by Don Donovan
These girls … the fucker's using them as shields! I have to kill them to get to him! That girl in Chicho's house … that young, young girl … these two … they're young … they're screaming …
I was knocked over hard by a sudden explosion in my thigh. My weapon flew from my hand.
Wha … what the … the other bodyguard?
Less than one second later, from behind me, I heard the deafening blast of the shotgun and saw the bodyguard blown backward with a wide red stain on his stomach. Another blast, this one catching one of the strippers in the head, blowing it to bits. I saw only a little pulp hanging from her neck as she fell.
Méndez backed up fast to the club entrance, holding the other stripper in front of him. Shimmy lost his angle of fire from the inside of the car. He reached over and flung the passenger door open.
"Can you get in?" he shouted.
"I — I — can't move."
He got out and ran around the car. With a big effort, he picked me up and shoved me into the passenger seat. He retrieved my piece, then moved quickly to the driver's side and slid back in. Seconds later, we were pulling out of the parking lot onto Red Road, which thankfully was free of traffic.
Shimmy looked away from the road to check out my wound. "Are you hit anywhere else?"
I shook my head. I'd never known pain like this. Never. My brain was trying not to function. More than anything, it wanted to surrender to the blackness that called to it, but I wouldn't let myself pass out. I was afraid I'd never wake up. I howled.
Shimmy looked again. Blood flowed through my pants onto the seat, but it wasn't squirting. "I don't think it hit a vein," he said. "Just hold onto it and try to stop the bleeding. Or at least slow it down. We'll stop somewhere and do something as soon as we can."
In just a few minutes, we were on the Palmetto Expressway and a few minutes later, we were on the Turnpike heading south. Before long, we pulled off into the Snapper Creek service plaza. The whole way, I shrieked in heavy pain. Shimmy parked in one of the angled parking spots.
"I'll be right back," he said. He left the engine running.
I saw him hustle over to a landscaped area nearby and he tore a small branch from a tree. On his way back to the car, he peeled everything off the branch, cutting it back to about a foot long. Back in the driver's seat, he took the towel he'd used to wrap his shotgun and he tied it around my leg, fashioning a tourniquet with the tree branch. He put my hands on the branch, twisting the towel tight on my thigh. I screamed.
"I know it hurts, man, but you got to keep a hold of this, keep it tight like this, to stop the bleeding. We got three hours of driving to do before I can get you to someone who can help."
I already knew this, but in some weird way, it felt good to hear Shimmy say it.
"Thanks, man," I said.
"Don't mention it, bubba."
I kept the pressure on, twisting the stick through the godawful pain, and we re-entered the Turnpike, bound for Key West.
48
Silvana
Monday, October 10, 2011
9:00 AM
SILVANA STRAIGHTENED OUT HER DESK. One of the file folders rested at an odd angle amid the others to the point where the tab was not fully visible. She pulled the edge of the folder an inch or so to the left, aligning them properly. Order. The one thing you should be able to count on in life. Without it, you have chaos. And then, the animals take over.
Her desk phone rang.
"Machado," Lieutenant Santos said. "You and Vargas get down here right away."
She tapped Vargas on the shoulder and said, "Santos." He sprung up from his chair and they made their way down the hall.
Santos beckoned them in through his open door. He sat, they stood.
"Technically, I'm not supposed to tell you this, but I'm going to anyway. You'll get the official word later today. At long last, FDLE has completed their investigation of the shooting of the Dávila brothers and they've determined it was justified. In both cases. In addition, Key West police have decided not to press charges."
The two detectives broke out in wide grins. They hugged each other tight. This investigation was a long-ass one, and it could've gone either way. Following the shooting, Silvana called in the Key West PD and then called Santos, according to protocol.
The local cops came out in full force for this broad-daylight double shooting in the street. They canvassed the neighborhood for potential witnesses and got zip. They worked what few customers were in Mambo's and they worked them hard. But they were all grifters, so naturally, nobody saw anything.
The brothers' intended target, Mambo DeLima, showed up himself a few minutes after the fact, just as the cops were arriving. He told them he'd just returned from the bank and claimed to know nothing about it, quickly disappearing inside his bar. Silvana never found out if they questioned him any further.
Forensics took forever. Prints, powder residue, angle of bullet entry … there was one that nearly tripped them up. The shot to Yayo Dávila's head was at an angle inconsistent with a straight shot from six feet away. Silvana had to impress on those FDLE dickheads that her first shot sent him reeling, and her second shot must have caught him as he fell backward.
And then there was the sticky matter of what they were doing there in the first place. If they were on the trail of murder suspects, protocol dictates notifying Key West of their presence. They swore they were going to call the locals, but they only knew they were following the Dávilas to somewhere in the Keys, according to their CI, and they never knew exactly where they were headed. When they got to that out-of-the-way joint in Key West, the brothers showed their guns immediately and then things just happened so fast that, well …
According to script, Santos reported the incident to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, aka the State Police, who looks into all police shootings in the state. Investigations are thereby taken out of local hands, where coverups might well infect the proceedings.
Their record shadowed them through the whole hearing process. Silvana and Vargas had been written up before for getting rough with suspects, and although Santos vigorously argued to the contrary, the FDLE mentioned rumors they had heard regarding mysterious deaths the two detectives left in their wake of certain investigations, most recently the untimely passing of one Yolexis Molina. FDLE dwelled on that and other incidents for a long time, digging around looking for evidence, any evidence at all, of murder in other cases in their past, hoping to pin a murder charge on them for the Dávilas. A couple of times they came close, but couldn't build anything solid beyond those rumors.
Santos reported to the Chief the likelihood of the Dávilas, acting without the knowledge of Maxie Méndez, being the shooters in the Little Havana triple homicide. He laid out the scenario surrounding the money and Flaco's role in it. Flaco, of course, had been notified as to exactly how his story would be told. This included hearing Yayo Dávila converse with his brother about going to the house on Tenth Avenue that night after they heard there was a lot of money to be had. And of course, that was how Flaco told it. Maxie, of course, couldn't be nailed for it since the only real evidence, Flaco's story, left him in the clear. The Chief bought it, then notified Commissioner Harvey the killers of his wife's niece had met justice, and the case was closed.
The hugging and smiling went on for a minute or two, then Santos said, "Close the door."
Vargas closed it. Santos put on his no-bullshit face and said, "I went to bat for you two in these hearings. All three of us know what really happened down there in that Key West street."
Silvana spoke. "Sir, we didn't —"
He shut her up with a raised, outward palm. "All three of us know what went down. I'm not going to say it again, Machado." He lowered his hand and sat back in his chair. Silvana and Vargas both twitched a little. Silvana hoped Santos didn't catch it.
"I was a big help to you," he said, "both with FDLE and with the Chief. I did it because you two get results, like I've always said, and in
my book, results are better than no results. As long as you don't get out of control, you understand."
The two detectives stood with their hands behind their backs, at parade rest.
"You do understand, don't you?" Santos said.
No response.
"I didn't hear you, Machado. You either, Vargas."
"Yes, sir," they said in meek unison.
"Yes sir, what? I want each of you to say it. Machado, you first."
"Y-yes, sir, I understand."
"And what is it you understand. Tell it to me in very clear terms."
She said, "Results are good as long as we don't get out of control."
"That's right," Santos said. "And do we know what happened in Key West back on July 21?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell me what happened."
"Uh, Lieutenant, sir, are any recording devices present?"
Santos chuckled. "No. No recording devices. Now tell me what happened."
"Do we have your word on that, sir?"
"You have my word. Now, god damn it, tell me what I want to hear!"
"We wasted the Dávila brothers, sir."
Santos turned his eyes on Bobby Vargas. "Is that right, Detective?"
"Yes, sir," he replied.
"You tell me, too. Come on."
"We — we wasted them, sir."
"And it wasn't self-defense, was it."
"N-no, sir," Vargas said. "It wasn't. But those fuckers, they had it coming."
"Well, maybe they did," Santos said, "but that's for another day." He turned back to Silvana. "We were supposed to let their hit on Mambo DeLima go down so we could grab them for it and get them to roll over on Maxie Méndez, weren't we?"
"Yes, sir, but we —"
"No more bullshit, Machado. I know why you got so impatient and put those cocksuckers down." He had a clear edge to his voice he didn't try to hide.
"You — you do, sir?"
"You're collecting a thousand dollars a week from Méndez not to link him to the Little Havana triple homicide. You don't want to upset your little revenue stream."
Silvana's knees buckled and she tried to hold back the exhale, but couldn't.
"Yes," Santos said. "I know what's been going on."
"Lieutenant, sir," she said. "How do you know that? How can you know that?"
"You told me once that you hear things. Well, I hear things, too. Now, all these favors I've done for you lately, I have to tell you, they come with a price."
"A price?" Silvana said.
"Yes. A price. And that price is half of that thousand dollars every week from now on. Plus half of all the other action you've got going. I know that sleazebag Ramos is paying you another thousand to protect his drug business around Dolphin Mall, and you've got a few other little things going. Half of everything, you kick up to me. Everything you currently have on the line and anything you may pick up in the future. Starting now."
Silvana and Vargas took a moment to recover from this assault on their brains and on their wallets. They looked at each other, nodded warily, and both said okay.
He pointed an index finger at the two of them. "This means no holding back. If I find out you've held back even a single dollar — and I will find out — you will meet up with the Dávilas in whatever corner of hell they're in. I will personally see to it. Understand?"
Both their heads went up and down once.
"Good," Santos said. "I've long said you two are the best I've got. Now get out there and protect the citizens of Miami from the scum-sucking criminals that roam our streets. Do your job."
49
Logan
Monday, October 10, 2011
9:15 AM
I GOT OUT OF BED and for the first time in nearly three months, I didn't need my crutches. A little wobbly at first, and I had to lean on the bedpost for support, but after a minute or so, I got my equilibrium and stood up without any assistance. There was a light throb in my leg, up around my thigh where the wound was, but the doctor said that would go away in time.
The doctor. Well, he wasn't exactly what you'd call a real doctor, more like a guy with medical training and some confusion over a license to practice. Shimmy knew him from the old days. He was the guy, in fact, who sewed Shimmy back together after that violent incident he told me about where he and another guy took a couple of bullets while they smoked Wilson Whitney and a few Russians.
Anyway, he put my leg back together and here I am, standing up on my own. I sometimes thought I would never do that again. I called Dorothy at work and told her. She was ecstatic.
Mambo the Third paid me the forty thousand without complaint, and The Original Mambo took it all like a gentleman. He'd told me to get Maxie Méndez or else, but I guess when he saw I'd taken a serious hit, and after hearing Shimmy's account of what happened, and then reading the article in the Miami Herald, he let it go. Told me I'd done good, and not to worry. He said he told Win Whitney that Trey's real killers were these two no-count brothers from Miami, that they were sent down here to clip Trey after he spirited Sharma away from Méndez, their boss. As it turned out, he told Whitney, the brothers were killed by Miami police in a separate incident outside his grandson's bar. By eerie coincidence, killed the same day as our showdown with Méndez and his bodyguards.
When I asked The Original Mambo if Whitney was willing to put it all aside and get on with the big North Roosevelt project, he said yes. Said they were scheduled to break ground sometime next year.
By the way, speaking of Shimmy, I owe him my life. The way he jumped out of that car to load my wounded ass into it when we were totally exposed in that parking lot. I mean, anything could've happened. Lucky for us it didn't, but he still went above and beyond. I suppose I would've done the same for him, but in any case, I rearranged the split of Mambo's money with him. He was originally supposed to get fifteen grand and I was getting twenty-five. So what the hell, I turned it around and gave him the twenty-five.
I walked around the apartment, still feeling a little give in my leg. I had to lean against a wall every few seconds or so, and I knew it would be a long time before I did any real walking around town. Still, I was thrilled to be moving under my own steam.
I put some coffee on and dropped an English muffin into the toaster. Sitting at the table, I took stock of things. I had another fifteen dimes from this job plus the nineteen from the bank job back in June, making thirty-four thousand altogether. I know it's not exactly a ton of money, but it'll give us enough of a cushion until I can find a straight job and move permanently into my retirement from crime. After stopping that bullet, Dorothy insisted on it. For that matter, so did I. Anyway, I know I'll find something, some good, honest line of work.
The muffin popped up and the coffee was ready. I sat sipping and munching and pondering my retirement until I was disturbed by a thud at the door. No need to wonder. It was cops.
I slowly got up and made my way to the door, leaning on one thing or another. I opened up and saw Ortega, our friendly local neighborhood cop, standing there with his sidekick, whose name I forgot.
"Lieutenant Ortega," I said. "How are you doing today?"
"I'm fine, Logan." He looked down at my legs, propping me up all by themselves. "Looks like you're doing okay yourself."
I didn't know how the fuck he knew there was anything wrong with my leg, but I smiled anyway. Nothing in this town stays a secret for very long. "Come on in."
The two of them came in. Ortega said, "You remember Sergeant O'Neil."
"Sure. How're you doing, Sergeant?"
"Fine," he said.
We went into the kitchen where I revisited my coffee. "Care for a cup?"
They shook their heads. "Logan, you're aware of the police shooting over in front of Mambo's a few months ago? Two Miami cops killed a couple of slimeballs from up the road in a shootout."
I nodded. "I read about it, yes. And other people told me about it. Pretty strange."
"Strange indeed," Ortega said. "Stra
nger still is the idea that those two dirtbags killed Trey Whitney and then wasted that stripper along with the Pinksmith brothers back in July, not long before you … uh, injured your leg."
"I heard about that, how they killed Trey, something about their boss having a major hard on for the stripper and hating Trey for stealing her away. And then — what was it? — they offed the stripper 'cause she was a witness, she saw them clip Trey."
"Yeah, that's the idea. My superiors are buying it, so those homicide cases are officially closed."
I hoped he didn't see me take a deep breath.
"I know different, however. And so do you."
"Hey, Lieutenant, I didn't do —"
"Shut up! You smoked Trey Whitney because he stood in your way of collecting your weekly envelope from the stripper. Then you did her because she saw you do him. No witnesses. Nice and clean."
"Lieutenant, you can't come in here and accuse me of this shit when I —"
"Only thing is, I can't figure out who was with you, who used the knife on the stripper and one of the Pinksmiths."
"You can't figure it out because no one was with me. And no one was with me because I wasn't there!"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. You're innocent as the morning rain." He came close to me. Got right in my face. Growled in a near whisper. "Let me tell you one thing, you piece of shit lowlife. You better stay in a straight line from now on or else I'm gonna be so far up your ass, you're gonna have to shit out of your mouth."
"Is that why you came here today?" I asked.
"You got it." He and his partner headed for the door.
I said to their backs, "Lieutenant, when are you gonna realize I had nothing to do with those deaths?"
"When the Dolphins leave Miami," he said.
And he and O'Neil walked out, leaving my door open.