Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (28 page)

Logan

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

9:00 AM

E
ITHER THE AIR CONDITIONING
INSIDE DEAN-LOPEZ
wasn't up to par, or they hadn't had
it on for very long this morning because I started sweating the second I walked
through the door. The tasteful reception area was small and hot, and I gave my
forehead a slight dab with my shirtsleeve.

A
few people were milling around in
black suits and dresses, murmuring to each other, similar, I guess to what they
do in funeral homes everywhere. It's almost as if they don't want the dear
departed to hear what they're saying. Not that they're saying anything bad,
mind you.

Winston
Whitney stood to one side of the room with his wife and a couple of properly
somber mourners. He spotted us immediately and came over to greet The Original
Mambo. They shook hands and Mambo introduced me. Whitney gave me a meaningful
handshake and a halfhearted smile, but I knew he didn't know me at all.

He
introduced Chase Pinksmith. Right away, I knew I didn't want any part of him.
Shaped like a building, and a big building at that. Where there should have
been eyes, I saw tiny cuts etched below a big, squared forehead. A nose broken
a few too many times stood guard over a wide mouth, although I couldn't imagine
who could've possibly gotten the better of him long enough to break his nose.
His massive head was shaved and it flowed directly into his very broad
shoulders, bypassing the need for a neck.

I
wondered what he was going through following the brutal deaths of his brothers.
Was he capable of genuine emotion? Did he ever cry? I doubted it, although I
know if I lost someone close to me, like Dorothy, I'd probably have teary eyes
for days, maybe weeks. But Chase? To look at him, you'd never know anything was
wrong. Maybe for him, nothing was.

He
was bigger than either Morgan or Stanley, weighing in at well over three
hundred pounds, maybe close to four. He wore a loose-cut, black silk shirt
outside his pants, no doubt to hide any inconvenient bulges in the neighborhood
of his waistband. When Whitney introduced him, he neither shook hands nor
spoke. He stood behind Whitney. And to his right.

Win
escorted us into the room where the coffin was. A few more people were in here,
seated quietly. An organ dirge floated darkly in the background. At the front
of the room, Trey was laid out nicely, pale and decked in what might have been
his best suit. As we approached, I caught a trace of a natural smile on his
face, the one he always showed when he was happy. I wondered how the Dean-Lopez
people managed that.

The
Original Mambo and I stood before him with our hands together in front of us. Mambo
gave the sign of the cross and I silently cursed Trey again for not keeping his
balance the other night. I continued sweating, hoping the AC would start
performing as advertised.

We
stayed like this, immobile and quiet for a minute or two, then, on Mambo's
signal, we returned to the back of the room, where Win Whitney took us into a
private room in another part of the building.

Things
were a little cooler in here, but not much. It had the appearance of a waiting
room. A couple of couches and chairs here and there, along with a centrally
located coffee table. Small tables bookended each couch, and a telephone rested
on one of them. A steaming pot of Cuban coffee and four small cups, along with
a sugar bowl and a creamer filled with hot milk, sat on a silver tray on the
coffee table. Whitney knew we were coming.

Mambo
and I sat on one couch, while Whitney and Chase took the other one. Whitney
opened.

"Mambo,
I want to thank you for coming here today. My wife and I are honored that you
would come, and I know Trey would have appreciated it as well."

"I'm
very sorry for your loss, Winston," Mambo said with a lot of sincerity.
"I only wish this meeting could have taken place under better
circumstances."

Whitney
nodded and leaned back into the cushions of the couch. I did the same. Couch
was comfortable, actually. Very soft leather.

He
said, "I called New York yesterday. Trey's money group for the interim
financing."

"And?"
Mambo's eyes were locked onto Whitney's.

"I
explained the tragedy, they understood, and everything is still in place. Are
your people ready?"

"We
are."

Whitney
got up and poured a cup of coffee, offering it to Mambo, who accepted it with a
smile.

"Logan?"
Whitney asked. "Would you like a cup?"

I
said I would and he poured another one. He eyed Chase with the same offer, but
Chase declined with a single shake of his huge head. Whitney then poured one
for himself, carefully adding milk and sugar.

I
took the tiniest sip of coffee. Cuban coffee is extremely strong stuff, not
meant for gulping, and this early in the morning, I didn't want to get too
buzzed. Especially not in this group.

Whitney
frowned and said, "I'm not sure we're ready to move forward."

Mambo's
eyes widened and he sat up straight. "What — what's the matter,
Win?"

"Trey's
death. And now Morgan and Stanley. Something's very wrong here."

I
tensed. With an eyeflick, I checked Chase. He seemed fairly relaxed.

"Win,"
Mambo said, "if you think it's too soon after Trey's death, we can
postpone things for a couple of weeks, or maybe a month if you like."

Whitney
shook his head. "Something's very, very wrong. I want to get to the bottom
of it before we agree to go ahead with this deal."

I
saw Mambo searching for the right words. "I don't know, Win. I think we
might be hurting ourselves if we did that. We could move ahead with the
preliminaries. We don't actually break ground until next year. Trey's death
should certainly be cleared up by then. It looks like the stripper was
responsible, anyway. Didn't she admit to pushing him away before he fell?"

"Sorry,
Mambo. I don't buy it. I don't like anything about it. Especially after she and
Morgan and Stanley were all killed. It's all tied in. And we can't do a deal
until I get it resolved. Until I'm certain of what happened."

Mambo
spooned a little sugar into his black drink, then tapped the little spoon on
the rim of his tiny cup. The tink-tink sound of the tapping spoon was the
loudest thing in the room at that moment.

Now,
you might think this would be the time where Mambo would disavow any part in Trey's
untimely passing. If he did, Whitney would have to say, "Of course. I know
you had nothing to do with it." But the reality was quite different,
because everybody in the room knew Whitney suspected DeLima family involvement
in Trey's death, probably for his welshing on the eighty-one grand in gambling
debts. Why else would Win slam the brakes on this deal he'd been lusting for?
Mambo wasn't going to say anything. Best to avoid that little dance altogether.

Knowing
that now, my heart began to pound in my chest. Mambo knew the truth about Trey,
thanks to my collapse in the car, and I feared he might give me up right then
and there in order to get this deal back on track. I tried not to fidget on the
couch, but I'm not sure I succeeded.

Why would he go out of his way to
protect me? He doesn't give a shit about me. Maybe I should just jump up and
run out the door and drive off. Grab Dorothy at work and split town. We could
go to — to — Miami — or somewhere. Maybe Tampa.

Shit, he might still give me up. He
might stand up right now and point his finger at me like one of those
detectives who's got all the suspects rounded up in a room. He might point at
me and say, "Win,
here's
your killer!
Here's
the one who murdered your son. And yes, Chase, your brothers, too.
Killed them in cold blood!"

Now look at that. Fucking Chase is
gazing at me through his squint, but I can't figure out what the fuck he's
thinking. His expression hasn't changed from the moment I laid eyes on him. It
likely hasn't changed since puberty. He looks like one of those fucking Buddha
statues or something, probably the expression he was born with. Even he's
probably figured the whole thing out, about me and Trey and his brothers.

Without
sipping on his coffee, Mambo said, "Well, Win, what do you suggest?"

Whitney
said, "Let's just call a temporary halt to everything until I gather some
information on this whole episode, these killings. I'll let you know when we're
ready to proceed."

Mambo
said, "I'll let you know if I hear anything. You can count on it."

Whitney
stuck a hand out and Mambo reluctantly shook it. The meeting was over.

≈
≈ ≈

On our way to the car, Mambo didn't say anything. And I was afraid
to open my mouth.

In
the car, however, it was an entirely different deal.

Before
I started the car, he turned to me and said, "You see how you have fucked
everything up, you fucking pissant!"

"Mambo,
I — I don't know what to say, I —"

"Don't
fucking say anything to me. I will say to you! Because you
had
to go harass that fucking stripper for a thousand dollars, you
couldn't stay away, you couldn't let her alone, because you had to —"

"Mambo,
she owed me the money."

"I
told you to shut the fuck up!" He just sat there in the passenger seat,
body facing forward, only his head turned to me. Very slight body language, but
his presence alone was powerful enough. My insides quaked and I'm sure fear
spread itself all over my face.

He
went on. "Because you couldn't stay away, Trey is dead. And because of
that, I also make you for wasting the stripper to shut her up, along with
Morgan and Stanley. You have really fucked up my family's dream for this
redevelopment."

"Oh,
man, Mambo, I'm so very sorry. I wish there was something I could do to make up
for it, to make it right. I want to —"

He
raised an index finger to silence me. "Actually," he said,
"there
is
something you can
do."

Is he offering me a way off the hook?
Or —

"What?
What can I do?"

"My
grandson tells me he asked a favor of you last week."

"A
— a favor?"

"He
says he asked you to do him a favor up in Miami. For twenty-five thousand
dollars. You refused."

"Mambo,
that Maxie Méndez contract, I can't — I'll tell you what I told him. I'm
not a hired killer. I don't do that kind of thing."

"Ah,
you see? You're not a
hired
killer.
But we know you're a killer, don't we. We know you've killed before, and very
recently, too. So it's not like killing is ancient fucking history for you.
It's just a matter of getting you to accept the money. A lot of money, I might
add."

"I
— I — It's just not what I do, Mambo. I don't know if I could
actually do what he asked."

"Of
course you can do it. Especially when you know the alternative, what will
happen if you don't do it."

"Wh-what
will happen?" As if I didn't already know.

"I
think you know."

I
nodded.

He
said, "Today is Tuesday. I want it done by this weekend."

"Mambo,
that's — that's not a lot of time."

"By
this weekend,
¿me entendés?
"

"But
Mambo the Third told me he wanted the job done by someone who could take the
time to plan it out. This kind of thing needs planning. Said he'd pay me
twenty-five thousand plus another fifteen for a partner."

"I
want to read about that fat fucker's death in this Sunday's Miami
Herald
. Or before."

"I
don't get it. H-how is killing this Méndez going to resurrect your North
Roosevelt deal?"

"You
let me worry about that. And you'll get your money. You just make sure that
article gets in the paper."

Meanwhile,
Mambo's eyes told me I owed him. Owed him for wasting Trey and fucking up their
North Roosevelt deal. He had me, and he knew it. Besides, with my money
dwindling and no landscaping job in sight, what choice did I have? I mean,
really. That twenty-five large was looking pret-ty fucking good right now.

I
looked down at my lap and muttered, "Okay. I'll do it."

"Good."
He whipped out his cell phone. "His base is Lolita's Liquors, a store in a
shopping center in Hialeah. You can look it up. I'm texting you his home
address. I'm also texting you a photo of him. Sometimes he spends his evenings
at Honey Buns, a strip joint he owns, also in Hialeah. Now take me home,"
he said.

I
started the car, but I hoped he didn't catch the quiver that leaped from my gut
to my throat.

KEY WEST,
FLORIDA

JULY 19,
2011