Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (18 page)

Mambo

Sunday, July 10, 2011

10:10 PM

A
RTURO STOOD IN MAMBO'S OFFICE
, out of breath. Having come in out
of a heavy rain, he dripped water on the floor. His dark hair hung wet and
stringy from his head and it looked like shit.

"What
is it?" Mambo asked from behind his desk. He was completely at ease,
having just learned over Sunday dinner his grandfather had greenlighted the
hospital extension. Palmira was ecstatic: she was calling Rolando first thing
in the morning, she said. Mambo had dropped her and Carlena at home and come
straight to the restaurant to meet Arturo after his urgent phone call.
"What was so fucking important you couldn't tell me on your cell? So
fucking important I had to leave my wife and daughter at home on a Sunday night
to come here through the rain and see you."

"Mambo
… I just came from Kiki's. I went there to collect, you know?" Arturo
really had to slow down to grab a breath. Mambo's patience was growing thin.

"All
right, take it easy," Mambo said. "Sit down and take a deep
breath."

Arturo
did as he was told and said, "Sorry, boss. I had to park a block away and
I ran through the rain. It's really fucking coming down." He tried to dry
his face with a wet sleeve.

"It's
okay. Now what's up?"

Arturo
said, "He's dead."

"Dead?
Who? Who's dead?"

"Kiki.
I found him just now, not ten minutes ago at his house with his throat cut. I
didn't call the law."

"Kiki's
dead?"

"Oh,
man, it was fucking terrible. His throat slit wide open from ear to ear. Blood
still warm, so it musta happened right before I got there."

Mambo
gaped at nothing in particular, thinking aloud. "Who did it? Who could've
done it?"

He
produced a brown paper bag. "I don't know. But I found this on the floor
right next to the body. His hand was inside it. Looked like someone put it
there after they did him."

Mambo
took it and looked it over. The bloodstained bag had the logo of Lolita's
Liquors on it. He said, "What the fuck is this?"

"I
don't know, boss. But it looked like whoever left it was tryin' to send a
message. Kiki didn't drink, far as I know."

"No
… he didn't. And from the looks and smell of his kitchen, he wasn't the type to
have a lot of company over to where he'd want to serve them anything." He
looked at the bag again, studying the logo. He caught the Hialeah address.
"Especially not the type to go all the way up to Hialeah to buy liquor.
What else did you see?"

"Shit,
his house was totally wrecked. Furniture turned over and all cut up. His bed
slashed open. Shit thrown around all over the place. Somebody really did a
number. They were lookin' for something."

"Anybody
see you enter or leave the house?"

"No,
no, they didn't. Or I don't think they did, anyway. It was raining too hard.
Nobody was on the street when I went in or came out. No traffic, either. Fuck
me! It was really bad news! I don't know who'd wanna do him like that."

"Okay,
Arturo. Take it easy. You did the right thing, calling me. Coming straight
here. And bringing this bag. That was good work. You're right. Somebody's
sending somebody a message. And I've got a feeling about this."

"What'sat,
boss?"

"Never
mind. Go ahead and go home. I'll take it from here. You did good tonight."

"Thanks,
boss. I'll be goin' now." He turned and left.

Mambo
looked the bag over. He googled Lolita's Liquors and pinpointed its location on
East 49th Street in Hialeah. Nothing unusual. They had a website. He clicked
the link and went there. It was all about their wide selection and "great
low prices". Again, nothing out of the ordinary. He checked out the street
map image and it looked like just another big liquor store. The other stores
around it weren't anything out of the ordinary. He had one play left. He pulled
out his cell and punched in a number. The Original Mambo answered on the third
ring.

"Abuelo,
I hope I'm not calling you too late."

"No,
I haven't gone to bed yet. I'm almost ready, though. ¿Qué pasa?"

"Can
you tell me anything about a place called Lolita's Liquors up in Hialeah?"

"Lolita's?
Where do you know it from?"

"I
just heard about it and I thought it rang a bell."

The
Original Mambo paused, then said, "It's where Maxie Méndez operates from.
Es el corazón de sus operaciónes."

Mambo's
suspicions were confirmed. "He just killed one of my former bookies."

"Former?
Killed? You better tell me what is going on."

Mambo
explained about Maxie's incursion into Key West and the subsequent move to
discipline Kiki, including his one-third cut of all Kiki's betting action.

"And
you let him go on taking bets for Méndez?" His grandfather couldn't
believe what he was hearing.

"I
had to let Kiki know he couldn't just allow Méndez to move in on me without
paying a tax."

"So
Méndez sends you a message by killing Kiki."

"That's
what it looks like."

The
Original Mambo raised his voice. "You should have been the one to kill
Kiki! That sends the message to Méndez! As it is, you fucked it up and allowed
him to get the upper hand. You let him turn it around on you. What the fuck
were you thinking?"

"I
… I … Abuelo, he was moving in on me. I —"

"When
someone moves in on you, you have to cut that shit off right away. You don't
let it go on and take a percentage! You want him out of here altogether! You
kill that fucking Kiki and let Méndez know he's not welcome down here. By not
killing him, you give Méndez a foothold."

"I'm
sorry, Abuelo, it's just that —"

"Bullshit!
Méndez moves in on you today. Today it's the sports betting. Tomorrow, who
knows what? But he's a crafty cocksucker. He knew what he was doing, and you
can be god damn sure he was planning on muscling in on everything. Not just the
gambling."

"If
he wanted to move in on everything, why did he kill Kiki and not me?"

"He
probably didn't want a war. I'm sure he's heard of our family and the lengths
we go to when we want to protect our interests. But … on the other hand, he
might still try to kill you. First Kiki, then you."

Mambo
the Third digested that assessment during a puase in the conversation, then his
grandfather added, "What are you going to do now?"

More
silence. "I have no choice. I have to go after him. Send someone to
Hialeah and light him up."

"Now
you sound like my grandson. That's exactly what I would do. Plan it very
carefully. Don't send Felo. Keep him next to you at all times. Send two other
men. Capable men. You want guys who don't rattle when the going gets
tough."

"I
will."

"But
after this, you have to get out of that gambling business altogether. Remember
what I told you about that. We've got too much at stake."

"Sí,
Abuelo. After this, it's over."

"Now,
I don't want to hear any more about this until it's done. Que tengas muy buena
suerte, mi nieto."

Logan

Monday, July 11, 2011

7:20 PM

D
OROTHY'S BIRTHDAY
ROLLED AROUND
on July eleventh. I wanted to take her someplace nice for dinner. Monday night
and the tourists from the Fourth had long since cleared out, so we weren't
likely to run into big crowds or long lines.

I
took her to the Pasta Garden, a nifty little indoor-outdoor spot hidden away in
Duval Square, off the main stem. Great food and service, plus a touch of
coziness, Bennett and Sinatra music lazily wafting through the air. Dorothy
loves good Italian food, so we come here on special occasions. Tonight, because
of the heat, we ate indoors.

The
first time we ate here, I learned Chianti is the best wine to go with pasta, so
tonight I ordered us a bottle before dinner. After going through his
preliminary routine, the guy poured us each a glass. We raised them in a toast.

"Happy
birthday, baby," I said. "To the sexiest forty-year-old in
town."

"God,
don't remind me," she said through a snicker. "I can't believe I'm
that old. Now if I can just lose these thirty pounds." She looked gorgeous
in her pale orange dress, which tried hard to cover up her excess weight. It
was a full, Key West-comfy fit — not a muumuu, but loose — hanging
down just above her ankles. A decent-sized emerald popped out of a
fourteen-karat gold necklace, a little souvenir from a job I pulled up in West
Palm Beach a few years ago. It formed the perfect partnership with the dress.

"You
better not lose too much weight," I said. "I want you to stay the way
you are. More of you to love." A big smile worked its way out onto my
face.

We
toasted to more-to-love and munched on the garlic bread. The wine went down
well. Tony Bennett softly crooned For Once In My Life through wall-mounted
speakers.

Just
as the waiter brought our food, I heard a voice from across the small room.
"Quite the sight! Lovebirds sharing a romantic night on the town."

I
turned to see Trey Whitney, anwith two no-necks I knew to be Whitney family
muscle standing a step or two behind him. Trey wore a summery, mint green sport
shirt while the other two were bursting out of their regulation tight, black
T-shirts. Fuckers were built like tree stumps.

"That's
right, Trey," I said. "A nice little night out. And what brings you
here? A quiet dinner with your friends?"

"To
tell you the truth, you brought me here. Something has come up and I was
wondering if I may have a word with you. In private, that is."

"Can
this wait? You came at kind of an intimate moment here."

"Actually,
it can't. I must ask you to grant me an audience. As a courtesy. It's most
important we speak now."

I
dabbed at my lips with my napkin. Not because there was anything on them, but
because I'd always seen guys do that in the movies when they knew something
unpleasant was about to go down.

"This'll
just take a second," I murmured to Dorothy. The wary look in her eyes told
me she didn't like any of this.

"Oh,
yes," Trey said to her. "Be assured I'll have him back to you in no
time."

I
rose from the table and went outside with the three of them, off to the right,
toward the Duval Square parking lot, away from the restaurant window.

"Okay,"
I said when we stopped walking and faced each other. "What's so
important?"

"Just
this. Now that Mambo and I have reached an equitable understanding regarding my
debts, you're not to extort any more money from Sharma."

"What
is this bullshit? Extort money? Whatever deal I have with her doesn't affect
you at all."

"Oh,
but it does," Trey said with the tone of a guy who's holding aces.
"It affects me very much."

"And
how is that?"

"Well,
you see, it's like this. I brought her down here for, shall we say, personal
reasons. I often go to see her perform and, as you know, I usually tip her
rather generously. So generously, in fact, that it nearly equals what you think
she should pay you every week. So you see, I simply can't have her handing over
to you the equivalent of what I might give her out of the goodness of my heart.
I would feel like I am the one paying you, and we can't have that."

I
wondered how his wife would feel about all this. I didn't think she would
admire the goodness in his heart. "Forget it, Trey," I said.
"Just because Mambo canceled your debt doesn't let her off the hook with
me."

"I'm
afraid it does," he said. "And if you don't believe me, perhaps
Morgan here and his associate, Stanley, can persuade you to become a
believer." The two squinting apes moved a step closer to me, right on cue.

I
chuckled. If rough stuff was what Trey Whitney wanted, he would not be
disappointed. But I wasn't going to call off my deal with Sharma. A grand a
week was way too much to give up. Besides, she owed it to me, plain and simple.

"Like
I said, she's not off the hook. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going back to my
table where my girlfriend is waiting." I stepped around Trey and between
the two apes. One of them — I think he was the one Trey referred to as
Stanley — grabbed my arm and tried to spin me around.

"Hold
it, asshole," he said. "Mr Whitney said the girl no longer owes you —"

I
went with the spin and landed a solid roundhouse right hand on his jaw. My feet
were firmly planted, so my whole body went into the punch from the legs up, as
hard as I've ever hit anyone. It knocked him back but not down. That was not
good.

Morgan
cold-cocked me from behind with a smash to the side of my head. My balance
faltered while Stanley recovered from my punch and let me have one of his own.
I went down fast. One of them picked me up and held me while the other one went
to town on my face and my gut. Somewhere in the middle of it all — I
don't remember when, exactly — Whitney said, "He's had enough"
and they stopped. I dropped to the pavement like oranges spilling out of a
downturned bag. The three of them walked away, crossing the parking lot.

The
warm taste of my own blood swirled around in my mouth before it dribbled down
my cheek and formed a little river on the black pavement of the parking lot. A
few onlookers had gathered. A couple of them came over to me, standing over my
prone figure, not sure if they should help me or steal my wallet.

Before
they could make up their minds, I spit out what blood remained in my mouth.
That backed them off. I tried to get to my feet, but didn't quite make it. By
this time, Dorothy, who had apparently gotten worried over my absence, came
rushing over to me.

She
pushed the rubberneckers aside. "Get the fuck away from him," she
snarled, and they dutifully took a few steps backward. Kneeling with my head
cradled in her arms, she cried "You motherfucker!" in Whitney's
direction. He couldn't hear her, though. He and his apes were already in his
big blue BMW, pulling out of the parking lot. Dorothy took my arm and wrapped
it over her wide shoulder to hoist me up, to balance me while propping me up
with her other arm around my waist. "Who the fuck does he think he
is?" she said.

My
voice was in the same place as my brain. Limbo. I struggled to find it.
Eventually, I said, "He thinks he's a Whitney. And he is."

"It's
not right. They think just because their name is Whitney, they can push people
around like this. Motherfuckers think they're God or something."

She
sat me down on a nearby concrete bench and pulled a couple of tissues from her
purse. Wiping the trickle of blood from my chin, she got more and more
agitated. She said, "The fuck was this all about?"

"He doesn't seem to think I should collect
any more money from the stripper. Thinks I should go without."

I rubbed my temple with the heel of my hand.

Fuck! The side of my head really hurts. That ape
could hit.

Her
nostrils flared and her voice stirred up a notch. "Trying to take a
thousand a week out of your pocket? Out of our pocket? That son of a bitch has
got some fuckin' nerve! You ought to waste his sorry ass for this."

For
a minute there, I was shocked by this call for bloody revenge. I'd never known
Dorothy to be the outwardly violent type, not even close, and for years she's
tried to look the other way whenever she knew I had to use any rough stuff. But
now, the crazed look in her eyes told me she meant what she said. I wondered if
she'd finally been pushed over the line.

Or
if maybe she'd been there all along.

"Take
it easy," I said. "No one's gonna waste anybody. I'll straighten this
out." I managed a half a smile through my bloody mouth, then said,
"Wasn't quite the birthday celebration I had planned. Sorry it got
ruined."

She
calmed, but only a little. "That fucker should still pay for what he's
done to you."

"I'll
handle it, I promise. But for now, let's pay the restaurant tab and take it on
home, okay?"

I
reached in my pocket for my money. I handed it to her and she peeled off a few
bills and quickly returned to the Pasta Garden. She was back in a minute,
helping me up from the bench. As we slowly moved toward the car, I really
didn't know how I would handle this, or even if I would, but I knew one thing
for sure — no way could I let a thousand dollars a week slip through my
fingers.