Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (23 page)

Logan

Sunday, July 17, 2011

2:25 PM

"I
S THE STRIPPER'S STORY
HOLDING UP?"
Dorothy asked, putting down the iron.

"For
now. But Win Whitney thinks she killed Trey. And Ortega's on it like gravy on
rice."

"Oh,
shit. Ortega."

"I
know," I said. "The last thing we need."

"What's
Mambo's take?"

"He's
not completely sold on it, either."

She
said, "The stripper won't be able to stand up to Ortega. No goddamn way. He'll
lean on her hard and I'm telling you, she'll fold like a wet fucking
tent."

I
didn't want to hear this. I knew it was possible, but I didn't want to hear it.
I didn't want to think about Sharma leaking the truth out under Ortega's hard
questioning. Definitely didn't want to think about what would happen after
that.

Dorothy
led me to the couch and sat me down.

"You
know what this means," she said. "Don't you?"

My
head hung between my hands. She walked over and stood in front of me and
repeated, "Don't you?"

"I-I
really don't think she'll talk. If she sticks to her story, they'll have to
believe it." I looked up at her.

She
said, "We're gonna have to do something about it."

"No,
we got to step away from this, honey. I don't want to get too deep into it. We
may not be able to turn back."

"Shit,
open your eyes! You're in up to your fucking neck already."

"Well
…" I thought for a second. "How about we hustle her out of town? Back
to Hialeah. Or maybe Tampa. They'll never find her there. Give her a few grand
to hold her over a while."

"Nix,"
she said. "If she splits town, Win Whitney's gonna think she was for sure
responsible for Trey's death. He'll stop at nothing to find her. His arms are
long. Ver-rrry long."

I
was sure where she was going with this, but I pretended I wasn't. "So …
what, then?" I asked.

"So
this," she said and grabbed me by the hair, jerking my mouth to hers.
After the hard, desperate kiss, she pulled my head away to look straight into
my eyes. It jerked me a little and I bumped into the ironing board, sending the
iron crashing to the floor. Reluctantly, she turned loose of me so I could bend
down and pick it up.

Taking
my head in her hands once more, she put on her dead-serious face. At times like
this, her overbite showed the most. The sun blasting in through the undraped
window turned her complexion pasty, gray, like she needed a shower. This being
Sunday, and with her having no plans to go out, she hadn't bothered to fix her
hair, so it hung limply, messy around her face. None of this really bothered me
too much, but on some level, I knew I didn't care for this look. Or more
precisely, what it stood for at this very moment.

Her
brow furrowing, she gripped my head tighter. "We're going to have to kill
her," she said.

"Kill
her? Kill Sharma?" Heat rushed to my face. We moved over to the couch and
sat.

"What
other choice do we have?"

I
said, "Wait a minute, now. Trey was an accident. Even though you could say
I killed him, I didn't mean to. It was still an accident! I just wanted to push
him away from me. But you're talking about murdering Sharma. Cold-blooded
murder."

"Damn
right I am."

"Honey,
we can't do that. We're not killers here. You know that."

A
layer of cold steel spread itself over her voice and hardened right away.
"What I know is that when Ortega and Winston Whitney put serious heat on
her ass, she's gonna roll over on you in a fucking eyeblink."

"She'll
stand up. Don't worry about her."

"I'm
plenty
fucking worried about her.
Nobody's buying her story. Not Ortega, not Winston Whitney, not even Mambo the
Third. You just now admitted it. She gives you up, nobody's gonna believe your
story about it being an accident. You'd be looking at a minimum of manslaughter
for Trey's death. What's that, twenty-five to life? We can't take the chance. I
won't let you."

"But
they can't prove something that didn't happen. Besides, you really think a jury
would believe her? A stripper?"

Dorothy's
agitation showed itself. Blood entered her face. "Get a grip, for
Chrissakes. All she's gotta do is show up in court with a high-necked frilly
blouse and understated makeup. She's gonna start off by saying you were
extorting money out of her, money that she worked hard to earn."

"Bullshit!
She's a fucking stripper! She gives lap dances and sucks dick every
night!"

"Yeah,
but in that courtroom, she's gonna be a hard-working young woman, forced to
work an unpleasant job just to support herself. That's how she's gonna come
off. Then, once she starts singing about how you had all this hostility toward
Trey — who, by the way, is from the finest family in town — and
about how he tried to protect her and you beat the shit out of him, it's gonna
be all over. Throw in a tear or two and you're fucking toast."

I
took her hand in mine, very gently. I didn't want to aggravate her more. My
voice calmed.

"Look,
honey, I'll be honest with you. I
have
killed people before. But in every single case, they had it coming. Usually
self-defense. I'm not a stone-cold killer. And neither are you. Especially not
you."

She
took my hand and squeezed it harder than I would've expected. Her eyes were
colder than I'd ever known them to be.

"You
don't think this is self-defense? You don't think that whore'd rat you out?
This is self-defense of the highest fucking order. We take her out, we save
your ass. Simple as that."

"You
keep saying 'we'. I can't let you —"

Her
hands went to my cheeks and she caressed them. Then her eyes softened, and so
did her tone. "Listen to me. If you're in this, so am I. I'm with you all
the way down the line. You understand me? All the way, baby. I won't let this
happen to you."

"It's
not going to happen," I said, my uncertainty bleeding through in my voice.

"Bullshit,"
she replied. "If we don't act, it
will
happen and you know it."

My
head moved from side to side in a single shake. "You can call it
self-defense, but Ortega's gonna call it murder. And the State Attorney's gonna
call it murder one."

Her
voice remained even. "You don't think they'd slap a murder one charge on
you if they could make you for those Miami killings? What do you think that
fucking dyke cop was nosing around down here for? And Trey Whitney? I guarantee
you they'd try you for murder two anyway, just so they could get a compromise
verdict of manslaughter and send you away for twenty-five years. Wake up! The
baby's in the well! Too late for any subtle distinctions here."

She
was right. But I never murdered anyone before. I didn't think I had it in me.

She
pointed to the front door. "Ortega's gonna show up one day at that door
and put the cuffs on you. And when he leads you out of here, I'm finished.
Finished without you."

I
looked directly at her and saw the love I'd seen for the last ten years. Still
there, still strong, visible behind her misting eyes.

"Let
me think about it," I said. "Give me a little time."

"Don't
take too long. We don't have a lot of time."

Her
body moved closer to me on the couch, near enough for me to inhale her natural
scent, and her mouth reached for mine. She kissed me, long and wet, supposedly
as a gesture of love, and her considerable body pressed against mine. But deep
in my head and in my gut, something told me the kiss had sealed our deadly
pact.

Logan

Sunday, July 17, 2011

6:40 PM

D
OROTHY MADE DINNER
THAT NIGHT
,
a tasty pot of
ropa vieja
, my
favorite Cuban dish. The
arroz moro
was all gray, the black beans cooked through it to perfection, and for a few
sensuous minutes, I allowed the tangy aroma to inhabit my entire body. With the
food out on the table and the beer poured into a couple of pilsner glasses, we
took our seats and I dug into the buttery, soft shreds of beef. Then I heard
the first drops of rain dance on our tin roof.

She
let me get about a third of the way through the meal, the whole time
distracting me with small talk, a variation on fattening me up for the
slaughter to come, before she said, "So, what are we going to do with the
stripper?"

I'd
given it a lot of thought. I pursued all our options, each one right out to the
end of the line, and every avenue ended in flames. No matter how I felt about this
predicament, or whether it violated my moral code, every choice led to one
result: Sharma had to go.

I
couldn't live the rest of my life — or more likely, the next few days —
wondering if she was going to keep her mouth shut. Undoubtedly, the time would
come when she would blab to Ortega and not give a shit what I would do to her.
He'd give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and tell her not to worry, the
cops'd pick me up right away so I wouldn't be able to take my revenge.

Or,
worse yet, Win Whitney would send Morgan and Stanley around to see her and
after about thirty seconds with them, she'd sing any song they wanted to hear.
And every song would have my name in the chorus. Then I'd move to the top of
their list and they wouldn't bother with any cop courtesy like Miranda rights
or handcuffs. They'd wait for me one night, or maybe come after me the same
night as they saw Sharma, and my mangled body might or might not turn up
someplace on some future date.

The
way it played out in my increasingly troubled mind, one of those two outcomes
was a certainty. One hundred percent chance of deep shit. Deeeeep shit, baby.

I
looked up from my plate into Dorothy's eyes. A dark-chocolate brown, right now
devoid of any mercy, and her warm heart frozen over by the icy winds of capital
murder.

"It
has to be done," I said. "And the sooner the better."

Her
pitiless eyes never moved from mine. "Tonight," she said. It wasn't a
question.

"Tonight."

≈ ≈ ≈

We ate the rest of our dinner in silence, the only sound being forks
against porcelain plates and the rain outside, which by now was really coming
down. When we finished, Dorothy rinsed the plates and the pots off and left
them in the sink. She went into the bedroom and changed clothes, removing her
blouse and shorts in favor of a dark blue T-shirt and jeans. Then a thin black
sweat shirt and another, older pair of jeans over the T-shirt ensemble. A pair
of my black sneakers for the finishing touch, too big for her feet. She stuffed
the sneakers with newspaper to tighten the fit, then stretched form-fitting
hospital shoe covers over them. I put on a pair of those covers myself. Any
footprints we might leave on the wet ground would be unreadable thanks to the
shoe covers, especially hers, the too-big shoes giving the appearance of having
been worn by a man.

I
slipped on some black throwaways of my own and fit the silencer onto the
business end of my .45. Jam the gun into my waistband rig under my oversized
black T-shirt. Grab a couple of pairs of latex gloves and head for the door.

"Wait
a sec," Dorothy said, and she scurried into the bedroom. She came out a
minute later, clipping my jungle-survival knife onto her belt. Redemption
model, blade length seven inches plus, handle contoured with curved swells to
fill your grip, perfectly balanced, and sheathed in heavy-duty nylon. One
serious fucking weapon. I'd often carried it, never drawn blood with it, but
now, hanging on Dorothy's hip, handle slightly forward, the knife looked like
it was itching to be used.

According
to LeeRon, Sharma lived in a little first-floor room on Caroline Street, up
past Simonton, a short walk from the Wild Thing.

We
motored through town, taking all back streets. Slowly splashing down Windsor
Lane, Angela Street past the cemetery, then Grinnell to Caroline. The rain was
letting up, easing off to a soft, drizzly shower, not yet deciding if it wanted
to continue under a warm black sky. I turned the windshield wipers to
intermittent.

Dorothy
spoke first, right after we turned off Windsor onto Angela, or as we called it,
Graveyard Alley. "She's at home? Not working?" Her jaw tensed and her
lips pulled tight across her teeth. She looked straight out the windshield.

"When
she got the job, she told me she had Sundays off. Trey won't be there, of
course, so there's a good chance she'll be home. All by herself."

I
slowed way down for the speed bumps on the very narrow, wet street. The
cemetery loomed in its eternal silence on our right, and I felt the eyes of the
dead opening under heavy lids to watch us pass by in the rainy night, somehow
knowing we were on our way to do murder, to send them some company.

So this is what it feels like. The
premeditated part, the part that gets you the death penalty. Where you decide
to take someone's life and then actually set out to do it. Wear black clothing,
assemble your weapons, get in your car, and go over to where she lives so you
can kill her.

A strange calm blanketed my entire
being, like I'm totally centered, committed, and there's no turning back.

It never felt like this, any of the
jobs I've ever pulled. I always had a little jitter in my bones beforehand,
kind of like
 
stage fright. I always
overcame it, of course, but it was there every time. That quiver telling you
something could go wrong.

Not tonight, though. This would be
perfect. Smooth as an iced-over pond.

And I can finally get on with my
retirement.

≈ ≈ ≈

Sharma lived in a small one-bedroom located in the back of a larger
house. It looked like it was once someone's fine home, but uninterested heirs
probably sold it to some real estate pro who chopped it up into apartments,
which in Key West, is one way to make a lot of money.

The
closest parking spot we could find was across the street and about three houses
up. I wasn't crazy about it because it meant we'd have to walk farther than I
thought we should, more exposure out in the open after the fact. Vulnerability.
I didn't like anything about it.

Before
we got out of the car, I said to Dorothy, "Look, maybe this isn't a good
idea right now. This parking place is far from ideal. Anybody comes walking
along or driving by, they'll see us for sure, maybe even be able to ID
us."

She
unhooked her seat belt and turned to face me with the coldest eyes she's ever
shown me. "Forget it. It's gotta be now. We don't do this tonight,
tomorrow morning she might give you up to Ortega."

Of
course, she was right. I knew it all along. I just had to hear her say it. I
unstrapped myself and we both got out of the SUV. The rain had stopped. Damp,
heavy air dropped over us immediately, crawling under our layers of clothing,
drawing sweat. I glanced up at the sky and saw a half-moon trying to squirm out
from behind a patch of thick clouds. There was no traffic on the street.

We
stayed in the shadows on our side of the street and moved quickly to a point
across from Sharma's apartment house. No cars coming from either direction,
some pedestrians strolling across Caroline down at the Simonton intersection.
They didn't see us as we crossed, careful to avoid black puddles in the street
that had formed after the rain.

We
moved silently around to the rear entrance of the house and slipped on the
latex gloves. The tight gloves made soft pops as they fastened themselves to
our wrists. A quick check of my gun. Jack a round into the chamber, slowly,
minimum of noise. Wipe the sweat from my forehead.

The
door to her apartment was up a couple of steps and had a big glass pane on the
top half. A cheap curtain covered the pane but didn't block out lights inside.
Nor did it block out voices from within.

The
voices froze us at the door. Male and female, the female was Sharma, and she
sounded upset, maybe frightened. Then a hard smack, like a blow to flesh, and
she yelped. I drew my weapon.

I
turned the knob and gently pushed the door open. We were in the kitchen. I
noticed how hot it was, like there was no air conditioning. The activity came
from the next room. Upon entering, we saw Trey's goons, Morgan and Stanley,
standing over Sharma as she lay on the floor, bleeding heavily from a wide gash
on her face. They turned and saw us.

"Logan!"
one of them cried, and they both came at us.

My
silenced gun spit two quiet pops at the first one. He took them in the chest
and went down. The other was on me right away, wrestling me for the gun. He
laid a big fist into my gut and my legs gave out. As I headed for the floor, I
still had the gun in my hand, but I knew I wouldn't have it for long. He
reached for it, while grunting and cursing at me, but then I saw Dorothy's hand
swing around, big knife flashing, catching him square in the stomach as he came
at me. Moving faster than I thought possible, she jerked it out, and he
shrieked in terrible pain and grabbed at his torn gut. Another hard thrust, this
one in the back. Her whole body went into it, and the long blade pushed all the
way into his heart. His torso convulsed, he gave out a little sigh and
crumpled, falling on top of me, gravity sucking blood out of him all over my
clothing and my arms. A death mask pasted itself onto his round, ugly face.

I
rolled him off me and checked the other one. Both dead. Sharma was still on the
floor, groaning in pain, her face by now covered in blood. I reholstered my gun
and checked Morgan and Stanley again. Sure enough, one of them wore brass
knucks, designed for maximum damage to flesh, bone, and teeth.

Careful
to step around the pooling blood from the two corpses, we moved to Sharma's
side. My first instinct was to help her up and clean up her wound, maybe get her
to a hospital. I bent down to cradle her head. Dorothy grabbed me by the arm,
pulling me back up.

"What
the fuck are you doing?" she asked.

I
froze. "I don't know, I — I —"

"You
forget what we came here for?" She shoved me out of the way and grabbed a
handful of Sharma's hair, jerking her head up from the floor. With one decisive
move, Dorothy sliced the knife across her throat, slow and very deep. Blood
sprayed out of her. A couple of gurgles and Sharma was no more.

Dorothy
and I looked at each other. At that moment, it felt like the world had stood
still. The apartment was utterly quiet, and I once again realized there was no
air conditioning. It was much hotter in here than it was outside and I didn't
know how Sharma could've stood it. Living here, I mean, in this heat. Sweat ran
down from my hair to my forehead into my eyes and over my lips. I wiped it with
a handkerchief I'd brought, but it didn't do much good. More sweat was right
behind it.

One
thing I couldn't wipe away was the air in that apartment. It was thick with
death. The first sound I heard was a tiny dribbling noise. I looked at Stanley.
His bladder had opened up and all at once the room stank of his piss soaking
through his pants and forming a little puddle on the floor.
 

"Let's
go," Dorothy said, wiping the knife on Stanley's shirt. Or it might have
been Morgan. I never could keep them straight. She added, "And be careful
where you step."

She
didn't really have to tell me that, but she probably thought I was in a state
of shock. I damn near was, but I collected myself and rinsed the blood off my
hands and arms in the kitchen sink. We exited the apartment and headed around
toward the front of the house. I felt like I could breathe again.

Outside,
we saw cars, and plenty of them. Traffic had backed up a couple of blocks from
the red light at Simonton. Looked like a fender-bender involving a van down at
the corner. Also a group of merry tourists carousing their way up Caroline
about a half a block away. We ducked into some nearby bushes running along the
side of the house. Dark enough that we couldn't be seen.

I
didn't like any of this. The heavy film of sweat over my face and upper body
had grown denser and it began to spread downward. I itched like crazy and had
the urge to scratch at my crotch, but I couldn't for fear of making noise,
giving away our position. We had blood all over our clothes and by now it had
certainly gotten onto the ground and the vegetation that hid us. I was holding
a murder weapon with an illegal silencer, Dorothy had a knife clipped to her
waist, traces of blood still on it, and three dead bodies lay back there in the
apartment. We quietly stripped off our black shirts and I rolled them up,
careful not to get any of the blood on our regular clothes.