Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (31 page)

Logan

Thursday, July 21

12:05 PM

W
E'D
JUST ORDERED LUNCH
when
we saw the big Maybach swing out of from behind the shopping center. Blackout
windows prevented us from seeing who, or how many, were in the car, so we threw
a few dollars on the table and rushed outside.

Shimmy
fired up our rental and I spotted the Maybach about three blocks west on 49th
Street. It continued heading west. We moved up to about two blocks behind, a
comfortable distance.

"Looks
like he's going back home," Shimmy said.

"Yeah,
looks that way."

Right
after I said that, they surprised us by turning north on Red Road instead of
staying straight for Hialeah Gardens. We followed, but my breathing picked up a
little and a slight tenseness twisted my gut.

A
few minutes later, the big Mercedes crossed the intersection of 68th Street,
and eventually found the spread-out parking lot of Honey Buns Show Lounge,
where a big sign over the door advertised a "free lunch menu". I
wasn't sure if the menu or the lunch itself was free, but we motored over to a
parking spot far away from Méndez and parked. His spot was relatively close to
the door, maybe fifty or sixty feet, while ours was about twice as far. There
were more than a few cars in the lot, so we didn't stand out. We left the engine
on.

The
building was big, imposing, and of course windowless. All the hallmarks of the
modern "gentleman's clubs". Same shit inside, though, as you find in
the small, dingy dumps. Strippers working the poles, head-banging music,
blowjobs in the "VIP rooms", coke if you know how to ask for it —
only everything is more expensive. A lot more expensive. Got to pay for that
big building, you know.

"A
strip joint?" Shimmy said.

I
nodded. "The Original Mambo told me Méndez owns this place. Maybe he's
just dropping in to check up on things. Or to pick up some cash. I'm betting
this is his laundry for all his real money. Or one of his laundries,
anyway."

Three
men got out of the car. Through my binoculars, I saw a fat guy make a difficult
exit from the back seat. He matched the photo The Original Mambo texted me. The
other two got out of the front seat and were broad-shouldered, well-muscled
types, both in short-sleeved shirts that looked like they were made of black
silk, undoubtedly bodyguards.

"You
see that?" I said to Shimmy.

"Yeah.
Three of them."

"This
means there's a good chance there'll be three when he leaves the liquor store
tonight."

"If
he ever gets back to the liquor store," Shimmy said. "He might just
stay here the rest of the day and fondle the strippers."

"He
might," I said. I thought for about two solid minutes. Then I suggested,
"What do you say to doing him here?"

"When
he comes out?"

"Yeah,"
I said.

Shimmy
looked around. The club fronted Red Road, where there was plenty of road
construction going on. Any traffic at all would make our getaway problematic. I
consulted the map on my cell phone.

"Check
it out," I showed him. "We head north on Red Road and pick up 924 a
few blocks away. It's a toll road. It takes us right to the Palmetto. Zoom.
Down to the Turnpike and back home on US 1."

"Well
—" Shimmy said.

"Pull
over closer to his car. About two or three rows away."

He
did and he looked at me. "Why here?"

"Because
their car is about fifty feet from the door. They have to walk across a lane of
asphalt to get to the row where they parked. When they come out, I'm going to
be out of the car, standing by another car nearby, pretending to be looking for
my keys. You pull out into that lane fast and block their way. I'll come around
the back of the car firing. You blast them with your shotgun through the open
passenger window."

Shimmy
nodded. He went back to the trunk for the towel that enveloped his Remington
12-gauge. Returning to the driver's seat and placing it on his lap, he looked
at me with assurance. "Got it," he said.

"We'll
have the element of surprise," I said. "If there's more than three,
like if he picks up another bodyguard or two inside, we'll have to forget it,
the odds are too long. But if it's only three, then we should be able to get
all of them without any problem. When they come out the door, I'll start
running toward them with my piece in my hand. You've got to pull out of this
parking spot at the same moment and get into position where you can take one of
them straight through the open window."

His
eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. "I'll be there, bubba."

Silvana

Thursday, July 21, 2011

1:05 PM

T
RAFFIC
ON THE EIGHTEEN-MILE STRETCH
was heavy, or so it seemed, anyway. It's only a two-lane highway —
speed limit fifty-five — with only a couple of passing zones which are a
mile or so long. Any asshole who decides he wants to do thirty-five can back
traffic up pretty quick. Even when you get to the passing zone, another
asshole, most likely doing only forty or forty-five, will pass the thirty-five
asshole, thereby holding up everybody else in the passing lane. Result: no
passing.

And
that's how it was for the Ford Fusion. Fortunately, it was the same way for the
red Mercedes. The Dávilas tried more than once to skirt around the slowpokes,
but couldn't find an opening, allowing Silvana and Vargas to keep their tail
alive.

Once
in Key Largo, the speed limit dropped to forty-five and US 1 was salted with
strategically placed sheriff's speed traps. The Dávilas slowed to the limit and
Silvana and Vargas kept them in sight.

Cruising
through Islamorada, Silvana said, "Bobby, you ever read
The Overlook
?"

"The
what?"

"
The Overlook
. That novel by Michael
Connelly. I saw you had a couple of his books on your shelf. I thought you
might've read
The Overlook
at some
point."

"I,
uh … I don't think so. What's it about?"

"This
guy, this scientist, they find his body in the trunk of a car and Bosch is
investigating, when
bam!
Out of
nowhere, this bitch from the FBI steps in wanting to take over the case. Some
nuclear shit got stolen and the feds are all worried about terrorism and
blowing up cities."

"Doesn't
sound familiar," Vargas said.

"Man,
it's a good one, Bobby. You should check it out. I read
9 Dragons
after seeing it on your shelf, you know? And now I read
this one. It's a hot fucking book. You should check it out."

"Yeah.
I will."

"Do
you read a lot?" she asked.

"Oh,
I dunno. What's a lot?"

"Well,
you know, like a book every two weeks or so?"

"Maybe,"
Vargas said. "Not always that often, though. Sometimes it'll take me
three, four weeks to get through a book. But I try to read every day."

"Funny,
you know? I never used to read. I didn't think my English was good enough, but
now —"

"Oh,
man, Silvi, your English is great. You got nothin' to worry about there."

"Well,"
she said, "I guess … I guess I was always, you know, intimidated by the
idea of reading a book. You know, like I thought I wouldn't understand the …
the flow … the rhythm of the language. Of English.
¡Qué distinto que español!
"

"Aw,
come on. You have great command of English. Better than any person I know who
came across. You hardly have any accent at all."

"Thanks
for saying that. But I'm just getting used to all this reading. This Connelly
guy writes kind of like people talk, so it's a lot easier for someone like me
to get what he's saying. I'm surprised how it helps me with English in general,
you know? I read different ways of saying things, things I've heard people say
before but didn't know what they meant. When I see it in a book, I can
understand it because, uh …"

"Because
you can see the context."

"Yeah,
right! The context! I can see it in context, where I can relate to it, or
comprehend it easier. Like the title.
The
Overlook
. I had no fucking idea what that meant, what Connelly was talking
about. Until I started reading, and they mentioned this place, like a hilltop,
with a view of LA. They called it an overlook. I thought about it, and I
realized how that word relates to this hilltop they were talking about. And how
it figures into the story."

"Hey,
that's great, Silvi. And it's great you're reading. Everybody should read
something from time to time. It does wonders for your mind. And your spirit,
too."

"Anyway,
you should check out
The Overlook
,
you know?"

"Yeah,
yeah, I sure will."

≈ ≈ ≈

They were able to keep the Mercedes in sight through the whole trip.
Traffic was moderate through the Keys and they were able to remain about a
quarter mile behind, while the Dávilas apparently controlled their urge to
unleash their car's considerable horsepower, probably fearing sheriff's
deputies with ticket books.

Key
West came into sight shortly before three o'clock. The Mercedes turned right
onto the island and headed straight into Old Town. Speed limit dropped to
twenty-five. They stayed on US 1 for a few blocks before turning right onto a
side street that led them into an old residential neighborhood. On their
earlier trip, when they came down to brace Logan, Silvana remembered they had
turned left upon entering Key West because their GPS got them all turned
around. Another turn or two and the red car slowed to a stop.

They
were not far from a place that looked like a dingy restaurant, or maybe a bar,
but without any kind of sign out front. Silvana strained to see through the
dirty plate glass into the interior. She could make out a bar and a customer or
two, nothing more. Hot salsa music leaked out from speakers inside.

The
Dávilas parked in the closest available spot, several cars before the bar.
Vargas drove past them and around the next corner, where he parked in a No
Parking zone, just out of sight of the Mercedes.

He
strapped the camera around his neck and he and Silvana quickly got out, walking
fast to the corner, then slowing down to a stroll. They saw the brothers
standing behind their car with the red trunk opened wide. The shaved-head guy
wore his white Hawaiian shirt. The one with hair wore a dark blue sport shirt.

Silvana
whispered to Vargas, "Looks like they might be getting their weapons out
of the trunk." He nodded. "We'll give them time to put them in their
holsters, then we take them right there behind the car. If they've got
shotguns, we go to plan B."

"What's
plan B?" asked Vargas.

"We
wait till they start up the walk toward the bar and give it to them in the
back. We do it that way, we hustle back to the car and get the fuck out of
Dodge. Otherwise, we stick around and wait for the locals."

Vargas
reached behind him and lifted his shirt to access his rear waistband sheath. He
said, "I'll take the guy in white, you take the blue."

They
walked up the street. The sun had hidden itself behind some thick, low clouds.
In the absence of any breeze, the heavy shoulder of humidity ground into them
every step of the way. The Mercedes sat a half-block away.

A
group of six or seven bicyclists rolled down the quiet street, chatting each
other up. The Dávilas briefly lowered their trunk while the bikes approached
them from the front and rode by. When the bikes had passed, they reopened the
trunk and continued their business. Silvana and Vargas kept walking toward
them. Silvana's arm went casually behind her and raised her blouse over her
rig.

Three
guys came out of the bar, talking over each other in loud, animated Spanish.
Apparently, one of them had just taken down a hotshot pool player for two
hundred dollars and the other two insisted on celebrating on his newly won
money. They stood in front of the place discussing where they were going to go,
which direction, and the Dávilas froze in place behind their car.

"Take
a picture of something," Silvana said. She wanted to stop walking, to give
these loud characters time to clear out.

Vargas
aimed his camera at a Victorian-era house that happened to be behind them.
Dramatic vegetation lined the sidewalk and down the sides of the property. He
pretended to shoot photos from various angles and Silvana pretended to be a
sort of photo shoot director, suggesting this shot or pointing at that one, and
at all times making sure not to turn around and expose her waistband holster to
the brothers. They were now a little less than a half-block away. She wiped
sweat from her face with the sleeve of her blouse and Vargas paused to dry his
sweaty hands on his pants. The loudmouths kept jabbering.
I don't like that place! … I say a strip club! … No, that place is shit!
… Hey, it's my money! …

"God
damn those motherfuckers!" murmured Silvana.

One
of the Dávilas spoke up, the one with the hair.

"
¡Oye, muchachos! ¿Está Mambo adentro?
"

The
guy with the money in his hand said, "No, man. He's not here."

"Where
did he go?" Dávila said with a big, disarming smile on his face.

"
Yo no sé, hombre
."

As
soon as he said that, the others started talking at the same time. Silvana and
Vargas had to strain to understand their overlapping Spanish, but it sounded
like one of them said he thought Mambo went to the bank because he saw him
carrying a little leather bank bag.

"Did
you get that?" she asked Vargas.

"Yeah.
Probably gone to deposit yesterday's receipts. Shouldn't be too long, if he
doesn't make any other stops."

"Shit!
We can't stay here forever taking pictures of this house. They'll get
wise."

"We
could walk around the neighborhood," Vargas said.

"No.
We do that and he might come back while we're gone. We can't let them out of
our sight."

"Do
you know what this DeLima looks like?"

"No.
I don't," she said.

Vargas
pretended to adjust the lens on the camera, and Silvana pretended to be fishing
around in her purse for something.

"Have
they spotted us yet?" she asked.

"I'm
sure they know we're here, but they're not staring at us. I don't think they
suspect anything. Yet."

Finally,
the loudmouths left, piling into a nearby car and taking off. The Dávilas
reopened the trunk of the SL-63.

Knowing
she had only seconds to act before the brothers either walked inside or got
back into their car and took off, she murmured to Vargas, "Follow me.
We're tourists, remember?"

They
passed by the bar and walked straight up the block toward the brothers and the
red Mercedes.