Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  "¡Arturo! ¡Vámonos!" Mambo cried. Arturo wiped his blood-smeared hands on her gorgeous brown hair and slapped her face, snapping her head back with a crack against the headboard, then got up to leave the room. On their way to the car, Mambo pulled out the sheaf of bills and gave each man five hundred dollars. Within thirty seconds, the yellow-gold Trans Am roared out of its parking spot.

  6

  Mambo

  Sunday, June 26, 2011

  5:10 PM

  PALMIRA DeLIMA BENT OVER THE BED and gently kissed her husband, stirring him from much-needed sleep. Mambo the Third lay naked beneath the bedcovers and groaned at her touch. He felt silky black hair across one cheek and her soft lips on the other. He forced his eyes open and saw her flawless complexion lit up by her alluring half-smile.

  He always loved that. It was the kind of smile which, aimed at anyone else, might be resented, as if it were a cynical grin or a tagline to an insult. But when she turned it on him, it turned him on. The smile was one of the many exciting things that propelled their marriage, now in its seventh year.

  "What time is it?" he asked in a cloudy voice.

  "A little after five," she whispered. "You said to wake you. You slept all day." She gave his hard body an easy nudge. "We don't want to keep your grandfather waiting. We're supposed to be there at six." He loved her singsongy voice. "Come on, honey. Time to get up."

  "Jesus, it's five already?" He rubbed his eyes with his fists and yawned a big one. "Feels like I just went to sleep." He always slept deep and sound after a rough morning like the one he had.

  Another little shake. "Come on. Up you go." She lifted his shoulder in encouragement.

  He forced himself off the bed and staggered to the bathroom, yawning and rubbing his face. "I'll be down in twenty minutes," he said.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Showered and dressed, Mambo lingered over coffee at his kitchen table. He had to be right tonight. More than usual for a Sunday night. They were having dinner over at his grandfather's house on William Street, just like they did every week at this time. Every Sunday night, Mambo the Third, Palmira, and their little Carlena, would make the short drive to William Street and dine with his grandfather, The Original Mambo, and his lovely grandmother Lisbeth. Tonight was a little different, though. Tonight, Winston Whitney would be in attendance.

  Winston Whitney, the Duke of Duval, sixty-some-odd-year-old patriarch of the other prime-mover family in Key West, would be there to discuss "the deal". And that meant Mambo the Third had to be right. No yawning, no sleepy-time shit.

  He had the scope of the deal firm in his mind, and he reviewed it to himself over his coffee. Some smaller details may have escaped him, but he had the broad strokes down. This was his big chance, the first time his grandfather had brought him in on a major family endeavor. The near-total redevelopment of a wide swath of North Roosevelt Boulevard — primo property near the light where US 1 turns north to Stock Island, to Miami and up the East Coast of America — had consumed the DeLima family's dreams for decades. But in the end, it was too big a chunk for them to bite off, even with their deep pockets and heavy banking connections.

  The Original Mambo had suggested bringing the Whitneys in on the deal. The two families seldom worked together, and several DeLimas were against it, but they eventually realized it was either get serious help or forget the whole thing. So The Original Mambo got his way, as he almost always did.

  Palmira spoke: "Have you heard anything more about what's going to happen tonight, honey?"

  "I talked to Abuelo yesterday," Mambo the Third said. "He told me everything's still in place. The overall plans are in from the architect — preliminary plans, that is — and they're waiting, just waiting for the go-ahead. We'll probably look those over tonight."

  "What about the new hospital?" Her voice a little less cutesy.

  "It was just like I told you a couple of weeks ago. Abuelo thinks it's too far from the Lower Keys Hospital. Doctors and everybody having to drive there from Stock Island, you know, he thinks —"

  "It's only about two miles," she said. "And it'll be right here in Key West, where people need it. Close by."

  "Honey, you're talking about a hospital," he said. "With all kinds of specialized equipment, medical stuff. This development is really for hotels. You know, hotels and restaurants. That kind of thing. Tourist stuff."

  Palmira's eyes narrowed. "You sound like you don't want to put the facility there. Just because your grandfather thinks it's too far from the existing hospital. Like you don't think it's a moneymaker. Is that it?"

  "Well," he said, "just because you want your brother to come down here and run it is no reason to include it in the project. And besides, it is just a hospital."

  "Come on! You don't think hospitals make money? People are always gonna be sick."

  "And people are always gonna want a hotel room in Key West," he replied.

  "Honey," she said, her voice going back to cutesy, "you promised me you would fight for this and I expect you to do it. We've been over this. It's not like it's going to be any kind of gigantic place. It'll be a lot smaller, almost like an annex, sort of a mini-hospital." She sighed. "Look, you're right. I do want Rolando to run it. But it's not like he's incompetent."

  "I didn't say that."

  "He's doing great up at Tampa General. They love him up there. But this … this would give him his own facility to run. It would mean a real step up for him. And it would bring him back home, which is what he's always wanted." She exhaled like she was through talking, but then quickly added, "I know there's room for it among all that land you're piecing together. Plus, it would keep it in the family. We'd have our own little hospital."

  Mambo looked at her. Following her speech, she remained sitting upright, shoulders squared, instead of leaning back in her chair. Her hands were clasped on the table in front of her. Her liquid brown eyes never left his for a second.

  After a few seconds, he looked down at his coffee. He knew he was going to cave, he loved her so much. But still he said, "This is the biggest deal our family has ever been involved in. In fact, it's the single biggest real estate project in Key West history. By far. This is going to transform the entire north end of the island, eventually the whole island itself. We can't let personal shit get in the way —"

  "You know it's not personal," she said. "Like in The Godfather, it's business. The island needs something besides these little storefront clinics. We need a real hospital facility right here in town. We need this."

  He didn't really want to admit it, but she was right. Key West did need something like that within easy reach. The big hospital on Stock Island, while only a couple of miles from Key West proper, still seemed to most Key West residents like it was in a foreign country. With sagging shoulders, he said, "All right. I'll go to bat for it." A dazzling full-face smile washed over her face. He raised an index finger and said, "But don't count on it. I told you Abuelo doesn't like the idea."

  She reached over and took his hand in hers and murmured, "But I know you can change his mind." Her smile finally got to him. He smiled back.

  The smilefest was interrupted by Mambo's cellphone announcing an incoming text message. He glanced at it. From Arturo.

  $625 from Kiki. He dashed off a reply: Bring 2 restaurant tomorrow noon. He swiped the screen off and looked back at his wife, snapping back to his kitchen table.

  "Okay," he said. "The hospital. I'll give it my best shot."

  She squeezed his hand with both of hers. "What else is happening?" she asked.

  "Well, we're still providing our family contractors, Whitney's bringing some big pension fund in on the deal. It all looks good right now. Looks like we're just going to agree to keep moving forward." He looked at his watch. "Where's Carlena?"

  Palmira turned toward the living room. "Carlena," she called. "Chiquitita. Ven aca. Vamos a salir."

  Carlena came running into the kitchen with gleaming dark eyes and a broad smile, ready for whatever
the day would throw at her. Mambo and Palmira smiled back, involuntarily. She ran into Mambo's waiting arms.

  She's going to be a good one, Mambo thought as he held her close. Able to handle herself. Look at that smile. Five years old and she's already a charmer. He started to imagine her smiling as a young woman, beguiling every man she saw, but he quickly pushed that thought from his mind. As far as he was concerned, she was always going to be like this. Five years old and defenseless. Looking to him for her every need. Don't think about the future. It'll get here soon enough.

  Another quick squeeze and he released Carlena. "Let's go," he said.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  They pulled up at The Original Mambo's house within five minutes. Located in the heart of Old Town, on William Street in the shade of an enormous banyan tree, it was one of those grand old Victorian places that Old Town Key West is famous for. This one had been in the DeLima family since it was built in the late nineteenth century, and they'd kept it up. Three stories high, spacious wraparound porch, original gingerbread along the railings, cupola topping it off like a Christmas tree star. The grounds were garnished with hibiscus and bougainvillea in a riot of reds and oranges. A trio of coconut palms out front provided additional grace.

  Mambo the Third and his family were greeted with lots of hugs and cheer from his grandparents. The familiar aroma of Cuban food was everywhere, as though it had wafted continuously through that house for decades, not just conjured up on this night for dinner. Even though Mambo lived with that aroma every hour of every day he spent in his restaurant, it never grew old for him. It just made him hungry.

  These dinners were generally loose family gatherings, but tonight, because of Winston Whitney's presence, they all made an attempt to spruce up. Tonight, the two Mambos wore their best guayaberas and the women were decked in crisp, but sensible dresses and high heels. Carlena wore her newest party dress.

  They all walked into the living room and Winston Whitney stood to greet them. Handshakes and niceties all around, then Grandma Lisbeth went to the kitchen to pour the drinks. The Original Mambo gestured for everyone to sit. There was plenty of comfortable seating in the spacious, airy room.

  Mambo the Third and Palmira took the seat next to Whitney on the long couch. He acknowledged Mambo with welcoming body language. Mambo noticed he already had a drink. Looked like whiskey, over ice, in a rocks glass.

  "Good to see you again, Mambo." He said it like he meant it. "We don't really see enough of each other. Maybe this deal will bring us together more often." He sipped his drink.

  "I'm sure it will, Mr Whitney," Mambo said.

  "Please. Call me Win."

  "Win."

  "Mr Whitney was my father," he said. "A great man." Whitney appeared very comfortable saying that, as though everyone already knew it but he had to say it to make sure no one forgot.

  Mambo nodded. "We all remember him well. Died way too soon."

  Whitney's appearance belied his age. He carried a few extra pounds, but he wore them well. As he had mentioned, he and Mambo the Third had never had much occasion to spend time together, but every time they did, Mambo was genuinely amazed at how time seemed to stand still for this guy, despite all the hard work and long hours he put in over the years. He had to be over sixty, but looked twenty years younger.

  After a brief ceremony of fluffing up the chair cushion, The Original Mambo took his seat. He lifted an elaborately engraved cedar humidor from a side table and opened it, offering cigars to his grandson and to Whitney.

  "Cohibas," he said with a wide smile. "Best in the world."

  Eighty-one years old and with hair still thick and dark, showing only a few strands of salt amid all the pepper. Broad, hard shoulders stretched under a cream-colored linen guayabera, long-sleeved to reflect the dressy nature of the gathering. He was still an intimidating presence.

  Each man took a cigar, snipped off the end with a guillotine cutter supplied by their host, and lit up. Within moments, the thick aroma of the apartments of Old Havana floated through the room, masking the food simmering in the kitchen.

  A couple of satisfying puffs and then The Original Mambo opened: "So where are we, Win? Is the pension fund in place?"

  Whitney crossed his legs and set his cigar in the hollow of the big glass ashtray that dominated the end table. From his relaxed position, he said, "We've got a preliminary commitment for two hundred sixty million, conditional on approval of our revised pro forma and the finalized plans. With the hundred million you're bringing from your banking friends, that puts us over the top and ready to roll."

  Mambo the Third drew on his cigar and swished smoke around in his mouth before releasing it. He was here to absorb not only smoke, but information that was being tossed around the room. His Abuelo was counting on it.

  "I've got the rough plans," The Original Mambo said. "We'll look them over after dinner. My nephew at the building department assures me the permits will not be a problem, based on these plans." His voice dropped a level or two. "But … the transient room licenses …"

  No one said anything. They all knew where this topic would end up. Transient room licenses can get very sticky in Key West. They require City Commission approval, and each individual hotel room has to have one. There are always activists, both on and off the Commission, who oppose every single license as though the fate of all humanity depended on it.

  Whitney spoke: "Right now, we've got a three-three split on the Commission, with the mayor breaking the tie in our favor. We won't be ready for a vote for eight or nine months yet. Meanwhile, all six Commissioners are running for re-election in November against weak opposition, so the split will probably remain, but the mayor's termed out. He can't run anymore. My nephew Jason is going to run and I'm counting on your support, Mambo."

  The Original Mambo said, "Of course. We'll do everything we can." He puffed on his cigar.

  Mambo the Third finally spoke up. "What about opposition to any of the friendly Commissioners? What if someone else runs? I've heard talk."

  His grandfather nearly spit out his cigar smoke. With narrowed eyes, he said, "Opposition! There won't be any. And if there is, it won't amount to shit!" He turned to his wife. "Lisbeth. When do we eat?"

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  As the yellow-gold Trans Am pulled out of its spot and rolled down William Street, Mambo knew he was in deep trouble. He wished he was already home in bed, asleep. He felt it all through dinner, felt the shit deepening all around him, right to the very end of the flan, through the brandy, and all through the cigar-smoke session in the parlor where they examined the plans.

  Palmira looked over at him, but he stared straight out the windshield into the street. He glanced upward. A few high clouds had gathered in one spot, as if deliberately, to hide the moon on an otherwise clear night. Carlena slept soundly, curled up in the back seat.

  "So now I suppose there won't be any hospital?" she said, frost covering her voice.

  "Honey, no, it's not over. You saw what happened. I mentioned opposition in the elections and —"

  "And your Abuelo shut you up as if he'd put a bullet in your head." A slender, perfectly-manicured hand pushed a shock of hair back from her forehead.

  "He really doesn't like the idea of opposition," Mambo said. "He's pretending like there won't be any. And I couldn't say anything more after that."

  "What, you couldn't bring up the hospital later? Like two hours later in the parlor when you guys were going over the blueprints?"

  "You gotta understand how he is with stuff like this," Mambo said. "When you piss him off like that, you got to get back on his good side before you bring up another touchy subject, you know? Like a new hospital."

  "Get back on his good side? What the hell —"

  "I mean I had to make up for that stupid comment by making a few intelligent comments, you know? I couldn't just blurt out, 'Well okay, you don't want to talk about the elections. How about I bring up the hospital?' He'd've shut me up good and maybe even exc
luded me altogether from working on the deal. Is that what you want?"

  Palmira's voice rose, but only a little. "What I want is for that facility to get built and for Rolando to come down here and run it. Now what do you have to do to make that happen?"

  "Honey, listen. I'm only involved in this deal on a trial basis. If my grandfather doesn't think I can cut it, I'm out. You understand? I'm out!"

  "We can make a ton of money with that hospital, especially if Rolando's in charge."

  "And we'll make a ton of money without it," Mambo said, "with just hotels and restaurants leasing the buildings."

  Palmira struggled to keep her voice down to avoid waking Carlena. "Yes, by leasing. But Rolando knows how to generate cash through hospitals. And we don't have to divide it up with any hotel management company, either. Or with anybody else. We own the land, we own the building, we own the facility. We keep it all!"

  "I know, I know. But I have to be careful, is all. If I get cut out of this deal, we get nothing. Just remember that."

  "Look, you want to impress Abuelo? Sell him on the idea of the hospital. Let him know it's like a license to print money. Obamacare is going to act like a giant cash funnel into hospitals, once the insurance companies back out of it and the government starts picking up the tab for everybody. Do some research, for cryin' out loud. Find out what those places typically make. Sell it to him!"

  A few minutes later, when they arrived home, Mambo went straight to his laptop. After an hour or so of Googling and surfing, he had some basic information regarding hospitals both large and small, and a hazy idea of their cash flow patterns, but after the events of tonight, he couldn't digest the jumble of data and his eyelids grew heavy. He went to bed.