Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (25 page)

Logan

Monday, July 18, 2011

8:20 AM

I
SURPRISED MYSELF
AT HOW SOUNDLY I SLEPT
following the incident at Sharma's
apartment. As soon as I climbed into bed, I held Dorothy in my arms and fell
asleep quickly. My dreams were sweet, and I felt like I never changed
positions, although I'm sure I did. I remember reading someplace where you
change positions twenty or more times during an average night of sleep. I don't
remember where I read it, but that was the gist of it. Anyway, I felt very
refreshed when I woke up over nine hours later.

Being
Monday, Dorothy had to get up and go to work, so she was up at around
six-thirty and out the door by quarter of eight, although I don't remember her
getting up at all. Right after I woke up, I did my stretching and my fifty
pushups, then off to the bathroom for my morning routine. Into the kitchen,
where I pulled out a nice big orange to go with my shredded wheat, then off to
the living room to watch a little TV.

I'd
settled in to watch this guy Dr Oz, who talks all the time about staying
healthy. Dorothy had turned me on to him a year or so ago, and whenever I'm in
front of a TV at that hour of the morning, I usually check him out. Today, he
was high behind some kind of juice maker that was supposed to change our very
lives.

I'd
just taken my first bite of the orange, when I heard the thud at the door.

Regular
people don't knock like that.

Only
cops.

I
muted the TV and answered the door. Lieutenant Ortega walked in without being
invited, brushing past me with his partner close behind.

"Good
morning, Logan," he said, with no good wishes in his voice. His solid
build filled out a four-pocket white guayabera, his badge draped out of the
upper left pocket. His shoulder rig appeared to be freshly oiled and held a
very big revolver, maybe a .44 Magnum Dirty Harry model.

"Won't
you come in," I said with a hand gesture, as they had already moved into
position in my living room. We all remained standing, me about five feet from
the two of them.

"This
is Sergeant O'Neil. You know him, I'm sure."

I
nodded. "What brings you here, Lieutenant?"

His
dark eyes narrowed under his low forehead. "Actually, Logan, you bring me
here. I want to know what you were doing all last night and where you were
doing it."

Normally,
the cops in this town don't act like this, barging in like they own the joint.
They generally show a little respect, but Ortega's been on the force a long
time.

He
used to be a real tough guy, liked to push people around, until he barely
survived a gunshot wound a few years ago. That mellowed him out a little, but
only a little. Even though he's in his fifties now, you still don't want to
fuck with him. He'll put you down before you know what hit you. Not only that,
he's a Conch, like myself, and he knows everybody in town and what they're up
to. The simple fact that he's here so soon after the incident last night made
me plenty nervous. I didn't show it, though.

I
said, "I was here. With Dorothy. She made dinner and we stayed in. It was
raining pretty hard."

"Didn't
want to go out in the rain? What, are you afraid of getting wet? You're gonna
have to do better than that."

"I'm
afraid that's all I got, Lieutenant. We were both here last night. All night
long, in fact. And this morning, Dorothy got up at around half past six and
went to work a little after that."

"I
don't suppose you might've slipped out for a few minutes last night? Like, for
example, to run over to Caroline Street and kill three people."

"What?
Are you accusing me of murder?"

"Not
yet. But tell me, are you acquainted with —" He pulled his notebook
from one of his shirt pockets and consulted it. "— with Sharma
Coates? Thirty-one years of age? Formerly of Hialeah? Also formerly of Caroline
Street?"

"I
know her," I replied. "What of it?"

"I
know you know Trey Whitney's former muscle, the Pinksmith brothers, Morgan and
Stanley. According to what I heard, they did a number on you in the Duval
Square parking lot a few weeks ago."

"I
know them, too. So what?" I was, however, surprised to learn they were
brothers.

He
returned his notebook to his pocket. "So this. All three of those
individuals were murdered last night in an apartment on Caroline Street. Pretty
messy, too."

"Killed?
All three? What happened?"

"I
thought maybe you could tell me."

He
waited for me to answer. I played his game and waited a few seconds before
saying, "Why would I know anything about it?"

"You
are the only person in Key West, or maybe in the whole world, who had a motive
for killing all three."

I
waved it off like so much bullshit. "Lieutenant, you're crazy. I never so
much as had —"

He
was on me faster than a hungry alley cat on a dead rat. His hands grabbed my
shirt and he used his body weight to force me against the wall. He was strong,
no question about it. The floor lamp rattled and so did the small table next to
it.

His
lips pulled tight across white teeth and his jawline hardened. He snarled,
"Don't you ever call me crazy, you fucking lowlife cocksucker. What's
crazy is you thinking you could just trot over there and kill all of those
people, and then thinking you could skate away from it."

I
really wanted to push him off me, but I knew that would land me a one-way
ticket to jail and most likely a broken nose in the bargain. His eyes bled
fury, daring me to make a move.

I
caught a breath and tried for calm in my voice, hoping it would spread to him.
"I didn't kill anybody. Like I told you, I was here all last night with
Dorothy. She made dinner and then —"

"I
know, she made dinner and you curled up in her pussy all night long."

Just
then, my cell phone rang. I looked over at the coffee table where it lay
bleating. My eyes asked Ortega if I could answer it. With a quick move, he
pulled me away from the wall a little and threw me against it once more,
letting go of me as he did it. I picked up my phone and swiped it on.

My
mother.

"Where
have you been?" she said. "I tried all last night to call you."

I
wasn't going to say in front of Ortega that I had my phone shut off all last
night. Instead, I said, "Ma, I have to call you back. I'm in the middle of
something here."

"Oh,
sure! Just blow me off like I'm some worthless street bum. Who am I, anyway?
Only your mother. Nobody important."

"I'll
call you back." I ended the call and set the phone back on the table.

Ortega
turned around in disgust, leaving me standing against the wall. I thought it
was all over, but his partner spoke up.

"You
own a gun?" he asked.

"No."

"You
ever own a gun?"

"No."

"How
about a big-bladed knife? You own one of those?"

"No.
No knives. Just kitchen knives." I gestured toward the kitchen,
half-hoping they'd go out there and search it. They didn't take the bait. So I
looked back at Ortega and said, "Look, Lieutenant, why are you doing all
this, getting in my face like this? I mean, sure, I'll admit Morgan and Stanley
gave me a pretty good trimming, but they're not the only guys who've ever hit
me in a fight. I didn't want to
kill
them because of it."

Ortega
straightened his guayabera and readjusted his shoulder holster. "According
to what I heard, they laid it on you pretty hard that day. Might've gotten you
really pissed off at them. And at Trey."

"Of
course I was pissed. You would be, too, you take a beating like that from those
fucking apes." I really didn't want him to start thinking of me in
connection with Trey's death. Right now, he had Sharma for that one, and I was
willing to let it stay that way. So I said, "And what was my supposed
motive for killing the girl?"

"You
were squeezing her for a dime a week in return for getting her that job at the
Wild Thing."

Unbelievable how you can't keep
anything private in this fucking town.

"I
did her a favor and she was paying me back. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing.
Except Trey Whitney was fucking her and wanted you to lay off her. Usually,
when the Whitneys want somebody to leave one of their women alone, that
somebody does it. That's what the dustup was about in Duval Square with Morgan
and Stanley."

"I
won't deny any of that. But it wasn't a crime, and it damn sure doesn't make me
a murderer."

He
said, "Not yet it doesn't." Then he wagged an index finger in my face
and said, "But don't get too comfortable." He gestured to O'Neil and
they headed for the door.

"Look,"
I said. "You're barking up the wrong tree here, Lieutenant. You really
are. You've known me a long time and you know I've never been mixed up in
anything like this."

His
hand was on the doorknob. "Yeah, I've known you a while, Logan," he
said. "And I know you live outside the law. Have been for years. I also
know I've never been able to get anything on you, no proof. So as far as I'm
concerned, you could be guilty of anything, including murder. You're staying at
the top of my list for this one until I believe otherwise."

Neither
one of them looked at me as they walked out, without closing the door behind
them.

Logan

Monday, July 18, 2011

8:35 AM

M
Y
MOTHER ANSWERED
THE PHONE
on the first ring. I poured some
milk into my shredded wheat.

"Well,
I'm glad you found the time to call me back. I know you must be real
busy."

"Ma,
I had people over here, and it was important. I couldn't talk then."

"And
you don't think your own Mother is important? Like I might not have anything
worthwhile to say?"

I
took a seat at the kitchen table. I needed to get off my feet. "Okay, Ma.
They just left. So what's on your mind?"

"Monday
morning, you're still at home, not working. I take it that means you didn't get
that tree-trimming job?"

"Is
this why you called?" I asked. "To rag on me about not working?"

"Well,
did you get the job or didn't you?"

I
let out a long exhale. "Not yet. It's in the works, all right? Now why did
you call?"

Some,
but not all, of the smartass tone left her voice. She said, "I hope you
get that job soon. I have a favor to ask."

A
favor. That meant only one thing. "How much this time, Ma?"

"Oh,
cut the shit, will you? You'd think I was asking you to chop off your arm or
something. I just need a little boost to set me up in a deal I've got
working."

"Right.
A deal." I could only imagine the type of grift she had simmering on her
front burner.

"Hey,"
she said. "I can tell you this much — it's better than anything
you've got going right now. If I can get this up and running, I'll have a
steady income for quite a while. Finally be able to relax a little."

"How
much?"

"It's
not much. Just enough to spark this deal. It's going to —"

"How
much?" I put a spoonful of cereal to my mouth.

She
paused. It made the dramatic point she was aiming for. "Only thirty
thousand."

I
swallowed the cereal. Thirty dimes. A big, big chunk of the dough I took off
Chicho up in Miami. My full share plus part of the expense money I fronted. The
dough I damn near got killed over.

"Ma,
thirty thousand. That's not chump change. That's a pretty big —"

"Don't
tell me you don't have it. I know how you live. You and that fat pig. You're
not starving."

"No,
we're not starving, but that doesn't mean I can just fork over thir —"

"Listen,
if I can get into this thing in time, I stand to make fifteen or twenty times
that much. I'm talking major money here. But damn it, I need the startup
cash."

My
shoulders sagged and I suppressed a loud sigh. "That's a lot of goddamn
money, thirty grand."

She
kicked her voice upward a notch. "You must really hate me, you know? Your
own mother. Tell me, what have I done to make you hate me like this? What have
I done?"

"Ma,
I don't hate you. I —"

"Go
on. Tell me! What have I done?"

I
sighed and pushed the cereal bowl away from me.

"What
do you want it for?"

"I
told you. It's intro money for a big deal I'm involved in."

I
said, "What kind of deal?"

"It
doesn't matter what kind of deal. What's the difference? Is one kind better
than another?"

"I
just want to know what you're going to do with the money, is all."

She
said, "I'm going to invest it. You know, as in, for my future."

There
was no reasoning with her when she got like this. You know, you can't bring her
down to earth to talk in specifics. It's always about the majesty of the deal,
how it's oh, so fucking important. How talking about the details would only
cheapen it, maybe even endanger it. How it's going to put an end to all her
problems and change the fucking world as we know it. How the Promised Land is
waiting for her in all its heavenly glory, just around the corner, if only she
could scrape up a little cash, like thirty dimes.

Except
this cash represented … well, it represented the very lives of Chicho and
shotgun man and … and that sixteen-year-old girl. The dough I went to Miami to
get. The dough that girl died for, and it wasn't even hers. She probably never
would have seen any of it.

I
heard a beep on the line. My other line. I looked at the screen. Mambo calling.

"Hold
on, Ma. I've got another call."

"Oh,
sure. Just hang up on me whenever —"

"Mambo,"
I said after clicking over to his call. "What's up?"

"Hey,
Logan. Can you come over this morning before we open up? Something we need to
talk about."

"Sure.
I can be there in about a half an hour."

"Good."

Clicking
back to my Mother. I didn't want all this endless arguing and bullshit.

"Okay,
Ma. You win. I'll bring the money by in a few minutes."

"Well,
what do you know about that! My son has come to his senses. Looks like he cares
for his mother, after all."

"Yes,
I care, Ma. I always have."

And
I supposed I always would.