Work Text:
History. It came down to history. His personal history. So much grief, so much blood, so much love spilled and set on fire until it was consumed into ashes. The promises of his heritage were never fulfilled. The loves that he tasted evaporated in the heat of his life; the wife to whom he was pledged taken – one way or another – in a house half a world away. There were no children. He was a dead end – the pip that took root but never thrived – and there was no one remaining to mourn his family’s culling, accept him.
Most days he was fine. Just fine. Concentrating on work, training his body, meditating his breath into rhythmic calm, sorting good from bad from indifference took all his time. Or — most of his time.
Work, in this jurisdiction’s sprawling culture of escape and excess, was meaningful – as long as he didn’t focus too much on the corruption. The various teams under his supervision made his position more of a pressure regulator than the typical law enforcement leader. Keeping street-hardened officers protected from the politicians that would use them for personal gain required skills of stubborn patience and the ability to draw hard lines. It was a quirk of his personality that made him particularly suited to that task. In short, his place in the hierarchy kept him busy.
Between work and rest, he physically prepared for combat that might never come. Hours wrapped in a keikogi throwing and being thrown, the thwack of bodies hitting the training mat a lying comfort. In the wild, fights landed you on hard surfaces that even in defensive engagements left you bloodied and broken to some degree. But he practiced, nonetheless.
And most days it seemed to flow — one thing into another, one case into another, situation by situation. There was usually a lot of listening, adding to the conversation when necessary, breathing in a four-count, sorting relevant from irrelevant, letting his team take point and watching their six. At the end of the day he filed the case notes, ate something, meditated the darkness into submission, and went to bed.
Sometimes people told him that life was more than these things. Sometimes he found himself hoping they were right — but there was that history thing. Weighing past realities against those future hopes he followed the evidence, kept his distance, remained professional, and practiced detachment.
And then there were times that added another cell to his spreadsheet of death. Days that began well enough – with meetings that turned into more meetings that became sharing a Cafecito and laughing about baseball but ended in murder. Those times – those days were the hardest. Standing over the body of a friend, barely able to think much less detach, forgetting to breathe, a dark hole swirling in his brain – the precursor to a migraine.
Martin Castillo sat in his office — the lights off, the chair leaned back, his eyes closed. The outer room bustle was Friday-night-normal. Anyone with ongoing operations was already out of the building, leaving the jovial down-weekend officers to finish their reports before signing out.
A burst of raucous voices flooded the room, indicating the door opening without consent. Sitting up and opening his eyes to confront… whoever … he watched Gina Calabrese and Trudy Joplin file quietly into the room. Returning the door to its mostly closed position they did not stop in front of the desk but took up stations on either side of him.
“Yes?”
“We’re getting ready to leave,” Calabrese explained. She leaned back on the desk, pulling herself up on the corner, her feet dangling. “This case was just tough so… before we get tied up in next week’s drama on Flagler Street we’re going to do a little excess carbing at Fancy’s.”
“They have a hundred wines that I haven’t tried,” Trudy said.
“Mmm,” Gina agreed. “Their carbonara is out of this world but since it’s not a date, I think I’m ordering the scampi with extra garlic bread.”
“Not the lasagna?” Joplin asked, her earrings fluttering with the slight shake of her head.
“No. To be honest, I prefer my own,” Gina explained. “They only use mozzarella and Parmesan. I like a nice cheese blend with a bit of cheddar or Asiago – the flavor is richer.”
“Ladies,” Martin interrupted looking from one to the other, “is there a reason you came into my office?”
“Yeah. Get your coat. We want you to go with us,” Trudy said.
“I’ve got to finish…” he started to speak.
“Martin.” Gina interrupted his excuse.
Although it was uncommon in an undercover unit for martial hierarchy to be observed much – if at all – Calabrese and Joplin rarely used his first name. Even in casual moments he was always Lieutenant or Sir and this – being called by his first name – had his attention.
Waiting for his eyes to settle on her face, Gina smiled and whispered, “Whatever you are about to say is bullshit.”
“What you ‘got’ to do is eat.” Trudy said putting her hand on her hip. “You can’t take anymore aspirin today. Come on, let’s get your coat."
Castillo squinted through the office blinds at the detectives still at their desks wrapping up weekly reports, filing papers, chatting on phones, yattering over each other with the impending-weekend energy.
“Sonny and Rico…”
“Aren’t invited,” said Gina. “This is just us. The three of us.”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m being railroaded?”
“Because you are,” Joplin said. “Look, you don’t have to talk. All you gotta do is come with us, eat some good Italian, let us order too much food with tons of garlic and onions without making snarky comments, and make sure we get home if we get tipsy.” Trudy tugged the folded suit coat from the back of his chair. “Come on.”
“You always take care of us.” Gina slid off the desk and opened the side drawer pulling his car keys from the tray. “It’s our turn. Saying no will be rude, so get up, put that coat on, and let’s go.”
When he thought about it – when he wasn’t choked by grief or suspended in guilt – there were moments like this. Beautifully tender, gently pressed offers of care and love – when the people around him saw through the façade and simply insisted that he be with them. This was a part of his history, too.
“Okay,” he said, standing up slowly and removing his tie, “but you have to let me buy.”
“If you’re willing to pay for the wine.” Trudy held his coat open. “We are willing to drink it.”
Settling into his suit jacket, Martin tossed his tie onto the barren desk before taking the keys from Gina. Indicating the door with a sweeping gesture he said, “Ladies.”
After all – history was a perspective and perspectives change.