Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (2 page)

Logan

Saturday, June 25, 2011

7:15 AM

J
UST AS I HAD
PREDICTED
to Chicho, there was no traffic to speak of
on the drive down the Keys. Cool, cloudless skies above. Dark, almost still
water on either side of the bridges, decent radio stations all the way.
Normally, conditions like these would go a long way toward settling me down
after a tough job up in Florida. A few bottles of water, a little good music,
cruising at a steady speed — it's what I always need. By the time I get
back home, I'm usually all tuned up.

But not tonight.

Every time I looked into
the rear view mirror to see the mainland fading behind me, I saw that girl's
fiery eyes fill with fear as my first round entered her chest. The very moment
she realized she would live no more.

Why
the fuck did she have to pull on me? But would I have left her alive if she
hadn't? Left her to spill to the cops?

I've made this drive a
million times. An hour to get to the Keys, another two hours to Key West, give
or take. The farther away from the mainland you get, the more relaxing the
drive becomes. Key Largo, Layton, the majesty of the Craig Key Bridge, Marathon
… all the stress and the bullshit of Miami is back there somewhere in the
distant blackness, pulsating like annoying rap beats blasting out of passing
cars.

In some spots in the Keys,
you can see the Atlantic on one side of the road and the Gulf of Mexico on the
other. Tonight, off every southbound bridge, moonbeams danced in gleaming
ripples across calm, black oceans. Ordinarily, this kind of thing goes a long
way toward soothing me, shooing away anxieties and stress from a job, helping
me to breathe just a little easier.

But not tonight.

I turned the radio up. A
classic rock station was pumping out the hits of the past. AC/DC, Bob Seger,
Creedence Clearwater Revival, Bruce Springsteen. Real songs with real words,
unlike the shit they put out today. Most of those words were strung together
before I was born, put down on paper by musicians who felt pain and alienation
from the world around them. When I heard those words for the first time years
ago, they meant something, and they still do. But as the miles ticked away and
those old sweet songs kept coming, kept speaking to me, I couldn't bury myself
in them like I wanted to. There was no escape.

≈ ≈ ≈

I made the turn into
a gray-dawn Key West, pulling up to my Margaret Street apartment a few minutes
after that. I parked and stepped out of the car into dampness. The cool breezes
of the night had vanished and early morning humidity had come calling. I moved
my sleeve lightly over my forehead and eyelids. Sweat in my eyes has always
bothered me, what with salt and burning sensations, and this morning was no
exception. I usually wear a headband on jobs and other important trips like
this one, but I was so eager to get to Miami and recover our money, I had
forgotten it when I left home last night.

Quietly, I made my way up
the steps and slowly keyed open the door to our apartment.

Once inside, I tiptoed into
the heavily draped living room, feeling my way around the furniture, careful
not to wake Dorothy. I reached for my cell phone and punched in a number. My
voice dropped to a murmur.

"Zaz. It's me … I
know, I know, it's way too early, but you better drag your ass out of bed and
get over here. I've got something you'll want to see … yeah, right now. And
pick up Shimmy on the way."

I swiped my finger across
the phone, ending the call. The money lay in neat stacks on the coffee table.
Around one hundred thousand dollars, I estimated, in banded packets of fives,
tens, twenties, fifties, and hundreds, less than a third of the actual take. I
wondered where the rest of it went. One thing was for sure. I'd never see it
again.

Did
Chicho have partners or did he act on his own when he stole our money? Shotgun
Man was obviously on his side, but if he got a cut, where was it? Not anywhere
I could see.

I scooped the money back
into the gym bag and took it into the bedroom, set it on the dresser, removed
my holstered weapon, and released a long relaxing exhale, as if a hundred
pounds had come off my waist. I massaged the area where the leather had pinched
into my skin, and I noticed a tender, red imprint in the mirror. My stomach had
settled down, my throat discomfort gone. Reaching up, I pulled the dangling
overhead chain that turned on the ceiling fan.

 
Dorothy slept, snoring softly. Her short
brown hair messed up from a night's sleep, her breathing regular, her overbite
inconspicuous. Thick bedcovers almost hid the thirty extra pounds she carried,
which really didn't matter, as far as I was concerned.

You can bet it mattered a
whole lot to her, though. In the ten years we'd been together, she never let a
week go by without saying she ought to lose weight. Truth was, the extra weight
was spread out somewhat evenly, putting a little give in her luscious flesh.
The end result made her look like a real woman, earthy — and carnal.

I always tried to tell her
she was well-proportioned. Her height — about five-six — and her
slightly larger-than-average bone structure enabled her to carry extra weight
without looking like she was obese. Because of the even distribution of her
weight, she still had a figure, you know, the kind where her waist was slimmer
than her bust and hips. I told her all this repeatedly over the years, but she
would only grab a little fat on her stomach or her thigh and point that out as
an example of what had to go. "I'm a house," she always said. She
never really did much about it, though. That was okay with me.

Slim shafts of early
morning light slipped through the drapes and slinked across her face, making
her appear more beautiful than she probably was. You could even say more beautiful
than I had a right to expect, since I'm not exactly a matinee idol, even
overhauled. My face consists of a deep frown etched over close-set eyes —
hard and blue — resting over a nose widened from being broken a few
times. Below that nose a mustache spread itself above thin lips that could
never quite make it all the way to a smile. My dark hair has this cowlick in
the front which keeps wanting to hang in my eyes. As it is, it reaches out over
my forehead, but that's as long as I'll let it grow.

To this day, I don't know
what I have that attracts her, but whatever it is, I'm very thankful I have it
because without her, I'd be lost.

I sat down on the edge of
the bed and gently stroked her face. I felt the fantasies emerging from deep
inside me. Scary, exciting fantasies.

This was exactly what I
needed right now, the smooth skin of my woman softening the hand that had just
delivered a cruel death to three people.

Her moan brought her to
half-awake. More stroking, more moaning. Pretty soon, she pulled me to her in
soft embrace. We kissed, a long wet one, and I murmured, "Honey, I'm
home."

She chuckled. "Where'd
that come from? You sound like an episode of
Leave It To Beaver
."

"I'm just glad to be
back. Back here, with you still in bed. Kissing you." I tightened my hug.

"And
I'm
so glad you're back in one piece. I
worry about you so much. How'd it go?"

She writhed a little more
on the bed, arranging herself into comfortable position, still holding me
around my shoulders, close to her.

"It didn't go well at
all. I'm okay, but Chicho and his friends aren't doing so good."

She groaned. "Oh,
shit. What happened?"

"What happened is I'm
back."

"But — but, was
there trouble? Are you okay?" She pushed my torso away from hers, looking
it over, frantically searching for wounds or blood or other signs of trauma.

I kept my voice soft to
counter hers, which had risen dramatically. I said, "There was trouble.
But I'm telling you, I'm okay. I'm not hurt. Everything's fine now."

She finished checking me
out and said, "I suppose … I suppose you had to do it, but I've gotta tell
you, lately here, I'm a nervous wreck every time you go out. I sit here alone
for the longest time, with my heart in my throat, fearing the worst. I've
always felt like that, but it's just been getting a lot worse these last few
times, this last year or so, you know?"

I had to admit, that always
did bother me, leaving the apartment for a job, Dorothy at home all by herself,
fretting every second, not knowing if I would ever come back. Most of the time,
she kept her anxieties hidden below the surface, showing her inner toughness, a
trait I always liked in her. This morning, though, she let it out only because
I mentioned the trouble. I knew she wouldn't like it, but I had to tell her. I
don't know why. Probably, I guess, because I always told her.

But I wondered if I could
tell her about the girl. I hoped I wouldn't have to because I wanted to bury
it. Plow it under where I would never, ever have to think about it.

Ever.

"Well, I didn't get killed," I said. "But I
did get the money."

"The money?" That
familiar, steely twinge slid back into her voice.

"I got it. Well, some
of it, anyway."

"Some of it?"

"About a third of the
total, maybe less." Her shoulders sagged a teeny bit.

"What happened to the
rest?" she asked.

"I don't know."

Her bold brown eyes told me
she really wanted an answer, but I didn't have one. I knew she wouldn't rag me
about it, though. She wasn't the type. She trusted me to tell her the whole
truth, which I never failed to do.

I shrugged and said,
"I grabbed what I could. I didn't have time to look around for the
rest."

"So how much do we
net?"

"Not that much," I said with a sigh. "We hit
the bank on their big day of the month, when they're flush with cash, but that
data, along with other valuable logistical information, cost ten large up
front. Add another three thousand for the weapons."

"Three thousand for weapons?"

I nodded. "They weren't just ordinary guns. These were
big, awesome-looking things, intended to throw the fear of God into everyone
there. Cut down on any ideas they might have, ideas about resisting."

"You paid for all that?"

"Yeah. I mean, I get it back out of the take, but it
doesn't leave much to whack up."

She moved closer to me,
putting her hands around the back of my neck, rubbing her big, naked chest
against me.

"At least you didn't
go through it all for nothing, but I'd rather have you than the money. You know
that, right?"

I put an index finger to
her lips and sat up. "Right now, Zaz and Shimmy are coming over for their
cut. It'll only take a couple of minutes. But then I'm going to try for a few
hours' sleep. Will you stay in bed and wait for me?"

A warm, sleepy-cat smile
crawled onto her lips. "Mmm, you know I will."

What was I saying about those
fantasies?

Logan

Saturday, June 25, 2011

7:50 AM

I
SET THE
GYM BAG
ON THE TABLE
in the living room while I put a pot
of coffee together. Zaz and Shimmy arrived, looking pasty, like they hadn't
slept in days. Both in disheveled T-shirts and shorts, while Shimmy, by far the
older of the two and the one with hair, hadn't seen a comb this morning. We
entered the living room and three steaming cups of dark liquid sat waiting.

"You
guys didn't have to get all dressed up for this," I said.

"Shit,
man, you got me out of a sound fucking sleep," Zaz said, removing his
wire-rimmed glasses to rub his eyes with his fists. "I was having this
great fucking dream. Man, there was this smokin' blonde, who —"

"Keep
it down. Dorothy's still asleep."

I
gestured them toward the couch where they took seats, slouching in early
morning indifference, with a taste of the "don't give a shit"
attitude. I sat in a chair across from them. The aroma of coffee filled the
room. I liked it.

The
sun, now fully in place in the morning sky, beat down hard on the only window
in the room. Squinting, I got up and closed the thick drapes, darkening
everything. I clicked on a floor lamp. One of those bullshit curly light bulbs,
it barely lit up the lampshade surrounding it and not much more. For a minute,
I thought about lighting the table lamp next to the couch, which still had a
real light bulb in it, but I let it go.

The
gym bag sat silently on the coffee table, drawing attention. My unholstered .45
stood guard next to it. The coffee was too hot, still hot enough to burn. Our
sips were tiny. We set our cups down.

"What's
in the bag?" Shimmy asked. His soft voice and darkly handsome face didn't
tell much of his story. Didn't reveal anything at all about his impoverished
upbringing or the things he learned the hard way on the back streets of Key
West. Didn't even hint at how tough and unforgiving he could be when the
occasion arose.

With
both hands, I picked up the bag, holding it in a tentative grip, as though it
contained something delicate, breakable.

Don't touch, boys. It could shatter.

"I
took a little drive up the road last night. And I came back with this." I
unzipped the bag and dumped the cash on the coffee table. A few of the bills
were unbanded and they slid off the table, floating to the floor.

That
woke them up. Their eyes widened, and Shimmy made a momentary move toward the
money, but pulled back.

"Man,
what the —?" he said. "H-How'd you get it?"

"It's
not important. Only one thing matters. I brought it back."

"Is
this all of it?" Shimmy asked. "It looks a little light."

"It's
light, all right. Very light. But that's all that was there," I said.
"I didn't really have the opportunity to locate the rest of it."

Zaz
fingered his close, short goatee, then ran a hand across his buzz-cut scalp.
"Let's count it," he said.

We
sorted out the denominations. Zaz took the fives and tens, Shimmy the twenties,
and I took the fifties and hundreds. A short time later, with the aid of my
cell phone calculator, the total came to ninety-seven thousand, six hundred
five dollars.

"This
is it?" Zaz asked, with a quizzical look on his face. "Including
Chicho's cut?" He twisted his wiry frame back into comfortable sitting
position, his bespectacled eyes looking to me for an explanation.

One
came. "He won't be needing it."

Zaz,
who carried a calculator around in his brain, instantly proclaimed,
"Divided by three, then, that's just a little north of thirty-two grand
apiece."

"Correction,"
I said. "I take out thirteen for my initial expenses." I ran the
numbers on my cell phone. "That leaves … "

"Eighty-four,
six-oh-five," Zaz said. "Twenty-eight dimes each."

My
response: "Not quite. More like twenty-one plus. Eighty-four divided by
four. According to our original deal. One-fourth share for everyone. I'll round
it up to twenty-two for each of you, and I'll take care of Mambo's end. But
now, I get the rest of Chicho's share."

Shimmy
jumped in. "Wait a second here. Our original deal included Chicho. A
four-way split of the whole take. Way it looks now, we're down to three."

I
brought the steaming coffee to my lips, eyeing Shimmy closely. It was still
hot, still burned my tongue. I put it back on the table.

I
said, "And there wouldn't be any split at all if I hadn't gone up there
and put my life on the line to get it. For that matter, I didn't even have to
tell you I went up there. I could've just kept the whole thing."

Despite
the fact he was a twenty-four-year-old white kid addicted to rap music, Zaz
owned some pretty good common sense. He'd been to college and could quickly get
a grip on the things that count.

"Yo,
twenty-two's good enough for me," he said. "Like you say, it woulda
been nothing if you hadn't done the heavy lifting. Plus, you fronted the seed
money
and
you're taking care of
Mambo." His voice remained calm, reasonable. He looked over at Shimmy.
"Come on, Shim. Take it."

Shimmy
fidgeted, bit down hard on his lower lip. "I don't like it. We all took
the same risk."

Zaz
said, still with an even voice, "And Logan took an even bigger risk by
driving up to Miami to get our money back from that lowlife cocksucker who
stole it from us. Like he said, he could've kept it all, but he's doing the
right thing here."

"I
woulda gone with him. He didn't even tell us he was going." Shimmy's
agitation showed itself. "Besides, I signed on for an equal cut." For
the briefest moment, his dark eyes flicked toward the .45 resting on the table,
ink-black in the dimness of the room.

Don't try it, Shimmy. Toss that
thought.

He
looked back at me, seeing that I had caught his momentary attention to the gun.

"When
you're not running your poker game, Shimmy, you're a helluva wheelman," I
told him. "You been doing this kind of thing off and on for a long time.
What are you now, forty-five? Fifty? You didn't come all this way by making
foolish mistakes. Don't start now."

Shimmy
tensed his jaw, pulling his lips tight against his teeth. Zaz eased away from
him a few inches down the couch. My body shifted into high alert, nerve ends
tickling the underside of my skin, making me itchy. I held my breath, but not
so anyone could see.

No
one moved.
For the
briefest time, the thoughts entered my mind again. The ones I'd tried to keep
at bay.

Guns and money. One gets you the
other. Whenever I strap on this gun, I have to be ready to use it. That's part
of the deal, right? That young girl found out the hard way. I hate what
happened last night — I fucking hate it, but what could I do?

Everything
remained still, silent. The sun tried hard to squeeze through the drapes, but
the room remained in shadow. The aroma of fresh coffee hung thick in the air.
Steam still rose from the cups. My eyes never left Shimmy.

Shimmy pushes hard enough, I might
have to blast him. He's my good friend, for Chrissakes, and I'm ready to kill
him. All this to get the money. This money. Mine. Mine and Dorothy's.

It was all worth it, wasn't it? Won't
this money give us what we want? A little breathing room? A shot at a decent
life?

How many more times can I do this?

Shimmy's
every muscle remained immobile, taut. Only his head moved as he slowly turned
his veiled stare toward mine, like a big predatory animal peering from the
hidden sanctuary of the brush.

After
a few seconds, he said, "Okay. Twenty-two grand it is."