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The turboprop plane took off from Tamiami-Exec a little before 9 PM so it was already late when the three men headed down Hwy 1 to the Keys. The conversation was sparse until rain threatened and they were forced to stop long enough to raise the rag-top on the 63 Caddy. After the top was secured and they were back on the road, the conversation dwindled to nothing and Ricardo Tubbs turned on the radio.

With his boss in the seat beside him and his partner in the back, Rico fiddled with the dial on the original console radio until it landed on AM 1090. The Arkansas radio station KAAY ramped up its wattage overnight, allowing classic rock to filter throughout the lower 48.

“They’re selling the station.” Martin Castillo offered an unsolicited comment from the passenger’s seat. “I’ve heard the format’s changing.” 

“Yeah,” Sonny Crockett growled from the backseat, “Religion – like it matters. It hasn’t been the same since they took Beeker Street off in ’74.”

“Hmm,” Martin seemed to agree. “FM’s what killed Beeker Street, but Doctor Demento’s still around – it’s syndicated.”

Ricardo glanced in the mirror, catching his partner looking back. Sonny was grinning. This had to be the weirdest turn of conversation they had ever struck up with their commanding officer – but the radio station had a wide fan base, so perhaps it wasn’t that strange.

“You… um… listen to Little Rock much?” Crockett asked.

Glancing over his shoulder, Martin shook his head. “You can’t be below Iowa and not listen to Little Rock at some point.” Shifting in his seat to look back at Crockett, he continued, “I worked with the D.E.A. out of Monroe County for a few years. It’s practically the only decent station you can get in the Northeast Gulf outta the Keys. Especially in the middle of the night when you’re trying to stay awake. They can hear it in Cuba. It’s got reach.”

“Fifty thousand watts is a lot of power,” Rico added. “My Dad used to listen to it in the garage when he was tinkering with the Studebaker at night.”

“Your Dad had a Studebaker?” Castillo and Crockett asked simultaneously.

“Yeah,” Rico grinned. “It was a 1957 Studee President. Powder blue with a white top and fins. He bought it used and refurbed the entire car. We used to go for Sunday drives in it. It’s one of the reasons I picked this car out of Property – it reminded me of the Studee.”

“I can see why,” Castillo’s voice was softly accented – meaning he was tired, but relaxed. When he fell silent again, they let the silence lengthen in comfort. Despite the KAAY revelation – they did not expect small talk along the journey.

Unlike most men, Castillo did not talk about himself. He did not inform beyond the polite introduction, he did not offer random opinions, he did not explain unnecessarily. His silence was legendary – most often not speaking unless spoken to and falling back into that waiting stillness once he was done answering whatever question was posed to him.

It had been a revelatory two weeks where personal aspects of Castillo’s life were suddenly on display. Intimate details aside, the Lieutenant’s ability to conjure things like passports, witness relocation funding, and anonymous turbo-prop planes for evacuation added more questions than the mundane notion of an ex-wife answered.

It was that ex-wife that had brought them to Tamiami airfield – to oversee the boarding of May Ying, her current husband and son. The family was being relocated for their safety into a life of obscurity in another country.

While Castillo talked with the couple on the tarmac, Ricardo and Sonny had sat in the car mulling over the odd events that had swept them all into the spectator seats of Martin’s private life. Their laconic boss had stood in a department-packed conference room saying things like: “May Ying and I were in love” and “they firebombed my house” – causing everyone to grimace in empathy or look away from the display of pain and regret. The only way the team could assuage the grief was to buckle down and do what they did best: apprehend the perpetrators.

And so they did.

Leaving Martin saying farewell to his ex-wife – whom everyone was certain he still revered and loved – before she was secreted away under the cover of darkness on a private plane.

“We gotta do something,” Ricardo said, nodding to the scene before them.

“Feel like dealing with a drunk Castillo?” Sonny asked from the back seat.

“Sure,” Tubbs glanced at his partner’s reflection before returning to watch his boss… watch the small family walk to the plane. Martin stood un-moving as the three people made their way up the ramp. “But I have a feeling there’s no such thing as a drunk Castillo. I mean, we can try… if he goes for it.”

The elegant woman with immaculately quaffed hair and pearls turned at the top of the airstairs to look back at her one-time love. She didn’t raise a hand, didn’t nod – she merely looked at Martin before quickly disappearing into the doorway. It was only after the hatch was secured and the stairs removed that the plane’s engines shifted into a taxi-whine. As the plane moved on, so did the black-suited man on the tarmac.

Glancing from airplane to his boss, Ricardo noticed Martin securing something in his inner suitcoat pocket as he approached. It was such an ordinary action that it would be easy to miss – but Tubbs had watched Castillo leave the car and knew the Latino’s hands were empty when he go out. An item small enough to fit into a breast pocket was an item easily concealed for a handshake hand off. Another mystery. Another puzzle piece.

Now they were an hour and a half out of Miami, headed to a bar north of Key Largo that Crockett said would fit the mood. Far enough away from Dade County that people wouldn’t know them and close enough to make it back for the next morning’s duties.

It was close to 11:00 when the Caddy’s headlights caught the small, battered sign beside the intersection: Amigos Y Amanté’s – ‘Friends and Lovers’. Ricardo briefly considered going straight instead of making the turn but caught Crockett looking at him in the rearview mirror, and turned where he was told.

“It’s behind A&A,” Crockett had emphasized while they had waited in the car. “Don’t be a wuss. He won’t think we’re taking him to some glitzy joint.”

True to the description, the long side of the pastel spattered club ended in a narrow, roughly sandblasted brick building. The deeply indented doorway was framed on either side by dark windows glowing with mundane neon beer signs. The painted sign above the door read ‘Off the Map’ in peeling graphics. Parking the Cadillac across from the door on the one-way street, the three men stretched, took stock of the area, then crossed to the bar.

The locals called it The Map and it was easy to see why. Every free inch of wall was covered with maps - Rand-McNally world and US highway, MacDonald-Gill Britain and Eastern Europe, Jo Mora’s California, Cram maps of the Caribbean, US Geological Surveys of Florida, Asia, Africa, South Pacific, and more than a few hand drawn directions scribbled on random paper. Some of the maps were lacquered to the wall, others pinned on top – the layers were unidentifiable.

There were no windows except the bays in the front. Two rows of industrial pendants lined the narrow alley of space from front door to back pool table, the usual reflection from the mirrors along the back-bar creating a general glow. The front-bar ran halfway down the left side of the building.

Scattered along the length of the dark counter were men and women in various states of inebriation. Even being mid-week – even late, it was busy enough to reveal this was a local spot for local drinkers, not the kind of place for tourist.

Ambling past the regular line, they agreed on a table toward the far end. Before they sat down, Martin said, “Back in a minute.” Giving Crockett and Tubbs time to make arrangements with the staff.

Tapping the polished marble to get the bartender’s attention Crockett asked, “How’s business been tonight?”

“Why?” the bartender growled, “you my accountant?”

Holding up both hands in surrender, Crockett offered, “Just small talkin’ – being friendly. Letting you know we’re gonna run a tab and I’m paying for the drinks.” From his wallet, Sonny pulled a one-hundred-dollar bill and laid it on the drink rail. “Did you see our friend that looks like a 1960s G-man come in with us? He’s been dealing with an EX- problem for a couple of weeks. We are here to get him smashed. Can you help us out?”

Looking at the C-note, then up at the two detectives, the barkeep smiled, “Oh yeah. You absolutely came to the right place. What’s your poison?”

“Their poison is whatever,” Ricardo said, “but I need something mixed that will keep me sober enough to drive back to Miami at closing time.”

“Got it. I’ll take care of you. Now… you?”

“Three glasses and a bottle of Cuervo.”

“Good choice. Gold?” The man was suddenly congenial. It was the middle of a boring week and he suddenly had a mission. “How do you feel about apple juice? Our local stuff looks just like Cuervo Gold.”

“Perfect,” Tubbs nodded.

“Have a seat, we’ll serve.” Looking up at a woman coming into the bar the tattooed man called out “Hey Brenda! I’m getting these boys a bottle of Cuervo. Help me cut up some limes… did you get the shrimp? Pull a couple of orders of those with the usual crunchies for their table.”

Tubbs and Crockett nodded to each other. The table was literally set. Now to booze up the boss and promise whatever happened Off the Map stayed there.

When he returned to the table, Castillo found the bottle, the double-shot glasses, a bowl of lime wedges, two saltshakers in a basket with napkins. Next to the field of drink was a basket mounded with pretzels, popcorn, and pistachios, and a separate basket of shrimp and cocktail sauce.

“We drinking or eating?” he asked sitting beside Tubbs.

“Both.” Crockett already had a small pile of pistachio shells on a napkin in front of him. “Cuervo. You good with that?”

“Yeah,” Martin nodded at Rico’s glass. “Clandestine apple juice?”

“Obviously,” Tubbs chuckled. “Driver’s privilege.”

“Studebaker, eh?” Castillo shifted back to the dropped topic.

“Yeah. We all spent time crawling under that thing with Paí.” It was a rare moment to share the personal details that were never brought into the office.

“Paí?” Martin repeated. “You’re Dominican?”

Sonny, who had been watching the other patrons, looked from Castillo to Tubbs and back. There was something new happening between them. There was deep personal information being requested.

“My father was originally from Santo Domingo. Came up as a teenager with Abbi and his sisters after Pops died. Mom’s a Baychester girl – Bronx born and raised,” There was congenial hum to the conversation. Being asked about personal details by the boss didn’t usually happen.

“A New York love story?” Martin took one of the fried shrimp, squeezed a wedge of lime on it and ate it – discarding the tail on his napkin.

Exchanging glances with Sonny, who nodded once, Ricardo replied, “Yeah. He came up, went to school for a year, enlisted, met Mom on the subway while he was headed to catch the train for Basic. He sweet-talked her address out of her and asked her to write while he was away. He was gone three years, came back, asked Mom to marry him and… the rest is family history.”

“What branch?” Martin asked, taking a drink of the tequila then repeating the line/shrimp process.

“Marines. He was an MP. He wanted to be a cop when he got back, but he lost his right index finger in the line and he was medically discharged.”

“Oh, man,” Crockett finally spoke up.

“Nah,” Rico grinned at his partner. “He came home early, married his girl, got a job in security at The Met, and raised a family.”

“The Met?” Crockett asked.

“Yeah. The Museum… you know.”

Sonny shook his head, Martin smiled at his protégé and said, “That explains a lot.”

“Right?” Crockett agreed. “What happened to the Studee?”

“My older sister and husband have it. They put it in storage for Rafael’s oldest boy.”

“Wait.” Crockett squinted and shook his head. “Rafael has… um… had kids? How come we haven’t … you haven’t mentioned…”

Tubbs looked from his boss to his partner and back several times before answering. “No. We’re not doing this. This ain’t about me, chumps.” Turning to Martin, Rico offered a sly smile, “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, sir. Look. Here’s my family cards: one brother, two sisters – one older, one younger. Mom and Grandmothers alive, three nephews and two nieces.” Looking pointedly at Crockett, he said, “You’re next.”

“I’m gonna disappoint ya’ll.” Sonny swallowed what remained in his glass and reached for the bottle to pour another while answering. “One brother, currently serving a five-year stint in Pensacola for being monumentally stupid with a knife while drunk. A niece, a nephew, and a passel of cousins that I do not claim.” Holding out the bottle, he offered more to Castillo, who nodded.

Taking a drink from the refreshed glass, Martin sat for a moment with his eyes closed. Pressing his lips together briefly, he exhaled and said, “At one time I had an older brother, a younger sister, a sister-in-law… who, by the way, told me I was funny… a niece, and the usual parents, grandparents, Tias, Tios, and annoying cousins.”

They sat in silence for a while until Ricardo raised his glass in a solemn toast. “To family.” Martin and Sonny followed suit, and their glasses clinked as they echoed his words.

After another round of straight tequila, and apple juice, Rico offered another salute. “To Fathers. I was nineteen when Paí died.”

“I was barely twenty.” Sonny’s voice was a rasped whisper.

“I was eighteen.” Martin said.

The three men looked at each other in silence. It was an unexpected commonality.

The loss of a parent at such an age developed certain features of personality. An individualism, self-reliance, a stubborn tenacity of focus that others often heralded as exceptional traits – but what the three of them knew – came at a high price. There was a silent recognition around the table – a sudden understanding why, of all those with whom they worked, the three of them meshed seamlessly.

They finished the shrimp and piled the detritus of shells and tails into the empty basket.

“Okay, if we’re drinking Cuervo, we have to show some respect.” Martin’s voice was a soft – his accent peeking out around the vowels and rolled r’s. Looking at Ricardo, he said, “Finish your juice… you can have one and it won’t kill us.”

Filling the glasses with a practiced, steady hand, Castillo dropped equal amounts into each double-shot.

“Wow. That’s… pretty good, Marty.” Crockett grinned.

“It’s exactly a shot,” Martin purred. “Don’t make me prove it… I’ve tended bar before.”

There was just enough alcohol consumed and just enough personal confession to sweep Crockett and Castillo into a warm glow of banter. Ricardo watched the two men play off each other. Crockett’s generous smile and Castillo’s relaxed, almost sleepy expression made for a congenial read of the table.

“I’m gonna say this once.” Martin looked back and forth between his friends as if he were imparting a secret. “It’s lick, shake, lick, drink, bite. Got it?”

“Aren’t we supposed to have lemons?” Rico asked.

“Have you lost your mind?” Crockett chided, “This is the Keys.”

“Deal with it.” Martin shook his head. “Now. Go!”

After the initial shock of spicy citric acid bathing a mouth that moments before had been dehydrated by 80 proof alcohol, they ordered waters and another drink for Tubbs, and another bottle of Gold.

The conversation angled back to cars – which was an oddly comforting topic for all of them – and gradually widened. From cars of the past to cars of the present to the car impounded from the case they had just finished and the unusual lack of damage to the patrol car that rammed the warehouse door in the take down of the Lao family. They eventually came to the reason for their odd communion with the map-lined tavern.

“S’pose anyone will crawl outta the woodwork to save Menton’s pudgy white ass?” Sonny asked.

Martin laughed. It was an unfamiliar reaction, but not an unpleasant sound. While Castillo took a moment to lean back and chuckle, Crockett and Tubbs grinned at each other. They could count this night a success.

“Dale-the-Snail was cut from the Company. It’s why he was working for Li. He’s got a snowball’s chance in hell of ever seeing daylight again. There’s not a lawyer in Washington that will take that case. They’ll look for a bad P.D. that will land him in a solitary at Raiford.”

“And how long will he last there?”

“Not long enough.” Martin’s eyes narrowed. “You know I believe in letting the system … whatever… do its thing.”

Rico winked at Crockett. Yes. They had done their job as bad friends – Martin was drunk. But he was also far too lucid.

“He needs to spend a lot of time in a six by eight thinking about his life.”

“Lao Li will die there.”

“Lao will die there, knowing his family is disgraced and split up. And it was his fault. Hell, the IGG off that bust will pay the department budget for a couple of years… or not. Give me the salt…”

Castillo poured another shot into he and Crockett’s glasses; the level was the same as the last pour.

“Where did you tend bar?” Ricardo asked.

“Thailand. It’s how I met May Ying.”

And there it was – the topic that was the cause for this meeting of spirits and soul.

All that Rico and Sonny knew about the mysterious beauty, May Ying, was that she had been married to Martin, presumed dead, brought to the United States to be used as a way to control the new Vice Lieutenant. She was remarried to a Thai man and they had a son. And – buried within those few details – they knew that Martin had loved her… still loved her… but was forced by circumstances to let go of her one more time.

“Something isn’t right.” Rico had said to Sonny while watching Martin leave the house of his ex-wife after the reunion to inform her of her situation. They waited for Martin at the end of the drive. His face was schooled into that passive ‘everyman’ expression he used as cover.

“You okay?” Sonny asked.

“Yeah. Fine. Just fine...”

But it didn’t feel fine. From that moment, they saw their boss slide into that super-calculated control that was indicated by a soft voice, glancing eye contact, and pacing. He was playing chess and the stakes of the game was his ex-wife’s life.

Tubbs watched his partner and his boss repeat the salt-drink-lime ritual. They were like synchronized swimmers, or choreographed dancers – their glasses hitting the table at the same time. For two men starting on a second bottle, they were remarkably agile.

“Was that when you were in the mountains between Thailand and Burma?” Ricardo asked.

Crockett looked up quizzically and Tubbs grinned. This was new information to Sonny. This was something that had been offered to Rico in private conversation that he had not shared. As the slightly sloshed senior detective looked at their enigmatic boss for the confirmatory nod that followed, Rico allowed himself a moment of smugness and Sonny shrugged while refilling the shots.

Without further encouragement, Castillo nodded. “I was undercover for the D.E.A. Had two cover jobs. One was at a college in Chiang Mai, the other was at a bar just off campus. It made sense… a part-time visiting Professor would make cash any way he could. The bar was a drop point for C.I.s and Agents.

“First, I saw her on campus. Later… weeks later… in the bar with a group of friends. She was the one brave enough to speak to me in English. She asked for ‘an American drink’ so I gave her a rum and Coke. She came back the next night with a couple more friends and then showed up as an extra in my Comparative Religion class the following week.

“She worked in her Uncle’s paper shop in the old village. I noticed that he, or one of his sons, always escorted her to and from campus. One day I asked if he would allow me to escort her to the shop after classes. There were some formalities but he eventually agreed. Public transportation was unreliable – so we would walk the two miles from campus to the village four days a week. And … that’s how we began to see each other.”

Martin paused, licked a line from his thumb joint to index knuckle and sprinkled salt. “You can talk about a lot while walking eight miles a week.” He picked up a lime wedge, licked the salt off, downed the shot, pressed the citrus between his teeth, then tossed the rind into the basket.

“She was in college for Religion?” Crockett asked. “What kind of… was it a seminary or…”

“No.” Martin smiled softly. “Liberal Arts. She is an Artist. She comes from a family of Saa paper makers. They make fine papers from the inside bark of certain trees. In Thailand, it’s mostly Mulberry, but other trees are sometimes used within the art.”

“Like Robinson Crusoe?” Sonny asked.

Ricardo nodded, “Mulberry paper is Thai paper. I’d forgotten. There’s a collection of handmade paper at The Met. Huge sheets, marbled, decorated, folded into intricate lampshades and things.”

Martin nodded solemnly and Sonny repeated, “The Met… the fucking Met.”

“That. That is what she did… does.” Castillo’s voice was soft with memory. “She makes paper.”

“How did you convince the Uncle into letting her go?” Crockett pivoted, winking at his partner.

“He had three daughters of his own to worry about. A foreign Professor sweeps an inconsequential niece outta his hands… any Thai man is going to go for that.

“Inconsequential?”

“His wife’s sister’s child from a short-lived marriage. May Ying had no status with her people. Her Uncle and Aunt were generous in their educational expenditures with her. She got into college. That and the job were a familial gift.” Glancing up at the confused expressions around the table, Martin added, “Thailand has a very old culture with rules that don’t make sense to the Western mind.”

Between the events of the case and the alcohol, Martin Castillo had broken open and the only witnesses to the breakage was Ricardo Tubbs and Sonny Crockett. It had been less than ten days since Rico had sat with his boss in a Thai restaurant while investigating leads into the Lao cartel. The conversation had been stilted by hierarchy and – Tubbs would admit – awkward caution of his mysterious boss until Martin had offered a Thai greeting at their final stop.

You didn’t tell me you spoke Thai… Hey. Come on man. Don’t make me work for it. It’s all part of it now.—

Rico’s chiding request had started something. Before that moment, Castillo grudgingly confided in Crockett but kept Tubbs at a distance. Then after that uncomfortable day together running down leads, Martin finally admitted that he had worked with the D.E.A. in Thailand. From then on, there had been a subtle change. Two weeks before, Tubbs would have described his boss as insular and reticent – even cold. Now, sitting next to his tequila-marinated friend – he would soften those descriptions to ‘cautious’ and ‘self-controlled’ and ‘thoughtful’.

“I guess I have to unbury what I have buried.” Martin took one of the white paper napkins from the condiment caddy. “There’s no one to mourn… no tragic death. She’s alive. She’s with someone else. Someone she loves. They have a beautiful child… Ma Sek can give her status within her culture that I never could. She’s moved on… and she reminded me that it’s time for me to do the same.”

“Nice speech,” Sonny nodded expansively. Martin was three shots ahead in the drink tally and had yet to offer anything other than talkativeness for evidence of inebriation.

“Thank you.” Castillo looked serious. “I’ve been working on that since yesterday. Does it sound believable?”

“Not in the slightest. But, hey. It’s your story. You tell it. We’ll back you up.” Crockett winked.

“Nice.” Martin produced an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, laying it on the table. The folded paper was a dark aqua rectangle, a little longer than wide and had a narrow ribbons tied to look like three small leaves with silver fringe caught within.

“Is that what she gave you at the plane?” Ricardo asked, knowing the answer before asking the question.

Focused on the paper, Martin corrected, “It is what Ma Sek gave me at the plane. She would not have dared to touch me in the presence of her husband. This… was unexpected.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“It is the amulet I gave her when we were… married. But the paper is the color of mourning. The silver threads tied here,” he indicated a fringe of silver knotted in the center of the single black ribbon holding the flap closed, “are cut. The silver is a wish for luck, the cut… well… that’s obvious.”

“Christ.” Sonny cursed. “That’s kinda blade-twisting, isn’t it?”

“It’s my fault.” Castillo’s voice was monotone. He fingered the silver threads of the envelope. “To make Ma Sek understand, I had to remind him of his wife’s place in my life. That… could have diminished her standing with her husband. This is her way of making things right. Giving her husband the honor of handing me my walking papers – so to speak.”

Tugging the silver threads from between the black ribbon knot caused the three loops to unfurl and the fold to open. Holding the envelope between his thumb and middle finger, Martin pressed the edges letting the items inside tumble onto the napkin. Three pieces of gold landed in a heap. They stared silently at the trinkets until Martin whispered, “Fill that fucking glass.”

Crockett did as he was told but offering advice as he did so. “You wanna give us a guided tour or should we ignore that pile and get another bottle?”

Watching the amber liquid spill into the glass, Castillo shook his head. “We’ll be lucky to finish this one before last call.” Following the tequila ritual, he downed the double-shot and a half before biting into the lime. “Tomorrow is going to suck.”

“It will,” Sonny confirmed, “it surely will, my friend.”

As Rico watched his partner and his boss slide further into their altered state, he left the curiosity of observing a drunk Castillo behind and began calculating the inherent problems of transporting two blitzed men 60 miles in his Cadillac Coupe de Ville. Glancing toward the bar, he caught the attention of Brenda – the server – and nodded.

“Could we have a pitcher of water?” He winked at her.

“If water’s on the table,” Martin’s voice was low and graveled. His words were not quite slurred, but his accent was prevalent and he spoke as if talking to himself. “I’m hitting the head. When I come back… I will explain… this shit.”

“Head it is, pal,” Crockett agreed as he rose with assistance from the table. “I’ll make sure you come back.”

“I’m fine,” Castillo growled, although his movements were deliberate and slow.

“I believe you.” Crockett fell into step with their boss. “Though thousands wouldn’t.”

“We need more limes,” Martin called over his shoulder.

Smiling up at the approaching Brenda, Rico slid his wallet out of his pocket, fished out a fifty and asked, “Can you do me a huge favor…”

By the time Crockett and Castillo returned, the table had six fresh glasses, a pitcher of ice water, refilled munchy baskets, a tray of fruit skewers, and a heaping bowl of lime wedges. Pulling a strawberry off the stick in his fingers, Ricardo nodded at the empty chairs.

“Round Two,” he smiled. “Everybody still have functioning kidneys?”

“So far. But the jury’s still out on the livers.” Crockett grinned. Looking at the table, he asked, “Martha Stewart sneak in while we were gone – er something’?”

“Yeah.” Tubbs smiled at the server approaching the table with his car keys in her hand. “They call her Brenda here and she told me I needed to eat some real food.” Taking the keys, he said, “Thanks, Bee! You’re a doll.”

“Like American airline says,” the round faced red-head smiled, “doing what we do best.”

Crockett picked at one of the trussed fruits while waiting for Brenda to move out of earshot. “She take the Caddy out to be washed, or what?”

“Nah. She prepped it for the ride home… just in case.” Rico chuckled. “Eat the fruit. If anything happens, at least it will smell good.”

“Wow. Can you believe this guy?” Crockett turned his attention to their boss and stopped speaking when he realized that Martin was silently staring at the group of items on the napkin, unaware of Crockett and Tubbs’ banter.

Separating the tangle in front of him revealed three pieces of gold jewelry: two pendants and a ring. The amulets looked similar, both a rounded triangle arching over a central figure sitting on a narrow base, and the ring was a small wide band of bright gold sliced open on one side. The pieces held Martin’s silent gaze the moment he had returned to the table.

“Martín?” Rico encouraged gently, glancing from Castillo to Crockett and back.

Castillo took a deep breath, awakening to the table and the two men on either side of him. “Fruit! That’s a great idea… in case someone hurls.” His accusing gaze fell upon Crockett.

Rico handed Castillo a skewer heavy with pineapple and repeated, “Martín? Are they both Buddhas?”

Taking the fruit, Martin smiled. “When did you realize this?”

Tubbs returned the smile, “You always take pineapple when Gina brings in her fruit … thing.”

“Is there something you two want to tell me?” Crockett asked with mock solemnity.

“Yes,” Martin answered on top of the question, “your partner is dangerously observant and if I were you… I’d be worried.” Putting a piece of pineapple in his mouth, he talked while he chewed, “This one is a Buddha.

“This was the Khong Man – an offering to her Uncle as a symbol of my intent to marry her. A kind of dowry if you will. It’s 24 karat gold. The other is an ancient symbol of protection and luck… it is a Kuman Thong. The Kuman Thong doesn’t translate well to the western idiom. It means ‘the golden boy’ and would signify, to her family, that I understood Thai culture and heritage.

“The ring… well… that’s the same here as there – but being cut bears meaning. Here it would likely mean the woman had a health issue and had to have the ring cut from her finger. But this. This means she willingly left our union before seeking another.”

The notorious dark eyes fixated on the gold relics in front of him while he finished the chunked fruit. Laying the bamboo skewer beside the tray, Martin continued, “I can not tell you how long I have sat with the guilt of this. The grief of this. The loss of … and to find out that all that emotion… that devastation was … what? Wasted? Unnecessary? Christ! I don’t even know the word for it and I speak a …” He puffed a breath, making the sound of a whispered explosion. “I speak a shit-ton of languages.”

Martin was beyond drunk — he was anesthetized with tequila. He was talking about pain he was unable to feel. Ricardo and Sonny looked from the Lieutenant’s face, to the gold, to each other; this was the exorcism they had come for, this is what they had offered and this is what they would endure together – a journey into Martin Castillo’s past.

“Love is never wasted,” Rico said softly.

Castillo and Crockett turned wide-eyed stares to the only sober man at the table. For a few moments, the surrounding bar sounds thickened the air between them. The billiard table in the rear clacked and rumbled with the rhythm of the game. Patrons along the bar murmured and chattered in a background hum. Above it all, someone had dropped coins in the corner jukebox and it was extolling the Country virtues of suffering,

“Awe damn,” Sonny’s voice cracked in a whisper.

Looking at his partner, Tubbs realized Castillo was not the only fragile friend at the table. Crockett’s eyes were suddenly bright with an abundance of tears not yet spilled. Something had changed – some switch had been flipped – and Crockett had jumped teams. Where he had begun on Team Comfort, he was now squarely on Team Misery and Tubbs was chiding himself for pushing the volatile blond to this edge.

— Love is never wasted — what the hell had he been thinking? That was throwing a Molotov into buildings that were under renovation. In a myriad of ways, Martin and Sonny were both recovering from that one love you were told was a man’s destiny. Only, for them, the women in their respective stories had looked deeply into their eyes and said softly, ‘I will always love you – but I can’t bear to stay with you.’

Ricardo shook his head, “Sorry, man.” It was all he could offer now that he realized his mistake.

Laying a hand on Crockett’s forearm, Martin said, “No. No, Rico’s right.” With inebriated warmth, he patted the arm lightly. “I wouldn’t give up a fffucking day of that past.” The drawn out ‘f’ and the gentle fingers upon Sonny’s arm were the only indications that Martin was completely lost to the tequila. “She’s not mine. But she’s in the world. And the world is a better place for it.

“What about you?” Martin asked Sonny. Reaching for the bottle, he poured three more shots – again including Ricardo. The levels were miraculously precise from a drunken hand. “Would you even tthhink about giving up a moment with Caroline to not feel this sshitty?”

“Fuck no,” Sonny shook his head and claimed the glass closest to him.

Crockett and Castillo looked at each other in silent understanding for a few moments before, simultaneously turning to Tubbs and raising glasses. Rico raised the third glass in solidarity and they clinked rims.

“To Love.” The toast was made and the tequila downed without the salt and lime.

“Back to ice water for you,” Martin said, glancing at Rico while pouring another shot for himself and Crockett.

Blinking the tears into submission, Sonny sniffed, “I miss that life but I don’t know how to live it anymore. If it weren’t for Billy, it’d be easy to pretend it never happened.” Watching Martin sprinkle salt on the back of his hand, Crockett asked, “Did the kid shock you?”

Rico held his breath. That was the probing question debated between he and his partner in the sanctum of the Daytona, or the far-from-ears shelter of the St. Vitus. They had privately mulled over the base possibilities when it became apparent Castillo was going to take the high road. Between them it felt like purging darkness — what if… yeah but Martin wouldn’t and suppose she… Marty wouldn’t let that happen. Now, Crockett was bringing all that to the table.

“Oh, yeah.” Martin said, the inebriation cushioning the intrusive question. “I was this close,” he interrupted his reach for a lime to gesture with his thumb and index fingers, “to kissing her when… zzoop.. there he was and I was doing gestational math instead.”

“Disappointed when the algebra failed?” Crockett asked, continuing to meander through the usually locked gates of the castle.

“I was,” Martin confessed openly. “A little. I had a couple of minutes of what-ifs. He came right up to me – like ‘carnal! que paso’… he let me pick him up. Yeah. Yeah, for a minute but, honestly, it simplified things that he … wasn’t mine.”

Listening to them talk, it occurred to Tubbs that Sonny sounded like Sonny – perhaps a little more so but generally the same. Whereas, Martin sounded… different. There was a sweet ghost of a Spanish accent, a genuine flow to his words, and a serious increase in the number of them used to express his thoughts.

Additionally, there was an uptick in facial expressions. Along with the usual intense eyes, furrowed brow, and bottom lip pout – that generally signaled annoyance – Rico saw longer intervals of the softer expressions rarely glimpsed in the office. A passive, gentle smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and warmed his overall countenance. It was as if he were someone else entirely.

“I wish he woulda been,” Crockett dipped the fruit skewer into the tequila, ate the piece from the end, pushed the rest down and repeated the process.

For a few rounds of this new routine Tubbs and Castillo watched in silence. Finally, Martin shook his head, “Yeah, well, you’re drunk. And a romantic.”

“Fuck you,” Sonny smiled. “Pot calling kettle, pal.”

Squinting at Rico, Castillo said, “He’s right. You know how you know you’re drunk? You talk about being drunk.” One more time – lick, salt, lick, shot, bite. “I think we’re there.”

“So, whatcha gonna do with that pile of gold, Marty?” Crockett took another line of fruit, this time swirling it in his glass of ice water before deconstructing it chunk by chunk.

“Ah, you know,” Martin picked up the envelope and began putting the items back into the paper vault, “brood over them for a brief eternity and then offer them back to the temple.”

Without waiting for a prompt, he explained, “Buddhist monks made these pendants. Buddhists believe that such symbols are borrowed – not owned – by the bearer. These two pieces have power within them. They protected May Ying from death, they hid her from evil until she could be protected from that evil… while in hiding she was offered the gift of motherhood. All of that makes these amulets particularly valuable… from a spiritual point of view.”

“Really?” Rico encouraged. “Does that become part of their – um – provenance?

“Kind of. There’s a ceremony. A… letting go rite.” Along with the pendants, Martin carefully placed the silver threads into the opening, before closing the flap and resettling the package into his breast pocket. The ring, he placed on his little finger between his first and second knuckle. “This? This I’ll have to think about.”

“You know, Marty,” Crockett offered in a deep rasp, “you are far too clear-headed to be as drunk as you are.”

“Yes,” Castillo agreed. Looking at the ring on his finger, he murmured, “She was like a clear signal through a bunch of static. For a while – there was a pretense of normal. You know what I mean?” Martin was talking to himself more than to the witnesses at the table.

All eyes were on the gold band, until Sonny’s hand mirrored the gesture that Martin had offered moments before. Laying fingers gently across the black cuff, he nodded, “I do, Marty. I really do.”

For few more moments they watch Castillo inspect the ring by turning it on his finger until the cut space was facing up. “Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans,” Martin quoted. “I gave her my house key.”

Castillo continued to evaluate the gold, ignoring Crockett and Tubbs. Turning the metal around again so that the sliced-gap was hidden on the back of his finger, he continued his thoughts out loud, “I made her memorize my address and put my house key on her key ring… where it’s lost beside all the other keys. If she doesn’t tell him, he’ll never know… and if shit goes down… she’s got an out.”

The secret was a confirmation of unending love despite the devastation. Rico looked from the band on Castillo’s finger to his face, then to his partner – who was back to stirring fruit in tequila and dreamily nodding.

Holding the dipped skewer out to Martin, Sonny said, “Pineapple?” And without changing tone, added, “They love us, too. They wanted it to work but – you’re right – we got tied up in those other plans… and life happened.” Taking the next strawberry for himself, Crockett dropped the half-eaten stick into his glass. “I’m done, guys. I – am – done.

“Hey! Brenda Stewart! Do you have one of those world map placemats that we can carve our initials into to hang on the wall?” Sonny’s voice boomed over the bar sounds. “We are smashed and quoting John Lennon… I think it’s time.”

§

The trip back was quiet. Rico had turned the radio on once they hit Highway 1 – the album format made for seamless meditation as the miles passed. The current set wasn’t something that Ricardo generally listened to if he had a choice but, this ride home wasn’t about him. It was about taking care of friends and the sentimental music of The Moody Blues’ ‘Long Distance Voyager’ was a mellow comfort that seemed to lull his passengers.

In the rearview mirror, Tubbs could see Sonny wedged into the corner, his head pillowed on one of the plastic bags Brenda had put into the car for the trip home. Beside him in the front seat, his boss had leaned the seat back enough to relax. Both men were breathing in the shallow, irregular rhythms of sleep.

“Tomorrow is going to suck,” Castillo had said in the bar.

“It will. It surely will,” Crockett had answered.

Except… it would be a better day than if they had not ventured off the map.

As they had settled into the car, Martin looked softly at him and said, “Thank you, Ricardo. You’re a good friend.” Somewhere in the evening his Lieutenant, his boss, his mentor – had become more than those things.

Friendship soothes misery – was something he grew up hearing his father say to other men in the neighborhood. When jobs were lost or relationships soured, the guys would invariably end up in his father’s garage, poking at the engine of a powder blue Studebaker and drinking a beer, finding comfort in being with one another. Soothing misery. Being friends.

Ricardo had driven his partner and his boss down state to offer the only thing he could – time, friendship, interest in their lives, and guardianship while they succumbed to drunken misery. This last bit of caring for them was relatively easy – but no less important.

It would be an hour before they hit Miami – forty minutes before they came into city traffic. If he could keep the music low, and the car at a steady rolling pace, he would deliver his friends home before either had time to wake up and think about tomorrow.

el fin