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

by Don Donovan

  "Because you're getting weak in the knees! And now you say you want a straight job?"

  I had to collect myself, so I rose from the chair and started pacing the small room. My mind went back to that night last weekend in Miami. There were three of them, all armed. Three guns I faced, all pointed at me, and not only did I walk away and leave the three of them dead, I didn't come unspooled. And now here was my own mother talking to me — throwing all this shit in my face ¾ and I was shriveling like a two-week-old Key lime.

  "Ma, you know I don't take this lightly. You know I love you and I —"

  "Oh, sure. You love me all right. You love me so much you come around to visit me every month or two when you have a minute, even though you only live right down there on Margaret Street."

  "Okay, this is going nowhere. I have to leave now." I picked up the chair and folded it back up. I leaned it against its familiar, worn spot on the wall and said, "So long, Ma. I'll keep you posted."

  I headed for the door and I heard her voice harping behind me, the usual shit about crime in our genes. I thought I could still hear her out in the street.

  Twilight was about to give way to darkness as I strolled back home, going back the same way I came and spitting every half block or so, trying to wash the bad taste out of my mouth.

  17

  Mambo

  Monday, July 4, 2011

  8:55 PM

  MAMBO AND PALMIRA WENT TO THE CASA MARINA HOTEL for the fireworks show. It's the biggest one in town and they go there almost every year. The Casa Marina is one of the oldest hotels on the island, built around a hundred years ago by Henry Flagler, the railroad big shot, when he was trying to sew up the entire East Coast transportation network. Did a pretty good job of it, too. Probably even left a trail of blood in his wake.

  Mambo always admired Flagler's moxie. Back then — it was, like, in the early 1900s — his trains ran from New York to Miami until, in a bold move, he extended the line all the way to Key West. A hundred and ten miles of track laid over mostly open water. His big idea: all his rich northern friends would ride down to Key West from New York on his train, stay in his grand deluxe Casa Marina Hotel, then get up the next morning and get on his ferry to Havana, where they would gamble in his casino. All tied up very nice and neat. He died before the hotel was completed, but so what?

  Mambo had to hand it to Flagler. He damn sure didn't harbor any ten-cent dreams.

  Come to think of it, he probably wasn't all that different from any of the gangsters today. He saw what he wanted and he took it. And you can be sure he didn't give two shits how he got it.

  They didn't call them "robber barons" for nothing.

  The hotel fronts the Atlantic beach on the south side of the island with plenty of room for the crowd and the fireworks display. Mambo and Palmira got there around quarter after eight and were headed through the beautiful wood-paneled lobby for their table when he spotted Logan and his girlfriend standing near the front desk, by the door to the patio restaurant.

  Logan saw them and detoured over to them where they made their mutual greetings. Mambo was nicely decked out by Key West standards: a Creamsicle-colored linen sport jacket over a dark green silk T-shirt. Palmira looked hot as usual, brown skin shining against a clinging, buttery yellow dress.

  "We're joining some other family members for dinner," Mambo said. He craned his neck to look at the outdoor restaurant. "They're there now." Logan started to lead Dorothy away when Mambo said to her, "But listen, Dorothy, can I borrow Logan here for just a second? I promise I'll have him back to you in no time." His big, white-toothed smile was one of his winning attributes, and Dorothy had always liked it.

  "Sure," she said. "Just don't get him too drunk."

  Mambo chuckled. "I won't."

  She said to Logan, "I'll go get our table."

  Mambo, Palmira, and Logan went out to the patio. Mambo seated Palmira at their table, a long one, suitable for about twelve people, and positioned perfectly for optimum viewing of the fireworks. Theirs were the last two empty seats. Everyone else was seated, chatting in Spanish, and sipping drinks. DeLimas all. Seated at a two-top off to one side was Big Felo and his girlfriend. At the head of the long table sat The Original Mambo. Wearing a pale blue, long-sleeved guayabera, he held sway over the entire table. Everyone's eyes, while not on him at all times, were never off him for long.

  Mambo the Third gestured and his grandfather saw him and Logan. After a hand signal that he would be with them shortly, The Original Mambo leaned over to his wife Lisbeth, a small, elegant lady seated in the first chair to his left, and said a few words. Then he rose from the table and gestured for young Mambo and Logan to follow him. They slipped through the crowd in the lobby and went outside. As they walked down the hotel's circular drive, Mambo the Third once again noticed how the old man showed almost no evidence of his near-fatal gunshot wound from last year. Bearing straight and upright, he walked briskly, forcing the two younger men to keep up.

  At the end of the drive and out of all earshot from valets and doormen, he stopped. He pulled a leather case from his pocket from which he extracted a Cohiba and went through the exact same sniffing and snipping ritual Mambo the Third had done the other night when he asked Logan to collect Trey Whitney's debt. Meanwhile, a Latin band on the beach behind the hotel churned out an infectious Cuban rhythm, sending it sailing over the rooftop to where they stood near the street. By the time it reached them, it was at a low volume, low enough to where they could speak softly.

  After setting the cigar aglow and taking a long, smooth puff, The Original Mambo turned to Logan and said, "Ease up on Trey Whitney."

  Logan said, "What? Ease up?"

  "You heard me. Back off him altogether."

  Logan looked to Mambo the Third for clarification. He shrugged and pointed back at his grandfather, who went on. "My grandson here can be a little shortsighted at times. You know? Missing the big picture? He sees a gambling debt and pulls out all the stops to collect it, without thinking about anything else."

  Mambo the Third hated it when his grandfather called him out like this in front of other people. Especially a nobody like Logan. Just a street guy who was only sent out to collect a debt.

  Logan swallowed, then said, "Well, sir, he did send me out to collect it and … and when Trey couldn't pay, I put him on a paym —"

  "I know what happened. I heard all about it from Win Whitney over lunch the other day. I heard you got a little rough with Trey when he stalled you on the money."

  Mambo didn't really know where this was going, but Logan gestured toward him and said, "Your grandson asked me to go collect the debt, so that was what I was trying to do. I was only doing as I was asked."

  Another puff, this one a big one. "But now I'm not asking, I'm telling you. Back off Trey Whitney."

  "And forget about collecting the money? For how long?"

  "Forever."

  Logan looked again to Mambo the Third for an explanation. Discomfort swirled around him, but finally he said, "If you read the papers, Logan, you know our family is about to go into a joint venture with the Whitneys. It involves redeveloping a couple of major pieces of property up in the area around North Roosevelt Boulevard. It also involves our buying into Trey's land development company."

  "¡Basta!" his grandfather said. "¡Él no necesita saber eso!"

  It was obvious Logan didn't understand what he said, but it was equally obvious he got the idea. Both Mambos clammed up.

  They all remained silent for a minute. A cool sea breeze swept around the structure of the hotel, taking the edge off the heat and blowing Mambo's cigar smoke away from his grandson's face. The energetic music kept coming, the unlikely soundtrack to this still-life place in time.

  Logan looked at the old man and said, "Just so I understand, you're willing to forget Trey Whitney's debt? The entire eighty-one Gs?"

  Mambo the Third cut in. "Logan, he said forget it. So that's what we do. We let it go."

  "My
grandson has already told you what everyone in town already knows. This deal with the Whitneys he was referring to? It's for a lot of money. Many millions, ¿me entendés? We're not going to let a gambling debt stand in the way."

  Logan said, "If you're willing to forget about Trey's eighty-one grand, willing to let it go by the boards, this has to be something of gigantic proportions, with a big payoff at the end of the line."

  Mambo couldn't believe this fucking hump was pushing this so hard with his grandfather. Why couldn't he keep his god damn mouth shut?

  "You're fucking right it is," the old man said. "Now are you clear on what I'm telling you? Lay off Trey Whitney."

  Logan nodded uneasily. "Yes, sir. I'm clear."

  Mambo the Third thought, Logan, you better be clear about this. We're moving into Flagler territory, my man. Big, big things. So stand aside, or you get run over, robber baron-style.

  The Original Mambo put the cigar between his index and middle fingers, then pointed it at his grandson and Logan. He said, "None of what we've said here leaves this sidewalk. You got it?"

  Mambo nodded. Logan said, "I got it."

  He tossed the Cohiba into the gutter and they followed him back inside the hotel.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The fireworks were what everyone expected them to be: flashy, sprawling, and with a big, impressive finish, inspiring plenty of oohs and aahs and rousing applause at the end. The entire DeLima table clapped heartily when it was all over, and the band belted out a hot salsa tune to get everyone out of their seats. People streamed onto the patio to dance away the rest of the evening under starry skies and the refreshing ocean breeze. Palmira and Lisbeth excused themselves to go to the ladies' room, and Mambo the Third, seated to his grandfather's right, and seeing the old man was having a good time, seized the opportunity.

  "Abuelo, I need to speak with you for a moment."

  "Sí, mi nieto. What is on your mind?" He lit a cigar and puffed it into existence.

  "I want to take another look at putting a hospital facility into the North Roosevelt redevelopment."

  A couple of more puffs. Big ones. He was thinking.

  "We talked about this before, ¿sí o no? I thought we decided it was too far from the main hospital. Not worth the effort."

  "Yes, we did talk about it, but not — not in real depth. I've been doing a lot of research and I'm certain it can be very beneficial to us. Beneficial to everyone concerned."

  The Original Mambo shifted in his chair to face his grandson directly. He flicked the sizable ash on his cigar and said, "Okay. I'm listening."

  Mambo the Third went into his spiel. It was a carefully-crafted pitch for a small facility, emphasizing the profitability, which would largely accrue to the family. Central to this plan was the absence of an emergency room, which is a monetary drain on every hospital. He covered all the bases, and wrapped it up by saying, "And Rolando should come down here to run it."

  His grandfather smiled. "Ahh, keeping it in the family. I like that."

  "Not just because he's family," Mambo the Third said. "But because he's the right man for it. He's doing a great job up at Tampa General, but he wants to come home. It would truly make it a DeLima hospital. All ours."

  "Ours and Whitney's," The Original Mambo corrected with an upraised index finger.

  "Well, yes. But, but you know what I mean."

  "I know that Win Whitney is going to have to get on board with this. Do you think he will?"

  "I don't know him that well, Abuelo. Do you think he will?"

  Another puff on the Cohiba. "I will speak to him. Now I have another matter to take up with you."

  "What is it?"

  "This … this Logan. He didn't seem too happy about forgiving the Trey Whitney debt."

  "Oh, don't worry about him," Mambo the Third said. "I'll take care of him. Besides, you heard him say he was clear about the whole thing, that we let Trey go, right? You heard him?"

  "I heard him. But did you see his eyes? That's where the truth resides, mi nieto. In the eyes. And his told me he wasn't too happy with the idea. Like it was his fucking money."

  "I promised him a few points if he collected it. He's probably upset that the debt is cancelled, which means he loses his points."

  "Damn right he loses them! You make sure he understands that. That brings me to something I've been wanting to tell you for a while now. You must listen to me very carefully. If you're going to be part of this project — and I do want you to be part of it — you will have to wind down your gambling activities."

  "Wind down …"

  "You heard me. Wind them down. To nothing. Our family must get out of that business."

  "But we've run the sports betting and the bolita here on the island for many, many years."

  "Yes, we have. It was my grandfather who really consolidated everything for us, especially the bolita. You know he started that over a hundred years ago? And we've made a lot of money from it ever since. But what you must understand, what you must … must … comprender … is the size, the scope of this redevelopment project. We will have no room for petty shit like local gambling. This is our chance to go completely legitimate for all time, forever. Beyond the suspicions of the law. Between us and the Whitneys, Key West will be completely ours forever. And legally! You must understand the importance of that."

  Mambo understood. You can bet on that. Since he was a little boy, he had heard only two things talked about among his elders with any amount of passion: setting up an operation in Cuba when it opens up, and the day this North Roosevelt redevelopment might become reality. They'd been working on the Cuba situation since the sixties, and they were now positioned to move right in and make a ton of money when the Beard said his final adiós.

  But this redevelopment deal? That was always just beyond their grasp — that is, until the Whitneys entered the picture with their links to mammoth funding. The two families never collaborated on very much, preferring instead to consolidate their own positions on the island. But when it was pointed out to the Whitneys that they could rake in tens of millions of dollars on this deal, naturally, they were in.

  The thing was, though, Mambo liked all the gambling. He liked providing the betting lines and booking the bets. He liked collecting on a sucker game like the bolita. He liked the instant cash it provided. He liked what that cash would buy. His car, for instance. He loved that car. That Trans Am brought him so much happiness — about as much, he figured, as any inanimate object could bring a man.

  He liked the power he had over dickheads like Kiki, and he liked bringing them into line. He liked the fear and respect he got from every grifter and outlaw on the island. He especially liked getting a piece of all their scores, just like his Abuelo did for decades before him. Giving all that up was asking a lot.

  His grandfather said, "I don't want to hear any more about this, ¿me entendés? Logan falls in line or else. We've got too much at stake here to be fucking around with a nobody like him. And you. Get rid of the gambling."

  "Sí, Abuelo. Te entiendo." The ladies returned and the men smiled and stood, pulling chairs out for them.

  18

  Silvana

  Tuesday, July 5, 2011

  3:15 AM

  THE WESTERN EDGE OF LITTLE HAVANA slumbered, waiting for morning to break when Silvana turned down Southwest 31st Avenue. The Ford Fusion ran like it was supposed to, smooth, quiet, and most importantly, oh so coooool, man. This far inland, ocean breezes largely disappeared and humidity took over, intensifying the feeling of everything, even at this hour of the night. This was high summer in Miami, and those who weren't up to it had better leave. Or find a reliable source of air conditioning.

  Somewhere around Southwest 11th Street, she pulled over in front of a clean, two-story stucco apartment building. She parked in the bus zone and got out. Stepping out into the dark, silent street, she thought to herself, I've always liked this area. Quiet, friendly. Not much traffic. Maybe one day, I'll move out here, get m
e a little house.

  She aimed at a unit on the first floor, a quick walk, and when she got there, she used her patented cop thud with the side of her fist to announce her presence.

  After a few more thuds, the peephole turned dark — he was no doubt looking through from the inside — then the door opened. Bobby Vargas stood there scratching himself in his underwear.

  "Fuck, is it that time already?" His voice was sandpaper.

  Silvana said, "Come on, partner. Suit up. It's almost daylight."

  "Daylight?" he cried. "Fuck me! It's the middle of the night." A big, big yawn and a bigger stretch.

  "Come on, it's three-fifteen. You're supposed to be ready."

  "Awright. Gimme a minute." He motioned her inside and staggered to the bathroom. Silvana entered the small living room. She took the liberty of turning on the lamp, and then took a seat on the couch. From there, she could see the majority of the apartment: sparse furniture, huge TV, counter dividing the living room from the kitchen. Everything was remarkably clean, as it had been on the few other occasions she'd been here. This was the first time, though, that she'd had an opportunity to have a good look at it.

  Along one wall, she saw a bookcase containing delicate porcelain figurines of various small animals. There were also a couple of dozen books. This surprised her. Vargas did not seem the animal figurine type, nor did she know him to be much of a reader. Funny how you can be partners with a guy, trust him with your very life, and not know a little thing like that about him, whether or not he reads.

  She walked over and checked out the titles. Mostly dog-eared cop thrillers in paperback, showing they'd been read thoroughly. Then there were some bizarre ringers in there: The DaVinci Code, A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, and Moby-Dick. The name Moby-Dick rang a bell somewhere, but she didn't know exactly what it was about. She'd never heard of the others. Of the cop books, Michael Connelly's name jogged her memory, something to do with a detective in LA, she thought. Just as she was thumbing through one called 9 Dragons, Vargas returned, all cleaned up, alert, and ready to rock & roll.