18. Things To Do in Miami When You're Alive

No, Batista had not acquired any mystical omniscience along with his new title: naturally, I called him while on the road and warned him about our destination.

Of course, I wouldn't dare appear any secretive or suspicious to Angel. I had no doubts about his involvement in the "plot" against me, yes, but if the "conspirators" chose the tactics of waiting for me to make a mistake – well, all I could do to negate this now was not to make mistakes.

And to abandon the attempt to restore the old friendship would be a terrible mistake on my part. After all, Batista's called me his best friend more times than I can remember… no idea why. I've even served as the only witness at his makeshift wedding to Maria LaGuerta.

"Do you still miss her?" I asked, taking another sip from the glass.

We were at The Blue Room, our old favorite "cop place". Like any good bar, this one had a number of relatively secluded tables, and Batista, apparently due to his new status and habits, chose a seat away from prying eyes. Despite this, every other minute one of the officers or unis would greet the Captain. Batista responded to each with a wave of his hand, a nod, or a smile. It was clear that he was proud of his low-rank street origins, of his career built from the very bottom of the police hierarchy, and appreciated the respect of his subordinates.

I was eagerly looking around the familiar place and couldn't notice much difference. The same lights, the same chairs, the same tables; the conversations behind them were most likely the same, too.

There were more portraits on the wall behind the counter now, Harry's in the center – that could very well be the reason why Angel brought me here. I knew that the LaGuerta's portrait also hung somewhere there, among her heroically dead brothers and sisters in blue, but I couldn't find it with my eyes.

"I do," Batista said, holding the Cuervo Black glass up to the light, "I do miss hehw and I'm not ashamed to admit it. She was a colowful woman… too political fohw hehw own good pewhaps, but now as the Captain I do use some of hehw little political twicks."

"Hey, I thought you're a happily married man," I chuckled.

"I am," he replied with the calm dignity of a man who has nothing to be ashamed of, nothing publicly known that is, "But I'm a weasonable man, too."

We clinked our glasses. Angel snapped his fingers above his head, ordering another one.

"Still do that notorious drinks-on-me stunt?" I asked half-mockingly.

"No. Inaguantable: the Captain can't look like he's twying to please his subowdinates."

"Wow, Angel. You take this authority thingy real serious now."

"Sacwed," he smiled, dismissive of his own words, then thought for a moment, "Maybe that is anothehw thing Mawia's taught me. Even leawned not to waste money wight and left. ¡Venga! You wemembehw me of the past? I wouldn't be the man I am now without hehw. And I wouldn't be as happily mawwied now if Mawia hasn't ditched me back then. All in all, she taught me a lot."

"You used to be a troubled one," I said softly, "But you were the bright one, too. Always knew what to do, always had my back. Like with the God concept explanation, or with Jamie after my nanny got deported back to Ireland…"

"Thanks, socio."

"I… I always envied you back then, Angel. And I still envy you now. You know how to learn from your mistakes."

"Do you not?"

"Nah, I'm generally confused most of the time."

We both laughed.

Don't overdo it, Big Brother.

He started it.

He has an agenda. You don't – you're only here for a fucking nostalgia fest, apparently. Reminisce, but do not squeeze him out: he will feel you're trying to manipulate.

He may pretend all he wants, but he never really was about politics, I can read him like an open book…

Wasn't that you impression of Hoopman, too? Deb said. She moved away from the table and walked over to the bar, leaned on it and began to look at the portraits.

"Youw dad was a gweat cop, Dextehw," Batista said, following my gaze.

"If only he was here today."

"If only he was thewe fow you ten yeaws back. Because we, we wewe cleawly not enough."

All of a sudden, I felt emotional, and being emotional wasn't something I could afford. I shook myself up:

"So many portraits, Angel…"

"Too many. It's like evewy single day…" he glanced at me sideways, "Is that why you wan away?"

Was it my imagination, or was there really an old, well-hidden wound in his voice? Was he offended by me fleeing, or was it misplaced guilt?..

"Doakes pointing fists and guns at me," I said, "Rita's death. Your colorful ex-wife parading me in handcuffs through the precinct for everyone's amusement. No, let me finish! And then Deb. If was just… Angel, I only lasted this long because of your support. But I couldn't depend on a friend forever."

"Yes, you can. Depending on fwiends – that's what we all do. That's how life wowks!"

"Not for me. I could no longer be a burden to… everyone."

"You nevehw was. If anything, it was me looking up to you, Dex."

I went silent, giving Angel time to come to the conclusion that it was too hard for me to continue because of my own guilt toward him. He couldn't bear the pause and tried to say something, but I interrupted him strategically:

"Know what, let's not do this tonight. Too much soreness, and I really don't want to make us bitter any more, Angel. We'll have time to pick our wounds open, promise."

"You staying in Miami?" he raised an eyebrow.

"I wasn't sure, but seeing you now… How about an update, huh? I'm dying to know of what happened to everyone."

[***]

Hold on to your sentimental handkerchiefs; that's what Batista's recounted.

Barbara Gianna was transferred to New Orleans, and Angel didn't really know the details. It seemed to me he was completely over her and even a bit shy to remember his little la pasión.

Detective Israel Yale has been involved in street shootouts, twice in a row. The second one put him in a wheelchair for life. The guy refuses to give up, plays sitting volleyball and performs at open mics all over Florida, to the immanent fiasco.

His partner and best friend Michael Soderquist got his promotion to Sergeant soon after. Still works mostly Dade.

Bob Ramos, the one who I remember as a very dependable guy, also got promoted but returned to street work soon after. Couldn't stand the desk, he explained.

Detective McNamara was transferred to Atlanta; they even say he was fiercely headhunted for his vast experience. Good riddance: never liked the guy.

Jaime Rubio died in a car accident during a police chase on Coral Way. Some idiot stole a deaf Pomeranian from the vet and tried to get away with it.

Heather Munoz got married and was soon going to give birth to her fourth. Who'd have thought – she has always acted sternly against "all those love nonsenses." It seems, you never know your true calling in advance.

Officer Sean Harris, the one who's famously hit George "The Skinner" King with his car, also discovered his inner – or should I say "below-the-deck" – talent. He became an actor… in adult films. Even received an AVN Awards nomination, but Batista didn't want to know the details. Me neither.

Hey, all this must sound like the Catalogue of Ships from Homer's "Iliad" to you? Sorry, but these are the blues I knew for many years – and now, many years later, it was really interesting to know how their fates turned out. Also, I needed to understand the current situation, so you'll have to endure a little bit longer – or skip the page.

Jim McCourt from IA was shot and killed in a botched sting operation. He covered his partner, Sergeant McKay, with his body.

Chris Bruno made his Gold badge two years after my departure.

Nina Harlow was knifed to death in a domestic incident.

Joe Gordon was dead, too: random shooting. I really liked Gordy, he was a good one.

Officer Lance Benson proved to be a hero, pulling two hostage children out of Miller's Ale House diner when there was a robbery. Caught a bullet, but got out and continues to serve.

Martin Mack sat in the weapons room, still & stale, perfectly pleased with himself.

Detective David Linker made Sergeant and transferred to Broward. Couldn't believe he agreed to move into that snake pit, but oh well. Perhaps he was punishing himself for something.

Frankie Pratt, the one who was checking my apartment after Ramon Prado broke into it, retired for health reasons.

Sergeant Lee: pension.

Jonathan Wong (wemembehw Wong?): killed in pursuit.

Sam Harmon: dismissed from the force for drug use. Can't say I'm sorry, never knew him too well, but narcos are under a lot of pressure.

Jake Simms still a Detective, still relying on his physique more than on his wits.

Francis Sherel attacked her husband with a baseball bat for infidelity, but, after a lot of drama, they reconcile and she still works in the archives.

Sergeant Angie Miller is still struggling to earn the rank of Lieutenant, but so far to no avail.

As of Joey Quinn, I mean – Sergeant Joseph Quinn…

Sorry, by this time Batista was already too drunk to keep the conversation going. I suspected that, with alcohol, he was attempting to loosen my tongue, but something in this cunning plan went terribly wrong.

[***]

Batista and I somehow got out from behind the table. One of the officers smiled and wrestled the keys from the Captain. Like felled trees, we crashed into the back seat of the Lexus.

"Dextehw, socio…" Batista tried to explain something.

"Shh. It's okay, Angel. You just sleep."

Deb turned her face toward me from the front passenger seat:

You're such a true friend, bro.

A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked.

Oprah?

Not sure. Must've read it somewhere.

My nerdy brother. Alwayshiding behind other people's words and other people's feelings.

I don't have to always have my own… and my own are not that good usually. It's better to use someone else's sometimes.

Like in take advantage of other people's kindness toward you?

You making it sound morally wrong. But I do not adhere to the morality of men.

Oh I forgot – you're a regular Nietzsche's poster boy.

Someone has to be.

So how're you going to exercise your moral impotence?

To act guilty for betraying his trust. To act grateful for his support. To act human, basically.

Yeah, he's a good guy. Prey on this weakness.

That's not a weakness, Deb.

Batista shifted on my shoulder:

"Deb was flesh and blood to me…"

Shit. I must've called my sister by name out loud.

I loved you too, Sarge, Deb said.

"She says she loves you too, Angel," I repeated obediently, but Batista was already snoring.

"Everything okay back there, sir?" the officer at the wheel asked.

"Yep. And don't call me 'sir'."

"Sure won't! Mind if we drop the Captain at home, then I give you a lift to the motel?"

"No need, I'll take a…"

"I've my orders, sir."

I just nodded. Batista planned la aventura in advance – let him be convinced of his ability to control both the situation and me in it. Even if it means that his officers will keep an eye on my movements.

Or maybe he just cares about you, you doofus.

Angela did threaten me with some new evidence that Batista was supposed to…

If this killer evidence really existed, do you think Batista would have hidden it from the court?

Doubt it. Still, if anything, he seems really happy to see me.

And what did you expect, exactly? A confrontation, some big stand off, a samurai show-fucking-down? Stop feeling intimidated. Every time you're truly scared, someone dies.

Logan…

Want Angel to be the next one whose neck you scrag?

The car shook as it turned. Batista's leaned on me in his sleep, I groaned softly from the pressure on my spine.

"Sorry, sir," the driver said.

"Nah. It's I'm just clumsy," I jokingly saluted him with my cane.

He nodded knowingly, like a peer.

"In the line of duty?"

"Friendly fire. Very friendly."

"Ouch. If it's any consolation, sir, we've had the same kind of SNAFU here last month. Imagine…" and, feeling as if he had received some permission, he launched himself into a lengthy, interjection-ridden story about the shooting involving people I didn't know and didn't really want to know. I was nodding, groaning, chuckling, and expressing excitement at the most dramatic moments of his epos. Thankfully, Alou-Carrera was not that far away.

Thus ended my evening.

[***]

Well, not exactly.

After our chatty driver, Officer Mark Ortiz, 24, single, lives with his mom, enjoys swimming and Jackie Chan movies, dates a wonderful gal from Weston whom you'd really want to meet, fell on a broken bottle at four, and now you see what a scar he has on his annular… Anyway, as I got out of the car and was staggering to the motel, my cell rang. The number was unfamiliar, but I decided to answer anyway.

"Dextrous!" the speaker said enthusiastically, "That you?"

"That's what they say," I replied. The voice was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite figure it out. "Who is it?"

"Dude! Hearing your voice, it's great on so many levels, like sex in an elevator. Ghur-ghur-ghur-ghur-ghur-h."

Ah, now it was clear.

"Hi, Vince," I said. "It's good to hear you, too."