Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (22 page)

Logan

Sunday, July 17, 2011

4:50 AM

I
RAN TO MY CAR
AND JUMPED IN.
The street was still clear. A couple
of deep breaths while I ignited the engine and quickly maneuvered my way out of
the cramped parking spot. Sweat dripped from my forehead and around the back of
my neck. I could smell it under my arms. It stung my eyes like tiny needles. I
couldn't stop to wipe it away.

I
held to the speed limit all the way home, even though very few cars were on the
streets and even fewer people walking. By the time I made my way up to our
apartment, I'd calmed down a little, but only a little. I jerked a bottle of
water from the fridge and swigged about half of it down with the first pull.
Without turning any lights on, I sat at our little breakfast table and started
to collect myself.

I
don't know how much time passed, but I know when I finished the water, my mind
stopped spinning. I stumbled into the bedroom, where Dorothy sat propped up by
a pillow, reading. She often stayed up late on weekends to get in some reading
time. I didn't catch the book title. This one must've been a page-turner,
though. It was closing in on five in the morning.

"Hi,
honey," she said. "How'd it go?"

I
took the book out of her hands and sat facing her.

"Not
good," I told her. "Trey Whitney's dead."

Her
body shot to a bolt-upright position and her eyebrows reached for the ceiling.
"
What
? Trey —"

"I
was there to collect from Sharma and Trey showed up. He interfered and put up a
fight. I shoved him away. Hard. He hit his head on a concrete light pole."

Dorothy
gasped out loud for a few seconds. Then she said, "You mean he just died?
Right on the spot?"

I
nodded. "Before I even knew he hit the pavement."

She
blew out a strong exhale. "Tell me everything that happened."

I
ran it down for her, every painful detail, emphasizing how I was lucky as shit
no one came along while I was there, either before, during, or after the
scuffle with Trey. By the time I got done, she had calmed herself considerably.

"So
the stripper is the only one who can put you there? You didn't go in the club?
No one else saw you?"

"No.
No one."

"Can
she be counted on to keep her mouth shut?"

"I
think so."

"But
you're not sure?"

I
said, "She knows what'll happen to her if she squeals."

"You
realize what it means if word gets out."

I
said, "I know. It's probably a murder charge. Manslaughter at the very
least."

My
body was covered in sweat. The odor disgusted me. I peeled off my T-shirt,
slipped out of my pants, and jumped into a cool shower. I wanted to not only
scrub off the sweat, but to also cleanse away all the events of the night,
although I knew a shower wouldn't do it.

Afterward,
I wanted to feel her body up against mine. Then, at that very moment. I just
wanted everything to be
different
.
Despite the way everything went down, accidental and all, I still felt as if I
had turned into an honest-to-God killer. Trey didn't deserve to die. I didn't
have to shove him so damned hard. Sure, he was drunk, only being his usual
asshole self, trying to defend Sharma and look like a hot shot. But then I took
his life. Snuffed him when he didn't have it coming.

Dorothy
opened her arms to me as I climbed in next to her.

"My
God," I said, "I can't believe what I've done." I buried my face
in her soft breasts.

She
slowly ran her hand through my hair. "Why'd you have to get so rough with
him? Maybe you could've eased up on him a little."

"I
didn't
get rough with him. I just
gave him a little shove is all. At least I thought it was just a little shove.
But he hit that lamppost so hard!"

"You
think you could've talked him down?" she said.

"Maybe,
but I didn't. And he's dead. Shit, his wife is probably getting the word right
now."

"And
so is Win Whitney."

I
jumped up from the bed and padded into the kitchen. I reached into the cabinet
and my hand came out with a bottle of whiskey. A stiff belt into a rocks glass
and down the hatch. Pour another one for the road. I sipped at it and returned
to the bedroom.

I
sat next to her on the bed. "Baby," I said, "I think I'm gonna
be in very deep shit over this."

"Not
if the stripper keeps her mouth shut, right?"

Another
sip. I could feel the calm sluicing over me.

"I
guess not. But Trey's just as dead."

Dorothy
ran a hand through my hair and smoothed out her voice. "Shh-h-h. Don't
think about it right now."

"B-but
—"

"Shh."
Her arms tightened around me and her substantial body ground softly into mine,
ready to yield. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Leave it alone for now.
Just come to me. Come to me, my love."

≈ ≈ ≈

I got up before Dorothy, awakening from a tight troubling sleep, and
not at all refreshed. It was a little before noon. A glance through the window
showing me a nice day, the summer heat leaking hard into our apartment. I
ticked the AC up a notch.

As
I made coffee, the events of the night before still poisoned my thoughts. I
didn't know what to do at this point. Whether I should pretend nothing happened
and expect my life to continue uninterrupted, or maybe I should sit around and
mentally prepare for the inevitable shit to hit the waiting fan.

The
knock came on my second sip of coffee.

I
opened the door. Chuck from upstairs stood in the hall, glaring at me.

"What's
up, Chuck?"

"Logan,
can you ask your wife to please not hang her underwear out on your rear
balcony? It's unsightly. We've got a laundry room for that kind of thing."

"What?
Underwear? On the balcony?"

He
made a gesture, kind of a cocky wrist flip, which pretended to straighten out
his wrinkled khaki shirt. No doubt showing me he meant business. Meanwhile, his
voice remained even. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.
There are a couple of items of ladies' underwear out there right now."

To
be honest, I never noticed that kind of stuff. If Dorothy hung a few things
over the balcony rail, it slid right on past me.

"Listen,
Chuck," I said. "First of all, her name is Dorothy and she's not my
wife. Second of all, I don't know what you're talking about. If there's
anything hanging over our balcony, I'm not aware of it. But finally, if there
is
anything out there, it's none of your
fucking business."

"It's
everybody's business," he said. "You can see it from the interior
courtyard. Underwear hanging out in plain sight. It looks trashy."

My
fists ground together and my lips tightened around a hardening jawline. It was
all I could do to keep from sending this shitbird to meet Trey Whitney in the
great beyond. But right now, I didn't need to bring any more bad juju into my
life. I summoned all my patience to still my gut and to restrain my hands from
clutching him around his long fucking gooseneck.

"I'll
take care of it," I said. Then I chilled my eyes and my voice as cold as
they could get. "And don't ever call us trash again. You understand
me?"

He
nodded once as an outward sign of understanding, but he didn't really have to.
The sudden flicker of fear in his eyes told me he got it.

Mambo

Sunday, July 17, 2011

2:10 PM

A
NINE-BALL GAME
HAD JUST ENDED
with a once-in-a-lifetime shot,
sinking both the eight and the nine in spectacular fashion. Mambo the Third
watched from the sidelines and joined in the raucous applause that followed.
The winner grinned in appreciation and scooped up the money from the rail.
Around the table, money changed hands as people paid off their losing bets.

Mambo
turned back to the bar and the bartender waved at him for attention.

"Your
grandfather's on the phone, Mambo," he said.

"I'll
take it in the office."

Back
in the office, he picked up the phone and pressed the appropriate line button.
"
Hola, Abuelo
," he said.

"I
just got off the phone with Win Whitney. Did you hear about Trey?" The
Original Mambo's voice was drained of any niceties.

"Trey?
No. What happened?"

"He's
dead."

Mambo
the Third lurched forward in his chair. "
Dead
? How?"

"Killed
outside the Wild Thing. That stripper of his was there. She says it was an
accident."

"Accident?
Wha — what the hell happened?"

"Seems
Trey was drunk and started groping her on the street after she got off work.
She says she tried to pull away from him and he lost his balance. Hit his head
against a lamppost as he fell."

Mambo
was still having a difficult time digesting this. "So he's dead? Just like
that?"

"Just
like that. I don't like it, though."

"Why
not?"

"I
don't know. Something … I don't know, it just doesn't smell right to me."

"Well,
you think she killed him? Did it deliberately?"

"I
don't know. We'll see. But this is going to slow down our North Roosevelt
project. Slow it way down. Trey was playing a big part in it, and Win is damn
sure going to want a real resolution of his son's death before we move
ahead."

"I
— I guess so," young Mambo said. "I can see where he would want
that."

"He
might even think we had something to do with it."

"
Us
? Why the hell would he think that? We
wouldn't have any reason for —"

"Tell
me,
mi nieto
, did you tell Trey his
debt was forgiven? That he no longer owed us that money?"

"Of
course! Just like you said! He thanked me and that was that."

"Well,"
The Original Mambo said, "this still doesn't smell right to me. Or to Win
either. He told me as much on the phone just now. Right now, he's leaning
toward the stripper hitting Trey with something, or otherwise causing his
death."

"Jesus!
That's a fucking stretch, isn't it?"

"Not
if you think about it. She simply might have had enough of Trey and his
bullshit. You don't know what goes on in the minds of those stripper sluts. The
cops, though, they're believing her for now. I hear Ortega's got the
case."

Mambo
said, "Ortega? Shit, if he can't get to the bottom of it, no one can. How
long does Win want to postpone the redevelopment deal?"

"As
long as it takes. Till he gets an answer for his son's death. I've got to go
now. And by the way, no dinner tonight."

"
Sí, Abuelo
."

Mambo
the Third hung up and absorbed this information for two or three minutes. Then
he punched in another number on his cell.

"Logan,"
he said. "You hear about Trey?"

"Trey?"
Logan said. "No. What about him?"

"They
found him on the street outside the Wild Thing early this morning with his
skull opened up."

"What?
You mean he's —"

"Dead
as a pair of deuces against a straight flush."

"Holy
shit! What happened?" Logan sounded natural.

"His
stripper girlfriend was involved. She says he was drunk and he grabbed her tits
right there on the street. She moved away from him and he lost his balance.
Slipped and fell, hit his head on a light pole."

"That's
it? You mean he just fell down drunk and cracked his head open? Right outside
the Wild Thing alley?"

Mambo
said, "Well, that's what the stripper says."

"What
do you mean?"

"I
mean it doesn't sound right. Think about it. Why would she want to get away
from Trey? From what I heard, he was showering money down on her pretty
steadily."

"I
don't know, maybe she just had a rough night at work. You said Trey was loaded.
And you know how he can be when he gets like that. Real fucking annoying. Maybe
she didn't feel like getting pawed out on the sidewalk."

A
quick head shake on Mambo's end of the phone. "She doesn't mind it all
night long in the Wild Thing. Why would she make a big deal out of Trey doing
it? Especially since he pays her for the privilege."

"Oh,
man, you know how these strippers are," Logan said. "Inside those
joints, they're for sale to everyone with a hard dick and a few bucks. But once
they walk out the door, they think they're fucking Mother Teresa."

"Maybe,
but it just doesn't …" Mambo's mind ventured off again, trying to piece it
together.

"How's
his family taking it?"

"Winston's
pretty upset, as you can imagine. From what I heard, he doesn't believe a word
of it, either. He thinks maybe the bitch got rough with Trey and hit him with
something."

"Well,
you know how Win feels. He thinks Trey could do no wrong. Innocent choirboy and
all."

"Yeah,
he does think that."
He really does,
thought Mambo.
He never could see
straight when it came to that asshole son of his.

"How
about the cops?" Logan said. "What do they think?"

"From
what I hear, they're buying the stripper's story. For now. Ortega's got the
case. He hasn't found any other evidence so far."

"So
far?"

He
said, "I don't have to tell you about Ortega. Nothing's ever easy when
he's involved. He'll turn everything inside out and upside down before he
closes this case. Especially when the victim is named Whitney."

Mambo
knew Ortega, all right. An old veteran. One sharp cop. Couldn't be bought,
couldn't be pushed around. Could read a crime scene better than anyone. He'd
been onto Mambo's operations for years, trying to put him away for one thing or
another. Mambo always took care to cover his tracks, though, so Ortega never
could pin him down on anything, never could make anything stick, even though
his bar was full of outlaws every night of the week.

"Well,"
Logan said, "if Trey did fall, like the girl said, then there's nothing to
prove. Not even Win Whitney can turn an accident into a crime."

Mambo
sighed. "I guess not," he said and swiped the call off his cell
phone.