MEDESTO HAD TO DIE

“Wake up, Christo. We’re about to land.”

Christobal stirred, though his eyelids barely moved.

“Love, you’re exhausted. I hope this trip there will be time for you to rest.”

“We will see, Jovana.” Christobal yawned and stretched.

“Little Havana. Do you know how long it’s been?”

“Almost to the minute, Cielo.”

“Thirty years, Christo.”

Jovana’s voice drifted, along with her thoughts. Her husband took her hand and brought her back.

“Let us see how Little Havana has grown.” 

Christobal and Jovana were soon escorted out of their private cabin and ensconced in the back of Roquel & Associates’ satellite office company limousine. They were on their way to Sundown Funeral Home.

* * *

“Calle Ocho News. How may I direct your call?”

“Lucita, it’s me.”

“Javi?”

“Is there still time to make the five o’clock?”

“Twenty-five minutes, and counting. Just what . . .?”

“Grab a pen and give this to Diego, por favor, pronto.”

* * *

“Señor, Señora Roquel, this way, please. Señor Juan Pablo is expecting you.”

Christobal and Jovana were then approached by Sundown’s funeral director, a dapper man with a pencil mustache and a slick comb-over.

“Buenos días, Señor and Señora. It is an honor to have you as guests in our humble house of mourning.”

“Gracias, Señor. May we see him?”

“This way.”

Christobal took Jovana’s arm and felt her buckle slightly as they approached a dimly-lit room with red velvet walls, gold sconces and, on display beneath a single spotlight, a large wooden coffin.

“A pine box,” Christobal hissed.

Jovana placed a gentle hand on Christobal’s chest and watched him until he returned her gaze.  He calmed. 

“You’re right.”

“Christo, look,” Jovana gasped.

“Lippo?”

A lone figure sat in one of the gold velvet chairs behind the casket, hands clasped, head down.

“Is it you?"

As an elderly man in vest and tie slowly got to his feet, Jovana burst into tears and ran to him.  They hugged.

“Too many summers, Jova.”

Christobal took the funeral director aside and whispered instructions to arrange for a new coffin and sent him away. He waited a respectful amount of time, and approached them.

“Lippo, my friend.”

Jovana released him and stood back, wiping her eyes.

Before Christobal could extend a hand, Lippo held him in a fierce hug.

The three stood together, weeping softly.

Without warning, the viewing room door opened. A young man entered followed closely by a frantic Señor Pablo.

“I told you, this is a private room. I’m so sorry, Señor Roquel.”

“My sincere apologies. Por favor, I won’t take much of your time.”

Christobal gestured for Jovana and Lippo to sit.

“Do I know you?”

“Javier Chido of the Calle Ocho News.”

“Then the answer would be no. You know you are intruding on a personal matter? Does your editor know you’re here?”

“No one does, Señor Roquel. You are why I’m here. You’re news. The Abril case alone . . .”

Christobal glanced at Lippo and Jovana. He hesitated, then whispered something to his wife.

“Señor Pablo, have you a private room you can spare?”

* * *

Javier sat across from Christobal in the funeral director’s office. He had called his editor and told him where he was. The editor was on his way. Javier produced his phone and began recording.

“Now, son, what is it you would like to know?”

“Why is a high profile Los Angeles attorney, who just this past week scored a monumental victory for West Coast low-income housing, in Little Havana?”

“Señora Roquel and I are here to attend a funeral.”

“Who is it that died, señor?”

“Ramon Arroyo.”

Javier frowned. “Ramon Arroyo?”

“He is, and was, a good friend.”

“Oh.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, sir, respectfully, why would someone of your stature attend the funeral of a reputed gang member?”

“What was the case you mentioned earlier?”

“The Abril case. If you’d be willing to talk about that, I would be interested in what you have to say.”

Christobal rubbed his chin, considering.

“You know, Javier . . .”

“Javi.”

“Javi, this might well be the time to tell the story.”

“Señor, I would be honored. I know I’m not the Miami Herald.”

“Get comfortable then. This goes back a ways.”

* * *

I’d just taken a bus from Nebraska to try making my mark in one of Miami’s top law firms.  I’d saved enough money for the down payment on an apartment and bus fare. It was a short walk from the bus depot to the hotel where I’d planned to stay until I could find a place. I did not know it then, but my life was about to change.

I never saw what hit me. I just remember opening my eyes to find myself in an alley lined with trash cans and crates. The smell was suffocating. I realized there was a knee on my chest and a blade held between my eyes.

“What kind of a pendejo carries books? Books with no pictures, not a single chichi. You a pinche idiota?”

I made the colossal blunder of answering him.

“I’m an attorney and I’ll see your ass in jail!”

Another man’s voice came from behind.

“Medesto, says here he’s from Nebraska.”

“A hayseed, eh?  A huevo!  You should go back to the country, cucaracha.”

This time I bit my tongue, not that it mattered.

“I’m gonna give you something you can take with you, a memento from our meeting, show all your lawyer friends.”

With that, he pinned me with his knees while his two amigos held me down. I felt excruciating pain behind my ear.   That was only the beginning, though it wasn’t long before I wasn’t feeling anything.

* * *

Ramon Arroyo had just left the cantina with his good friend, Lippo.

“Lippo, amigo! Remind me again why I’m not going home with the red head?”

“You mean Emilia? Or Sophia?”

“Either! Both?”

“One word.”

“I know.”

“Jovana.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask?”

“Must be the tequila talking.”

“Or the rum.”

“Or both.”

“Home, and then hasta manana.”

“Wait. What’s that?”

“It’s a body part, Ramon. I’m almost certain.”

“Cover me. I’m going in.”

“Right behind you.”

It was a hand that led to an arm that was connected to a long, lanky brutally beaten man.  Ramon checked for a pulse. 

“He’s alive. Help me, Lippo. I know where to take him.”

“Hope she’s up.”

They lifted the body and carried him a few blocks down the street. It was beginning to drizzle and large drops threatened more, and soon.  

They laid the body down. Ramon went to the door and rang the bell.

“Ramon?”

“Ah, mi amiga, you are awake.”

“On a scale of one to ten, Ramon, how intoxicated are you? I’m tired. Tell me the truth, or Lippo will.”

“We have a man here, alive, but hurt badly.”

“Oh, Ramon, why didn’t you say so.”

She stepped aside.

“On the couch.”

Jovana Mia followed closely as Ramon and Lippo took the last few steps and deposited the man on the couch.

“I’m not sure I can deal with this, Ramon,” Jovana breathed.

“Will you try?”

Jovana looked again, thinking.

“All right. Let’s get to work. Ramon, your job is to stay out of the way.”

“I can do that. Lippo is much better with these things.”

“I’m aware. That chair over there calls you.”

Jovana went to the kitchen.

“Lippo, would you help me with this, por favor?”

Lippo was removing the man’s shoes.

“Coming.”

“Gracias, amigo.”

Lippo gave Ramon a small salute and a grin, then disappeared.

“I’m not sure what I’d be without you.”

* * *

A day-and-a-half later, Christobal opened his eyes. When he did, Jovana was at his side. She gave him a moment to adjust.

“You are safe here. I am Jovana. My friends found you in an alley. You must be thirsty.”

She raised a cup of water, but only allowed a sip.

“For now. More will come but it must come slowly, build you up.”

He fell back to sleep and the next time he woke, Ramon was there. 

“Looks like you’ll live another day, Christobal Roquel.”

“How did you . . .”

Ramon gestured to a stack of books.

“If the information inside the cover is yours.”

Jovana carried a steaming mug.

“I want you to drink this, tea and rum. Make you feel better.”

“Best to do what she says, amigo. Jovana will have you eating out of her healing hands in no time.”

Jovana watched her patient as he drank.

“This is Ramon, and Lippo over there. They are your Samaritans.”

“I can never repay you, Señores.”

Ramon balked, “No need. I’m only sorry we didn’t trip over you sooner. Tell me, my friend, do you know who did this?”

“Three men. One name. Medesto.”

“Medesto Abril? I’m surprised he let you live.”

“My books amused him. I told him I’d see him locked up.”

“And he left you with your tongue!”

“He preferred money, all I had.”

Jovana spoke. “Don’t worry about that. You can stay here as long as you need.”

“Do you know where this Medesto Abril hangs out?”

Ramon laughed.

“Don’t even think about it, pencil-pusher. You are way over your head even to ask that question.”

“He must be dealt with. Are you content to live where a psychopath and his thugs are allowed to rule the streets?”

“That’s why I carry this.”

Ramon produced a switchblade, showing off the flash and glint of sharp steel.

“Ramon, put that away.”

“I don’t want him dead, I want justice.”

 “Same thing, counselor.”

“But the law. Why not call the police?”

“None will come. We handle our own problems. “

“Is that why I’m not in a hospital?”

“The security there is controlled by the gangs, as well as some of the staff.”

“Where are we, the Wild West?”

“Call it what you want, amigo.  It comes down to survival.”

Jovana broke in.

“Visiting hours are over.  I need to change your bandages.”

“Whatever you gave me worked. I can’t feel it now, but the one behind my ear hurt like the devil.”

“I’m not surprised, Christobal. He cut the mark of Hellfire on you.”

“I’m afraid to ask . . .”

“The initials, M A.”

* * *

Weeks passed and Christobal slowly healed. He enjoyed time spent in Jovana’s company, more than he wished to admit. Lippo came by often on Ramon’s behalf to help Jovana.

One evening, Jovana and Christobal were reading quietly together when they heard a thud outside the door.

“Who’s there?”

Jova opened the door a crack.

“It's Lippo!”

Christobal helped carry Lippo to the couch. It was similar to what had happened many weeks before. 

Jovana began removing Lippo’s shoes and getting him comfortable. Christobal found his shoes and began putting them on.

“Christobal, what are you doing?”

“I can’t sit by anymore, Jovana.”

“We don’t know what happened.”

Christobal countered, “I think we do.”

Jovana returned to the couch. “Can you hear me? Forgive me, Lippo, but who did this? Can you say?”

Lippo breathed one word.

“Abril.”

Jovana heard the front door close behind Christobal.

* * *

What Jovana didn’t know, nor anyone for that matter, Christobal had practiced wielding any knife he could find in Jovana's home whenever he was alone. It was a welcome distraction to being left with his thoughts. 

To accomplish what he’d been trained for, using the law as his weapon and bringing Abril to justice, would require getting his practice off the ground. That would take time. 

When Christobal had seen his friend Lippo in a similar state to his own not long ago, his entire being demanded action. Seeing both his law books and Jovana’s sharp kitchen knives, Christobal made his choice.

Something else only Christobal knew was how much he had gleaned from his time spent with Lippo. Lippo had a tendency to talk sparingly, but when he did, he spoke the truth. Taking small bites, Christobal had inquired about Abril and his known habits or whereabouts. Lippo had obliged. 

Presently, Christobal stood outside the Saints Peter and Paul Catholic Church where he believed a killer was housed in an abandoned rectory.  It was near dusk and the church was dark. There was spotlighting within the eaves of the building that lent some illumination. He walked to the side and around the back.

“You got something to confess, counselor?”

It was Abril’s voice but Christobal couldn't determine where it was coming from. 

“You should talk to me. I hear confessions all the time.”

Abril stepped into one of the spotlights. He appeared to be alone. He was also larger, more intimidating than Christobal had expected or recalled. He struggled to maintain his composure and focus.

“Counselor, you look a little yellow in this light. Now, that could mean one of three things. Liver problems? Too many wild nights? No, you have lofty ambitions. Anyone can see that.

“Number two, is there any Asian influence in the family tree?  Any bobo in the familia who fought for their country and fraternized with the natives? No, I can’t see it, certainly not in the eyes.

“That leaves number three. Could it be you have a chicken heart?  Yes, of course, that’s it!”

As Abril emphasized “it,” Christobal went for the knife he carried and fumbled as he tried to grab and lunge at Abril. In a single moment, a knife blade pierced Abril’s heart, just as Christobal’s cut into his hand as it dropped and landed on the ground. When Christobal looked up, expecting to be attacked, he saw the handle of Ramon’s switchblade protruding from Abril’s chest. The man's heart had stopped before the blood even had a chance to flow.

Christobal paused and tried to process what just happened. The blood from his wound forced him into priorities. Abril lay before him, his chest blossoming a bright red that continued growing.

¡Me voy!

He did as his mind said.

* * *

Jovana heard a soft knock and left Lippo’s side. Without checking to see who was there, she opened the door as Christobal leaned into it. He fell into her arms and she held him, exclaiming, “How I prayed and I begged and I hoped.”

Christobal looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. He drew her to him and clung for dear life, and love.

Watching them from a short distance away, Ramon’s heart went from full to empty with a single beat. He slowly turned and walked away. 

* * *

No one had been able to reach Ramon for hours.

Jovana thought she heard something outside. She released Christobal’s hand, newly stitched and bandaged, and went to the door.

They heard rustling and the crash of one of Jovana’s planters.

“Ramon!”

Ramon wobbled over an overturned planter holding broken pieces in his hands.

“I believe these are yours.”

He handed the clay fragments to Jovana as he teetered through the door.

“Oh, Ramon, why . . .”

“I’m celebrating! The wicked Abbbbriiilll is no more, thanks to our vigilante man-of-law. That, along with a phone call from always-quick-thinking Jovana.”

Christobal approached Ramon.

“Ramon, how can I . . . two times now you. . .”

“No need to speak, counselor. The bad man is gone; his posse will soon follow. An anonymous tip has been given to the authorities, the legal ones. It should not be difficult to clean house now.

“Oh, speaking of cleaning, it is as though nothing happened tonight at the church. All that remains will be rumor. I suggest, counselor, you begin your practice elsewhere. There may still be those wanting to make a name for themselves, and you carry a bullseye on your back.”  

Jovana approached Ramon and gently kissed his cheek.

Lippo walked with a slight hitch.

“Where are you going?”

“With you, Ramon. I will at least see you home.”

“Gracias, amigo. I cannot seem to locate my legs.”

“Lean on me then.”

* * *

“So, it was Ramon Arroyo . . .”

“Make sure you get the name right. This is a man who deserves respect; he has always had mine.”

Just then, following a quick knock, a man entered the office.

“So sorry, I was held up. What did I miss?”

“Señor Roquel, my editor.”

Christobal shook the man’s hand on his way out.

“Javier has everything. You have a rising star here, Señor. Best of luck to you, Javi. Write well.”

* * *

Back at the Calle Ocho newsroom, Javi’s editor listened to everything Javi had.

“This is impressive work, Javi.”

“Thank you, sir. What would you like me to do with it?”

“Nothing.”

“Sir?”

“You will find, as you go through life, Javi, there are certain things best left alone. Legends are a tricky business. What I will do . . .”

The editor put Javi’s notes through the shredder. He then took his phone and deleted the interview.

“When legend becomes fact, son, print the legend. Think you can write something on that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have it on my desk by 4.”

* * *

“Ready, mi amore?”

Jovana affixed an earring and nodded.

“It is bittersweet to be leaving.”

“Yes, I feel it. Perhaps when the time is right, we will return.”

“Are you implying the day may come that you will, dare I say it . . .”

“Sí, if only to spend more time with you.”

“The phone. Christo, will you get it?”

“Hello.”

“Señor Roquel, your car is ready.”

“Thank you. We’ll be right down.”

“Would you like some coffee for your ride to the airport?”

“Yes, mucho gracias.”

“It’s an honor, sir. Nothing’s too good for the man who killed Medesto Abril.”