by Don Donovan
Whoever said money was the root of all evil didn't quite get it.
The lack of money is the root of all evil.
"I don't want to pay," she said.
I leaned over and spoke directly into her ear so I wouldn't have to shout over the music. "Listen to me now. You can make a big fuss about this here and maybe they'll throw me out, but I'll see you sooner or later at that little place you're staying at up on Caroline Street. First floor apartment, isn't it? Around back?"
Her eyes got wider. She clearly didn't think I knew where she lived. I said, "I know you know how this works. We had a deal, you and me. I got you this job and you owe me for it. It's got nothing to do with Trey's debt. Don't be stupid, Sharma. You fight me on this, there's nothing in it for you but bad shit."
She tried to manipulate her arm so the pressure would lessen. It didn't work, but it made it look like I was getting rougher than I was, and she succeeded in creating a mini-scene. One of the bartenders caught it. Sharma quickly pasted a pained look on her face. The bartender rushed over, her tits jiggling as she ran. Nice ones, too.
She said, "What's going on here? Sharma, you OK?"
I let go and put on a facial expression of my own. A fake smile.
"I was just caressing her arm," I said. "Got a little carried away. Guess I don't know my own strength."
The bartender said, "Sharma? Everything all right? Want me to get Alexander?"
Sharma tried to rub the pain out of her wrist. My eyes told her what to say. "N-no. Everything's fine, Brandy."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." She managed a brief smile. "No problem."
"No problem at all," I said in my most innocent-sounding voice. "I didn't mean anything by it."
"Okay," Brandy said. "But I'm right here if you need me. And Alexander can be here in a second." She resumed her drink making, but never really took her eyes off us.
I returned my attention to Sharma. "Go get the fucking money. Now."
Her chin lowered and her eyes looked up at me, almost totally blocked by thick, fake lashes. Her raunchy mouth curled into a pout, the kind that ordinarily would make guys melt and do whatever she wanted. It was apparently a reflex with her, the last tool in her box. When she wasn't getting her way, down goes the chin, out comes the pout, and the guy caves.
However, she quickly figured out it wasn't working on me. The pout went away, a weary resignation swept across her face instead, and she said, "It's in my purse. I'll be right back."
21
Silvana
Sunday, July 10, 2011
1:05 PM
SILVANA MACHADO FINISHED HER LUNCH and paid the tab. Cost way more than she would've liked, but this little spot in Coral Gables had this great salad that spoke to her one day a year or so ago. Yes, it was expensive, but she couldn't resist the temptation. So every once in a while, she would treat herself to lunch over there on the Miracle Mile.
She stepped out into the heat, but for some reason, it wasn't quite so bad today. The temperature dropped a little bit overnight and took the humidity with it. Today, so far, it hadn't bothered to climb back up to an oppressive level. Days like this were rare in the Miami summer, and it was her day off, so she enjoyed the outdoors while she could.
She went walking down the Miracle Mile, the fancy stretch of street that plunged Coral Gables headlong into the national consciousness. Medium- and high-end stores followed one another down its entire length. Just past Ponce de Leon Boulevard stood a Barnes & Noble. She stopped.
The windows held the usual bookstore stuff, and normally she would've waltzed right on by without any hesitation, without even noticing it. Today, though … today, she gazed past the window displays into the store itself, and a minute or two later, she went in.
As the air conditioning took its soothing effect on her, her thoughts rambled back over her life, and she realized this was the very first time she had ever set foot in a real bookstore. She cautiously moved deeper into the store, eyes darting here and there, as though she were walking down a dark alley in a high crime area, self-aware and certain that everyone was eyeing her. Positive they knew she didn't belong.
The aisles of books beckoned to her, the sign over each indicating the type of books to be found on those particular shelves. One aisle was labeled "Self Help" and she strolled down it. Another customer who was browsing the same aisle saw her and then noticed her pit viper tattoo. His eyes quickly moved back to the book in his hand. Silvana was used to it. They look, they fear, they look away. Her muscular build and her tight, unpainted face gave off that kind of vibe, the one where people don't want to get close, don't want to risk an encounter with her out of concern of what might happen to them.
She'd always rolled that way among society-at-large. Her hard brown eyes, thin lips, her laconic presence … she was not a welcoming woman and she didn't mind. If they didn't want to know her, they could go fuck themselves. She didn't care about them, anyway. She had her job.
My job. It's the … the origin of nearly all I treasure in life, and I'm good at it. The ability to go after murderers and rapists and wife-beaters and pimps with almost no restrictions? Ha! And to make some of those scumbags pay while I'm doing it? I wouldn't trade it for anything.
Her wandering took her to the "Mystery" aisle, where she slowed down considerably. She checked out each spine for the title, occasionally picking one out and glancing at it before putting it back. The books were arranged alphabetically by author. Pretty soon, she came to Michael Connelly.
She examined this section closely — and it took up a good deal of the shelf — pulling out each book and looking at its cover, and in most cases, the back cover copy. When she came to 9 Dragons, she turned away from the shelf, clutching the book, gazing at the cover. The numeral 9 was on fire and something about it simply swept her away. The flames shooting off from the numeral sent a chilling feeling of danger all through her. It was not the same cover she had seen in Vargas's apartment. This was a hardcover, his was a paperback. But she was positive it was the same book. Same title, same writer. Had to be the same book. She opened to the first page.
This cop, whose name was apparently Harry Bosch, noticed his partner straightening up his cubicle, arranging everything just so. The partner went so far as to align the corners of the file folders stacked on his desk and carefully put away his coffee cup.
God damn! she thought. This guy is just like me! How the hell did this Connelly …
Before she finished the thought, she headed for the cashier and paid for the book with twenty-six dollars of what was formerly Maxie Méndez's money.
Outside the store, she found a bench in the shade and immediately started reading. A liquor store owner gets wasted, and this guy Bosch knew him from the neighborhood. Bosch gets involved and finds out a bunch of chinks are behind it. Silvana didn't know much about chinks except they usually live in California — LA and San Francisco mainly — and from what she'd heard, they could be plenty deadly. She was glad there weren't too many of them in Miami. She'd seen a couple of them wandering around the station — she thought one of them might work in forensics — but she never had any contact with them, nor did she want any.
A couple of hours passed before she realized what had happened. She had been reading the entire time. She had … escaped.
Letting out a big exhale, she got up from the bench, and, holding the book close, returned home to read some more.
≈ ≈ ≈
Later that night, as she lay on her bed, she finally put the book down. She was not quite halfway through, but the story had reeled her all the way in. Sleep was calling her, but before she answered, she called Vargas. He answered on the first ring.
"What's up, Silvi?" he asked. His rough rasp told her she woke him up.
"Hey, Bobby, I gotta tell you, I bought this book today. This book 9 Dragons written by Michael Connelly. You know? You have the same book, right? 9 Dragons? I saw it when I was in your apartment a few days ago, that day whe
n I came to pick you up to go to Key West. I've been reading it all day. It's fucking fantastic."
"Which … ?"
"9 Dragons. The one by Michael Connelly."
"Oh, 9 Dragons. Yeah, I think I remember that one."
"I'm just past the part where he finds out about the Hong Kong connection and he —"
"Huh? Hong Kong?"
"Yeah. Remember? There were all these chinks in the story."
"Oh yeah. Now … I remember. The chinks. What of it?"
"Man, it's great! This guy Connelly knows how to write. Bosch is one badass motherfucker and … and everything."
"Yeah, I guess so. Is that all you wanted?"
"Well … I guess it is. But you know, I just wanted to tell you I saw the book on your bookshelf, so I bought a copy today. It's a great story."
"Yeah. Great story. Well, I was just turning in, Silvi. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
"Right, Bobby. Right. Tomorrow. Okay. Good night." She slowly placed the phone in its cradle. Her internal clock told her it was time to turn in. She brushed her teeth, got undressed, and climbed into bed. When she reached to turn off the bedside table lamp, she paused.
Instead, she picked up 9 Dragons and kept reading.
22
Mambo
Sunday, July 10, 2011
10:10 PM
ARTURO STOOD IN MAMBO'S OFFICE, out of breath. Having come in out of a heavy rain, he dripped water on the floor. His dark hair hung wet and stringy from his head and it looked like shit.
"What is it?" Mambo asked from behind his desk. He was completely at ease, having just learned over Sunday dinner his grandfather had greenlighted the hospital extension. Palmira was ecstatic: she was calling Rolando first thing in the morning, she said. Mambo had dropped her and Carlena at home and come straight to the restaurant to meet Arturo after his urgent phone call. "What was so fucking important you couldn't tell me on your cell? So fucking important I had to leave my wife and daughter at home on a Sunday night to come here through the rain and see you."
"Mambo … I just came from Kiki's. I went there to collect, you know?" Arturo really had to slow down to grab a breath. Mambo's patience was growing thin.
"All right, take it easy," Mambo said. "Sit down and take a deep breath."
Arturo did as he was told and said, "Sorry, boss. I had to park a block away and I ran through the rain. It's really fucking coming down." He tried to dry his face with a wet sleeve.
"It's okay. Now what's up?"
Arturo said, "He's dead."
"Dead? Who? Who's dead?"
"Kiki. I found him just now, not ten minutes ago at his house with his throat cut. I didn't call the law."
"Kiki's dead?"
"Oh, man, it was fucking terrible. His throat slit wide open from ear to ear. Blood still warm, so it musta happened right before I got there."
Mambo gaped at nothing in particular, thinking aloud. "Who did it? Who could've done it?"
He produced a brown paper bag. "I don't know. But I found this on the floor right next to the body. His hand was inside it. Looked like someone put it there after they did him."
Mambo took it and looked it over. The bloodstained bag had the logo of Lolita's Liquors on it. He said, "What the fuck is this?"
"I don't know, boss. But it looked like whoever left it was tryin' to send a message. Kiki didn't drink, far as I know."
"No … he didn't. And from the looks and smell of his kitchen, he wasn't the type to have a lot of company over to where he'd want to serve them anything." He looked at the bag again, studying the logo. He caught the Hialeah address. "Especially not the type to go all the way up to Hialeah to buy liquor. What else did you see?"
"Shit, his house was totally wrecked. Furniture turned over and all cut up. His bed slashed open. Shit thrown around all over the place. Somebody really did a number. They were lookin' for something."
"Anybody see you enter or leave the house?"
"No, no, they didn't. Or I don't think they did, anyway. It was raining too hard. Nobody was on the street when I went in or came out. No traffic, either. Fuck me! It was really bad news! I don't know who'd wanna do him like that."
"Okay, Arturo. Take it easy. You did the right thing, calling me. Coming straight here. And bringing this bag. That was good work. You're right. Somebody's sending somebody a message. And I've got a feeling about this."
"What'sat, boss?"
"Never mind. Go ahead and go home. I'll take it from here. You did good tonight."
"Thanks, boss. I'll be goin' now." He turned and left.
Mambo looked the bag over. He googled Lolita's Liquors and pinpointed its location on East 49th Street in Hialeah. Nothing unusual. They had a website. He clicked the link and went there. It was all about their wide selection and "great low prices". Again, nothing out of the ordinary. He checked out the street map image and it looked like just another big liquor store. The other stores around it weren't anything out of the ordinary. He had one play left. He pulled out his cell and punched in a number. The Original Mambo answered on the third ring.
"Abuelo, I hope I'm not calling you too late."
"No, I haven't gone to bed yet. I'm almost ready, though. ¿Qué pasa?"
"Can you tell me anything about a place called Lolita's Liquors up in Hialeah?"
"Lolita's? Where do you know it from?"
"I just heard about it and I thought it rang a bell."
The Original Mambo paused, then said, "It's where Maxie Méndez operates from. Es el corazón de sus operaciónes."
Mambo's suspicions were confirmed. "He just killed one of my former bookies."
"Former? Killed? You better tell me what is going on."
Mambo explained about Maxie's incursion into Key West and the subsequent move to discipline Kiki, including his one-third cut of all Kiki's betting action.
"And you let him go on taking bets for Méndez?" His grandfather couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"I had to let Kiki know he couldn't just allow Méndez to move in on me without paying a tax."
"So Méndez sends you a message by killing Kiki."
"That's what it looks like."
The Original Mambo raised his voice. "You should have been the one to kill Kiki! That sends the message to Méndez! As it is, you fucked it up and allowed him to get the upper hand. You let him turn it around on you. What the fuck were you thinking?"
"I … I … Abuelo, he was moving in on me. I —"
"When someone moves in on you, you have to cut that shit off right away. You don't let it go on and take a percentage! You want him out of here altogether! You kill that fucking Kiki and let Méndez know he's not welcome down here. By not killing him, you give Méndez a foothold."
"I'm sorry, Abuelo, it's just that —"
"Bullshit! Méndez moves in on you today. Today it's the sports betting. Tomorrow, who knows what? But he's a crafty cocksucker. He knew what he was doing, and you can be god damn sure he was planning on muscling in on everything. Not just the gambling."
"If he wanted to move in on everything, why did he kill Kiki and not me?"
"He probably didn't want a war. I'm sure he's heard of our family and the lengths we go to when we want to protect our interests. But … on the other hand, he might still try to kill you. First Kiki, then you."
Mambo the Third digested that assessment during a puase in the conversation, then his grandfather added, "What are you going to do now?"
More silence. "I have no choice. I have to go after him. Send someone to Hialeah and light him up."
"Now you sound like my grandson. That's exactly what I would do. Plan it very carefully. Don't send Felo. Keep him next to you at all times. Send two other men. Capable men. You want guys who don't rattle when the going gets tough."
"I will."
"But after this, you have to get out of that gambling business altogether. Remember what I told you about that. We've got too much at stake."
"Sí, Abuelo. Aft
er this, it's over."
"Now, I don't want to hear any more about this until it's done. Que tengas muy buena suerte, mi nieto."
23
Logan
Monday, July 11, 2011
7:20 PM
DOROTHY'S BIRTHDAY ROLLED AROUND on July eleventh. I wanted to take her someplace nice for dinner. Monday night and the tourists from the Fourth had long since cleared out, so we weren't likely to run into big crowds or long lines.
I took her to the Pasta Garden, a nifty little indoor-outdoor spot hidden away in Duval Square, off the main stem. Great food and service, plus a touch of coziness, Bennett and Sinatra music lazily wafting through the air. Dorothy loves good Italian food, so we come here on special occasions. Tonight, because of the heat, we ate indoors.
The first time we ate here, I learned Chianti is the best wine to go with pasta, so tonight I ordered us a bottle before dinner. After going through his preliminary routine, the guy poured us each a glass. We raised them in a toast.
"Happy birthday, baby," I said. "To the sexiest forty-year-old in town."
"God, don't remind me," she said through a snicker. "I can't believe I'm that old. Now if I can just lose these thirty pounds." She looked gorgeous in her pale orange dress, which tried hard to cover up her excess weight. It was a full, Key West-comfy fit — not a muumuu, but loose — hanging down just above her ankles. A decent-sized emerald popped out of a fourteen-karat gold necklace, a little souvenir from a job I pulled up in West Palm Beach a few years ago. It formed the perfect partnership with the dress.
"You better not lose too much weight," I said. "I want you to stay the way you are. More of you to love." A big smile worked its way out onto my face.
We toasted to more-to-love and munched on the garlic bread. The wine went down well. Tony Bennett softly crooned For Once In My Life through wall-mounted speakers.
Just as the waiter brought our food, I heard a voice from across the small room. "Quite the sight! Lovebirds sharing a romantic night on the town."
