Emakume
Log 3: Ask DNA
When the truth seems so far way
Buddha loves you and Jesus saves
You need answers for your dismay
-
15: 17 Zulu
Amateur Jai Alai: Miami; North Miami Beach, Fl. USA
He slid out of the jeep, the leather seat groaning under his weight as he moved. He could hear the passenger side door slam shut before he closed his own. He watched his partner come around to the front of the vehicle, his eyes nearly closed against the midday sun. How the hell could she wear that bomber jacket in this weather? For that matter how the hell can these people live in this heat day in and day out? Sure, it got plenty hot in Alabama, he remembered the sweat on his back when he mowed the lawn in the summer as a child, but at least there was a reprieve from it for a good 6 months. And at least there were trees in Alabama to sit under and cool off, Miami was a fuckin' concrete jungle.
Cover Girl gave him a look that suggested she was tired of waiting, "are we going in or are we just going to stand around outside?"
North Miami Beach, like just about everywhere in the Magic City, was divided in two; one side where the wealthy lived, the other urban ghetto. Amateur Jai Alai sat somewhere on the line between the two. The building itself was ugly and boring, just a single, large gray rectangle that looked as though it had some sort of second story. The words 'Amateur Jai Alai' written in big black block letters on it's façade. Thirty years ago it said 'Orbea's School of Jai Alai' or something of that nature. Of course thirty years ago this place was packed with the young boys who would someday grow up to be the heroes of the concha, the men who made Jai Alai the sensation that it was in 80's. Too bad it was only a fad.
The inside held a smell that was unfamiliar. The sharp smell of rubber, the lighter smell of some sort of straw, and then something else, the mixture made for something that was unique to the sport. The foyer was somewhat small and narrow; a head of them and against the left wall was a desk, an antique cash register on its surface and a small freezer behind it. Beside the desk sat a large, rot iron cage that was roped off with a sign that read in both English and Spanish 'I bite'. The offending creature sat on its roof, a large, loud scarlet macaw that screeched when they walked through the door. Either side of the room held a single doorway, each were open, and from them came the various sounds of people, talking and yelling, some clear, most muffled.
"Where should we start?"
Beach Head thought about her question for a moment, more so because he was still taking in the sight of the room. He moved toward the door on the right side of the room and Cover Girl followed.
Inside lay several half courts, fenced off from the thin aisle that ran down the center of them, two on each side and all in use at the moment. The men on the small courts ranged the gambit in age. The old guys played together, perhaps ex-pros looking for a workout and a way to relive their days as sports superstars. But their game had a friendliness to it that suggested their camaraderie with one another. The young guys, on the other hand, played like it was a game for their manhood, a statement that had to be made. The testosterone was so thick it could be cut with a knife. The last two courts were completely different. Children took instruction from their elders, standing and moving as they were told, running after the ball without any seriousness in their faces. They were having fun, but learning at the same time. The way it should be.
"Got a visual on him?" Wayne's accent sounded strange in the mix of the room.
"No."
They moved to the next room, nearly attacked by the parrot on their way over.
The other side of the building was completely different, inside was one, large, full court, stadium seats, something like the arena at Miami Jai Alai. The crack of the pelota echoed throughout the structure. Were the men in other room playing with a different ball?
"FUCK!" the comment was followed by a barrage of others.
"Ah, see, that's the same move you always try to do! Follow through with your arm, Joey. I lost a trifecta on you because you didn't follow through!"
"Shut-up, Orbea!"
Bingo.
The Ranger looked down at his fellow Joe who nodded in return. This was the man they were looking for. He was older, probably in his sixties, white hair thick and tussled on his tan head. His eyes were dark and sharp, like a bird of prey, but held a friendliness to them that was uncanny. He sat on one of the benches in the room, steadily stitching together what looked like a ball.
"Orbea?"
He turned around at the sound of his name.
"Yes?"
Courtney sat down beside him, pulling her jacket from her shoulders as she did so. She smiled at him, and he returned it.
"Is there something I can do for you?" his accent was heavy but his words were clear.
"We just need to ask you a few questions, if that's alright," Wayne took a seat behind the older gentlemen.
"Michelena."
He'd hit the spot. He knew he had, he could tell by the way the two visitors bodies tensed suddenly. He'd expected someone to come around asking questions, after what he'd seen on TV. It had brought him to tears, but he had a school to run, people in his life who depended on his strength, and so he told himself he'd be strong when they came to ask him questions.
The old man still hadn't looked at either of them; his hands were busy stitching the ball. His wrinkled fingers moved with a sense of ritual execution.
"You make your balls by hand?" she was trying to recover what was lost in that moment.
"All pelotas are made by hand. They can not be mass produced sadly, it would make my life easier," he chuckled at the end of that. A sort of hardy, happy sound.
"They probably last longer, since they aren't cheaply made."
"A pelota lasts about fifteen minutes in play...."
"Jesus-"she spat that rather strangely; like she said it before she realized where she was.
"I know."
It got quiet again. The constant babble from the men playing in front of them and the sound of the pelota bouncing sharply against the court and wall sounded far away in the silence that engulfed them on the bench. He was waiting for them to talk; Wayne sensed that, old men were like that. They had a code of honor to uphold, no speaking unless spoken to, that's how it always worked. That was why old men stooped like they did; their shoulders were heavy with the weight of the secrets they had to keep.
"Why were they on that boat?" Beach's accent made the 'h' disappear in his 'why'.
"The question should be, 'what would drive all these men to be on that boat?'" Orbea said that simply.
"Denny and Kent told us you were the man to see about that."
"Hmm, how are they I wonder, they haven't stepped into my school in a while. You know, I used to tell them everyday how lucky they were for their height, that's really the only reason why so many Americans can play, they're about a head taller then they other men," he was stalling.
"Orbea...." It was the way she said his name that made the old man realize he couldn't dodge them anymore.
He sighed and set the pelota in his hand down on the bench. The needle and twine from his stitch work hung loosely from the goat skin that made up the outside. He clasped his wither hands together, sharp eyes focused out on the concha. He took a breath, probably a bit too shallow for what he had to say, and leaned forward, placing his clasped hands in front of his mouth, elbows on his thighs. The men moving in front of him blurred in his recollection.
"When I came to this country, when all the old men who practice this sport moved to this country, there was no ETA. There were no men rioting in the street for independence. Yes, we felt that we deserved to be on our own, but not to this extreme," Courtney tried to look into his face, but it seemed as though a shadow had cast over it. "We were like...." He sat upward slightly, "you Americans. Your last names might say you are German, but your heart, your blood screams America, we were the same, just Basque."
He sank again.
"Michelena came to me years ago, trying to get me to join his cause, join the Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna, but I refused. When the second faction took hold, he tried to get out, but they are not so forgiving. To defect is to die; the only way to be sure there are no rats. He was safe for a while, at least, he was safe here in the States. He told me a week ago, about someone who contacted him about clearing his name.... I told him not to go.... Who knew it was really them...." He trailed off, eyes franticly searching the room. "Michelena, they say he was like Michael Jordan of Cesta Punta...."
"Did he say who it was who called?" Wayne couldn't bear watching the weight on the man's shoulders start to get the better of him.
"No. But, I do know someone, someone who might know what happened."
-
22:48 Zulu
South Pointe: Miami; South Beach, Fl. USA
Fuckin' tourists.
Whenever a prostitute washes up in the Miami River in a suitcase a tourist finds it. When someone's shot in a street over drug money it's always a tourist who witnesses it. And of course, now, when someone washes up dead on the beach it's a tourist who found him. He hated this town.
Tuttle spat shells from his sunflower seeds onto the sand at his feet. He chewed on them calmly as the crew in front of him moved franticly. Everyone in this town moved so fast, ran their lives at breakneck speed, but not him. He stood back and watched, observed, maybe that was why he was so damn good at his job. Or maybe he should stop listening to his girlfriend's boasts.
He spotted them moving through the throng of people lining the taped off beach, the muffled sound of club music in the distance and boats out on the dark water. The pair stood starkly different against the others in the area. But military personnel always did.
Cover Girl shoved her hands into the pockets of her bomber jacket.
"My first time on South Beach and it's for a DOA."
She swung her head over to her partner, "you didn't strike me as the kind of guy who would care, Wayne."
"I hear Barbie dolls like you hang out here all day baking in the sun, I figured it was worth a look see," something like a smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
Krieger made a face like she was going to say something lewd but the sight if Tuttle hanging around on the outskirts of the police tape cut her off. She moved passed her partner and headed toward the man.
"I thought you said this was no longer a Vice concern," she watched him spit seed shells at the sand.
Jonathan casually pointed toward the police cars just a few yards off, "if it's Dade County Sheriff's problem, it's my problem as well," he moved the cellophane bag in his hand around, crinkling it. "Have you been briefed yet?"
"No, what's the situation?" Wayne looked back at the strangely routine mayhem in front of them.
"Arriaga, another one of our Basque friends. He just retired from Jai Alai this passed season after taking a nice jaw altering hit to the face," Tuttle threw a few more salty seeds into his mouth.
"Any idea how long he's been dead? I mean, how many more bodies are we going to find before these people realize what's going on?" Courtney said that in a way that suggested that her questions weren't directed to anyone in particular.
"We won't know the time of death until he comes back from the coroner. It takes a bit of time when the body's been in the water for a duration of time," John spit his shells into the sand again.
"Who found him?"
Tuttle watched the goings on around him, "a bunch of stupid kids. Most of them tourists here with some friends from North Dade.... you know how it goes, kids on summer vacation smoking pot of the beach and drinking beers until they pass out on the sand," he chewed on another handful.
"Talk about a buzz kill," the brunette mumbled that slightly.
Wayne's cell rang.
"Sneeden," he answered it indifferently.
"A little birdie told me you need to see me," a smooth and emotionlessly sensual voice intoned, "The Delano Hotel, 00:00," she hung up.
Beach Head quickly flipped his mobile closed. Cover Girl gave him a look, the 'who the hell was that?' look. He wondered sometimes how it was that she stayed alive being so damn nosey. But he couldn't ignore that look, not on her, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of a straight answer.
"Who was that, Beach?"
"Some sexy woman just asked me out on a date," for that he got the 'cut the bullshit' look. "It was Orbea's contact."
-
Sorry this chapter took so long in coming. Being a beer whore, I mean, Bartender and going to school has left me with little time to write. The next chapter won't take so long.
-Hyakurin9
Log 3: Ask DNA
When the truth seems so far way
Buddha loves you and Jesus saves
You need answers for your dismay
-
15: 17 Zulu
Amateur Jai Alai: Miami; North Miami Beach, Fl. USA
He slid out of the jeep, the leather seat groaning under his weight as he moved. He could hear the passenger side door slam shut before he closed his own. He watched his partner come around to the front of the vehicle, his eyes nearly closed against the midday sun. How the hell could she wear that bomber jacket in this weather? For that matter how the hell can these people live in this heat day in and day out? Sure, it got plenty hot in Alabama, he remembered the sweat on his back when he mowed the lawn in the summer as a child, but at least there was a reprieve from it for a good 6 months. And at least there were trees in Alabama to sit under and cool off, Miami was a fuckin' concrete jungle.
Cover Girl gave him a look that suggested she was tired of waiting, "are we going in or are we just going to stand around outside?"
North Miami Beach, like just about everywhere in the Magic City, was divided in two; one side where the wealthy lived, the other urban ghetto. Amateur Jai Alai sat somewhere on the line between the two. The building itself was ugly and boring, just a single, large gray rectangle that looked as though it had some sort of second story. The words 'Amateur Jai Alai' written in big black block letters on it's façade. Thirty years ago it said 'Orbea's School of Jai Alai' or something of that nature. Of course thirty years ago this place was packed with the young boys who would someday grow up to be the heroes of the concha, the men who made Jai Alai the sensation that it was in 80's. Too bad it was only a fad.
The inside held a smell that was unfamiliar. The sharp smell of rubber, the lighter smell of some sort of straw, and then something else, the mixture made for something that was unique to the sport. The foyer was somewhat small and narrow; a head of them and against the left wall was a desk, an antique cash register on its surface and a small freezer behind it. Beside the desk sat a large, rot iron cage that was roped off with a sign that read in both English and Spanish 'I bite'. The offending creature sat on its roof, a large, loud scarlet macaw that screeched when they walked through the door. Either side of the room held a single doorway, each were open, and from them came the various sounds of people, talking and yelling, some clear, most muffled.
"Where should we start?"
Beach Head thought about her question for a moment, more so because he was still taking in the sight of the room. He moved toward the door on the right side of the room and Cover Girl followed.
Inside lay several half courts, fenced off from the thin aisle that ran down the center of them, two on each side and all in use at the moment. The men on the small courts ranged the gambit in age. The old guys played together, perhaps ex-pros looking for a workout and a way to relive their days as sports superstars. But their game had a friendliness to it that suggested their camaraderie with one another. The young guys, on the other hand, played like it was a game for their manhood, a statement that had to be made. The testosterone was so thick it could be cut with a knife. The last two courts were completely different. Children took instruction from their elders, standing and moving as they were told, running after the ball without any seriousness in their faces. They were having fun, but learning at the same time. The way it should be.
"Got a visual on him?" Wayne's accent sounded strange in the mix of the room.
"No."
They moved to the next room, nearly attacked by the parrot on their way over.
The other side of the building was completely different, inside was one, large, full court, stadium seats, something like the arena at Miami Jai Alai. The crack of the pelota echoed throughout the structure. Were the men in other room playing with a different ball?
"FUCK!" the comment was followed by a barrage of others.
"Ah, see, that's the same move you always try to do! Follow through with your arm, Joey. I lost a trifecta on you because you didn't follow through!"
"Shut-up, Orbea!"
Bingo.
The Ranger looked down at his fellow Joe who nodded in return. This was the man they were looking for. He was older, probably in his sixties, white hair thick and tussled on his tan head. His eyes were dark and sharp, like a bird of prey, but held a friendliness to them that was uncanny. He sat on one of the benches in the room, steadily stitching together what looked like a ball.
"Orbea?"
He turned around at the sound of his name.
"Yes?"
Courtney sat down beside him, pulling her jacket from her shoulders as she did so. She smiled at him, and he returned it.
"Is there something I can do for you?" his accent was heavy but his words were clear.
"We just need to ask you a few questions, if that's alright," Wayne took a seat behind the older gentlemen.
"Michelena."
He'd hit the spot. He knew he had, he could tell by the way the two visitors bodies tensed suddenly. He'd expected someone to come around asking questions, after what he'd seen on TV. It had brought him to tears, but he had a school to run, people in his life who depended on his strength, and so he told himself he'd be strong when they came to ask him questions.
The old man still hadn't looked at either of them; his hands were busy stitching the ball. His wrinkled fingers moved with a sense of ritual execution.
"You make your balls by hand?" she was trying to recover what was lost in that moment.
"All pelotas are made by hand. They can not be mass produced sadly, it would make my life easier," he chuckled at the end of that. A sort of hardy, happy sound.
"They probably last longer, since they aren't cheaply made."
"A pelota lasts about fifteen minutes in play...."
"Jesus-"she spat that rather strangely; like she said it before she realized where she was.
"I know."
It got quiet again. The constant babble from the men playing in front of them and the sound of the pelota bouncing sharply against the court and wall sounded far away in the silence that engulfed them on the bench. He was waiting for them to talk; Wayne sensed that, old men were like that. They had a code of honor to uphold, no speaking unless spoken to, that's how it always worked. That was why old men stooped like they did; their shoulders were heavy with the weight of the secrets they had to keep.
"Why were they on that boat?" Beach's accent made the 'h' disappear in his 'why'.
"The question should be, 'what would drive all these men to be on that boat?'" Orbea said that simply.
"Denny and Kent told us you were the man to see about that."
"Hmm, how are they I wonder, they haven't stepped into my school in a while. You know, I used to tell them everyday how lucky they were for their height, that's really the only reason why so many Americans can play, they're about a head taller then they other men," he was stalling.
"Orbea...." It was the way she said his name that made the old man realize he couldn't dodge them anymore.
He sighed and set the pelota in his hand down on the bench. The needle and twine from his stitch work hung loosely from the goat skin that made up the outside. He clasped his wither hands together, sharp eyes focused out on the concha. He took a breath, probably a bit too shallow for what he had to say, and leaned forward, placing his clasped hands in front of his mouth, elbows on his thighs. The men moving in front of him blurred in his recollection.
"When I came to this country, when all the old men who practice this sport moved to this country, there was no ETA. There were no men rioting in the street for independence. Yes, we felt that we deserved to be on our own, but not to this extreme," Courtney tried to look into his face, but it seemed as though a shadow had cast over it. "We were like...." He sat upward slightly, "you Americans. Your last names might say you are German, but your heart, your blood screams America, we were the same, just Basque."
He sank again.
"Michelena came to me years ago, trying to get me to join his cause, join the Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna, but I refused. When the second faction took hold, he tried to get out, but they are not so forgiving. To defect is to die; the only way to be sure there are no rats. He was safe for a while, at least, he was safe here in the States. He told me a week ago, about someone who contacted him about clearing his name.... I told him not to go.... Who knew it was really them...." He trailed off, eyes franticly searching the room. "Michelena, they say he was like Michael Jordan of Cesta Punta...."
"Did he say who it was who called?" Wayne couldn't bear watching the weight on the man's shoulders start to get the better of him.
"No. But, I do know someone, someone who might know what happened."
-
22:48 Zulu
South Pointe: Miami; South Beach, Fl. USA
Fuckin' tourists.
Whenever a prostitute washes up in the Miami River in a suitcase a tourist finds it. When someone's shot in a street over drug money it's always a tourist who witnesses it. And of course, now, when someone washes up dead on the beach it's a tourist who found him. He hated this town.
Tuttle spat shells from his sunflower seeds onto the sand at his feet. He chewed on them calmly as the crew in front of him moved franticly. Everyone in this town moved so fast, ran their lives at breakneck speed, but not him. He stood back and watched, observed, maybe that was why he was so damn good at his job. Or maybe he should stop listening to his girlfriend's boasts.
He spotted them moving through the throng of people lining the taped off beach, the muffled sound of club music in the distance and boats out on the dark water. The pair stood starkly different against the others in the area. But military personnel always did.
Cover Girl shoved her hands into the pockets of her bomber jacket.
"My first time on South Beach and it's for a DOA."
She swung her head over to her partner, "you didn't strike me as the kind of guy who would care, Wayne."
"I hear Barbie dolls like you hang out here all day baking in the sun, I figured it was worth a look see," something like a smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
Krieger made a face like she was going to say something lewd but the sight if Tuttle hanging around on the outskirts of the police tape cut her off. She moved passed her partner and headed toward the man.
"I thought you said this was no longer a Vice concern," she watched him spit seed shells at the sand.
Jonathan casually pointed toward the police cars just a few yards off, "if it's Dade County Sheriff's problem, it's my problem as well," he moved the cellophane bag in his hand around, crinkling it. "Have you been briefed yet?"
"No, what's the situation?" Wayne looked back at the strangely routine mayhem in front of them.
"Arriaga, another one of our Basque friends. He just retired from Jai Alai this passed season after taking a nice jaw altering hit to the face," Tuttle threw a few more salty seeds into his mouth.
"Any idea how long he's been dead? I mean, how many more bodies are we going to find before these people realize what's going on?" Courtney said that in a way that suggested that her questions weren't directed to anyone in particular.
"We won't know the time of death until he comes back from the coroner. It takes a bit of time when the body's been in the water for a duration of time," John spit his shells into the sand again.
"Who found him?"
Tuttle watched the goings on around him, "a bunch of stupid kids. Most of them tourists here with some friends from North Dade.... you know how it goes, kids on summer vacation smoking pot of the beach and drinking beers until they pass out on the sand," he chewed on another handful.
"Talk about a buzz kill," the brunette mumbled that slightly.
Wayne's cell rang.
"Sneeden," he answered it indifferently.
"A little birdie told me you need to see me," a smooth and emotionlessly sensual voice intoned, "The Delano Hotel, 00:00," she hung up.
Beach Head quickly flipped his mobile closed. Cover Girl gave him a look, the 'who the hell was that?' look. He wondered sometimes how it was that she stayed alive being so damn nosey. But he couldn't ignore that look, not on her, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of a straight answer.
"Who was that, Beach?"
"Some sexy woman just asked me out on a date," for that he got the 'cut the bullshit' look. "It was Orbea's contact."
-
Sorry this chapter took so long in coming. Being a beer whore, I mean, Bartender and going to school has left me with little time to write. The next chapter won't take so long.
-Hyakurin9