Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (21 page)

"Absolutely
not. You think I'm out of my mind? This Maxie whoever is probably surrounded by
armed guards twenty-four seven! He's gotta be fucking invulnerable! You think
somebody in his position is just gonna go walking down a dark street by himself
one night waiting for someone like me to come along and blast him from a
passing car? No way am I getting involved."

"I'll
give you twenty-five grand. That's
twenty-five
thousand dollars
, Logan. Plus another fifteen for a partner."

"I'll
say it again, Mambo. No … fucking … way." Logan set the beer bottle down,
got up from his chair, and went to the door. Before opening it, he said,
"I'm gonna do us both a favor and forget this conversation ever
happened."

And
he was gone.

Silvana

Friday, July 15, 2011

12:25 PM

M
ICHAEL CONNELLY'S NOVEL
,
The
Overlook
, was just getting good. Harry Bosch was breaking in a new partner
on a big murder case where some radioactive shit was stolen, and out of nowhere
this wiseass bitch from the FBI tries to muscle in on him and take over the
case. Sitting in Denny's over a grilled chicken sandwich, Silvana was so
completely wrapped up in the book, she almost didn't hear her cellphone go off.

God damn it! Who the hell is calling
me during lunch?

She
didn't recognize the number, but answered anyway. Get the fucking call over
with already.

"Sergeant
Machado?"

"Yeah,
who's this?"

"Flaco.
You remember me? From a couple of weeks ago at the 305?"

"Flaco.
Yes, I remember you. You have something for me?"

"Well,"
he said, "you told me to call you if I heard anything about those three
people who, uh, had that accident over on Northwest 10th Avenue."

"That's
right. You can talk. Don't worry. What have you got?"

"I
don't wanna talk about this on the phone. Meet me in Little Havana."

"Whereabouts?"

"There's
an alley right next to the Bay of Pigs Museum on Southwest 9th Street."

"I'll
be there in fifteen minutes."

≈ ≈ ≈

Located
in a 1940s-style building along a tree-lined section of Southwest Ninth Street,
the museum is a memorial to the fateful day in 1961 when the CIA-financed
invasion of Cuba turned into colossal disaster. American and Cuban flags fly
side by side in front of the building, and a small alley runs along one side.

Silvana
arrived inside of fifteen minutes and saw Flaco leaning against the building
about halfway down the alley, lighting a cigarette. She parked on the street
and went to him.

"This
better be good, my man," she said. "I don't like wild goose
chases." She looked up. Dark thunderheads rose in the southern sky.
God, I hope he makes this quick. And good. I
don't want to get caught in a sudden Miami rain.

"Don't
worry," Flaco said. "You gonna like this. But you said you would help
me
out, too. Right?"

"If
you've got something worthwhile, yeah, I'll help you out. Now what is it?"

"I
got your word on that?" he said.

"Out
with it, Flaco. Come on."

"Awright."
He took a big drag on the cigarette. "You know that dude, Borraga, who got
blasted that night."

Silvana
sighed like this kid was never going to spill. "What about him?"

"A
coupla months ago, Maxie Méndez's brother got married, got married down in Key
West. Maxie and the Dávila brothers were there. So was Borraga. Turns out he
and Maxie were tight, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"How
tight?"

"Borraga
was Maxie's coke guy. Made the buys from the wholesaler who brings the shit in
from Colombia. Then Maxie, he sells it in his own territory. Hialeah, Little
Havana, you know what I'm sayin'? But Borraga, he was the link."

"Go
on."

"So
I find out Borraga meets this local guy down there at the wedding reception
who's doin' small-time gambling shit. Guy by the name of Kiki, I don't know his
last name. He's doin', you know, nickel-dime bolita and sports book and shit.
Borraga introduces him to Maxie and long story short, Maxie convinces the dude
to work for him, bookin' bets and bolita games, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Maxie
wanted him to do this in Key West?"

Flaco
started gesturing with the hand holding the cigarette. They were smooth
gestures, able to communicate his emotions at the time. "Thass right. So,
the dude, he
was
workin' for this guy
Mambo DeLima, who runs the gambling show down there. Kinda like Maxie do up
here, you know what I'm sayin'? See, I knew Maxie was doin' some shit in the
Keys recently, but I didn't know how it all started, like Borraga meeting the
guy at this wedding and all, until just yesterday I found out."

"Okay,
so Maxie's trying to move in on this DeLima." Silvana said.

"Yeah.
Borraga went down there and got Kiki set up. Set up with Maxie's way of doin'
things. More like
enforcing
Maxie's
way of doin' things. Eventually plannin' on moving coke through the Keys and
doin' a whole lotta other shit. But the gambling's what starts the engine, gets
all the players in place, you know what I'm sayin?"

"Borraga
was sort of an advance man? To get Maxie set up to sell coke down there?"

"Now
you feelin' me, Sergeant. I never knew this Borraga, 'cause I'm strictly in
Yayo's crew, one of the low men on the totem pole, you know what I'm sayin'? I
don't know nothin' 'bout what goes on outside of the crew, with Maxie and his
other dealings and shit, but I axed around quiet-like an' got this data for
you."

"Very
interesting," Silvana said. "Anything else?"

"Yeah.
Next thing you know, this Kiki dude, he winds up dead."

"Dead?"

"Big
smile on his throat." Flaco gestured with his index finger across his
neck.

"So
you're saying this DeLima guy did him?"

Another
drag on the cigarette followed by more hand gestures. "Well, this is where
it goes all gray area. I can't say for sure DeLima did Kiki, but man, who else?
He find out Kiki is turnin' colors, going with Maxie, and he take him out! Why
not?"

"Borraga
introduces some guy to Maxie in Key West, they work out a deal for small-time
gambling, and the guy winds up dead. Exactly why should I give a shit about any
of this?"

"Because
Maxie got a real hard-on for this Mambo DeLima. Thinks DeLima sent Logan or one
of his other boys up here to kill Borraga for turning Kiki, you know what I'm
sayin'? Coupla nights ago, Yayo and Camilito, they make the trip to Key
West."

"To
kill DeLima?"

"I
hear Yayo say yesterday, they just sizin' him up, his operation and all, you know
what I'm sayin'? But D-Day be comin' soon."

"The
Dávilas are going to do this themselves?"

"This
Keys dude, man, this DeLima, he big down there. They wanna make sure it gets
done right, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Silvana
took this all in. She liked what she heard, but she would need time to sort it
all out and figure the possibilities.

"This
is good, Flaco. But why are you telling me this?"

"You
say you want me to call you 'bout this dude Borraga."

"But
why are you telling me about the Dávilas planning to kill DeLima? Yayo's your
patrón
, right?"

"Yeah.
But he ain't lettin' me move up. I been doin' this small shit for too long, a
coupla years now. I want more. I'm ready, but he ain't havin' it."

"So
you're ratting him out?" Silvana calling it like it was.

Flaco
was clearly put out. "No, man, no! It's more like … I'm making room at the
top. The guy who's gonna take over has already tol' me he make me his right
hand man if that day ever comes. I'm just tryin' to make it come a little
sooner, you know what I'm sayin?"

"Very
good thinking, Flaco."

"I
thought so. Now, you do somethin' for me?"

"
¿Qué quieres?
"

"One
of my homies, he was picked up on a weapons charge. It's a bullshit bust. All
they found was a .38 in his glove box, you know what I'm sayin'? No fuckin' AKs
or nothin'. But he got a record, and he could be in deep shit if we don't nip
it in the bud."

"I
hear you," Silvana said. "What's his name?"

"Tony
Carrillo."

"Where
is he now?"

Flaco
said, "Out on bail."

That
was good. No messy jail release to deal with. Those fuckers at County were real
assholes when it came to this kind of thing, letting guys out as part of a deal
with a CI. "Out on bail" means it's only paperwork, and paperwork can
get lost real easy.

"I'm
on it," she said. "But listen to me. I want to know when this hit is
gonna go down, you got that? You hear anything, anything at all about it, you
call me right away. I don't give a shit what time of day or night it is."

"I
hear you," Flaco said.

"Okay.
You did good today, Flaco. Very good. Keep it up."

"Yeah.
Let's see when Tony's case is cleared up." He took a final puff on his
cigarette. As he walked away, he flicked it hard against the building,
showering sparks down to the pavement.

≈ ≈ ≈

Silvana went back to her car and saw
The Overlook
riding shotgun in the front seat, demanding to be
picked up. The FBI bitch was hot to recover that radioactive shit. Silvana
wanted to see how it was all going to play out, but she resisted the temptation
and pulled out her cell phone.

"Lieutenant
Santos?" she said.

"Machado.
What's up?"

"I've
developed a CI who tells me Maxie Méndez is planning to murder his counterpart
in Key West, possibly through Yayo Dávila."

"Oh
really?" he said. Silvana caught the high interest in his tone.
"Who's the intended victim?"

"A
guy named Mambo DeLima. He apparently runs what rackets there are down
there."

"Rackets,
my ass!" Santos said. "Hmph! The only racket down there is the high
room rates in the hotels. When's this supposed to happen?"

"I'm
not sure, sir. But he said 'soon'."

Santos
thought a moment. "All right. We'll put a tail on Yayo Dávila. Now, what's
Maxie's beef with this guy?"

"I
can't go into it any deeper at this time, sir, but the CI wants something in
return which I think we should do for him."

"What's
that?"

"He
wants us to drop a weapons charge against one Tony Carrillo."

"Carrillo?
Shit! We've got a chance to put that fucker away for ten years on this
charge."

"Yes,
sir, I know, but this informant gave me some pretty hot information. And he's
positioned to get more. More on the triple homicide. Thing is, sir, we let this
hit go down, it might be a chance to pin a murder rap on Maxie Méndez, or at
least Yayo Dávila. But we've got to deliver Carrillo to our CI."

Santos
thought for a long time. Silvana could hear him breathing at the other end of
the line. What little street noise there was fell away for those few seconds.
The dark clouds moved closer, promising rain. Finally, he said, "All
right. But tell him we want more information. Everything he can dig up. And I
don't give a shit how he gets it."

"Yes,
sir. But if your tail tells you Dávila's heading for the Keys, would you let me
know? Vargas and I want the collar. We feel we've earned it."

"All
right. Agreed. Anything else? Anything on the triple homicide?"

She
wasn't quite ready to give Logan's name up to Santos just yet. "No,
sir."

"Stay
on it. But this Méndez thing is scalding hot, so be ready to move if anything
breaks."

"Yes,
sir."

"And
Machado," he said.

"Yes,
sir?"

"If
we're going to let Carrillo skate on this,
and
if we allow this Key West murder to take place, I want to be god damned sure we
nail either Méndez or Dávila. To the fucking wall. Open … and … shut. Are you
hearing me?"

"In
full stereo, sir."

"All
right. Keep me posted."

She
ended the call and allowed a smile to flicker on her face. Then, still sitting
in her car, she picked up
The Overlook
and turned to where her new bookmark split the pages. She had to finish this
chapter.

Logan

Sunday, July 17, 2011

4:05 AM

I
RETURNED TO THE
WILD THING
for my second payment from Sharma. I wasn't going to repeat the mistake of
creating a scene inside the club, so I checked with LeeRon and he told me her
shift ended at four AM, to look for her around four-fifteen or so outside. I
parked in a tight spot across the street from the Wild Thing alley and waited.
Humidity filled the night air to capacity, drawing sweat out of me. I ran my
T-shirt sleeve across my forehead to soak some of it up. It wasn't going to get
any cooler tonight. Thick, low clouds hung over the island, trapping the
moisture and hiding the moon. It would probably rain later on.

After
almost everyone else had left the club, she finally spilled out of the alley at
four-thirty. I got out of my car, the slamming door getting her attention.

"Yo,
Sharma." She recognized me right away, and temporarily froze, not sure
whether she should run, scream, or do nothing. Wisely, she chose door number
three.

"Wha
— what do you want?" She cast nervous glances over her shoulder back
toward the alley. No one around.

As
I approached, I spotted her oversized Florida Marlins T-shirt rising and
falling around her ample tits from her quick, heavy breathing. Shorts, sandals,
big purse carelessly slung over her shoulder, hair messed up after a sweaty
night of being groped and pawed … a very different look for her, different than
what I'd seen before, anyway.

"You
know what I want. It's payday."

She
looked behind her once again. At that point, Trey Whitney stepped out of the
blackness of the alley, a little stagger in his step. He moved to her side,
like a dashing protector of the lady fair. The nearby streetlamp backlit his
body, throwing his face into shadow.

"Logan,"
he said, "I thought we discussed this matter … the other day. As I recall,
my … my associates delivered a message to you. Loud and … clear, if I'm not
mistaken." His slurry, tentative speech told me all I needed to know about
his condition.

I
had to laugh. Even when he was this drunk, he was so fucking cocky. I said,
"Actually, Trey,
you
are mistaken.
I'm a little stubborn when it comes to this kind of thing. You know, where
people don't think they owe me money but they really do."

"Ah,
yes. But in this … in this case, they — or rather, she
 
doesn't actually owe it to you."

"I
see it differently."

He
gave me a loose, careless open hand gesture, waving the air. "Well, that's
what makes … a horse race, isn't it now."

I
said, "When Mambo forgave your gambling debt, it was between you and him.
This money she owes is between her and me."

"You
are
a … a slow learner, aren't
you," he said.

Sharma
stepped up, loaded with attitude and righteous confidence. With her head cocked
slightly to one side, she said, "Like I told you last week, I don't owe
you nothing."

She
subtly shifted her purse with her elbow, nudging it a little farther behind her
back. Her eyes darted over to Trey, looking for him to draw his sword and slay
the robber.

In
a crude, exaggerated imitation of her, I cocked my head and stuck it in her
face and said in my best snarl, "You owe me one thousand dollars. Now hand
it over." I hoped she would come across, since I didn't really plan on
roughing her up. If worse came to worst, I guessed I could just grab her purse
and fish out the money.

I
shot a glance down the empty street. It was only the three of us out there.
Even Duval Street, only a half a block away, had quieted down.

At
that point, Trey stepped in between us. "Hold it, Logan. She's not paying.
And I would recommend …" He burped. " … you not do anything
stupid." He pulled on my arm, hoping to jerk me away from Sharma.

What
a dipshit. "Easy now, Trey," I said. With little effort, I elbowed
him back toward the streetlamp and with the other arm reached for Sharma's
enormous purse. She let go a little shriek at the sudden move. To my surprise,
Trey plunged in again, reaching out and grabbing my forearm. In his drunken
state, he put everything into it and managed to yank me back, out of reach of
the purse. I peeled back his fingers, but he latched onto me with his other
hand. I had to give him credit, he was putting it all out there. I gave him a
heavy shove into the concrete light pole. He smashed into it flush with his
back. I thought I heard a crack. I swiveled my head to see him sliding downward
to the pavement.

I
turned my attention back to Sharma, whose eyes were caught at the crossroads of
fear and loathing. She was mulling her next move, but before she could do
anything, I loosened my posture and said, "Look, you don't want this to
get any worse, and to tell you the truth, neither do I. So just pay up and
we'll forget we had these bad words with each other, all right?"

She
glanced at Trey lying on the sidewalk and let out a tiny shriek. My head
swiveled in that direction. He lay on his back, a bloody pool forming to the
side of his head. She rushed to him and knelt at his side.

"He's
dead! You killed him, you motherfucker! You killed him!"

I
went over to his prone figure. His head leaned slightly to one side and his
eyes stared blankly into the night. He saw no more.

My
head turned quickly, scanning the street. No one in sight.

All
at once, I felt blood rush to my face, each breath shorter and more desperate
than the last. I had a hard time moving my arms and legs.

Fucking Trey is dead! A minute ago,
he was his usual drunken-asshole self and now he's dead! All because … because
I … His old man, the cops, they're all gonna …

Finally
able to move, I turned back to Sharma. Still kneeling next to Trey, she sobbed,
more out of fear than sympathy for him, terrified I would send her to the same
fate.

I should! I should just do her right
now and get the fuck out of here. Be done with all of it.

No, wait. I can't do that. I'm not a
murderer. I didn't mean to kill Trey. Shit, I didn't even mean to hurt him. All
I did was …

My
blood was pumping, and fast. I needed a minute to clear my head, so I reached
into her purse. The sudden movement sent a startled spasm through her body. I
pulled out a wad of bills from a wallet, her night's take, colored up to
twenties and hundreds. I counted out a thousand dollars, then crammed the rest
into her wallet, which I handed back to her. There was still no activity on the
street. No pedestrians, no cars. Only the dim street lamp above us.

I
pulled her to her feet and shook her to get her to shut up. She still carried
on, so I dragged her into the blackness of the Wild Thing alley.

"You're
gonna knock it off right now," I said. I added a quick slap to her face
and she finally gathered herself. "Listen to me. Trey came out of the club
drunk on his ass. He started grabbing at you out on the sidewalk. You tried to
twist away from him. He lunged for you and missed. He fell and hit his head. It
was all an accident. You saw it, right?" My hands still gripped her
shoulders. I shook her again to get a reply.

"You
— you killed him! He's dead!"

I
wrapped my hands around her soft neck. With one push, she was against the outer
wall of the grimy building. In my lowest threatening voice, I said, "It
was an
accident
. You saw it
yourself."

After
a few seconds of silence, she nodded, still whimpering.

"
Say
it," I told her, shaking her
with my hands still around her neck.

"It
— it was — an accident." Her voice cracked with fear. Her
breathing became uneven. She was on the brink of falling apart.

"He
grabbed you and — what happened then?"

She
forced another whimper back down her throat and said, "I t-tried to get
away from him and he —"

"He
what?"

"He
slipped and f-fell into the light pole and — and hit his head." More
sobbing. I slapped her again. She quit.

"That's
right," I said, loosening my hold on her. "I was nowhere around. You
got it?"

Her
head nodded involuntarily, her eyes glazed over. "You weren't here."

"Right
again. You hold fast to that story and everyone's gonna be better off for it.
Especially you." She made a face and I said, "That's right.
Especially you. If the cops pick me up for this, you better know I've got
friends who will make you sorry. Very, very sorry." Then I shook her
shoulders and said, "Not only that, if Trey's father or those two apes
give me any shit over this, you better hope they kill me, because if they
don't, I will come after you in ways you never thought possible."

Now I'm the one who'd better do some
hoping. As in, hope it doesn't come to that, because I'm almost positive I
can't do it. Some guys would just snap her neck right here to make sure she
didn't rat them out. I probably should do that, but I'm not going to.

I for sure never had to do anything
like that to a woman. Until … until …

My
gaze fell to Sharma. Instead of a thirtysomething well-used stripper, I saw
bright, wishful eyes, sparkling like clear black glass, belonging to that
teenage Cuban girl in Miami, whose tomorrows were wiped out by two of my
bullets.

How the fuck did it ever come to
this?