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

by Don Donovan

  "He will be down very soon," she told me. Her voice carried a surprisingly heavy accent. As I understood it, she'd been born in Cuba, but I knew she'd been here for many decades, married for almost as long. They apparently spoke only Spanish around the house.

  I soon heard footsteps tromping down the stairs. The Original Mambo came right up to me and shook my hand.

  "Logan, thank you for coming today." His eyes were clear and dark, and his grip was solid as ever. He wore a black guayabera and black pants. I cursed myself for not thinking to wear black. We were, after all, going to a wake.

  "My pleasure, Mambo. Anytime."

  "You want a cafecito? I'm going to have one. We can take them with us."

  I smiled and nodded. That coffee was smelling better and better. "I sure would like some. Thanks."

  He signaled to his wife, who hustled off into the kitchen. A minute later, she returned, holding two steaming Cuban coffees in heavy-duty paper cups. I sipped mine before we hit the door. It carried the expected pop and wiped away any remaining traces of morning ass-dragging.

  We took my SUV. The drive would take no more than five minutes.

  Once I pulled out into the street, he said, "Did my grandson tell you what's going to happen today?"

  "He just said you were going to meet with Win Whitney at Dean-Lopez."

  He drank from his coffee to keep it from brimming over the sides of the cup as we rolled down the street, then he slipped it into the cup holder in the console. "I'm going there to pay my respects and also to have a talk with Win about our deal out on the boulevard. We can't let it be derailed. It means too much to both our families."

  "Derailed?"

  "Trey was going to play a role in this deal. I want to make sure his death doesn't upset anything."

  "Mambo the Third told me this guy Chase might be there. Morgan and Stanley's brother."

  He looked at me hard and slowly wagged an index finger at me. "If he is, you keep your fucking eye on him at all times, me entendés? Him being there can only open the door to trouble."

  I shifted my weight in the seat, suddenly feeling the hard mass of the gun bulging into my back. Patting my shirt pocket, I felt the extra magazine I'd brought. Just in case.

  We turned the corner onto Eaton Street. He said, "I want you to stand a little behind me and to my right. You're right-handed?"

  "Yeah."

  "That way, if you have to pull your piece, you'll be to my right and I won't be in the way. Just remember, a little behind me and to my right."

  "Got it."

  He smiled. "You're a good man, Logan. I know I can count on you. I have always been able to count on you. And my grandson, he knows it, too."

  I returned the smile. "Thank you, Mambo. I appreciate that vote of confidence."

  Rolling back his smile a little, he said, "Now, do you want to tell me what the fuck happened the other night with Trey?"

  "Trey?" What the fuck was this about? "How should I know, Mambo? I wasn't there. As far as I know, he —"

  "I'm asking you, here in private." We motored slowly through the residential neighborhood, while his voice remained steady and low-pitched, not at all agitated. "What happened with Trey?"

  I returned the calmness in my own voice. "Mambo, I'm telling you, I wasn't there. The girl told the cops —"

  "The girl owed you a thousand dollars. And you went there to collect. Like you did every Saturday. ¿Sí o no?"

  It was all I could do to keep from squirming. My insides were going fucking batshit. "I — I was there earlier."

  "Bullshit! You didn't show up during her shift. LeeRon told me. None of the girls saw you in the club during business hours. He said you had called him, asked what time she got off. So it had to be afterward."

  "Afterward?"

  "Yes, afterward! Like sometime after four AM. A couple of the other strippers at the Wild Thing saw her walk out the door around four-thirty and Trey was not far behind her. Five minutes later he was dead. Don't fuck with me, Logan. Give it to me. Now!"

  I swung the SUV on to Simonton Street, just a few blocks from the funeral home. An empty parking spot loomed up ahead. I pulled into it and left the motor running.

  I turned to face the old man. "Last week, Trey yanked me out of a romantic dinner with Dorothy down at the Pasta Garden." I went on to tell him about getting roughed up in the parking lot. "I couldn't let him scare me off like that, you know? I had to come back Saturday night and collect the money. She owed it to me." Mambo nodded like he understood. "So," I said, "the other night, I waited for her to come out of the club after closing. Trey came out right after she did. He gave me some shit about her not owing me the money and tried to put himself between me and her. I gave him a little shove — I wasn't even really looking at him — and he fell back against the concrete lamppost. Hit his head, collapsed, and died. That's it."

  "That's all?"

  "I swear, Mambo. That's all. I wouldn't lie to you."

  He swallowed the last of his coffee and set the cup in the cupholder. Then he adjusted his seat belt and said with a smile, "Now that wasn't so hard, was it? All I wanted was the truth."

  I reached down to my coffee cup and spun it nervously in the cupholder. Shit, I just wanted to disappear. Finally, though, I said, "I always tell you the truth, Mambo."

  He patted my thigh and smiled. "I know you do." He pointed to the windshield. "Now, let's go to a wake."

  39

  Logan

  Tuesday, July 19, 2011

  9:00 AM

  EITHER THE AIR CONDITIONING INSIDE DEAN-LOPEZ wasn't up to par, or they hadn't had it on for very long this morning because I started sweating the second I walked through the door. The tasteful reception area was small and hot, and I gave my forehead a slight dab with my shirtsleeve.

  A few people were milling around in black suits and dresses, murmuring to each other, similar, I guess to what they do in funeral homes everywhere. It's almost as if they don't want the dear departed to hear what they're saying. Not that they're saying anything bad, mind you.

  Winston Whitney stood to one side of the room with his wife and a couple of properly somber mourners. He spotted us immediately and came over to greet The Original Mambo. They shook hands and Mambo introduced me. Whitney gave me a meaningful handshake and a halfhearted smile, but I knew he didn't know me at all.

  He introduced Chase Pinksmith. Right away, I knew I didn't want any part of him. Shaped like a building, and a big building at that. Where there should have been eyes, I saw tiny cuts etched below a big, squared forehead. A nose broken a few too many times stood guard over a wide mouth, although I couldn't imagine who could've possibly gotten the better of him long enough to break his nose. His massive head was shaved and it flowed directly into his very broad shoulders, bypassing the need for a neck.

  I wondered what he was going through following the brutal deaths of his brothers. Was he capable of genuine emotion? Did he ever cry? I doubted it, although I know if I lost someone close to me, like Dorothy, I'd probably have teary eyes for days, maybe weeks. But Chase? To look at him, you'd never know anything was wrong. Maybe for him, nothing was.

  He was bigger than either Morgan or Stanley, weighing in at well over three hundred pounds, maybe close to four. He wore a loose-cut, black silk shirt outside his pants, no doubt to hide any inconvenient bulges in the neighborhood of his waistband. When Whitney introduced him, he neither shook hands nor spoke. He stood behind Whitney. And to his right.

  Win escorted us into the room where the coffin was. A few more people were in here, seated quietly. An organ dirge floated darkly in the background. At the front of the room, Trey was laid out nicely, pale and decked in what might have been his best suit. As we approached, I caught a trace of a natural smile on his face, the one he always showed when he was happy. I wondered how the Dean-Lopez people managed that.

  The Original Mambo and I stood before him with our hands together in front of us. Mambo gave the sign of the cross and I
silently cursed Trey again for not keeping his balance the other night. I continued sweating, hoping the AC would start performing as advertised.

  We stayed like this, immobile and quiet for a minute or two, then, on Mambo's signal, we returned to the back of the room, where Win Whitney took us into a private room in another part of the building.

  Things were a little cooler in here, but not much. It had the appearance of a waiting room. A couple of couches and chairs here and there, along with a centrally located coffee table. Small tables bookended each couch, and a telephone rested on one of them. A steaming pot of Cuban coffee and four small cups, along with a sugar bowl and a creamer filled with hot milk, sat on a silver tray on the coffee table. Whitney knew we were coming.

  Mambo and I sat on one couch, while Whitney and Chase took the other one. Whitney opened.

  "Mambo, I want to thank you for coming here today. My wife and I are honored that you would come, and I know Trey would have appreciated it as well."

  "I'm very sorry for your loss, Winston," Mambo said with a lot of sincerity. "I only wish this meeting could have taken place under better circumstances."

  Whitney nodded and leaned back into the cushions of the couch. I did the same. Couch was comfortable, actually. Very soft leather.

  He said, "I called New York yesterday. Trey's money group for the interim financing."

  "And?" Mambo's eyes were locked onto Whitney's.

  "I explained the tragedy, they understood, and everything is still in place. Are your people ready?"

  "We are."

  Whitney got up and poured a cup of coffee, offering it to Mambo, who accepted it with a smile.

  "Logan?" Whitney asked. "Would you like a cup?"

  I said I would and he poured another one. He eyed Chase with the same offer, but Chase declined with a single shake of his huge head. Whitney then poured one for himself, carefully adding milk and sugar.

  I took the tiniest sip of coffee. Cuban coffee is extremely strong stuff, not meant for gulping, and this early in the morning, I didn't want to get too buzzed. Especially not in this group.

  Whitney frowned and said, "I'm not sure we're ready to move forward."

  Mambo's eyes widened and he sat up straight. "What — what's the matter, Win?"

  "Trey's death. And now Morgan and Stanley. Something's very wrong here."

  I tensed. With an eyeflick, I checked Chase. He seemed fairly relaxed.

  "Win," Mambo said, "if you think it's too soon after Trey's death, we can postpone things for a couple of weeks, or maybe a month if you like."

  Whitney shook his head. "Something's very, very wrong. I want to get to the bottom of it before we agree to go ahead with this deal."

  I saw Mambo searching for the right words. "I don't know, Win. I think we might be hurting ourselves if we did that. We could move ahead with the preliminaries. We don't actually break ground until next year. Trey's death should certainly be cleared up by then. It looks like the stripper was responsible, anyway. Didn't she admit to pushing him away before he fell?"

  "Sorry, Mambo. I don't buy it. I don't like anything about it. Especially after she and Morgan and Stanley were all killed. It's all tied in. And we can't do a deal until I get it resolved. Until I'm certain of what happened."

  Mambo spooned a little sugar into his black drink, then tapped the little spoon on the rim of his tiny cup. The tink-tink sound of the tapping spoon was the loudest thing in the room at that moment.

  Now, you might think this would be the time where Mambo would disavow any part in Trey's untimely passing. If he did, Whitney would have to say, "Of course. I know you had nothing to do with it." But the reality was quite different, because everybody in the room knew Whitney suspected DeLima family involvement in Trey's death, probably for his welshing on the eighty-one grand in gambling debts. Why else would Win slam the brakes on this deal he'd been lusting for? Mambo wasn't going to say anything. Best to avoid that little dance altogether.

  Knowing that now, my heart began to pound in my chest. Mambo knew the truth about Trey, thanks to my collapse in the car, and I feared he might give me up right then and there in order to get this deal back on track. I tried not to fidget on the couch, but I'm not sure I succeeded.

  Why would he go out of his way to protect me? He doesn't give a shit about me. Maybe I should just jump up and run out the door and drive off. Grab Dorothy at work and split town. We could go to — to — Miami — or somewhere. Maybe Tampa.

  Shit, he might still give me up. He might stand up right now and point his finger at me like one of those detectives who's got all the suspects rounded up in a room. He might point at me and say, "Win, here's your killer! Here's the one who murdered your son. And yes, Chase, your brothers, too. Killed them in cold blood!"

  Now look at that. Fucking Chase is gazing at me through his squint, but I can't figure out what the fuck he's thinking. His expression hasn't changed from the moment I laid eyes on him. It likely hasn't changed since puberty. He looks like one of those fucking Buddha statues or something, probably the expression he was born with. Even he's probably figured the whole thing out, about me and Trey and his brothers.

  Without sipping on his coffee, Mambo said, "Well, Win, what do you suggest?"

  Whitney said, "Let's just call a temporary halt to everything until I gather some information on this whole episode, these killings. I'll let you know when we're ready to proceed."

  Mambo said, "I'll let you know if I hear anything. You can count on it."

  Whitney stuck a hand out and Mambo reluctantly shook it. The meeting was over.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  On our way to the car, Mambo didn't say anything. And I was afraid to open my mouth.

  In the car, however, it was an entirely different deal.

  Before I started the car, he turned to me and said, "You see how you have fucked everything up, you fucking pissant!"

  "Mambo, I — I don't know what to say, I —"

  "Don't fucking say anything to me. I will say to you! Because you had to go harass that fucking stripper for a thousand dollars, you couldn't stay away, you couldn't let her alone, because you had to —"

  "Mambo, she owed me the money."

  "I told you to shut the fuck up!" He just sat there in the passenger seat, body facing forward, only his head turned to me. Very slight body language, but his presence alone was powerful enough. My insides quaked and I'm sure fear spread itself all over my face.

  He went on. "Because you couldn't stay away, Trey is dead. And because of that, I also make you for wasting the stripper to shut her up, along with Morgan and Stanley. You have really fucked up my family's dream for this redevelopment."

  "Oh, man, Mambo, I'm so very sorry. I wish there was something I could do to make up for it, to make it right. I want to —"

  He raised an index finger to silence me. "Actually," he said, "there is something you can do."

  Is he offering me a way off the hook? Or —

  "What? What can I do?"

  "My grandson tells me he asked a favor of you last week."

  "A — a favor?"

  "He says he asked you to do him a favor up in Miami. For twenty-five thousand dollars. You refused."

  "Mambo, that Maxie Méndez contract, I can't — I'll tell you what I told him. I'm not a hired killer. I don't do that kind of thing."

  "Ah, you see? You're not a hired killer. But we know you're a killer, don't we. We know you've killed before, and very recently, too. So it's not like killing is ancient fucking history for you. It's just a matter of getting you to accept the money. A lot of money, I might add."

  "I — I — It's just not what I do, Mambo. I don't know if I could actually do what he asked."

  "Of course you can do it. Especially when you know the alternative, what will happen if you don't do it."

  "Wh-what will happen?" As if I didn't already know.

  "I think you know."

  I nodded.

  He said, "Today is Tuesday
. I want it done by this weekend."

  "Mambo, that's — that's not a lot of time."

  "By this weekend, ¿me entendés?"

  "But Mambo the Third told me he wanted the job done by someone who could take the time to plan it out. This kind of thing needs planning. Said he'd pay me twenty-five thousand plus another fifteen for a partner."

  "I want to read about that fat fucker's death in this Sunday's Miami Herald. Or before."

  "I don't get it. H-how is killing this Méndez going to resurrect your North Roosevelt deal?"

  "You let me worry about that. And you'll get your money. You just make sure that article gets in the paper."

  Meanwhile, Mambo's eyes told me I owed him. Owed him for wasting Trey and fucking up their North Roosevelt deal. He had me, and he knew it. Besides, with my money dwindling and no landscaping job in sight, what choice did I have? I mean, really. That twenty-five large was looking pret-ty fucking good right now.

  I looked down at my lap and muttered, "Okay. I'll do it."

  "Good." He whipped out his cell phone. "His base is Lolita's Liquors, a store in a shopping center in Hialeah. You can look it up. I'm texting you his home address. I'm also texting you a photo of him. Sometimes he spends his evenings at Honey Buns, a strip joint he owns, also in Hialeah. Now take me home," he said.

  I started the car, but I hoped he didn't catch the quiver that leaped from my gut to my throat.

  THE SHOWDOWN

  KEY WEST, FLORIDA

  JULY 19, 2011

  40

  Logan

  Tuesday, July 19, 2011

  10:15 AM

  AS SOON AS I GOT HOME, I called Shimmy.

  "Better get over here right away," I told him.

  "What's cookin'?"

  "Just get over here. Fast."

  He was there in ten minutes. I briefed him on the job, the fifteen thousand dollars that was his end, the target, and the possible locations where we could take him down. I emphasized the time problem.