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

by Don Donovan

  If you saw the show, you knew Carmela had this genteel side to her, a side that Dorothy lacks. Carmela didn't want to think about hollow, skeletal eyes of junkies addicted to Tony's drugs, or pulpy, mangled faces of guys who didn't pay him their protection money on time. She didn't want to know how many innocent lives were destroyed so she could slip into her long, soft mink, so she could wear her five-thousand-dollar designer silks, so she could sip fine wine and jabber with Rosalie Aprile about how hard their husbands work.

  Dorothy, on the other hand, isn't afraid to face that shit head-on — the violence, I mean. She doesn't press me for blow-by-blow descriptions, but she doesn't shrink from them, either. She knows the money I bring home was taken from people who didn't want to give it up and did so only under threat from a deadly weapon. Money taken from people whom I sometimes have to get rough with in order for them to give it to me.

  Yes, there were a couple of similarities between Dorothy and Carmela Soprano, but Dorothy's from Key West, not New Jersey, and she has a job. Works over at the City Hall annex processing traffic tickets. Doesn't pull down much money, but the health insurance makes it worthwhile.

  "You have seen the light, haven't you?" She repeated it mostly to make herself believe it. I could hear it in her voice.

  "Come on, knock that shit off. I thought you'd be happy. You've hinted at this before. You know, about me quitting, about how you think it'd be a good idea."

  "That's because I didn't want to get a phone call in the middle of the night asking me to come down and identify your fucking body. Yes, I've dropped a hint or two, and you've been resisting it like I was asking you to cut off your dick. What changed your mind all of a sudden?"

  "Tonight was too much," I said. "When I was parked outside Chicho's house, before I went in, it all came to me, in full, splashy color. I suspected what I might be up against. There was a real chance I might walk into that house and never walk out. I thought about the possibility I might never see you again. Never hold you. And then, when … when …"

  "When what?"

  My eyes turned away from her and my voice lowered a level or two. I didn't want to say it, but shit, it was too late. She was onto me and she wouldn't let up till I spilled it.

  "Tell me," she said. "What."

  "I … I killed a young girl tonight. She couldn't've been more than sixteen."

  She gasped out loud through a wide open mouth. "My God. Sixteen? Why'd you kill her?"

  "She drew on me. I got her before she could get one off, but still …"

  Dorothy paused briefly, digesting that information. We both sat in the dark without talking. The smooth whir of the central air unit was the only sound. Then her hard center showed itself. She waved the whole thing off as though it were nothing more than a pesky fly on a picnic table.

  "So you did what you had to do," she said. "It was her or you."

  "I know, but she was just a kid. I've never done that before."

  Her tone inched up a notch. "You rather she fucking put one between your eyes? Come on. Get a grip!"

  "But … but now, she's never gonna have a … a …"

  She moved close to me, then pulled me back down on the bed. She ground her doughy nakedness into mine, murmuring, "Forget it. It's over and you survived. I'm just glad you're home safely." My hands roamed her back and my mouth moved close to her ear. She whispered in a way that lacked tenderness while summoning up plenty of authority, "Promise me, my love. You're finished. You're laying down the gun. For good."

  "I promise, baby. For good."

  She moaned a little more and said, "Because I will never let you go to jail. Not if I've got anything to say about it."

  We rolled around on the bed, kissing and lightly fondling each other's bodies. Then Dorothy curled her head into my shoulder and ran a hand softly across my stomach.

  "Have you given any thought to what you'll do?" she asked.

  "What I'll do?"

  "You know, for work. I mean, you've never really, you know —"

  Yes, I knew. I'd never held a straight job my whole life.

  I rolled over onto my side, facing her, and said, "Don Roy Doyle — I think you know him, he runs Mambo's sports book and bolita game. His cousin's got a landscaping business. Mostly private homes, homes here in town and in the Lower Keys. He's mentioned it to me a couple of times. Said his cousin was looking for someone to come in with some money, you know, and some labor. He wants to up the ante. You know, buy bigger equipment, build the business. But he apparently needs a partner."

  "Landscaping? Like tree trimming?"

  "Yeah," I said. "That … and keeping vegetation looking good and cleaning yard waste. Stuff like that."

  "What's he need your money for?"

  "Oh, I don't know. I think Don Roy said something about a new truck and some new equipment, maybe a cherry picker."

  "You're telling me you want to trim trees for a living?"

  I looked at her funny. Like I was beginning to think she wasn't on board. "What's wrong with it? It's good, honest work."

  She said, "What's wrong with it? What's wrong with it? How about for starters that it's not exactly your lifelong dream, to be trimming trees and getting filthy dirty all day long."

  "It's not just trimming trees. And getting dirty while you work is no sin. I'll be outdoors most of the time. I'm in pretty good shape and I can —"

  Her voice moved down a notch. "My love, it's not your cup of tea. You can't make any money doing that. We wouldn't be able to live this way anymore."

  "You'd rather I risk my life every time I strap on my gun?"

  "You know that's not what I mean. It's just that … that, well … you know, we don't live real high, but it's higher than what I ever had before. And I don't want to go back to that."

  "Okay, so what do I do?"

  "My advice is to find something else. Forget about trimming trees."

  "There's more to it than trimming trees! And I'd be a part owner in the business. You know, not have to answer to anyone. We can still have our lifestyle! I'll bring in the money, I swear."

  "What about this … cousin? You'll have to answer to him, won't you? Or at least coexist with him."

  "I can handle it," I said. "And Don Roy said whatever I need to learn about the business, his cousin can show me."

  She wasn't buying it. "You're gonna hate it. I know you. You won't be able to stand it after a while. And I'm not gonna be able to stand seeing you come home every day all dirty and with no money."

  "Well, I think I'm going to give it a shot anyway. See what happens."

  Rolling her eyes like only she could do, she tossed an exasperated hand into the air and let it flop palm up on the bed. "Suit yourself."

  "I will. But first, I want to take a few days off." I gathered her in my arms. "The main thing is I'm done with the outlaw shit. I just hope you give me a little leeway on this. Once I get up and running, you and I … we can put together some kind of real life for ourselves."

  I rubbed up against her and planted a few kisses on her neck and cheek. Her resistance slowly fell away. Or at least, I thought it did.

  "Okay," she whispered. "A new life." A little more nuzzling, then she reached between my legs and said, "Mmmm, now where was I?"

  5

  Mambo

  Sunday, June 26, 2011

  6:45 AM

  THE SLEEK, YELLOW-GOLD TRANS AM swerved off Duval Street, tires squealing, and headed into Bahama Village, one of the older neighborhoods of Key West. The three men inside swerved with it. Mambo DeLima, aka Mambo the Third, straightened out the wheel and screamed down Petronia.

  "Whoa, bubba! What's the rush?" said Big Felo from the shotgun seat. He was Mambo's cousin and easily the largest of the three men. "We're only going right down here, just a couple of blocks. Ease up."

  A slight smile moved onto Mambo's handsome face. "Yeah, yeah, I know, man. Don't worry about it. Just listen to her wind," he murmured as though he were one with the car, winding wit
h it.

  "Hey, we don't need no ticket," Felo said.

  Arturo, the third man, spoke up from the back seat. "Ain't no local cop gonna do that, gonna give Mambo a ticket." His oblique reference to the DeLima family's position in Key West rang solid. They all knew the DeLimas, who could trace themselves back over a hundred and seventy years on the island, were beyond the reach of little things like reckless driving through downtown at dawn, Sunday or any other day.

  Mambo the Third tossed a glance to the back seat as he slowed down for the Emma Street intersection. "God damn right, they're not," he said. "But you have to admit, she moves pretty good for an '85, don't she?" The others grunted their yesses. He added, "You're not gonna find too many cars this old that hold up, hold up as good as this one has. Smooth." He ran his hand across the meticulously preserved leather and smiled. He was only six years older than the car itself, and like the car, he was in very good shape.

  Arturo asked, "Why we doing this at this hour? I could be home gettin' my beauty sleep."

  Mambo leaned his head toward the back seat. "Because you want to get him while he's getting his beauty sleep. When he's not ready. When his guard is totally down."

  A quick left onto Emma Street and he slowed his growling machine to walking speed. Despite a slight breeze, the morning was hot, even at this hour, with the sun only just now peeking out over the island. The street was quiet, the pristine Trans Am and a few swaying palm fronds the only moving things. Mambo's dark eyes scanned the surroundings, eyeing each house.

  "Which one is it?" he asked.

  Felo pointed out the passenger side window. "Right up here. This one, the one with the Jeep in front."

  The car jostled into a parking spot behind the Jeep and the men climbed out into the morning stillness, heading for the sun-baked, one-story house.

  Mambo tried the front door with a quiet turn. Locked. "Felo," he said, standing aside and throwing a nod to his cousin. Felo, about six-four and carrying two hundred forty-five hard pounds, moved in front of the door. He kicked it with the sole of a heavy boot, right next to the knob, and it flew open. The men rushed in, drawing guns from holsters beneath their shirts. A fast look around showed nobody in the front room. They froze, listening for a footstep, a gasp, any sound at all. A stink hung over everything. Like garbage or something. They all sniffed it and made faces of disgust.

  Then they heard the creak. All heads turned toward the hallway.

  Down the hallway and into the first open door. A man and a woman, both in their twenties and both naked, had leapt up to a sitting position in the bed, the man fumbling in the nightstand drawer. The woman yelped and was on the brink of a full scream. The rising sun crept into the room through partially-open blinds, casting gray, slatted shadows over the figures of the three armed men.

  Mambo pointed his semi-automatic at the man in the bed, less than a foot from his shaved head. "If I see a gun come out of that drawer, Kiki, I'll blow your fuckin' head apart." His eyes moved to the whimpering woman. "And you. Shut the fuck up!"

  Kiki withdrew an empty hand from the drawer. Mambo shoved him away from it and stuck his own hand in. It came out holding a revolver. He swatted Kiki's face with it. Blood flew from his mouth onto the girl's tits.

  "What, you thought you were gonna get us all with this fucking peashooter?" Mambo smiled at Felo, the big man, and Arturo, who looked on through cruel eyes. They both chuckled on cue.

  "M-M-Mambo, I didn't know it was you! I swear! I thought it was a burglar. Somebody breakin' in or somethin'. I swear!" He sprayed blood through his words. "Wh-what're you doin' here, anyway?"

  "What am I doing here? What am I doing here? What the fuck you think I'm doing here? You start up your own little gambling operation in this town, you don't think I'm gonna find out about it?"

  Blood dribbled down into Kiki's goatee. "Man, I'm not tryin' to move in on —"

  Another stiff revolver swipe across the face. The startled girl yelped again and lurched to one side, but not before more of Kiki's blood landed on her, this time a glob on her tattooed shoulder.

  "Don't lie to me, motherfucker! I'm sitting in my joint the other night and T-Bone Suárez tells me he don't bet with me no more, he's giving all his action to you. The fuck does that sound like?"

  Kiki's whimpering prevented any real kind of an answer. His head dropped into his hands as he tried to speak.

  Mambo spoke instead. "Sports book! Bolita! You start that shit up in this town, you movin' in on me, my man. Now, I know you couldn't do this by your own stupid self. So who're you working for? ¿Quién es tu jefe?"

  "¿M-m-mi jefe?"

  Mambo grabbed Kiki's neck and pulled him out of bed. Another loud squeal from the girl as Kiki fell to the floor. Mambo planted a kick in his gut. Kiki grunted and more blood dripped from his mouth, a little faster now.

  "Who is it, Kiki? Who's behind this?" Another kick. "Come on!"

  Kiki rolled around on the floor, clutching his stomach and howling in pain. After a few seconds, he managed to stutter, "M-Maxie M-M-Méndez."

  "Who? Maxie who?"

  "Méndez," said Kiki. "Maxie Méndez."

  "That fat fuck from Hialeah?"

  "Y-yeah. He — ooowww! My stomach!"

  Mambo holstered his gun. He pulled Kiki's head up by the neck. "You're not gonna have any stomach left by the time I get through with you if you don't start talkin'."

  "Max … Maxie's a … a big shot up there, up … up in Little Havana. Hialeah. Got a lotta shit going. Drugs … gambling … whores. Everything."

  "I know who he is. So where'd he find you?"

  "His brother got … got …" He doubled over and coughed twice. From his position on the floor, he reached for a Kleenex up on the nightstand and spit into it. Mambo thought he caught a flash of red fly into the tissue.

  "What about his brother?" Mambo growled, impatience all over his face.

  "… got married down here a few weeks ago. At the Casa Marina Hotel. I tended bar at the reception, and one of the — the whaddya call, you know, those guys on the groom's side that show you to your seat? The — whaddya call 'em?"

  "Ushers," said Mambo.

  "Yeah, ushers …" He coughed again when he said that word. More spitting. This time, Mambo saw the blood pool up in Kiki's goatee. Kiki took a shot at wiping it off with the Kleenex. Most of it stayed in the goatee. "One of the ushers, he hung out at my bar and we were just, you know, shootin' the shit. Pr-pretty soon, he starts tellin' me about Maxie's operations and how he's such a big shot up in Hialeah, and it's Maxie this and Maxie that, and then a few minutes later, Maxie himself comes over. Me and the usher, we keep talkin' and then Maxie joins in. A coupla minutes after that, he made me an offer. Said … s-said he wanted to get something goin' down here, here in Key West, you know? He was like, I could maybe make some money if I could help him out."

  "Help him to muscle in on me! Right, motherfucker?" Without waiting for an answer, Mambo slapped the side of Kiki's head and said, "¿Dónde está tu banco?"

  "My b-bank?"

  "Where do you keep it? Come on! Where?"

  Kiki struggled to his feet, gasping for air. He staggered naked down the hallway. Mambo looked over at Arturo and pointed at the girl. "Keep an eye on her," he said. Mambo and Felo followed Kiki into the kitchen.

  This was where the stink came from. Dirty dishes piled high in the sink, looked like they'd been there since the house was built. On the countertop, a McDonald's bag lay on its side, its contents overrun with big, ugly ants spilling out onto the counter. Grime-coated drinking glasses were everywhere. Mambo recognized the odor of stale coffee. His nose twitched. An open plastic trashcan showed rotting grounds on top of days-old garbage. He didn't want to look beneath it.

  "You live real good, don't you?" Mambo said. "Real high class."

  Without answering, Kiki opened the cabinet beneath the sink and retrieved a box of Cascade. Powdery residue covered the area where the lid had been opened. He peeled the top back all t
he way and started to reach inside. Mambo grabbed the box from him in a fluid motion.

  "Mambo," said Kiki. "Pl-please. That's n-not my money."

  Mambo drew back the lid and saw a Glad sandwich bag sticking out of the detergent inside. Pulling it out, he looked at the money it held. He sneered, "You fuckin' right it's not. Not tryin' to move in on me, huh?" He unzipped the bag, extracting a hefty wad of bills. A quick look through them told him it came to at least five or six grand. All of it into his pocket.

  "M-M-Mambo!" Kiki cried. "Don't take — I mean — that's all I got. I got to pay off the winners and — and Maxie, too!"

  "Tough shit," said Mambo. "You shoulda thought of that back when you decided to move in on me."

  "Mambo, please! I — "

  Mambo grabbed Kiki and shoved him against the wall, holding him there with a tight grip on his throat. Kiki hacked and gasped.

  "I hear you doin' this shit again, you're dead. ¿Me entendés?" A sweating Kiki nodded lamely. Mambo let up on his neck and slapped him hard across the face. "I said do you understand! Tell me you do."

  "I — I understand, Mambo," Kiki said in a wheeze, blood now flowing freely down his chin through his goatee and onto the filthy floor.

  "You want to keep your operation going, I get my cut. Starting tomorrow, Arturo is going to come around every day for my thirty-three percent."

  "Thir — thirty-three percent? Mambo, that's a lot. Maxie's —"

  Another backhand slap, almost a punch. Teeth loosened. Kiki's naked figure staggered backward, hitting the counter. "Every day. Thirty-three percent. ¿Me entendés? No more talk! Come on, Felo."

  They headed down the hall toward the door. As they passed the bedroom, Mambo saw Arturo sitting on the edge of the bed, fondling the girl's blood-soaked tits and whispering into her ear. Cringing, she turned her head away from his filthy whispers and Mambo saw fear covering her face. Arturo leaned in closer, his lips pulled back in a foul grin. Fucking pervert, Mambo thought.

  She tried pulling away from him but he snatched her arm and jerked her closer. Now revulsion swept her face, competing with the fear. Twisting her body, she pushed him away with an elbow, mumbling something in Spanish that Mambo couldn't make out. He grabbed a handful of her hair and wrenched her neck downward and to the side, into a grotesque position. A scream escaped her throat.