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

by Don Donovan

  "How much was it?" Vargas asked.

  "With the vig, two hundred K."

  Silvana looked straight at Vargas. They both exhaled in unison. Vargas's jaw dropped a little and he took on the deer-in-the-headlights gaze. But he quickly snapped back to reality. Silvana kept her arm around the kid's shoulder.

  "Okay, Lexi," she said in the softest tone she could muster. "What the fuck was that dickhead Chicho doing with two hundred large? Where'd he come up with that kind of dough? And why was Maxie carrying him for that much?"

  "Look, Machado," Yolexis replied. "I don't think I —"

  "Sergeant Machado," she corrected, wagging an index finger at the kid and slapping him for good measure.

  "Sergeant Machado. I shouldn't be talkin' this much to you guys. I could get in a lotta trouble." He swiveled his head again, back and forth from one cop to the other.

  "You'll be in a lot of trouble if you don't talk to us, kid," Vargas told him. "A whole lot of trouble."

  The two cops moved in closer to Yolexis and he fidgeted at this invasion of his space. The sweat, which had subsided after the initial beating ended, was now back. Silvana noticed his face glistening in the light pouring in through the window. It upped his body odor. She hated the disgusting smell, but pushed ahead. "Tell us, Lexi. Why was Maxie carrying Chicho for that kind of money?"

  "He — he — I — I don't — come on, Sergeant. Please. Don't make me do this."

  Silvana remained calm. She pointed at Vargas. "You see Bobby there, Lexi? He would love nothing better than to knock every one of your teeth out of your mouth. Right now, I'm talking about. Every one of them. And you know why? Do you? Do you know why?" Yolexis showed his nerves when he shook his head. "Because he hates two-bit punks like you who think they're hot shit after they steal some old lady's purse or knock over a Seven-Eleven for eighty bucks."

  "Hey, I don't do that shit. I —"

  "Shut up," Silvana said. "It doesn't matter. He'll knock your fucking teeth out, you know, out of general principle. 'Cause that's what he does. Now why don't you be a good boy and tell us everything. From start to finish. And save your teeth while you're at it."

  Yolexis drew a deep breath. "Okay," he said. "But you don't bust me, right?"

  "That's right, kid," Silvana said. "We don't bust you. You got our word."

  "Okay." He took another breath. "Chicho started out bettin' small with Maxie. You know, twenty here, fifty there. He didn't win very often, but when he lost, he always paid right away. Pretty soon, Maxie, he let him bet more, like a hundred or two on each game, you know? And he paid that back, too."

  "Where'd Chicho get the money to pay him?"

  "Aw, he was stealin' shit, you know, like car stereos and shit. Robbin' people on the street. Sometimes he'd find laptops in cars and take those. He did all right for a while. Sell that shit and pay Maxie off. That way, Maxie let him up his bets."

  "All the way to two hundred grand?"

  Yolexis scratched his underarm and sniffled. Sounded to Silvana like the beginnings of a cold. He said, "He got up to a thousand a game, even five thousand a game. He still paid off."

  "How the fuck did that asshole manage that?" Silvana asked.

  "He went from car stereos to stealin' the whole fuckin' car, man. But after a while, he landed a spot in a crew from Key West. They needed a local guy 'cause they pulled all their jobs up here. Here and in Broward. Palm Beach, too, I think. They were haulin' in some pretty good shit, or so I heard. Anyway, Chicho always had the money to pay Maxie. Ten K, twenty, you know. All from those scores."

  "So?"

  "So Maxie, he figures why not let him bet more, you know what I'm sayin'? The pendejo was losing, so the more he bets the more he's gonna lose, right? Besides, he was good for it. He made good every time."

  "And before Maxie knew what was happening," Silvana said, "Chicho was into him for two hundred grand."

  "Right."

  "Where'd he get it?"

  "When I went there to collect Friday night, he was stoned out of his mind. He started braggin' about how him and his Key West crew took down some big score earlier that day. He was blabbin' his ass off, you know? Said it was the biggest thing they'd ever done. I think he said it was a bank, but I'm not sure. He was kind of out of it, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  Silvana said, "His end was two hundred large?" She remembered hearing about a bank in Miramar that was knocked over on Friday. She couldn't think of another one in the area, not any day for the last week. But she thought she heard that Miramar job was only good for two or three hundred thousand. She made a mental note to check it out.

  "I don't know. I guess so," Yolexis said.

  "And you and your sidekick brought the dough back to Maxie?"

  "Right."

  "Where'd you take it?"

  "You mean —"

  "I mean, exactly where did you bring it?" Silvana said. "Where was Maxie at that hour?"

  "Honey Buns. It's a strip club up in Hialeah. Red Road and 68th Street."

  "I know where it is."

  "But listen, I didn't hear about Chicho gettin' smoked till the next day. Everybody on the street was buzzin'. I swear I didn't have nothin' to do with it. I'm tellin' you."

  "I believe you, Lexi. Don't worry about it. But tell me, now. Who were these Key West guys? He give you any names?"

  "No. Nada. I don't know who they are. I swear."

  "What about your partner? He know who they are?"

  "I don't know," Yolexis replied. "He knew Chicho pretty good, though. Better than me. They used to hang out sometimes, you know? So maybe …"

  "Okay, kid. We're almost done here. Tell us where we can find your buddy, uh, what's his name again?"

  "Flaco."

  "Yeah, Flaco. Where's he usually turn up?"

  "You can generally find him every day — wait a minute, now. He's not gonna be in trouble, is he?"

  "No, no. Don't worry about it. We just want to talk to him about Chicho. Just like we're talkin' with you. We're not gonna bust him for anything."

  "You sure you not gonna bust him?"

  "I'm sure. Now, where do we find him and how will we know him?"

  "He usually hangs out at the 305. It's a poolroom right off West Flagler on Sixteenth Avenue. Not far from Marlins Park. He hustles nine-ball games in there every day."

  "And how do we know him?"

  Yolexis chuckled. "Flaco, man. Whatsa matter, Sergeant? You been hangin' around the gringos so long you forgot your Spanish? It means skinny." He chuckled again. "You stand that dude next to one of those pool cues, he looks like the number eleven."

  From outside, a loud truck interrupted their quiet talk. From the chugging, gurgling sounds, Silvana made it to be the trash collection. She recalled all the cans out front and knew the truck would be there a while.

  Raising her voice to be heard over the truck, she said, "The 305 poolroom. Sixteenth off Flagler."

  "Yeah. But hey, I don't want him knowin' I talked to you guys, okay?"

  "Oh, no problem," Vargas said. "We won't tell him."

  "That's right, Lexi," Silvana said. "We won't breathe a word about our little talk here today. But …" She drilled him with her eyes, which turned mean in an instant. "But … we don't want you telling him either. As in warning him we're coming."

  Yolexis smiled. "Oh, don't worry 'bout that, Sergeant. I won't tell him. You can count on me."

  Silvana didn't say anything right away. She patted him on the shoulder one more time, then stood up. Vargas followed. "I know," she said. "I know you'll keep your mouth shut. Now, how much did Maxie, how much did he give you for making this collection?"

  "H-how much?" He stood up.

  "Yeah. How much? How much did you get?" She led him by the arm to the center of the room.

  "Well, he gave us fifteen hundred. I kept a grand, you know, and gave Flaco five yards."

  "Give." Silvana held her hand out, palm up.

  "Give? Gi-give you th —"

 
A quick slap across the face. "That's right, Yolexis. Give me the money. One thousand dollars."

  Sweat rolled down his face and onto his shirt. He went to the couch and reached underneath it into a tear in the framework. His hand came out with the money, all crisp hundreds, all there. Silvana took it and put it in her pocket.

  "Hey! I was savin' that for —"

  "Gimme your cellphone," she said.

  "My cellphone?"

  "Sergeant Machado, I —"

  "The fucking cellphone, Lexi. Now!"

  Vargas moved in, fury in his eyes, ready to throw another hard body shot. Yolexis backed up. "Okay, okay, okay. Here it is, okay?"

  Silvana took the gadget and slipped it into her pocket alongside the wad of bills. She bent down, pretending to tie her shoelace. Instead, she retrieved her throwdown .38 from her ankle holster and stood up, pointing it at Yolexis. The kid didn't have time to realize what was happening as Silvana put two in his head. Outside, the truck continued its loud crunching of garbage.

  She wiped the gun down and set it on the floor. "Now I know you'll keep your mouth shut," she said.

  9

  Silvana

  Monday, June 27, 2011

  12:35 PM

  THE DRIVE TO THE 305 was mercifully short. The Malibu's AC had quit working altogether and the cops' breathing became audible and labored. Air flowing in from the open windows made it a little easier, but no cooler. They cursed out loud, feeling the big temptation to abandon the car altogether and take cabs everywhere. Bill it to the fucking motor pool. Bill it to fucking Venuti. Make him drag his fat ass over here and pick it up. See how he likes driving it.

  "The way it reads," Silvana said, "is just how the kid told it. He and his buddy pick up the dough and head out for Hialeah and Maxie Méndez. Forty-five minutes later, someone else comes in and blows the three vics away."

  "You think Maxie might've done it?" asked Vargas. "Maybe he was tired of Chicho's shit."

  Silvana shook her head. "I don't think so. Maxie wouldn't waste Chicho if he's losing and paying that kind of money to him." She grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the seat and wiped sweat from her forehead, especially around her eyebrows. "No, I think it was related to the big job they pulled. In fact, I'm almost positive." She allowed herself a smile.

  "How?"

  "Check it out, Bobby. Chicho brags to Yolexis about a bank score he just made with his crew from the Keys, right? He hands Yolexis two hundred K, which had to come from that score, right? I mean, where else is that motherfucker gonna come up with that kind of dough?"

  "Okay, it was from the score," Vargas said. "So what?"

  "So this. The only big bank job happening on Friday that I know about was the one in Miramar, and if I remember it right, I heard they got somewhere around three hundred grand from it. Now, we'll have to double-check that with Robbery, make sure there weren't any other banks taken down that day, Friday, or maybe Wednesday or Thursday, but I don't think there were."

  "And what if it was the only one?"

  "Well …" Silvana looked over at Vargas with a smile, one that came when she knew she hit on the right conclusion, "the crew takes down three hundred large, and that night Chicho pays off two hundred large to Maxie. You don't really think that was his legitimate end of the take, do you? You don't think they'd give that piece of shit a two-thirds share?"

  Vargas caught on. "So Chicho might've hijacked the entire haul! And … and …"

  "And the boys from Key West came up here to get it. Only they got here forty-five minutes too late."

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Silvana pulled into a loading zone directly in front of the shabby pool hall and they got out. She looked the place over. It was a rattrap from top to bottom. The windows were covered with grime, a grayish kind of grime, the kind that takes decades to form. The kind that won't come off no matter how much Windex or elbow grease you put to it. From the sidewalk, she couldn't see the inside too clearly, but she made out shadowy human forms, some circling tables or hunched over them, others standing with their cues upright in front of them.

  As she opened the door, the scene in The Color Of Money drifted into her memory, the one she saw on TV a few years back where Paul Newman and Tom Cruise were going into a similar type of low-grade joint to hustle up a game. Cruise asked Newman how he rated the place on a scale of one to ten. "Ten," Newman replied without hesitation. Silvana figured he would likely give this place a similar rating.

  First thing she noticed, the AC was working — well, "working" might be an overstatement, since it was warm and everyone looked like they were sweating. But even though the unit made loud, dubious noises through the vents, it still represented about an eight to ten-degree drop in temperature, and it was inside, away from the brutality of the avenging sun. Relief? You take it where you can get it.

  The no-smoking tidal wave hadn't yet hit this place. Almost everyone in the joint — and she counted about a dozen — had cigarettes going and the smoky fog saturated the whole room. There was even the annoying hint of a cigar somewhere, though she couldn't tell just where yet. The whole joint was a monument to smoke and dust. The only thing missing was mud.

  One thing was certain: she and Vargas attracted a lot of attention just by walking in the door. It was pretty plain by the way they were dressed they weren't looking to hustle up a game of nine-ball.

  Silvana looked hard around the dimly-lit room. Five tables and a bar with a TV. Two tables occupied, money sitting on the rail of each. Various other losers stood around for no good reason. Nobody at the bar, the bartender working the TV remote. Through the smoke, Silvana saw what she wanted in the rear of the room, leaning against a cue rack, playing with his cellphone, oblivious to everything.

  "Skinny" was hardly the word to describe Flaco. He looked like he'd have to try hard to coax the scale up to a hundred and ten pounds. His ultra-dark skin and Latino facial features told of Cuban-black parentage. He stood a few inches taller than either cop, and his shaved head made him look like he was about twelve years old. To Silvana's practiced eye, however, he looked more like early twenties. Twenty-two, twenty-three, somewhere around there. Even so, she had a hard time imagining this punk as any kind of serious "backup", as Yolexis put it, in a situation involving guns and money. What this kid needed was a few good fucking meals.

  "Flaco," she said. The kid looked up from his phone. Silvana noticed some kind of video game setup on the screen.

  "Who the fuck are you?" Flaco asked through a sneer. Silvana figured him to have practiced long hours in front of a mirror for just such an occasion. You know, getting all the lip-curling just right and the tone of voice squarely in the fuck-you range.

  Silvana grabbed his arm and dragged him into the corner. "Police officers, asshole. And we want to talk to you. Let's go outside."

  "Hey, fuck you! I ain't goin' outside wit' you! Lemme see your badges!"

  Vargas slammed the heel of his shoe down on Flaco's Air Jordan. He ground the point of his heel in, hard. "Fuck the badges, fuckhead," he hissed. Flaco yelped in pain. "And you're comin' with us now." More grinding, and the kid caved.

  "Awright, awright!" he cried. "Outside." He head-gestured toward the back door.

  They slipped out into the narrow alley, guiding Flaco's limping figure. Garbage was all over the place — rotting pizza slices, a few empties of cheap wine and forties, Mickey D bags, even a hypo or two. Silvana held her nose at the pile of human shit a few steps away. Just beyond it was the probable source, a wino sleeping on the pavement, facing the building. Or maybe he was dead.

  Silvana threw Flaco against the building. He grunted in pain.

  "We want to know what you know about Chicho Segura."

  "I don't know nobody by that na —"

  Vargas landed a left hook to the kidney. Flaco yowled.

  "One more time," said Silvana, knowing the kid was required to disavow all knowledge — at first, anyway — of whatever they wanted. "What do you know about Chicho Segura? O
r do you want to piss blood for the next two weeks?"

  "He's — he's dead."

  Vargas landed one flush on the kid's nose. Blood spurted out all over his sport coat. Flaco's head whipped back against the brick wall of the building. His shoulders dropped and his knees buckled momentarily.

  "Don't get smart with us," Vargas said. "Tell us what you know or I'm gonna open up your fuckin' head."

  "Awright! Okay! I'll tell you!"

  Silvana said, "Go ahead. And I'll tell you right now that we know you were in that house in Little Havana right before he got clipped."

  Flaco swallowed. He tried to settle himself down. "Chicho was an okay dude. A street guy, you know what I'm sayin'? Never took no shit, not from anyone."

  Silvana moved between Flaco and Vargas, serving as a barrier from Vargas's itchy fists. "How long did you know him?"

  "About two, maybe three years. Somethin' like that."

  "Where did you meet him? Tell us all about it. And about him."

  "I was working in Yayo Dávila's crew. Makin' pickups, collections and all."

  Silvana stared at this kid in disbelief. How the fuck this punk could ever make any kind of collection, with its unspoken threat of force, was completely beyond her imagination. Especially in a crew as tough as that of Yayo Dávila. "And …?"

  Flaco continued. "And one night, I hadda get rough with this guy, a guy who owned this bar over in Miami Springs. His envelope was light, you know what I'm sayin?"

  "You got rough with him?" Silvana asked with a not-quite-there shake of the head.

  Flaco picked up on it. "Yeah. I know it don't look like it, me bein' so skinny and everything. But I can take care of myself pretty good, you know what I'm sayin'? I mean, y'all are cops, so I'm goin' along here, but anybody else that gets in my face like you just did? They better guard their grill."

  "Okay," Silvana said. "You got rough with him."

  "Yeah. I shove the guy around a little bit and he eventually comes up with the rest of the jack he was holdin' back. I turn to leave the joint, and there's Chicho sittin' there on a barstool. He's like, 'Yo, dog. What's your name?' and I'm like, 'Who wants ta know?' So we start talkin' and shootin' the shit, you know what I'm sayin'? He buys me a drink and then I buy him one. Next thing you know, we're friends."