Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (30 page)

"Well,"
I said, "you're doing it for the money. I want to make up for the short
payday on that bank job."

"Aw,
man, that's not necessary. I just lost it for a minute that day. I didn't —"

"No,
no, you were standing up for yourself. You felt you were entitled to a third
share when it got down to three of us. You made your point. But I took a bigger
piece and now I want to make it up to you is all. So I'm cutting you in on
this."

"Man,
you were the one who went up there and got our money. You don't do that, we
wind up with zero." He sipped his coffee. "I gotta tell you, in the
end, when I got home that morning, I was happy to get the twenty-two
grand."

"Well,
just so you know," I said, and I patted him once on the shoulder.

He
returned the pat, a brotherly gesture I'd never felt from him before.
"Happy to be here with you, Logan."

"Anyway,
like I said, you're doing it for the money. I'm doing it for The Original
Mambo. And for Mambo the Third, I guess."

"What's
their beef with this guy?"

"I'm
not sure, but I know that — hey! Check that out!"

I
snapped to attention and pointed out the window at the entrance to the rear of
the shopping center. A red Mercedes sports model slowly pulled in, weaving
around an exiting truck. I got a good look at it. The one I'd seen at Mambo's
that night. The Dávila brothers.

Shimmy
said, "That's an SL-63! Great fucking car."

"It
belongs to one of the Dávila brothers, I think Yayo. Méndez's top crew chief
and enforcer. I saw him and his brother in Mambo's one night."

"Mambo's?
What the hell were they doing there?"

"Beats
me. But Don Roy Doyle says they're some kind of distant cousins to Mambo."

Shimmy
polished off the last of his French fries and said, "How do you want to do
this?"

I
drank from my coffee refill. It needed more cream. "I'd like to take him
when he comes out the back there and before he gets into his fucking tank of a
car. Between the back door and his car. It's about twenty, thirty yards. He's
vulnerable. And he won't be expecting it."

"Tonight?"

"No.
Not while Yayo Dávila's around. He may have his brother with him. Those two,
plus Méndez and whoever he's got shadowing him, that's too many people to deal
with in that little space. We wait till tomorrow and hope for a better
scenario. I want to take him clean. Tomorrow night. That's when we nail
him."

Mambo

Wednesday, July 20

12:00 Noon

T
HE
PHONE RANG
IN MAMBO'S OFFICE
. He had just come through the door,
having finished settling a squabble among the cooks in the kitchen.

"
Mi nieto
," said The Original Mambo.

"
Abuelo
.
¿Cómo está?
"

"
Bién, gracias.
Listen, I need you to
come to my house right away."

His
voice turned urgent. "Is everything all right? Are you all right? Is
Abuela
—"

"No,
no, no. We are fine. But I need you here. I cannot speak on the phone.
¿Me entendés?
"

"
Sí. Ya vengo.
"

Mambo
the Third showed up at his grandfather's home within five minutes. He parked
the yellow-gold Trans Am in front of the house and headed up onto the porch.
Before he could knock on the door, The Original Mambo opened it and beckoned
him inside.

They
went into the den, a room dominated by the big desk. The young Mambo remembered
it from his childhood. That desk had always been there and, he supposed, it
always would. The two men took seats on the sofa occupying most of one wall.

The
Original Mambo dispensed with any formalities of offering lunch or even coffee.
Instead, he opened the conversation. "Did Logan call you? Anytime this
week?"

"No.
Why?"

"He's
gone up to Hialeah. I sent him up there to do your job for you."

"My
job? Wh-wha —"

"Your
job. Taking care of Maxie Méndez."

"Logan's
going to — to —"

"That's
right. He's going to pop that fat, greasy fucker. And you're going to pay him
the money you promised him."

"Well
… sure I'll pay him," Mambo the Third said. "But how did you get him
to go along with it?"

"Don't
worry about that. But listen. Like I told you the other day, Win Whitney is
postponing the North Roosevelt deal until he finds out who killed Trey. He
knows the stripper didn't do it, and he thinks whoever killed Trey did the
Pinksmith brothers, too. "

"So
how does that play into Logan and Méndez?"

"I
found out Méndez is the hidden owner of Honey Buns, this strip joint in Hialeah
where that stripper used to work, the one in the middle of all this, before she
came down here. Turns out he had a big, big hard-on for her. When Trey pulled
her out of Honey Buns and brought her down here, Méndez went crazy."

"You
think he'll believe that?"

The
old man's nod accompanied his wily smile and he said, "We've got relatives
in Hialeah. They've arranged for witnesses who will say they heard Trey insult
Méndez inside his own club, telling him shit about the stripper. They'll say
they heard Trey telling him how she thought Méndez was a disgusting pig, and so
on. They will also say they heard Méndez threaten both Trey and the stripper
that night, and a couple of days later they heard him give someone the order to
come down here and waste the two of them."

"So
the stripper was the target that night? The Pinksmiths just happened to be in
the wrong place —"

"At
the wrong fucking time," said the Original Mambo. "I will give Win
the names of the witnesses and he'll probably send someone up there to question
them. They'll stay with their story, believe me, and by that time, Méndez will
be dead. I will show Win the article in the Miami
Herald
, and the deal will be back in motion."

Mambo
the Third broke out into a wide grin. "
Abuelo
,
you are a genius!" He threw his arms around the old man's wide shoulders
in a big, tight embrace. "I have much to learn from you. So much to
learn."

"
Sí, mi nieto
," replied his
grandfather. "
Yo sé.
"

≈ ≈ ≈

On his way back to his restaurant, Mambo the Third called his wife.

"Palmira,"
he said when she answered. "The deal is back on! Or, it will be very
soon."

"It
will? Oh, honey, that's fantastic! How did you do it?"

"Well,
it wasn't just me.
Abuelo
helped out,
too. But we should be back in business by the beginning of next week. Monday.
Or maybe Tuesday."

"What
did you do? I thought you told me Whitney had postponed the deal for a long
time."

"He
did. But we're about to convince him to get it going again. We're on!"

"I'm
so happy! I
knew
you could do it. I'm
going to call Rolando right now and tell him so he can start making his
plans."

"Well,"
said Mambo, "I wouldn't call him just yet. Let's wait until the deal is
officially back on. You know, up and running. Maybe the beginning of next
week."

"Awww,
okay. If you say so. But the minute we get word …"

"The
minute we get word, you can call him, okay? I'm on my way to the restaurant
right now. They're delivering a new pool table today and I have to be there to
get it set up."

"I
love you, baby," she said, and hung up.

Silvana

Thursday, July 21,
2011

10:55 AM

B
OBBY
VARGAS HAD JUST CUFFED
a couple of street mugs after beating the shit out of them, and Silvana was
shoving them into the back seat of their car when her cell went off. She let it
go to voicemail. First she and Vargas had to figure out what to charge would
stick for these two. They couldn't charge them with the real reason for the
beating — giving lip to a cop — so they had to come up with
something more compelling. Something that would stand up.

As
they pulled into headquarters, they agreed on a charge — battery on a
police officer — and then she glanced at her cell phone. The call was
from Flaco. Vargas took over booking the bloodied punks and she returned the
call, stepping out into the hallway.

"Yo,
Sergeant Machado. I's hopin' you'd get my message."

"I
didn't listen to it. I just called you back instead. What's up?"

"My
boy Tony Carrillo is out. He thanks you. And so do I."

"Like
I told you, Flaco, I hold up my end. You're welcome."

"Yeah.
Now I got somethin' else for you."

"Spill
it."

"Can't
do it on the phone, you know what I'm sayin'? You never know who else might be
on there with us."

"Okay,
where then?"

"Same
place as last time, awright? Twenty minutes?"

"See
you then."

She
hung up and turned to Vargas. "Bobby, finish booking these guys, okay?
I've gotta go meet with our CI. I'll be back in less than an hour."

Vargas
said, "Okay, Silvi. Be careful."

≈ ≈ ≈

She arrived at the Bay of Pigs Museum in fifteen minutes. Glancing
down the alley, she saw Flaco leaning up against the same spot in the building
as the other time.

"Okay,
Flaco, what's cooking?"

"Plenty.
You 'member I tol' you about Maxie wantin' to smoke that dude from Key West?"

"Of
course I remember."

"Well,
word has it that Yayo and his brother are goin' down there to-
day
. They gonna take care of binness
today, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Today?
You sure they're going themselves? Not sending anyone?"

"Naw,
it's like I tol' you before, they gonna take care of it theyselves. Too
important to farm it out."

Silvana
nodded. "When are they leaving, do you know?"

"I
hear Yayo sayin' he leavin' around noon, maybe a little before, you know what
I'm sayin', and he be takin' Camilito with him, too. He say don't nobody try to
call him all day 'cause he got some important shit to take care of. Say he got
to be home by dinnertime and he don't want no interruptions. They ain't
plannin' no kind of extended vacay down there, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Silvana's
eyebrows leaped up onto her forehead and she checked her watch. "Okay,
thanks. Let me run and take care of this." She started back down the alley
for her car.

"Hey,
wait a sec," Flaco cried. "I need you to do somethin' for me."

"I'll
call you tomorrow," she said over her shoulder as she jumped into her car
and sped away.

She
punched in Santos's number at headquarters. He answered one ring in.

"Lieutenant,
it's Sergeant Machado."

"What
is it, Machado? I'm pretty busy."

"We
have a tip from our CI that Yayo Dávila is leaving very soon to go down south
for that event we spoke about. According to the tip, he'll be leaving around
noon."

Santos's
lifted his voice about a half-octave and spoke in a slightly quicker cadence.
"How reliable is this information?"

"Very
reliable, sir. I'm asking you to notify your tail on Dávila and give him a
heads-up. When he sees that red Mercedes hit the southbound Turnpike, call me.
We'll be waiting for him in Florida City and we'll ride his coattails all the
way down the Keys."

"I'll
call him now. You and Vargas head south right away. Be in position in case
Dávila decides to leave a little early."

"Yes,
sir. I'm picking up Vargas now. We'll leave immediately."

≈ ≈ ≈

Florida City is positively the final stop in mainland Florida before
entering the Keys. Lining both sides of US 1, or Dixie Highway as it's called
locally, the town is a little row of businesses designed for the traveler —
gas stations, fast food, all the rest of it. You head south out of Florida City
and you hit the eighteen-mile stretch, a lonely strip of highway through
desolate mangroves and other inhospitable terrain. The big bridge at the end of
the stretch connects you to Key Largo, the first and largest of the chain of
islands that reach over a hundred miles, all the way to Key West. Like a little
piss dripping out of a limp dick, was how Silvana described the Keys from the
way they looked on a map.

She
and Vargas hit the Turnpike hard, seldom dropping below ninety miles an hour,
in order to ensure they arrived at Florida City before the Dávila brothers. A
few miles south of Miami, Santos called.

"Machado,"
he said, "our tail just informed me he lost Dávila in west Hialeah. Says
he thinks he may have been spotted because the Mercedes pulled evasive
maneuvers. Our man had to lay back and the fucker slipped away. But … he did
say Dávila picked up his brother first."

"How
long since he lost him, sir?"

"Fifteen,
maybe twenty minutes. What's your location?"

Fifteen
or twenty minutes. Right about the time she and Vargas got on the Turnpike.
"We're just north of Caribbean Boulevard right now. He hasn't passed us.
We'll speed up and see if we can spot him up ahead."

"Keep
me posted." And he hung up.

Vargas
leaned hard on the gas pedal, pushing their speedometer to a hundred miles an
hour. They had surprisingly little traffic to contend with and before long, the
sweeping curve at the great highway's end came upon them. They slowed to the
speed limit, thirty-five, and were dropped onto a particularly busy US 1.

They
motored carefully along Dixie Highway. Although the sun was bright overhead,
the streets were wet from a very recent rain. They closely eyed every parking
lot, every gas station, for a fire engine red Mercedes two-seater to leap out
at them. Silvana gave a slight exhale of relief after they had dragged the
length of Florida City and seen only ordinary cars doing ordinary things.

The
last establishment in town before the eighteen-mile stretch was the RaceTrac, a
big gas station with lots of pumps and an oversized store accompanying it. They
filled up their tank, then pulled into one of the empty spaces away from the
gas pumps, near the exit. They kept the engine running to keep the AC going.

"How
we gonna do this, Silvi?" Vargas asked.

"Santos
wants to let the hit go down and then grab the two of them on the spot, charge
them with murder one. He thinks if we bring them in, they'll roll over on Maxie
rather than face the death penalty."

"Sounds
about right," said Vargas.

"Yeah,
it sounds right if you want to pin the hit on Maxie."

"What
do you mean? He
is
the one who put
out the contract, right? I mean, these guys are acting on his orders,
right?"

"That's
right. He's pulling the strings."

"So
what are you talking about,
'if
you
want to pin it on Maxie'?"

Silvana
injected a professorial tone in her voice, as though she were an Asian guru
speaking to a youthful acolyte who had crossed a continent to sit at her feet
and absorb cosmic truths. She said, "See, just because Santos wants Maxie
for this job doesn't mean we're gonna play it that way."

"Why
not?"

Her
voice softened and she slowed her cadence way down. "Why would we want to
pin a murder rap on Maxie when he's paying us a dime a week forever?"

"Ohhhh,
yeahhhh." Vargas the acolyte saw the truth in The Great Silvana's
statement. "Yeahhhh. We smoke the Dávilas after they do the hit and say
they resisted and fired at us."

"You've
almost got it," Silvana said. "We do them
before
they do the hit."

"Before?
Why?"

"Because
we don't know how much resistance their target — this DeLima guy —
is gonna put up. He might have bodyguards, and if he does, the Dávilas are
gonna have to waste them, too. Then we step in and do the brothers, and it's a
fucking bloodbath of the first order. With all the gunplay, maybe even a civilian
or two might go down. Probably draw statewide headlines. TV, the whole
shot."

"So
how do we do it?"

"Simple.
We trail them to wherever they're going, pop caps up their asses, and then tell
our story, which is, they were prime suspects in the Little Havana triple
homicide, and we got a tip they were in Key West so we came down looking for
them. We found them just as they were about to up their body count by killing
DeLima and whoever he had around him. They pulled on us and we shot them in
self-defense." She smiled and quickly spread her hands out in front of
her. "That's all there is to it."

Vargas
got it. "Ha! Silvi, you're all right, you know that? You're my kinda
cop."

Her
smile vanished. "You do realize, we're gonna have to bring in the local
cops after the fact. We're gonna have to hang around there forever while they
poke around the scene, and then we'll have to call Santos. It's gonna be a
long-ass time down there."

"I'm
okay with that," said.

"Yeah,
but we're also gonna have to stand for an FDLE investigation. Those slimy
State-of-Florida fuckers will be right up our asses. And it won't be fun."
She spit out the reference to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement as if
it was a piece of wormy fruit.

"Let
'em come," Vargas said. "They don't scare me. I know how to stick to
a story. I've been itching for a crack at those fucking Dávila brothers, so if
we can wipe them out, no FDLE asshole is gonna break me."

She
patted his thigh and said, "Good. Now, Santos will back us up. We'll tell
him our leads in the triple homicide led us to these two. After Flaco told
Maxie about the extra money in the house on Tenth Avenue over and above
Chicho's two hundred dimes, Yayo and Camilito — animals that they are —
decided on their own they would zip over there and help themselves to the rest
of it. That fucking Commissioner will be off his ass and he can close the
case."

"We're
not going to nail that Logan guy?"

"Fuck
him. He's small potatoes. He probably did it, but if we can pin this on the
Dávila brothers, and clip them at the same time, Santos will forgive us for not
keeping them alive to roll over on Maxie. He can get to Maxie at a later date,
but this way, he won't have to fade any more heat from that Commissioner and
the Chief."

She
reached into the glove box and came out with a camera on a strap. Handed it to
him.

"What's
that for?"

She
said, "This is for you. To put around your neck before we get out of the
car."

"Why?"

Silvana
ticked the AC up a notch and adjusted the vent so it blew directly on her face.
"So that when we step out of the car, wherever that is, we're gonna look
like a tourist couple and not cops. If the Dávilas see us, they won't think
anything of it. We'll just be a couple of dipshit tourists wandering around Key
West. Their guard will be totally down."

Ten
minutes later, they saw it.

Neither
Silvana nor Vargas had ever seen one of these cars before. With the smoothest
lines and the slickest presence either of them had ever imagined in a car, it
almost looked like it could fly. It appeared to have been freshly waxed, its
dazzling red color glistening bright and mirror-like in the noonday sun.
Silvana spotted two men in the car as it pulled into the RaceTrac and filled
up. The passenger, a slender, shaved-head guy with a thin beard and a big nose,
and wearing a white Hawaiian shirt, got out and went into the building,
probably to take a piss, while the other guy worked the gas pump.

"Why
don't we take 'em here? We could just do 'em right now." Vargas said, his
hand caressing his holstered piece.

"No.
Too many people here." She gestured to all the cars parked by the numerous
pumps, people going in and out of the store in a steady flow. "We don't
want to do it in a crowd. Somebody might get hurt. Plus, we don't need any
witnesses saying they saw us sitting here waiting, you know? They'll say they
saw us jump out of the car and plug two guys, these two motherfuckers, in cold
blood."

"Yeah,
you're right."

"We
wait till we get to Key West. That's where it's all got to go down."

The
shaved-head guy came out of the store and slinked back into the Mercedes. It
made for the exit and headed south. She nodded at Vargas, who dropped their
white Ford Fusion into gear and pulled out onto US 1, where it looked exactly
like every other faceless car on the road.