Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (15 page)

Twilight
was about to give way to darkness as I strolled back home, going back the same
way I came and spitting every half block or so, trying to wash the bad taste
out of my mouth.

Mambo

Monday, July 4, 2011

8:55 PM

M
AMBO AND PALMIRA
WENT TO THE CASA MARINA HOTEL
for the fireworks show. It's the
biggest one in town and they go there almost every year. The Casa Marina is one
of the oldest hotels on the island, built around a hundred years ago by Henry
Flagler, the railroad big shot, when he was trying to sew up the entire East
Coast transportation network. Did a pretty good job of it, too. Probably even
left a trail of blood in his wake.

Mambo
always admired Flagler's moxie. Back then — it was, like, in the early
1900s — his trains ran from New York to Miami until, in a bold move, he
extended the line all the way to Key West. A hundred and ten miles of track
laid over mostly open water. His big idea: all his rich northern friends would
ride down to Key West from New York on his train, stay in his grand deluxe Casa
Marina Hotel, then get up the next morning and get on his ferry to Havana,
where they would gamble in his casino. All tied up very nice and neat. He died
before the hotel was completed, but so what?

Mambo
had to hand it to Flagler. He damn sure didn't harbor any ten-cent dreams.

Come
to think of it, he probably wasn't all that different from any of the gangsters
today. He saw what he wanted and he took it. And you can be sure he didn't give
two shits how he got it.

They
didn't call them "robber barons" for nothing.

The
hotel fronts the Atlantic beach on the south side of the island with plenty of
room for the crowd and the fireworks display. Mambo and Palmira got there
around quarter after eight and were headed through the beautiful wood-paneled
lobby for their table when he spotted Logan and his girlfriend standing near
the front desk, by the door to the patio restaurant.

Logan
saw them and detoured over to them where they made their mutual greetings.
Mambo was nicely decked out by Key West standards: a Creamsicle-colored linen
sport jacket over a dark green silk T-shirt. Palmira looked hot as usual, brown
skin shining against a clinging, buttery yellow dress.

"We're
joining some other family members for dinner," Mambo said. He craned his
neck to look at the outdoor restaurant. "They're there now." Logan
started to lead Dorothy away when Mambo said to her, "But listen, Dorothy,
can I borrow Logan here for just a second? I promise I'll have him back to you
in no time." His big, white-toothed smile was one of his winning
attributes, and Dorothy had always liked it.

"Sure,"
she said. "Just don't get him too drunk."

Mambo
chuckled. "I won't."

She
said to Logan, "I'll go get our table."

Mambo,
Palmira, and Logan went out to the patio. Mambo seated Palmira at their table,
a long one, suitable for about twelve people, and positioned perfectly for
optimum viewing of the fireworks. Theirs were the last two empty seats.
Everyone else was seated, chatting in Spanish, and sipping drinks. DeLimas all.
Seated at a two-top off to one side was Big Felo and his girlfriend. At the
head of the long table sat The Original Mambo. Wearing a pale blue,
long-sleeved guayabera, he held sway over the entire table. Everyone's eyes,
while not on him at all times, were never off him for long.

Mambo
the Third gestured and his grandfather saw him and Logan. After a hand signal
that he would be with them shortly, The Original Mambo leaned over to his wife
Lisbeth, a small, elegant lady seated in the first chair to his left, and said
a few words. Then he rose from the table and gestured for young Mambo and Logan
to follow him. They slipped through the crowd in the lobby and went outside. As
they walked down the hotel's circular drive, Mambo the Third once again noticed
how the old man showed almost no evidence of his near-fatal gunshot wound from
last year. Bearing straight and upright, he walked briskly, forcing the two
younger men to keep up.

At
the end of the drive and out of all earshot from valets and doormen, he
stopped. He pulled a leather case from his pocket from which he extracted a
Cohiba and went through the exact same sniffing and snipping ritual Mambo the
Third had done the other night when he asked Logan to collect Trey Whitney's
debt. Meanwhile, a Latin band on the beach behind the hotel churned out an
infectious Cuban rhythm, sending it sailing over the rooftop to where they
stood near the street. By the time it reached them, it was at a low volume, low
enough to where they could speak softly.

After
setting the cigar aglow and taking a long, smooth puff, The Original Mambo
turned to Logan and said, "Ease up on Trey Whitney."

Logan
said, "What? Ease up?"

"You
heard me. Back off him altogether."

Logan
looked to Mambo the Third for clarification. He shrugged and pointed back at
his grandfather, who went on. "My grandson here can be a little
shortsighted at times. You know? Missing the big picture? He sees a gambling
debt and pulls out all the stops to collect it, without thinking about anything
else."

Mambo
the Third hated it when his grandfather called him out like this in front of
other people. Especially a nobody like Logan. Just a street guy who was only
sent out to collect a debt.

Logan
swallowed, then said, "Well, sir, he did send me out to collect it and …
and when Trey couldn't pay, I put him on a paym —"

"I
know what happened. I heard all about it from Win Whitney over lunch the other
day. I heard you got a little rough with Trey when he stalled you on the
money."

Mambo
didn't really know where this was going, but Logan gestured toward him and
said, "Your grandson asked me to go collect the debt, so that was what I
was trying to do. I was only doing as I was asked."

Another
puff, this one a big one. "But now I'm not asking, I'm telling you. Back
off Trey Whitney."

"And
forget about collecting the money? For how long?"

"Forever."

Logan
looked again to Mambo the Third for an explanation. Discomfort swirled around
him, but finally he said, "If you read the papers, Logan, you know our
family is about to go into a joint venture with the Whitneys. It involves
redeveloping a couple of major pieces of property up in the area around North
Roosevelt Boulevard. It also involves our buying into Trey's land development
company."

"¡Basta!
" his grandfather said.
"¡Él no necesita saber eso!"

It
was obvious Logan didn't understand what he said, but it was equally obvious he
got the idea. Both Mambos clammed up.

They
all remained silent for a minute. A cool sea breeze swept around the structure
of the hotel, taking the edge off the heat and blowing Mambo's cigar smoke away
from his grandson's face. The energetic music kept coming, the unlikely
soundtrack to this still-life place in time.

Logan
looked at the old man and said, "Just so I understand, you're willing to
forget Trey Whitney's debt? The entire eighty-one Gs?"

Mambo
the Third cut in. "Logan, he said forget it. So that's what we do. We let
it go."

"My
grandson has already told you what everyone in town already knows. This deal
with the Whitneys he was referring to? It's for a lot of money. Many millions,
¿me entendés?
We're not going to let a
gambling debt stand in the way."

Logan
said, "If you're willing to forget about Trey's eighty-one grand, willing
to let it go by the boards, this has to be something of gigantic proportions,
with a big payoff at the end of the line."

Mambo
couldn't believe this fucking hump was pushing this so hard with his
grandfather. Why couldn't he keep his god damn mouth shut?

"You're
fucking right it is," the old man said. "Now are you clear on what
I'm telling you? Lay off Trey Whitney."

Logan
nodded uneasily. "Yes, sir. I'm clear."

Mambo
the Third thought, Logan, you better be clear about this. We're moving into
Flagler territory, my man. Big, big things. So stand aside, or you get run
over, robber baron-style.

The
Original Mambo put the cigar between his index and middle fingers, then pointed
it at his grandson and Logan. He said, "None of what we've said here
leaves this sidewalk. You got it?"

Mambo
nodded. Logan said, "I got it."

He
tossed the Cohiba into the gutter and they followed him back inside the hotel.

≈ ≈ ≈

The fireworks were what everyone expected them to be: flashy,
sprawling, and with a big, impressive finish, inspiring plenty of oohs and aahs
and rousing applause at the end. The entire DeLima table clapped heartily when
it was all over, and the band belted out a hot salsa tune to get everyone out
of their seats. People streamed onto the patio to dance away the rest of the
evening under starry skies and the refreshing ocean breeze. Palmira and Lisbeth
excused themselves to go to the ladies' room, and Mambo the Third, seated to
his grandfather's right, and seeing the old man was having a good time, seized
the opportunity.

"
Abuelo
, I need to speak with you for a
moment."

"
Sí, mi nieto
. What is on your
mind?" He lit a cigar and puffed it into existence.

"I
want to take another look at putting a hospital facility into the North
Roosevelt redevelopment."

A
couple of more puffs. Big ones. He was thinking.

"We
talked about this before,
¿sí o no?
I
thought we decided it was too far from the main hospital. Not worth the
effort."

"Yes,
we did talk about it, but not — not in real depth. I've been doing a lot
of research and I'm certain it can be very beneficial to us. Beneficial to
everyone concerned."

The
Original Mambo shifted in his chair to face his grandson directly. He flicked
the sizable ash on his cigar and said, "Okay. I'm listening."

Mambo
the Third went into his spiel. It was a carefully-crafted pitch for a small
facility, emphasizing the profitability, which would largely accrue to the
family. Central to this plan was the absence of an emergency room, which is a
monetary drain on every hospital. He covered all the bases, and wrapped it up
by saying, "And Rolando should come down here to run it."

His
grandfather smiled. "Ahh, keeping it in the family. I like that."

"Not
just because he's family," Mambo the Third said. "But because he's
the right man for it. He's doing a great job up at Tampa General, but he wants
to come home. It would truly make it a DeLima hospital. All ours."

"Ours
and Whitney's," The Original Mambo corrected with an upraised index
finger.

"Well,
yes. But, but you know what I mean."

"I
know that Win Whitney is going to have to get on board with this. Do you think
he will?"

"I
don't know him that well,
Abuelo
. Do
you think he will?"

Another
puff on the Cohiba. "I will speak to him. Now I have another matter to
take up with you."

"What
is it?"

"This
… this Logan. He didn't seem too happy about forgiving the Trey Whitney
debt."

"Oh,
don't worry about him," Mambo the Third said. "I'll take care of him.
Besides, you heard him say he was clear about the whole thing, that we let Trey
go, right? You heard him?"

"I
heard him. But did you see his eyes? That's where the truth resides,
mi nieto
. In the eyes. And his told me
he wasn't too happy with the idea. Like it was his fucking money."

"I
promised him a few points if he collected it. He's probably upset that the debt
is cancelled, which means he loses his points."

"Damn
right he loses them! You make sure he understands that. That brings me to
something I've been wanting to tell you for a while now. You must listen to me
very carefully. If you're going to be part of this project — and I do
want you to be part of it — you will have to wind down your gambling
activities."

"Wind
down …"

"You
heard me. Wind them down. To nothing. Our family must get out of that
business."

"But
we've run the sports betting and the bolita here on the island for many, many
years."

"Yes,
we have. It was my grandfather who really consolidated everything for us,
especially the bolita. You know he started that over a hundred years ago? And
we've made a lot of money from it ever since. But what you must understand,
what you must … must …
comprender
…
is the size, the scope of this redevelopment project. We will have no room for
petty shit like local gambling. This is our chance to go completely legitimate
for all time, forever. Beyond the suspicions of the law. Between us and the
Whitneys, Key West will be completely ours forever. And legally! You must
understand the importance of that."

Mambo
understood. You can bet on that. Since he was a little boy, he had heard only
two things talked about among his elders with any amount of passion: setting up
an operation in Cuba when it opens up, and the day this North Roosevelt
redevelopment might become reality. They'd been working on the Cuba situation
since the sixties, and they were now positioned to move right in and make a ton
of money when the Beard said his final adiós.