's fucking around with your goddamn people!"
"Muertos ain't my people."
"MK for fucking life, though, ain't that right?"
"I'm outta that."
"I call bullshit. Method Makers is just another branch off the tree and it is having an impact, Lopez, and my question is if this is the plan. Bring Muertos in to have a holy war, bring them in to do killing she won't do on her own."
Rolon was eerily quiet. Finally, he said, "Straight up honest, I got no idea here. I'll dig. Real sorry for your loss, man. Who was it?"
"A kid. 22 year old. This ain't good. I gotta bad feeling."
R.J. hung up. He hadn't seen Téa in ages. Read about the waves she was making in the cannabis business. He saw her at Manning's memorial and she'd made the angriest iciest widow he ever saw. She hardly looked at him. Two months later, she was slangin' like the best… just legal. It had been six months now and she was blasting all competition out of the water.
Her company looked like any other other startup except for one eye-catching trait that few noticed: all her employees, most, were ex-gang members and their women. Funny how that got past journalists. It was the ladies who disguised that truth.
Main labor source: MK. Meaning, who was mindin' the MK store?
R.J. sent out a text: Meeting at the club. Mayday. Midnight. Bring captains.
He needed information ASAP from Posse. He had to know who Ziggy had been hanging with when he was killed. He needed witnesses. He had a really bad fuckin' feeling on this.
He turned the key and sped off. "What are you doing, girl?" He decided it was time for a visit to a certain law office.
# # # #
Téa was working up a lease agreement that could be used by dispensaries in medical marijuana states, part of the upcoming expansion. The company was growing like crazy, already needing more than the three other offices in the building for sales, R&D, and operations, in addition to various facilities across the northeast. She also started hiring full-fledged lawyers to handle the criminal defense work. She had to be careful. Overly speedy growth could be disastrous.
She paused, glancing at her cell. Nothing urgent. She ignored it and went back to working. She hadn't heard news from Jedediah yet. He was scheduled to land in Havana this afternoon. After their fight, Téa had no choice but to trust he knew what the hell he was doing. A hard step but she had to do it.
Trust was a cruel bitch.
Gloria popped her head in and smiled, yes, that Gloria, unofficial leader of MK women, "Téa, I have Sonia on line one? Her husband was MK and was killed three months ago...she has no job, no money, two children…? Sounds like another potential."
Téa nodded, "Definitely. Schedule a full interview. Let's see what her options are. Let's see if we can add her to the possible Moreno lawsuit."
She was working a novel case, bringing in wives of murdered MK gang members and suing the hell out of Pedro Moreno for causing the deaths of those men. She was in the research phase. She was banking on massive settlements, banking on Moreno's guilt. Biggest risk was Moreno turning and blaming Todd. She didn't think it was likely.
Another smile, a return back to her desk. She'd become Téa's administrative assistant, a not-very-long story.
When Gloria returned from Havana with Pedro, he had released her to the world. When Gloria saw the exodus of MK soldiers to Téa's new company, she showed up too and the first thing she said was…
I'm sorry about your husband. I want to do right by you for whatever role I might have played in your loss. What can I do?
It was an ugly moment, Téa having to mindfully breathe through it, her awareness of exactly who Gloria was to him in Havana grating and torturous, knowing she also was a long-time lover to Pedro himself, but Gloria was persistent and strong. She stood her ground. She knew a lot and before Téa could throw her out Gloria said…
I helped him, Ms. Delgado. We worked hard to end Moreno. I was not a loyalist like you might think. I want to do more.
Why? He treated you well. Like Rolon, he let you go.
Blanco made me face something I put aside for a long time. A truth.
What?
I was raped by Pedro when I was fourteen years old and a desperate, fearful runaway. He subjected me to dangerous people. As an MK prostitute. I was lucky… I am lucky to be alive.
Was… Blanco… one of those dangerous men you were subjected to?
That was a hot question, complicated. Téa didn't even know why she asked it. It was reminiscent of why Téa shot Todd in her own kitchen. The bastard. On the other hand, a tiny part of her wanted a denial.
Yes. I knew the worst of your husband.
The worst. That sealed the deal. Gloria was not a person to lie, to put Blanco on a pedestal. She had guts to stand in front of Todd's wife, look her in the eye, and say, I survived Blanco because of… luck.
Can you type?
Téa hired her. She needed people with the same interests, needed a woman former MK men were humbled by. She'd look at them with those dark judging eyes and they'd do whatever she asked. It brought Téa no end of entertainment. Within weeks of hiring Gloria, she promoted her to Operations Manager. Gloria though often acted as direct assistant to Téa, still.
And then one evening over a needed whiskey after a crazy day, they'd been sitting side by side on the little leather sofa in Téa's office and Gloria said, he loved you, you know, loved you like nothing—
Téa hadn't let her continue. Couldn't. She pushed herself up against Gloria and drunkenly put her fingers on Gloria's lips and said raggedly, no, no, no, no, don't talk about it… to which Gloria said, you're just like him. Living with too hard a love to look at afterwards, trying to pretend it didn't happen.
I don't love him anymore.
Gloria wrapped her arms around Téa and kissed her at that, a full-mouthed woman's kiss that Téa had never had before, tasting whiskey and compassion and a kind of sexual bonding that was completely foreign to her, that was too close to Rico and Todd, and her heart had almost cracked open at that, the grief almost blowing up inside of her, but it didn't. She stopped it. She had gently separated and shook her head saying thank you anyway for a warmth she simply couldn't do.
It wasn't that experimenting was not possible, she was always adventurous, but that all sexual affection was… just… beyond her. She felt things sometimes but to do it would say she was alive and real and capable of joy.
Which she was not. Not any of it.
No, no, no, no….
Gloria had thereafter become a solid worker, more loyal than anyone, and she well knew her boundaries. She knew Téa in a strangely comforting way. They had become friends.
Gloria would have have a lot more responsibilities in coming months. She was going to be Director of Operations.
The new building, Chartwell Manor, was six weeks from being move-in ready. Téa paid a lot of money to speed up the work. It was good what with fifteen offices, two conference rooms, fully networked, kitchen, a small gym. There was even a small apartment on the top floor.
Téa could stay there when needed.
Outside, she heard a ruckus, friendly noise, and she stood up to see the commotion. She went to the door and Gloria was smiling and arranging a bouquet of flowers in a vase.
"Look at what Mr. Gannon brought you."
Téa laid eyes on R.J. and she was surprised a small smile made her way to her lips. She was surprised that she had to glance away at the sting. She turned around and went back to her office, to her desk. Saying nothing. She swallowed the stone in her throat and stared at her lease. Caught a typo.
Their needed to be there.
Gloria wasn't sure if that was an okay-come-in or get-the-hell-out but R.J. didn't give her a chance to decline him. He followed Téa inside her office with all her law books and her filing cabinets and her computer and the windows overlooking Llanview boulevard and shut the door behind him.
She was typing.
Tap, tap, tap.
"Talk to me, woman. Tell me everything. Let me help you."
It was too much. He was too much. He was and would always be in her heart and she took a breath and looked at him, at that kind, handsome face, those deeply loving eyes, those dreadlocks, his confident assuring stance… and she remembered how many times he caught her when she was falling, falling...she could hear music and tasted vodka and she was suddenly being picked up in Todd's arms and he was cradling her naked body in a blanket right out of R.J.'s office, walking to a stolen truck…
That's what this is about? Me killing myself? Delgado... shit. I'm fuckin' immortal and you know that. I'm never leaving you, no matter what it might look like. And you know what else? There isn't anything you can do to chase me away. You can be the whore of the century... and I'll still come and get you.
And she cried. He was never supposed to leave her.
With a pained gasp, she crumpled into herself with a hard sob. For the first time since she left Havana…
… she cried for Todd.
To be continued...
