by Don Donovan
My hands roamed around her torso and she ground her breasts into my chest. Then her fingers moved onto the back of my neck and danced through my hair. Her lips soon found mine and our insistent kiss said it all.
In a rapid, fumbling manner, she undid the top buttons on my shirt while I pulled her loose-fitting top over her head. One snap later, her bra fell, allowing her breasts to swing free. I knelt on the floor and buried my face in them, swirling in their soft roundness. Her arms held me close, and we could've stayed like that forever. But instead, she slid to the floor, pulling me with her. I ran my fingers under the elastic band of her pants and eased them down over her large hips. With a hungry snarl I'd never heard from her before, she jerked my T-shirt off in one move and went to work on my jeans. By the time she had them off, I'd removed her panties and we rolled on the carpet in our nakedness.
She shoved me onto my back and put her entire weight on top of me. She bent forward, her face inches from mine, and her sweat dripped onto my face and chest. I felt droplets roll across my mouth and onto my tongue. I licked it all off my lips and swallowed.
Then she pushed her bulk upward and straddled my face, steering me into her wet, dark realm. Alternately, I sucked and licked, eventually nudging her higher and higher. After I don't know how long, she flung herself into an insulated mini-world of shuddering orgasm, loud and frantic. Soon after, she moved herself down my body until she found what she was looking for. Stroking and jerking, she quickly had me where she wanted me, and she mounted me hard. And there we were, swaying in sync, grunting and grinding for what seemed like hours. We lost ourselves in each other's flesh and sweat, noisily releasing from deep within each of us all of the stench and the blood and the death of last night until it all spit out with Dorothy's final wail.
≈ ≈ ≈
We remained naked for another hour, lounging on the floor before eventually making our way back up to the couch. I picked up the remote and flicked on the TV. It landed on a movie, or what looked like a movie — a car crash and a couple of other explosions. I hit the mute button.
Dorothy curled into the crook of my arm and slowly moved her hand around on my chest. She finally seemed a little more at peace.
"It had to be done, didn't it," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes, it did. And now … we're murderers."
She stopped stroking my chest.
"Well, technically, only the stripper," she said. "Those two big guys were self-defense. They were flat out going to kill us right then and there."
"But you can't say 'only the stripper' as if that makes it okay. As if murdering one person instead of three lets us off the hook somehow. You can't say that."
"Honey, I can say whatever I want. And for that matter, I believe I already made the case for the stripper being self-defense. Big time self-defense."
"How do you figure that?" I asked.
"Don't make any mistake about it. If we hadn't shown up when we did, she would've sure as shit rolled over on you for killing Trey. Maybe she'd already told them by the time we got there. In any case, when they left her place, they were undoubtedly coming here. Coming to kill you."
I absently clicked the remote to another channel. This one was the local news. A big car crash on I-95 in Pompano Beach. I kept the sound off.
"This wasn't what I'd counted on," I said. "All that killing. It's just so cold-blooded. I've … I've never …"
Her head stayed on my shoulder and she reached her arm around my waist. "I know, honey. I know. But now it's over. Don't you see? It's all behind us. Forever." She hugged me.
"Over?"
"Over," she said. "Totally."
"I … I guess you're right."
"I know I'm right. It had to be done. You know that, don't you?"
I knew it, all right. Sharma would've certainly spilled it all to Morgan and Stanley, if she hadn't already, and they would've come charging toward our apartment. She had to be silenced. I cursed Trey again for hitting his head against that fucking lamppost and causing all this. Why the fuck couldn't he have just stayed out of it and let me collect my thousand dollars a week from Sharma? Why did he give a shit about that?
"Only one problem now," I said.
"What's that?"
"I'm going to have to find something worthwhile to do in my retirement. Some sort of income-producing activity."
"I thought you were going to start that tree-trimming business."
"Not anymore. Don Roy Doyle's cousin is out of the picture. He's awaiting trial on a marijuana bust. Plus I'm not getting that dime a week from Sharma anymore."
Dorothy adjusted her head to a slightly different position, closer to my chest. "Well, we've still got your end of the bank score. That'll see us through for a while. Until you get something regular."
I cleared my throat. "Uh, well, um … it might not see us through for as long as we thought."
She lifted her head up as though she'd just received an electric shock to the back of her brain. "What do you mean by that?"
"I gave most of it to my mom today."
"You what?" She pulled her hands from around my waist.
"I gave her thirty grand. She needed it."
"What? Thirty grand?" Her voice modulated upward to highly agitated level.
"Right."
"Because she needed it? She fucking needed it?"
"That's right." I instantly wished I'd never brought this up. But what could I do? Dorothy was going to find out sooner or later. I had to tell her. I always told her.
She said, "What the fuck did she need it for? We're the ones who fucking need it!"
"I know, I know. It doesn't look good. And it means we don't have much left. But I had to give it to her."
"Fuck does that mean, you had to give it to her?"
I flicked to a different channel. More news, different car crash. "Look, baby, she's my mom, you know? She raised me and put food in my stomach, even when it meant not eating herself. She was real young when she had me, and we kind of grew up together in that little house up on Catherine Street."
Dorothy's jaw remained wide open, like she was about to bite into one of those industrial-sized sandwiches. "You had to give it to her? That was just about our last money. What were you thinking? Have you lost it?"
"She'll pay it back. If this deal of hers pans out, that is."
"Oh, I'm sure. I'm just positive she'll pay it back. Yeah, that's a real possibility."
"All right! I told you already. The money's gone and that's that."
She said, "How much do we have?"
"My end, after Mambo got his taste, was thirty-six grand, plus the thirteen I got back for fronting the score makes forty-nine. I gave my Mom thirty. That leaves us with nineteen thousand."
"Nineteen thousand? Out of what, three hundred grand?"
"Dorothy, come on. We never got the full three hundred. We only got, like, less than a hundred. You know that. The other two hundred just … disappeared somewhere. And besides, it's not like we're really up against it here. Nineteen grand can last us a little while if we want it to."
"Oh, sure. It can last us, all right. My car insurance is coming up. That's eleven hundred right there. Yours is due in a couple of months. We got rent. Our electric bill last month was over four hundred. Sure. It'll last us a long fucking time."
I tried for as much accommodation in my voice as I could muster. "I'll find regular work here pretty quick. Then none of this will matter. Plus, we've still got what you make down at the courthouse."
"That don't amount to shit!" She fell back into my arms again, tired of the haranguing. Her voice softened, sliding way down to intimacy. "Oh, honey, don't you see? We were almost there. Right where we needed to be. A big nest egg. Both of us would've had jobs. You had the stripper paying you a nice chunk every week. We came so close." She began to cry.
I held her head to my shoulder and let her have her cry. It went on for a minute or two. The TV went to the weather. Wet season. Eighty percen
t chance of rain tonight in Key West. Here in our apartment, the rain had already started, streaming from Dorothy's eyes. Outside, it would be just like last night, only tonight we weren't going out to kill anybody.
She'd just about run out of tears when I said, "Mambo gave me five hundred dollars today."
A couple of sniffles, then, "What for?"
"The Original Mambo's going to the funeral home tomorrow to meet with Win Whitney, to make sure their deal is still on. Mambo wants me to go with him. Protection."
"Whitney? Does he suspect anything about us? About last night?"
"No. I don't think so. Ortega does, though. He came by this morning after you'd gone to work, trying to get me to admit to it, but he's got nothing to go on. He's just groping around for something."
She rose up again. "Fuck, honey! Ortega's onto us? And those Miami motherfuckers have you in their sights, too."
I guided her head back to my shoulder. "No, no, no, no. Ortega's only fishing. Like I said, there's no evidence. He doesn't have shit. Neither do those Miami cops."
"And what about Whitney? Does he think you did Trey?"
I stroked her head with plenty of reassurance. "No. I don't think so. Mambo says Whitney thinks Sharma may have gotten rough with Trey, trying to stave him off, and he thinks she may have hit him with something. What you have to remember is, Whitney wants to do this deal he's got cooking with The Original Mambo out on North Roosevelt Boulevard. I go there and stand around and earn my five hundred dollars. That's it."
"But that's only five hundred dollars. That gives us nineteen five. What are we going to do? What are you going to do?"
"I-I'll try some of the other landscaping outfits in town. There are more than you'd think. I'll get Don Roy Doyle to ask his cousin to turn me on to some of them, some of those other landscapers. That's what I'll do. I'll talk to Don Roy."
"Isn't there anything out there besides trimming trees?"
"Honey," I said, "it's not so bad. It's honorable work. I'll be home every night. And I don't need experience, only a willingness to do the work. No cops, no guns, no danger. Think of it that way."
She didn't say anything. Her head remained on my shoulder. What could I tell her? The truth was very simple. All I wanted was to start my retirement.
My retirement. It looked hazier and hazier with each passing day. The landscaping job: gone. Prospects for other jobs: zero. Most of my end of the bank score: gone. Other scores lined up: none, unless you count the five hundred Mambo gave me today to watch over his grandfather tomorrow morning. I hoped my uncertainty didn't bleed through to where Dorothy would take notice.
I looked up at the TV. Jeopardy was starting. Dorothy kissed me once on the lips, a full wet one, then turned her head toward the TV. I clicked on the volume.
37
Silvana
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
8:10 AM
LIEUTENANT SANTOS'S VOICE DRIPPED WITH ANXIETY through the phone line.
"Machado, you and Vargas in my office. Immediately."
"Yes, sir." She poked Vargas at his desk on her way out the door. "Come on, Bobby. The Lieutenant wants us, right now."
"What is it?"
"Come on. We'll find out."
Moments later, they presented themselves in Santos's open doorway. Another man stood by the lieutenant's desk, trouble all over his face. Santos was pouring coffee, one for himself, one for his guest, none for the cops.
"Come in," he said. "Sergeant Machado, Detective Vargas, this is County Commissioner Bob Harvey. Commissioner, these are the detectives working to find the killer of your wife's niece."
Harvey didn't waste any time. "Where are you in this? What's the status of the investigation?"
Silvana looked him over. Large and fiftyish, he cut an imposing figure. His excess weight, and he had about fifty pounds of it, served him well. Combined with what appeared to be an aggressive nature, it made him more intimidating. His moon-shaped face appeared kind and generous, but his voice and his body language told another story. This guy wasn't here to fuck around.
She said, "Well, Commissioner, I'm afraid I can't comment on any ongoing investigation. It's classified information."
"God damn it, don't give me that shit!" Harvey said. "The Chief — you do remember him, don't you, Sergeant? — the Chief told me progress has been made and I could expect full cooperation. Now, fill me in!"
"Sir, I'm sorry. I cannot reveal any facts concerning an ongoing investigation. It's strict department protocol. I can, however, tell you Detective Vargas and I are working this case night and day and we will find the perpetrator."
Harvey moved his considerable body directly in front of Silvana. She didn't budge. Vargas edged closer to her. She could feel him behind her and to the left.
"I don't give a shit how long you're working on it," Harvey said. "I want details and I want them now!"
Silvana looked to Santos for help. None came. She said, "Well, you're not getting any from me."
"Or me," added Vargas.
Harvey took a deep breath. He softened his whole presence and modulated his voice downward to friendly level. "Sergeant, listen to me. Yanet Santiago was fifteen years old. Gunned down by some crazed fucking killer over God knows what. He was probably high on drugs at the time. My wife's Cuban, and you know how hysterical they can get over the least little thing." Silvana let that one slide and Harvey continued, "But this is no little thing. Far from it. Her sister will mourn Yanet every day for the rest of her life. There's nothing worse, you know, than losing a child. It fucks you up for life. For life, do you understand?"
"Yes, sir, I do." Silvana's voice remained even and her posture erect. Her thoughts drifted nearly twenty years back to her harrowing trip across the Florida Straits. She allowed herself to wonder if her father, worthless fuck that he was, ever grieved over "losing" her.
"So I'm asking you. Please, please tell me what progress you've made. I have to be able to tell my wife's sister something. I can tell you know what I'm talking about … I can see it in your eyes."
Silvana knew what he was talking about, all right, but he couldn't see shit in her eyes, because they betrayed nothing. They were merciless eyes, hardened by her difficult and treacherous life. He was just babbling his politician line of bullshit.
"I'm sorry, but I have to say it again, Commissioner," she said. "I cannot comment on an open investigation."
Harvey's own eyes looked as though they were ready to burst out of his reddening face. His shoulders hunched inward, like a gray wolf, preparing to strike his unsuspecting prey.
His voice was slow, level, and filled with controlled rage. "You will tell me what I want to know and you will tell me now. If you do not, I will call the Chief and have your badge. The both of you! Now, do you read me?"
He awaited Silvana's response. She took a deep breath. Then she took another.
Then she said, "I'll tell you something you may not want to know. I'll tell you I know your brother is in the process of developing a shopping center over near Hialeah Park. I'll also tell you the company he formed to build it is owned by one of your shell companies, which means he's fronting for you, that you're the real owner. I'll also tell you Maxie Méndez, a known operator of various criminal enterprises in Hialeah, has already paid you off, through your brother, for exclusive vending machine and video game rights in the entire center." Her voice rose with emotion. "I will also tell you Maxie is putting one of his liquor stores in this center, rent-free in return for no union problems during construction. And in case that isn't enough, I'll also tell you that because you brought Maxie and his influence to the deal, it sailed through the permitting process in the Hialeah Building Department, which he controls through a number of cousins in high positions there. Now, Commissioner, do you read me?"
She caught Santos holding back a grin.
Harvey looked like his head was going to explode. He said, "You better find that fucking killer. This isn't over. Not by a long shot." He sto
rmed out of the office.
After the door slammed, Santos leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk, clasping and unclasping his hands. "Very good, Machado. Very, very good. My hands were tied, of course. I come to your defense, then he calls the Chief and my badge is gone as well as yours."
Silvana kept her tight bearing. "What I want to know, sir, is where does he get off talking to police officers like that? Threatening me and Bobby? How can he get away with that?"
Santos put his feet on the floor and leaned forward. "Because he's who he is, that's how. He's a County Commissioner with heavy clout in the department. I don't like him any more than you do, but sometimes politics trumps policy. This was shaping up to be one of those times, but you avoided it nicely."
"I did what I had to do, sir. I couldn't give up any information and have him sticking his nose in."
"No, you couldn't. You did right. But, uh, where did you get that dope on his brother and the connection to Méndez?"
She shrugged. "You know, sir, you hear things. You're out on the street day after day, you hear things."
Santos chuckled. "Yes, I guess you do. Well, keep listening, Machado. You too, Vargas. Now, get back to work."
38
Logan
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
8:40 AM
I PRESENTED MYSELF AT THE ORIGINAL MAMBO'S HOUSE the next morning, according to script. Mrs DeLima, a petite, graceful lady in her seventies, answered my knock and ushered me inside with a smile.
This was my first time in the big house, although I only made it a little past the foyer. It was enough to glimpse the living room, which was tidy and large, but not extravagant. The decor didn't look professionally done, although I'm no expert. The big-screen TV seemed to be the most expensive item in the room. The smell of Cuban coffee drifted my way from the kitchen. You could tell the comfy house had been lived in for a very long time.