Riverside Rising

By VC Vanderbilt

Chasing dragons thawed the Brickell skyline. Tink’s open palms pleaded against the glass affirming paradise was lost. Clad in aluminum foil and housed in an old Metro-Dade drop in the bucket jar, the figurine was conscience for their top investigator. Tonight’s crime scene disrupted Angel Alanis’s skeletons haunting I-95. A prestigious family butchered at the dinner table, perplexed by an empty chair once securing a rhyme of his past. Yet she will find him, and Riverside will rise tonight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329895874

Book preview

Riverside Rising

Riverside Rising

V.C. Vanderbilt

Chasing dragons thawed the Brickell skyline. Tink’s open palms pleaded against the glass affirming paradise was lost. Clad in aluminum foil and housed in an old Metro-Dade drop in the bucket jar, the figurine was conscience for their top investigator. Tonight’s crime scene disrupted Angel Alanis’s skeletons haunting I-95. A prestigious family butchered at the dinner table, perplexed by an empty chair once securing a rhyme of his past. Yet she will find him, and Riverside will rise tonight.

I- Tinkerbell

The plastic doll gazed at Detective Alanis behind the glass of the Drop in the Bucket jar.

What are you looking at Tink?

The figurine fashioned a dress made of tin foil with a bald scalp. She had been found in the hand of a child riddled with bullets—another innocent cut down in the drug wars. Morale was as low as the paychecks in the Metro-Dade Police Department and law enforcement needed a guiding light. Vocational integrity had already bowed down to political pressure and minimal job expectation. Her hands pressed on the glass. What was Tink trying to tell them? Like Time magazine had boasted last month, Paradise was Lost, but now what?

Alanis never knew paradise. Miami was a melting pot of filth to him. Raised by a single mom in Riverside, the immigrant detective grew up fending off his older brother Oscar until the eldest joined the Army in 1965. Junior aimed his aggression at the Viet Cong in War Zone D. Later, the D stood for death for his Airborne Brigade. His last charge towards the Gooks in ’67 ended in him losing half his brain trying to save an innocent child who had gotten caught in the crossfire. Upon picking the boy up, he heard the pin faintly hit his steel tow moments before they both sprayed a handful of young palm trees.

Oscar senior would show up once every few weeks to fuck the hell out of Elsa. Alanis would cover his head in a pillow, as he was not sure if she was actually making love or being painfully gutted by his father. After a few shots of Tequila it was Elsa’s turn to cover her ears as Papi whipped him repeatedly. She repeatedly cleaned up the blood, piss, and shit that resulted from the beating, and chalk it up as collateral damage in an effort to get a jarful of child support from time to time. But her little Angel didn’t take to the Cuban hazing for long. 

On his 17th birthday, he began cutting through rawhide dog chew with his new Stockman pocketknife. He visualized cutting through his father’s dark scrotum with the tool. It was just the time and the place. Dad’s last visitation resulted in stitches and an eventual scar on Angel’s left shoulder. What were Oscar Alanis’s demons? Angel would never know for sure, but he knew his mother and him were not to blame- even if he was getting worse after Junior’s death. It wasn’t a secret. Riverside’s elderly neighbors looked at the mother and son with despondency in their eyes. Something had to be done.

It was Halloween, two days after his birthday. With dusk approaching and an ominous Friday looming, Angel lit a cigar off his pumpkin to celebrate what would be a gratifying experience. Typically in a steel blue Batman suit, he chose not to wear a mask anymore. His mother was cross-dressed between a Mexican Santa Muerte and Brujeria. Santeria witchcraft was in her blood. She had watched her mother spit with her African slaves after sugarcane hours back in Cuba before sending them back to their barracoons. Her bedtime stories referred to the spiritual healing as Cha Cha. Three hours past his last puff, his father spattered blood from his mouth and spleen. Stockman had snuck in when Oscar senior attempted to snatch the Cuban out of Angel’s mouth. His dad was as high as a kite and expired with a smirk on his face staring at his son. Elsa remained stoic and offered no tears. She was truly an Angel of Death on a full moon and calmly patted her son on the shoulder soothing his boiling scars.

Police called on the scene quoted the crime scene a freak show. Word spread like fire throughout the summer and Angel’s actions were typed up as self-defense. He even received a pin from what was then known as the Dade County Public Safety Department until 1981. Veteran officer Robert Hogan would end up taking him to Shop-With-a-Cop on Christmas Eve with his son John. The Christmas lights in Coconut Grove were enough to call the cops the good guys. He would join them that following year while his mother would move in with her sister. Ten years later Angel Alanis got his place in the Roads.

Alanis felt like the Roads neighborhood he lived in- all roads, with no streets or avenues. His life was a long road with little idle, but like the plants that greeted his airwaves upon the neighborhood entrance, it was native Miami. One day his children would go to Clark Elementary and have a stable upbringing- a safe upbringing, somewhere far from his father’s ghost, and the ghetto beneath     I-95 that created his darkness. One son could carry the family blood while three daughters would be enough to prop him up in his lazy boy during his final days. But he was far from the historic housing he craved and the mother of his children. He was still struggling with finding time to expand his dreams within 8 hours of REM sleep.

Aside from a college brawl outside Sherlock’s Pub in Coral Gables the burbs and beat were a whisper. The poor frosh looked like he went 12 rounds with Michael Spinks and was still wired from the angel dust on his jeans. Miami Beach was tonight’s focus, but Alanis was dragging. He had pulled an all-nighter trying to find the answers to his life at the bottom of Crown. It was almost time to call today a good faith effort against crime.

Angel stood up and took a peak through his shoebox size window overlooking his scuffed oak desk. This was the time of night Scarabs ripped through the port, Abacab drummed through the freeway humidity, and Chinese delivery was on its way to the precinct. There were a few folders to dig up before plunging chopsticks into any lo mein tonight.

This evening’s stack of files offered a plethora of entertainment from sawed off limbs to corpses with coins for eyes. He had read about the obols in Greek mythology in high school Latin, and it was apparent someone else did too. With only 10 homicides washed up on the coast for the whole year, stumbling upon a handful of bodies this morning with gold eyes glaring back at you was unnerving for even a seasoned Type A. An unidentified woman sticking halfway out of the sand and covered in crabs took first prize for the year. Upon being assisted out of the car by his sidekick, his bloodshot eyes were dried by the sun while two slain Cocaine cowboys reflected the rays with their sparkly winks. Each body had been shot multiple times in the chest, but laid out like they were awaiting pickup by Charon’s riverboat. Hogan had to touch, peeling a coin from the first socket only to observe tiny maggots infested within the victim’s brown cornea. One gripped a flier from the Green Party at the Fountainebleau Hotel. What were these goons doing on Collins Avenue and who the hell was this poor gal? Surely, this would continue to play in the psyche of the 10 year veteran’s eyes this Christmas Eve. After all, he had no kids, no family in the area, and his last piece of ass came after the Heart concert back in April. Let’s save the picture pinning for after General Tso’s.

He pulled out Stockman to open the large bag from Wong’s Lucky House that a newbie officer set behind him while he was in lost in the crime shots. Angel plowed his way through the steamed rice and caramelized chicken to a fortune that triggered his Brooks Shields hard-on. He wanted between her and her Calvins, and could give a shit if he was called a pervert for wanting it. A ship in the harbor is safe, but that’s not why ships were built. Usually an analogy to Mariel Harbor, Alanis could appreciate the sexual suggestion. What was it about the fertility value of a teenager? The red phone rang at 8:47PM. Officer Hogan killed the wet dream with a few words.

We need you in the Grove.

Why not Wednesday? Forget about hitting skull-crushers in the gym tonight with the new rookie. As he threw his saturated chopsticks into the black file he could have sworn he heard Tink giggle. Time for a drive to where the other side lived.

Detective Alanis drove up to the Georgian style mansion with hesitation. Boasting a flamingo suit and Cuban chain, he looked more like a dealer than a cop. One bodyguard hid in his coat while the other was strapped firmly to his ankle.  Officers on the scene came out of the front door perplexed and disgusted. The smell of sweet lasagna greeted his senses as he walked through the centered panel door. Above him were rectangular windows that looked immaculate and reflected the red and blue of the patrol car lights. Almost immediately Angel was presented with an image that would challenge the skeletons of Riverside. This wasn’t Coconut Grove. The responding officer approached him with minimal eye contact and pointed to a white dining table with panton chairs.

Tres amigos.

One chair was vacant, but the others each told a story. The head of the table offered an Italian man with smoke trickling out of his jet black hair while his face was firmly supported with a generous cut of veal coated with chunky marinara. His wrist brandished a presidential Rolex contrasted his worn out topsider boat shoes. He was the first. Before he glanced at the next victim the Cuban immigrant detected a rectangular pink object resting on the disheveled, white leather sectional accenting the Caesar stone coffee table. The detective’s preliminary scan hinted the setting wasn’t adding up; even Hogan could figure that one out. He refocused his attention clockwise to the next victim.

Fiona Carsone was a traditional Catholic mother who grew up in a cozy Jell-O village in upstate New York. Churches and bars were her neighborhood. She didn’t grow up wealthy and embraced the high life with caution. The striking 41-year old had a timeless smile, and fertile presentation that transferred to her daughter. Opera surrounded her life and so did her love of Lucia Aliberti- a fellow Sicilian who had a flare for the dramatic. The house matriarch was playing thespian this evening. Her arms flared out embracing Heaven while the trickle of life from the corner of her lips pronounced her warm cheeks. After 20 years in South Florida, her blood hadn’t thinned. As the detective continued his cursory glance, he was led to a small hole in the back of her chair. Prior to her husband’s demise; Fiona’s blue eyes released a few tears before the .38 severed her spine. The silky black halter-top revealed a natural bust that was more exposed than normal due to her awkward positioning. Still on her antipasto, her right hand clenched a three prong dinner fork.

One of the family member’s had already moved on to the strawberry cheesecake. Joseph Frank Carsone had always been a bit overweight. He was a spoiled bully in elementary school, but was challenged a bit in secondary by his English teacher. The Catcher in the Rye changed his life and he was spared the treachery of adulthood with a stainless Cutco steak knife that was buried in his muscular pecks. The weapon of choice was a member of a wedding gift set that was always dependable for paring and carving. Joey’s eyes were closed. When he bowed up to the enemy he knew what was coming. Alanis took a closer look at the living room.

Why was that pink personal stereo Walkman laid ruffled on the couch? It seemed to correlate with the vivid, flamingos displayed on the walls of the neutrally decorated domicile. Shortly after examining the expensively popular device, he sensed a shimmer on the back of his neck. Angel learned to have eyes in the back of his head as a youth and brought that to his career- he needed to in order to survive his father with scars to prove it. Stunning blue eyes pierced him as he turned around. Who was this? Perhaps a younger photo of Fiona in her prime- couldn’t be. This bella had higher cheekbones and layered hair.

That’s Sophia, the oldest.

Sergeant John Hogan liked to sound intelligent from time to time. His gaudy St. Patrick pin stuck out like a sore thumb in Miami. After a few calls to base, it was clear no one on the force knew of her whereabouts. It was assumed she was either snatched or out with her senior cronies at the local clubs. But that radio- someone was either in a hurry or curious. Angel collected the framed senior picture from the mantle and placed it in his discount briefcase.

Get me some photos.

Alanis ordered the officers to find more pictures of this 18 year-old in order to create a few fliers when the time came. The poolside shots found in her bedroom bulletin board demonstrated that abundant fruitfulness Alanis could appreciate, while a more intense yearbook photo showed off her waist-to-hip ratio in a black dress- hopefully not a waste of a waist. For now Sophia was a victim; or worse- a warehouse sex slave to cartel.

Metro-Dade’s finest combed the streets for her and the dives that one would hit to prevent that morning hangover with garbage plates. Although there was no evidence of tapping the bottle, private school girls from Coconut Grove were famous for bar hopping at the freshman bars and winding up on there backs in the Barnacle Historic State Park. For a moment the aroused detective fantasized as he entered in his vehicle. Then a flashback interjected with his family friend at the academy.

Fuck, we’re gonna be here all night, Hogan murmured.

The crime scene unit would work until dawn perplexed that no machine gun was involved in this hit. Blood spatter was analyzed, prints were wiped, and the bodies were bagged, but never dragged. Stefan’s Benz was stringently examined with nothing to show for but a picture of a familiar, unidentified blond beach babe wearing a Miami Hurricanes hat and a DynaTac cellular phone.

Who is this twenty something? Alanis nabbed the picture and placed it in his front coat pocket. He was confused, but not about who, but what interests his old fuck fling had with the Carsone family.

Jenny Ridgeway had haunted him from time to time- predominantly by catching a spot in the morning paper complete with high profile criminals. She always smelled like peaches, and displayed that bleach-blonde hair and pigtails Angel used to pull on when taking her from behind. She belted out her best fuck me like a cop screams in that position. The University of Miami grad kept an athletic body and a tight cocita. The two could not have been more different, but working on the opposing sides of the fence, high-risk habits, and stress from both their jobs created sexual tension when they passed by each other downtown. It was the little things with Jenny. Alanis enjoyed her fingertips and ear nibbles during bed talk. Her love bite was a tough fever he couldn’t shake. Early in his career he trusted her with his life- she was also a damn fine defense lawyer if he ever needed one. The bombshell once told the detective that the clients she defended were businessman simply providing a requested supply for the city’s upper echelons.

Her headliner defense of the cartel’s main money mover proved she could dodge the city’s best prosecutors.  She had skipped over her client’s powdered cash a few years ago and looked professionally sexy doing it. Angel preferred her in a pair of tight Jordache—or, even better, an unzipped velour warm-up. Over four months her permanent weave challenged Morgan Fairchild while her power suit intimidated the jury. The Bravo cartel appeal sent shockwaves through South Florida and caught the attention of some of the biggest players in the black market. No one could swing her courtroom the way her Riverside lover did. But relationships are about making each other better people- which was never the case between them. In the fall of 77’, the edgy lawyer chased the dragon too far and ended up introducing another version of hell to Angel- imagine watching your lover begin choking on her own vomit and unable to help due to the dose you had just shot up. A nearby taxi driver with EMT experience and a naloxone syringe saved her life and his career. The detective knew he could not make the same mistake twice and had since committed to staying clean. That was a long time ago, and there was a good chance she burned more than a handful of bridges by now.

As they took prints off the car, bodies began wheeling out of the mansion. Hogan would later unzip the coroner’s bag and examine Fiona’s still warm chest one last time. It didn’t take much for the Irishman. Angel had covered his corned beef and cabbage ass plenty of times since the academy and he never learned. John Patrick Hogan had fondled 12 bodies since he was on the force and avoided any scrutiny from internal affairs. He claimed they gave off pheromones even after death. This Hogan fell drastically short in filling the shoes of his father, a hero to Angel in a troubled time.

Alanis drove the tree lined streets of Southern Miami- Sophia didn’t have a car and the two registered to the family were accounted for. Anywhere past Coral Way and the Roads seemed a bit of a stretch. How do you tell someone their family was butchered at the dinner table before biting into marina soaked calf? Nonetheless, he hoped he would get the chance. The recent news feeding out of Channel 4 would say the odds were against her. But it had nothing to do with the looting on 22nd Avenue.

As an ambulance flew past his 1978 Olds Diesel, the radio crackled that Jimmy Kramer had some information. What the hell could the Port Director offer about this case- in this short of time? Alanis tore the V8 apart with his foot to make the U-turn and head back downtown.

Upon pushing the double doors open, Angel nose was greeted with unpleasantries- the precinct still reeked of eggrolls and sweat. Kramer sat in the hot seat across from Alanis’s desk pale and balding. He boasted flannel St. Nick pajamas with white slippers the niggers whore all year. The Port was the back of his hand for the last 10 years and he loved las chapparas from