by Don Donovan
And that's how it was for the Ford Fusion. Fortunately, it was the same way for the red Mercedes. The Dávilas tried more than once to skirt around the slowpokes, but couldn't find an opening, allowing Silvana and Vargas to keep their tail alive.
Once in Key Largo, the speed limit dropped to forty-five and US 1 was salted with strategically placed sheriff's speed traps. The Dávilas slowed to the limit and Silvana and Vargas kept them in sight.
Cruising through Islamorada, Silvana said, "Bobby, you ever read The Overlook?"
"The what?"
"The Overlook. That novel by Michael Connelly. I saw you had a couple of his books on your shelf. I thought you might've read The Overlook at some point."
"I, uh … I don't think so. What's it about?"
"This guy, this scientist, they find his body in the trunk of a car and Bosch is investigating, when bam! Out of nowhere, this bitch from the FBI steps in wanting to take over the case. Some nuclear shit got stolen and the feds are all worried about terrorism and blowing up cities."
"Doesn't sound familiar," Vargas said.
"Man, it's a good one, Bobby. You should check it out. I read 9 Dragons after seeing it on your shelf, you know? And now I read this one. It's a hot fucking book. You should check it out."
"Yeah. I will."
"Do you read a lot?" she asked.
"Oh, I dunno. What's a lot?"
"Well, you know, like a book every two weeks or so?"
"Maybe," Vargas said. "Not always that often, though. Sometimes it'll take me three, four weeks to get through a book. But I try to read every day."
"Funny, you know? I never used to read. I didn't think my English was good enough, but now —"
"Oh, man, Silvi, your English is great. You got nothin' to worry about there."
"Well," she said, "I guess … I guess I was always, you know, intimidated by the idea of reading a book. You know, like I thought I wouldn't understand the … the flow … the rhythm of the language. Of English. ¡Qué distinto que español!"
"Aw, come on. You have great command of English. Better than any person I know who came across. You hardly have any accent at all."
"Thanks for saying that. But I'm just getting used to all this reading. This Connelly guy writes kind of like people talk, so it's a lot easier for someone like me to get what he's saying. I'm surprised how it helps me with English in general, you know? I read different ways of saying things, things I've heard people say before but didn't know what they meant. When I see it in a book, I can understand it because, uh …"
"Because you can see the context."
"Yeah, right! The context! I can see it in context, where I can relate to it, or comprehend it easier. Like the title. The Overlook. I had no fucking idea what that meant, what Connelly was talking about. Until I started reading, and they mentioned this place, like a hilltop, with a view of LA. They called it an overlook. I thought about it, and I realized how that word relates to this hilltop they were talking about. And how it figures into the story."
"Hey, that's great, Silvi. And it's great you're reading. Everybody should read something from time to time. It does wonders for your mind. And your spirit, too."
"Anyway, you should check out The Overlook, you know?"
"Yeah, yeah, I sure will."
≈ ≈ ≈
They were able to keep the Mercedes in sight through the whole trip. Traffic was moderate through the Keys and they were able to remain about a quarter mile behind, while the Dávilas apparently controlled their urge to unleash their car's considerable horsepower, probably fearing sheriff's deputies with ticket books.
Key West came into sight shortly before three o'clock. The Mercedes turned right onto the island and headed straight into Old Town. Speed limit dropped to twenty-five. They stayed on US 1 for a few blocks before turning right onto a side street that led them into an old residential neighborhood. On their earlier trip, when they came down to brace Logan, Silvana remembered they had turned left upon entering Key West because their GPS got them all turned around. Another turn or two and the red car slowed to a stop.
They were not far from a place that looked like a dingy restaurant, or maybe a bar, but without any kind of sign out front. Silvana strained to see through the dirty plate glass into the interior. She could make out a bar and a customer or two, nothing more. Hot salsa music leaked out from speakers inside.
The Dávilas parked in the closest available spot, several cars before the bar. Vargas drove past them and around the next corner, where he parked in a No Parking zone, just out of sight of the Mercedes.
He strapped the camera around his neck and he and Silvana quickly got out, walking fast to the corner, then slowing down to a stroll. They saw the brothers standing behind their car with the red trunk opened wide. The shaved-head guy wore his white Hawaiian shirt. The one with hair wore a dark blue sport shirt.
Silvana whispered to Vargas, "Looks like they might be getting their weapons out of the trunk." He nodded. "We'll give them time to put them in their holsters, then we take them right there behind the car. If they've got shotguns, we go to plan B."
"What's plan B?" asked Vargas.
"We wait till they start up the walk toward the bar and give it to them in the back. We do it that way, we hustle back to the car and get the fuck out of Dodge. Otherwise, we stick around and wait for the locals."
Vargas reached behind him and lifted his shirt to access his rear waistband sheath. He said, "I'll take the guy in white, you take the blue."
They walked up the street. The sun had hidden itself behind some thick, low clouds. In the absence of any breeze, the heavy shoulder of humidity ground into them every step of the way. The Mercedes sat a half-block away.
A group of six or seven bicyclists rolled down the quiet street, chatting each other up. The Dávilas briefly lowered their trunk while the bikes approached them from the front and rode by. When the bikes had passed, they reopened the trunk and continued their business. Silvana and Vargas kept walking toward them. Silvana's arm went casually behind her and raised her blouse over her rig.
Three guys came out of the bar, talking over each other in loud, animated Spanish. Apparently, one of them had just taken down a hotshot pool player for two hundred dollars and the other two insisted on celebrating on his newly won money. They stood in front of the place discussing where they were going to go, which direction, and the Dávilas froze in place behind their car.
"Take a picture of something," Silvana said. She wanted to stop walking, to give these loud characters time to clear out.
Vargas aimed his camera at a Victorian-era house that happened to be behind them. Dramatic vegetation lined the sidewalk and down the sides of the property. He pretended to shoot photos from various angles and Silvana pretended to be a sort of photo shoot director, suggesting this shot or pointing at that one, and at all times making sure not to turn around and expose her waistband holster to the brothers. They were now a little less than a half-block away. She wiped sweat from her face with the sleeve of her blouse and Vargas paused to dry his sweaty hands on his pants. The loudmouths kept jabbering. I don't like that place! … I say a strip club! … No, that place is shit! … Hey, it's my money! …
"God damn those motherfuckers!" murmured Silvana.
One of the Dávilas spoke up, the one with the hair.
"¡Oye, muchachos! ¿Está Mambo adentro?"
The guy with the money in his hand said, "No, man. He's not here."
"Where did he go?" Dávila said with a big, disarming smile on his face.
"Yo no sé, hombre."
As soon as he said that, the others started talking at the same time. Silvana and Vargas had to strain to understand their overlapping Spanish, but it sounded like one of them said he thought Mambo went to the bank because he saw him carrying a little leather bank bag.
"Did you get that?" she asked Vargas.
"Yeah. Probably gone to deposit yesterday's receipts. Shouldn't be too long, if he d
oesn't make any other stops."
"Shit! We can't stay here forever taking pictures of this house. They'll get wise."
"We could walk around the neighborhood," Vargas said.
"No. We do that and he might come back while we're gone. We can't let them out of our sight."
"Do you know what this DeLima looks like?"
"No. I don't," she said.
Vargas pretended to adjust the lens on the camera, and Silvana pretended to be fishing around in her purse for something.
"Have they spotted us yet?" she asked.
"I'm sure they know we're here, but they're not staring at us. I don't think they suspect anything. Yet."
Finally, the loudmouths left, piling into a nearby car and taking off. The Dávilas reopened the trunk of the SL-63.
Knowing she had only seconds to act before the brothers either walked inside or got back into their car and took off, she murmured to Vargas, "Follow me. We're tourists, remember?"
They passed by the bar and walked straight up the block toward the brothers and the red Mercedes.
45
Mambo
Thursday, July 21, 2011
3:10 PM
AFTER MAKING HIS BANK DEPOSITS, Mambo decided not to return to the restaurant right away. Instead, he made a last-minute detour to the City Hall annex. Why not, he thought. She should be there today.
The annex took up most of a strip shopping center in New Town. City offices inhabited most of a long line of small storefronts, which stretched nearly the entire length of the center. This was to be local government's temporary quarters until they could find a newer, more permanent facility to occupy. Mambo knew Dorothy worked there, he just wasn't sure which office or what her function was. After an inquiry in the first office he visited, he was directed to the traffic ticket counter a few doors down. He sauntered on down, in no particular rush, and entered. There she was.
She smiled up at him from her desk through the window. "Hey, Mambo." Then she said through a chuckle, "You got a traffic ticket you want to pay?"
He returned the chuckle. "Naw, no tickets today, sweetheart." He looked around the office at her co-workers. None of them seemed especially interested in their conversation. The guy at the next desk could probably hear them, but he was deep in some computer task.
She stood up and leaned into her side of the window, only about a foot or two from Mambo. She stationed her mammoth tits on the counter inside her folded arms and smiled at him. "Well, what brings you here, then?"
A quick look around. Still no one paying attention. The guy at the next desk on the phone now.
"You've heard from Logan lately?"
Her smile vanished. "Why … yes. Yes, he's called me every afternoon and evening."
"You know where he is, right?"
"He said he had to go to Miami. What's this all about, Mambo? Is he all right? Come on. Is there anything wrong?"
He patted her arms gently, his fingers brushing her tits at the same time. She didn't flinch or ease back. He said, "No, no, everything's okay. Everything's fine, he's fine."
"Well, then … what?"
"I just wanted to tell you … I mean, did he sound worried when he left?"
"A little. Now tell me what the fuck is going on."
"I just wanted to tell you, to say he has nothing to worry about. And I don't want you to be concerned about him." His eyes penetrated hers. She held still. "He's in Miami doing a job for me. And for my grandfather. I don't know what he told you, but he called me today to say everything should work out perfectly. He should be home by tonight, tomorrow morning at the very latest."
Dorothy let out a little exhale. The guy at the next desk was now off the phone and pretending to be doing something when in fact he was eavesdropping. Mambo leaned closer and indicated to Dorothy to lower her voice.
She spoke barely above a whisper. "That's such a relief. I was worried sick, you know, worried he … he …"
Another pat on the arm, another flick of the tits. "I know," he said. "Just be assured everything is going to be okay. I know Logan and so do you. You know he's not going to take any unnecessary chances. My grandfather will be very pleased, and so will Win Whitney."
"Whitney? What does he have to do with any of this?"
Mambo realized his mistake immediately, even before Dorothy spoke. The Whitney connection was none of her affair — none of Logan's, either, for that matter — and he regretted saying it.
"No, never mind. It's nothing. I just wanted you to know he's going to be all right, that he'll be home tonight or tomorrow morning. You don't have anything to worry about."
She nodded and seemed to accept what he said. He gave her another quick pat, this one on the cheek, and he left.
On his way out, he began to think, maybe he shouldn't have come here in the first place. He certainly shouldn't've been so positive about Logan's prospects. It might not work out at all. Logan might not get Maxie Méndez, or worse yet, Méndez might get him. Although Logan did tell him he had everything lined up and it was going down this afternoon, and he would call him when it was over. He sounded confident on the phone.
He hasn't called yet, though, Mambo thought. I know he's going to call when it's over. Unless … unless he's dead. Shit, I shouldn't have come here. I really just wanted to see her and those gorgeous tits of hers, and she wasn't even showing any damn cleavage. What a waste of time!
He got into his car and headed back to his restaurant.
46
Silvana
Thursday, July 21, 2011
3:20 PM
YAYO DÁVILA SNAPPED THE TRUNK SHUT just as Silvana and Vargas approached. He and Camilito were still between their car and the one behind it. First thing she noticed: no shotguns. Second thing: no weapons of any kind in their hands. Yayo made a slight move to the driver's side as though he were getting into the car. He stopped quickly and his alert eyes focused on Silvana and Vargas. Camilito did the same.
"Buenas tardes, señores," Silvana said, summoning all the sweetness her voice was capable of. Vargas pasted a sappy tourist grin on his face. There was no one else on the street.
"Buenas tardes," Yayo said warily.
The cops walked over to the curb but didn't step down from it. They wanted every advantage, no matter how small. "We seem to be a little lost and we don't have a map. We were looking for Duval Street. You know, where all the stores and restaurants are? Could you help us? Could you tell us where it is?"
Camilito spoke up. "We don't know. We aren't from here."
Yayo, who stood directly in front of Silvana, put his hand in front of his brother and said, "You have to pardon my brother, Señora. Sometimes he forgets his manners." He pointed down the street. "Go to the end of this street and then take a right. Follow it all the way to Duval Street. It's about a half a mile."
Silvana took it all in. She turned her head a little and still, no one else in sight. "Ahh, muchas gracias, señores." Yayo smiled a "you're welcome" and turned for the driver's door, while Camilito took a step to the passenger side. At that moment, Silvana reached behind her, drew her weapon, and came up firing. Vargas, acting on cue, did the same. Silvana's first shot found the chest of Yayo Dávila, shock seared onto his face. Clutching the wound around a widening blood splotch, he fell backward to the street. Vargas's round hit Camilito in the forehead, spewing skull bits and pieces of his brain all over the gleaming red finish of the Mercedes. What was left of his head smashed against the car on his way to the pavement. Silvana stepped off the curb and stood over Yayo, who stared blankly upward and gasped for breath as he lay in the street. She put one into his head.
Silvana and Vargas holstered their guns. Immediately, Silvana frisked Yayo. He was not armed. She pulled the car keys from his pocket and opened the trunk. Inside were two shotguns and an array of handguns. Quickly and with handkerchief in hand, she removed two semi-autos and shut the trunk. Looking around, there was still no one watching. She tossed one of the weapons to Vargas, who
placed it Camilito's hand to put his prints on it, and then on the street near his body. She got Yayo's prints on the other gun and dropped onto the pavement. They were far enough down the street from the bar so that no one inside could clearly see what was happening. Then she looked at Vargas and winked.
"Good job, partner," she said. "Now let's call this in."
47
Logan
Thursday, July 21, 2011
3:20 PM
WE'D BEEN WAITING IN OUR CAR NEARLY THREE HOURS, most of the time with the engine off. A sea breeze had risen from the east and was cooling us down nicely through the open windows when they finally came out of Honey Buns. One of the bodyguards exited first, carrying a black satchel. The other one followed right behind him. The afternoon sun glistened off their designer shades as they looked around for any sign of trouble, anything out of the ordinary.
Shimmy, still behind the wheel, jacked the pump of his shotgun and pulled earplugs out of his shirt pocket, inserting them in his ears. I slipped out of the car around to the driver's side of the adjoining car, pretending to fish for my keys. From my spot, I could lower my head, yet raise my eyes to watch them coming out the door, and still appear to be looking through my pockets with my head down.
Satisfied, the bodyguards stepped out and nodded back at the door. Maxie Méndez walked out with a blonde stripper on each arm, their hair blowing in the breeze. Shimmy started the car.
I drew my piece and ran around into the lane between the club entrance and the parking lot. Shimmy pulled up on my left. Holding the gun in cop position, I dropped to one knee and fired, hitting one of the bodyguards squarely in the chest. I took aim at Méndez. His jaw dropped and his eyes protruded in fear under heavy lids. The strippers screamed, but he held them tight, trying to hide behind them. I took aim.