by Don Donovan
My mother.
"Where have you been?" she said. "I tried all last night to call you."
I wasn't going to say in front of Ortega that I had my phone shut off all last night. Instead, I said, "Ma, I have to call you back. I'm in the middle of something here."
"Oh, sure! Just blow me off like I'm some worthless street bum. Who am I, anyway? Only your mother. Nobody important."
"I'll call you back." I ended the call and set the phone back on the table.
Ortega turned around in disgust, leaving me standing against the wall. I thought it was all over, but his partner spoke up.
"You own a gun?" he asked.
"No."
"You ever own a gun?"
"No."
"How about a big-bladed knife? You own one of those?"
"No. No knives. Just kitchen knives." I gestured toward the kitchen, half-hoping they'd go out there and search it. They didn't take the bait. So I looked back at Ortega and said, "Look, Lieutenant, why are you doing all this, getting in my face like this? I mean, sure, I'll admit Morgan and Stanley gave me a pretty good trimming, but they're not the only guys who've ever hit me in a fight. I didn't want to kill them because of it."
Ortega straightened his guayabera and readjusted his shoulder holster. "According to what I heard, they laid it on you pretty hard that day. Might've gotten you really pissed off at them. And at Trey."
"Of course I was pissed. You would be, too, you take a beating like that from those fucking apes." I really didn't want him to start thinking of me in connection with Trey's death. Right now, he had Sharma for that one, and I was willing to let it stay that way. So I said, "And what was my supposed motive for killing the girl?"
"You were squeezing her for a dime a week in return for getting her that job at the Wild Thing."
Unbelievable how you can't keep anything private in this fucking town.
"I did her a favor and she was paying me back. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. Except Trey Whitney was fucking her and wanted you to lay off her. Usually, when the Whitneys want somebody to leave one of their women alone, that somebody does it. That's what the dustup was about in Duval Square with Morgan and Stanley."
"I won't deny any of that. But it wasn't a crime, and it damn sure doesn't make me a murderer."
He said, "Not yet it doesn't." Then he wagged an index finger in my face and said, "But don't get too comfortable." He gestured to O'Neil and they headed for the door.
"Look," I said. "You're barking up the wrong tree here, Lieutenant. You really are. You've known me a long time and you know I've never been mixed up in anything like this."
His hand was on the doorknob. "Yeah, I've known you a while, Logan," he said. "And I know you live outside the law. Have been for years. I also know I've never been able to get anything on you, no proof. So as far as I'm concerned, you could be guilty of anything, including murder. You're staying at the top of my list for this one until I believe otherwise."
Neither one of them looked at me as they walked out, without closing the door behind them.
34
Logan
Monday, July 18, 2011
8:35 AM
MY MOTHER ANSWERED THE PHONE on the first ring. I poured some milk into my shredded wheat.
"Well, I'm glad you found the time to call me back. I know you must be real busy."
"Ma, I had people over here, and it was important. I couldn't talk then."
"And you don't think your own Mother is important? Like I might not have anything worthwhile to say?"
I took a seat at the kitchen table. I needed to get off my feet. "Okay, Ma. They just left. So what's on your mind?"
"Monday morning, you're still at home, not working. I take it that means you didn't get that tree-trimming job?"
"Is this why you called?" I asked. "To rag on me about not working?"
"Well, did you get the job or didn't you?"
I let out a long exhale. "Not yet. It's in the works, all right? Now why did you call?"
Some, but not all, of the smartass tone left her voice. She said, "I hope you get that job soon. I have a favor to ask."
A favor. That meant only one thing. "How much this time, Ma?"
"Oh, cut the shit, will you? You'd think I was asking you to chop off your arm or something. I just need a little boost to set me up in a deal I've got working."
"Right. A deal." I could only imagine the type of grift she had simmering on her front burner.
"Hey," she said. "I can tell you this much — it's better than anything you've got going right now. If I can get this up and running, I'll have a steady income for quite a while. Finally be able to relax a little."
"How much?"
"It's not much. Just enough to spark this deal. It's going to —"
"How much?" I put a spoonful of cereal to my mouth.
She paused. It made the dramatic point she was aiming for. "Only thirty thousand."
I swallowed the cereal. Thirty dimes. A big, big chunk of the dough I took off Chicho up in Miami. My full share plus part of the expense money I fronted. The dough I damn near got killed over.
"Ma, thirty thousand. That's not chump change. That's a pretty big —"
"Don't tell me you don't have it. I know how you live. You and that fat pig. You're not starving."
"No, we're not starving, but that doesn't mean I can just fork over thir —"
"Listen, if I can get into this thing in time, I stand to make fifteen or twenty times that much. I'm talking major money here. But damn it, I need the startup cash."
My shoulders sagged and I suppressed a loud sigh. "That's a lot of goddamn money, thirty grand."
She kicked her voice upward a notch. "You must really hate me, you know? Your own mother. Tell me, what have I done to make you hate me like this? What have I done?"
"Ma, I don't hate you. I —"
"Go on. Tell me! What have I done?"
I sighed and pushed the cereal bowl away from me.
"What do you want it for?"
"I told you. It's intro money for a big deal I'm involved in."
I said, "What kind of deal?"
"It doesn't matter what kind of deal. What's the difference? Is one kind better than another?"
"I just want to know what you're going to do with the money, is all."
She said, "I'm going to invest it. You know, as in, for my future."
There was no reasoning with her when she got like this. You know, you can't bring her down to earth to talk in specifics. It's always about the majesty of the deal, how it's oh, so fucking important. How talking about the details would only cheapen it, maybe even endanger it. How it's going to put an end to all her problems and change the fucking world as we know it. How the Promised Land is waiting for her in all its heavenly glory, just around the corner, if only she could scrape up a little cash, like thirty dimes.
Except this cash represented … well, it represented the very lives of Chicho and shotgun man and … and that sixteen-year-old girl. The dough I went to Miami to get. The dough that girl died for, and it wasn't even hers. She probably never would have seen any of it.
I heard a beep on the line. My other line. I looked at the screen. Mambo calling.
"Hold on, Ma. I've got another call."
"Oh, sure. Just hang up on me whenever —"
"Mambo," I said after clicking over to his call. "What's up?"
"Hey, Logan. Can you come over this morning before we open up? Something we need to talk about."
"Sure. I can be there in about a half an hour."
"Good."
Clicking back to my Mother. I didn't want all this endless arguing and bullshit.
"Okay, Ma. You win. I'll bring the money by in a few minutes."
"Well, what do you know about that! My son has come to his senses. Looks like he cares for his mother, after all."
"Yes, I care, Ma. I always have."
And I supposed I always would.
> 35
Mambo
Monday, July 18, 2011
9:05 AM
MAMBO WAS CHECKING IN A LIQUOR DELIVERY when Logan arrived. Boxes were piled on the floor, all bearing familiar names: Stoli, Captain Morgan, Bacardi. The delivery driver stood by while Mambo took every bottle out of every box.
You had to make sure they were the bottles that were supposed to be in that box and that they hadn't been opened. You don't check, one of these fucking drivers will damn sure slip in a bottle of some bullshit well vodka inside a Grey Goose box and grab the Goose for himself.
Bottle by bottle, box by box, he checked them off against the invoice. Big Felo stood off to one side, just in case.
Mambo shot a single nod Logan's way. "I'll just be a few more minutes."
Logan took a seat at the bar. Mambo pointed at him and told the bartender, "Eduardo. Una cerveza." Eduardo popped Logan a beer and he settled in to drink it. The sound system played an energetic salsa tune at very low volume. The TVs were off.
Even though there were no customers at this hour, the odor of smoke hung in the air, a permanent feature. Normally, nonsmoking civilians would bitch to high heaven about it as soon as they walked in the door. If they stayed, which not many did after getting a lungful of smoke, they got no service. Eventually, they got tired of sitting around and left. Grifters only in Mambo's. That's how it had always been and how it probably always would be. His grandfather had seen to it, and he carried on the tradition with pride.
Kitchen noises made their way out to the bar. Clanging pots and pans, along with excited talk in Spanish among the cooks. The first traces of savory aromas seeped out, telling Mambo the black beans and yellow rice preparations were well under way. He felt pangs in his stomach.
He soon finished checking the bottles, then signed the invoice and sent the driver on his way. The bartender started stocking the liquor and Mambo motioned for Logan to follow him back to his office. Big Felo walked behind them.
Mambo pointed to one of the two chairs facing his desk. As soon as Logan sat down, he realized he was sitting directly under an air conditioning vent. Cold air blew right on his neck. Mambo noticed his discomfort.
"Too cold?" he asked.
"A little."
He gestured to Felo, who dutifully turned the thermostat up a degree or two. Things warmed up a shade and Logan appeared to relax.
Mambo sat in his big swivel chair and offered Logan a Cohiba cigar. He declined, but Mambo took one for himself, beginning his routine of sniffing and tip-snipping. When he finally had the thing lit, he leaned back in his chair. It tilted backward under his weight. He drew a long pull on the Cohiba, and let the smoke out slowly, forming a wispy line that reached for the ceiling. Logan continued sipping his beer.
Mambo crossed his legs and said, "You heard about what happened last night?"
Logan nodded. "Ortega came by to see me this morning. Busted right in. Thinks I had something to do with it."
"Well, did you?" His voice was level.
"Fuck, no."
"You sure?"
Logan maintained his posture in the chair. He looked loose and confident.
"Of course I'm sure," he said. "According to Ortega, it was a horror show, lots of blood. You know I don't go in for that shit."
"You went in for it in Miami a few weeks ago."
"That was self-defense, Mambo. What is this, anyway? What's with the third degree?"
Another puff on the cigar. Another thin trail of smoke. Then he said, "First Trey Whitney gets it. Then his girlfriend and his muscle. All within twenty-four hours. And who benefits?"
The salsa music didn't make it back here to the office. There was only the light hum of the air conditioner right above Logan, which had kicked in again. He angled for a different position, one out of the direct draft.
"Hmph. Not me," he said. "That's for damn sure. I was collecting a dime a week from the stripper. You think I want to kill that golden egg-laying goose?"
Mambo checked him out closely. "Did you know her throat was cut? And Morgan took a stab wound to the heart?"
"No, I didn't know that, but you know I don't use a knife."
He said, "No, but you do use a .45 semiauto. Stanley took two of those slugs in the chest."
Logan turned his head in both directions, pretending to be looking around the room. "What, is Ortega hiding around here or something? Trying to get me to confess? Is that what this is about?"
"Look, Logan. Frankly, I don't give a shit if you did it or not. I don't give two shits about the stripper and the world is far better off without Morgan and Stanley. So it's not like one of my family got smoked."
"So I ask you again. Why the third degree?"
He set his cigar down and allowed himself a little smile. "Just making sure is all. Looks like there were two killers, anyway. Gun and a knife."
"But what's the bigger picture here? I get the feeling this incident strikes you in some way."
Mambo noticed the cooking aromas finding their way back into the office. Pangs getting louder. "You recall that night outside the Casa Marina with my grandfather — Fourth of July, I think it was — when we told you about the deal we've got cooking with the Whitneys along a big stretch of North Roosevelt Boulevard?" Logan said he remembered, and Mambo added, "This could fuck it up, big time."
"What, the stripper getting it? Morgan and Stanley? What did they all have to do with it?"
The cigar had lost its light from sitting in the big tray. Mambo flicked the ash and held his gold lighter the proper distance under it, slowly spinning it between his lips to catch the flame evenly. It caught and Mambo was pleased again, drawing the Cohiba taste into his mouth.
He looked at Logan and said, "Nothing, really. They had nothing to do with the deal. But coming on the heels of Trey's death, it throws a cloud over everything. Win Whitney lost his son and now some serious muscle, all in short order. He might well think he's next. As if my family was behind it all."
"You think he really thinks that?"
"I don't know yet," Mambo said. "My grandfather's going to meet with him tomorrow morning at the Dean-Lopez Funeral Home. Nine AM."
"Well, is there anything I can do?" Logan slid his chair over about six inches, finally escaping the cold, direct blow of the AC.
"I want you to go with my grandfather tomorrow. Just in case."
"In case of what?"
"In case the Whitneys get carried away in their moment of grief and try to pull any shit on him."
Not hiding his surprise, Logan said, "Are you expecting trouble?"
Mambo's voice stayed low and under control. "No, not really. But Morgan and Stanley's younger brother is coming down from Marathon to attend the funeral on Wednesday."
"Younger brother? I didn't know they had a brother. In fact, I didn't even know until this morning that they were brothers to begin with, when Ortega told me."
"Yeah, it wasn't really well known. But their younger brother — Chase is his name — is cut from the same cloth. Extremely violent, extremely badass. If he shows up at the funeral home tomorrow morning, I don't want my grandfather going in there unprotected. Got it?"
Logan told him he got it. Then he raised his eyebrows and glanced over at Big Felo, whose icy stare gripped him for a second. "What about Felo here?"
Mambo shook his head. "He stays with me. I need you to go to the funeral home with my grandfather. Pick him up at his house and bring him back afterward. Stick with him the whole time." He pulled out his money clip and peeled off several hundred-dollar bills. Sliding them across his desk at Logan, he said, "Will you do this for me?" Another smile, this one recalling our decades-long friendship.
Logan put the bills in his pocket and gave him a good-natured smile back. "You know I'm trying to retire here, right?"
A chuckle, and Mambo said, "Right. Retirement is right around the corner."
"Okay," Logan said. "I'll do it. But I'm gonna need a piece. I got rid of mine after the scene in M
iami."
"Not a problem."
Mambo got up from the desk and went over to his file cabinet. Opening the bottom drawer, he pulled all the files forward, then reached with both hands into the back of the drawer and came out holding a semiauto and two magazines.
".357 SIG," he said, bringing it over to Logan's chair and handing it to him. "Cold as ice, just in case. Never been registered. Never even been fired. Heavy round. Not quite the stopping power of your .45, but it'll do."
He had that right. This was a good weapon. Logan tested its heft. Lighter than his .45 and considerably more stable. "Wow! Nice balance," he said. "Very comfortable." He shoved it into his rear waistband under his shirt and slid the mags into his pocket.
"Meanwhile, Mambo," he said. "That aroma from the kitchen is driving me crazy. How about you buy me lunch?"
36
Logan
Monday, July 18, 2011
5:20 PM
DOROTHY GOT HOME FROM WORK at her usual time. I greeted her with a hug and she returned it. No mention at all of last night's horror … the blood, the bodies … just a hug and then she popped herself a beer, same as always. And same as always, she went to the living room and sat on the couch with an audible exhale, expelling all the day's traffic ticket bullshit at the city hall annex. I went in and sat next to her. She swigged hard at the beer.
I remembered what Mambo the Third had told me before. About how his grandfather came home that night all those years ago after having smoked those three brutes from Miami for what they'd done to little Danielita. How he came home, went to bed, and got up and went to work the next day. Just like Dorothy.
"How was it today?" I asked.
"Slow," she said. "Light. And I thank God for it, after last night." She set her beer on the coffee table and tensed her arms around me, pressing into my kidneys, bear-hug style. "Please hold me."
I hugged her tighter, and I felt a slight tremble inside her, lingering backwash from our bloody encounter. We sat without talking and embraced each other. I was really, really glad to see her, and right then I never wanted to let her go. At that very moment in time, all was still, there was no world outside, the only noise our breathing.