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

by Don Donovan

  On the way back I passed Mambo's office. The door was closed and I heard a lot of rapid talk in Spanish on the other side of it. Don Roy's door was ajar. I walked in, surprising him.

  "Whoa, Logan," he said. "You forget something?"

  "Not exactly. A couple of hotshot Cubans just came in and were shown back to Mambo's office. They're in there now. Early thirties. Real Miami-looking. Pulled up in a red Mercedes convertible."

  A chord of recognition vibrated in his wary eyes. "Red Mercedes? One of those fancy-looking high-end jobs? SK something?"

  "SL-63. You know them?"

  He nodded once. "Sounds like the Dávila brothers. Yayo and Camilito. I think they're some kind of third cousins to Mambo, or something."

  "Cousins? They from here?" I drank a long swallow from my beer and suppressed a burp.

  "No. They're from up the road. But Mambo works with them every once in a while. Been doing it for years. He's known them since they were all kids."

  "Any ideas on why they're here?"

  He threw off a shrug. "Not really. But if they're down here, they're here because of some major event. Maybe on account of Kiki getting smoked the other night. The only other big thing on the horizon right now that I know of is the deal the DeLimas have cooking with the Whitneys. Might have something to do with that."

  I said, "I heard about that. Something about redeveloping some properties out on the boulevard?" I didn't want to reveal my story about the two Mambos and me on the Fourth of July in front of the Casa Marina.

  "Way I heard it, it goes beyond that. Way beyond. I don't know any of the particulars, though."

  I tossed a thumb toward Mambo's office. "And these guys … these Dávila brothers … what do they have to do with it?"

  "Like I said, I don't really know. But if they're here, it's because there's something going on, something with a Miami connection. Maybe that North Roosevelt deal? Maybe Kiki? Your guess is as good as mine."

  "What business are they in?"

  "You don't want to know."

  I did want to know, but I knew not to press it. He'd told me enough. I could guess the rest.

  25

  Mambo

  Wednesday, July 13, 2011

  7:50 PM

  "MAMBO," THE BARTENDER SAID OVER THE PhONE. "Los hermanos Dávila estan aquí."

  "Send them back here." He went to his liquor cupboard. From among the glistening bottles of hard-to-get spirits, he selected a bottle of Havana Club rum, straight from Cuba. The good stuff. Checked the glasses on the serving cart, made sure they were clean. Ice. Check. He placed the rum on the cart and went back behind his desk. Big Felo stood by the door.

  Soon after, the Dávila brothers entered Mambo's office. Felo immediately patted them down and removed their weapons, placing them on top of a file cabinet by the door, where he remained standing. He also pulled a large manila envelope from inside Camilito's rear waistband. He felt it, nothing metallic or weapon-like, so he returned it.

  The brothers didn't seem to mind, rather they looked as though they expected it. Felo was far bigger than either of them, and was heeled himself, his .380 semiauto visible on his waist rig.

  Mambo rose from his chair and came around his desk, greeting each of them with a warm hug. The brothers were clearly pleased to be there. He offered them a drink and they accepted. While he poured the shots of rum, they talked about how glad they were to see him, how long it had been since they were in Key West, and so on.

  They toasted and drank, then they all took their seats.

  "First of all," Mambo said, "I want to thank you, Yayo, and you, Camilito, for suggesting this meeting and then coming all the way down here for it. I would have come up there, but I could not get away. I hope you understand. I truly appreciate the fact you have made this trip, come all the way down here to Key West. Next time, I promise I will travel to Miami."

  Yayo, the older of the two, was by far the better-looking one. Thick, wavy hair topped a classic Latino face: high cheekbones, firm chin, broad white smile. "It's no problem, cousin. We couldn't talk on the phone today because it's not secure. Those fucking feds are listening to every call we make. Maxie, too. But this was muy importante, so we came down." He adjusted his guayabera in his chair so it covered his empty holster.

  Camilito said, "It's always good to come to the Keys. We like it down here. Lots of good pussy. And Yayo's got a new ride, man. A new Benz. Only six months old. Man, you should see it! One fast motherfucker!"

  After another sip of the rum, Mambo said, "So what can I do for you?"

  "We came to talk about Kiki Fernández," Yayo said.

  "What about him?"

  "He had an accident Sunday night. A very bad accident."

  "I know," Mambo said, looking only at Yayo. "His neck slipped and fell on a knife." His voice never wavered, never showed any fear the same thing might happen to him.

  "You know why it happened?" Yayo's tone slipped into more serious mode. Mambo's eyes stayed on him. Camilito was a sideshow at this point.

  "I suspect it was because I was taking a cut of the action he was pulling in for Maxie."

  "Right. And you know why —"

  Mambo leaned forward and interrupted. "But you have to understand, Yayo, Maxie was moving in on me. In my town. Kiki was one of my boys. He sold me out for a few extra dollars from Maxie. I can't let that happen."

  Yayo motioned palms downward, a cool-it gesture. "I know, cousin. I know. You had to protect your territory. You had no real choice. And Maxie knows you were very lenient with Kiki under the circumstances."

  Mambo sat back, satisfied with Yayo's soft tone and gentle body language. Camilito sat cracking his knuckles, the only sound in the room. The little clicks sounded like bullets entering a chamber.

  "But," said Yayo, "you have to realize, Maxie had no choice, either. He did what he had to do, just like you did."

  Mambo nodded once. "Before all this, Kiki was a good man. A good earner. He'll be hard to replace." Yayo didn't say anything. More cracking of knuckles from Camilito. Finally, Mambo said, "So now?" realizing they'd come to the no-bullshit part of the whole episode.

  "Now," Yayo said, "Maxie does have a choice. He can stay home and be satisfied with the way things are now, or … he can take further action."

  Take further action. In other words, arrange for Mambo to fall on the same knife as Kiki.

  Mambo said, "You tell him he's going to have to come down here to take any action he thinks needs taking. And that's not going to be easy. Whoever he sends will be a hundred and fifty miles from home and in hostile territory."

  More downward palms from Yayo. "Calm yourself, cousin. Eso no va a pasar. I promise you, it will not happen." He took another sip from his rum and looked at what remained in the glass. "Man, this is some good shit, Mambo. You got this all the way from the island?"

  Mambo acknowledged the fact, and Yayo continued. "Anyway, Maxie is a very reasonable guy. He sent us down here so we could tell you personally that he is very sorry for any problem he might have caused you." He snapped his fingers and Camilito handed him the manila envelope. He slid it across the desk. Mambo looked inside and saw thick, banded wads of hundeds. About fifty large.

  "A gesture of friendship from Maxie," Yayo said. "He doesn't want any trouble."

  "You can thank Maxie for me." Mambo placed the envelope in his desk drawer. "You can tell him I accept this token of our friendship."

  Yayo's facial muscles relaxed. He said, "He'll be glad to hear that. When I told him you were cousin to Camilito and me, he insisted we call you."

  This was all too pat, Mambo thought. Too easy. A guy like Maxie Méndez doesn't just back away when he's trying to muscle in on someone else's territory. Hell, Hialeah and Little Havana were someone else's until he came along and took it from them.

  "If he doesn't want any trouble, why did he try to move in on me in the first place?"

  "He wasn't that familiar with the Keys. He knew Uncle Tom ran things down h
ere until he retired not too long ago, so he thought like maybe a few things might be up for grabs, you know?"

  Mambo said, "The DeLimas have been running sports betting and bolita in this town for over a hundred years. Uncle Tom ran everything else here and up and down the Keys. But we have the gambling. Not many people knew that."

  "We know, man. Maxie found that out. What I'm saying is, he doesn't want a war." Yayo then narrowed his black eyes into slits and shifted his voice into yet a slightly lower gear, barely perceptible. "And neither do Camilito or myself."

  Mambo had taken only one sip of his rum since the toast. He took another now. Warmth rushed through him as the smooth liquid slid down his throat.

  "And neither do I," he said.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  They had a second drink and the conversation turned to baseball. The Marlins' mojo failing yet again. This kid Stanton is gonna be one of the greats, though. Now if Hanley can just get over these injuries and if they can sign one or two more quality pitchers …

  Eventually, the Dávilas left and Mambo reached for the phone.

  "Logan, it's Mambo. Can you get over here right away? … Oh, you haven't left yet? … Great, come on back to the office for a minute, would you? … Okay."

  After he hung up, he quickly scoped out his situation. The Dávilas didn't come down here to shower him with cash and tell him Maxie Méndez was "oh, so sorry" for the misunderstanding. Méndez wanted to move in, all right. He'd wanted it since his little chat with Kiki Fernández at the wedding reception a few months ago. He didn't want only a piece of Mambo's action, either. He wanted it all. Mambo remembered the line: The world, Chico, and everything in it.

  No fucking way was he getting any part of the Key West world.

  Logan entered the office a minute later. Mambo greeted him and beckoned him to sit where Camilito Dávila was sitting minutes earlier. Big Felo remained by the door.

  "What's up?" Logan said, appearing at ease.

  "Care for a drink?" Mambo gestured toward the bottle of Havana Club on the serving cart.

  "No rum, thanks. But, uh, I'll take a beer if you have one."

  "Of course." He got up and went to the portable fridge in the corner. He extracted a cold Presidente, twisted off the top, and handed it to Logan.

  "Thanks." He took a swallow. "Mmm, hits the spot. What did you want to see me about?"

  Mambo poured himself a shot of Havana Club and took Yayo Dávila's seat, next to Logan. He turned to face him, his body loose, accommodating. "I was wondering if you started work yet. You know, in that tree-trimming job."

  Logan's eyes shot downward. Mambo knew he'd touched a nerve.

  "No, uh … not yet. Turns out there's been a snag. It might not come through."

  "Oh, man, that's really too bad. I know you were counting on it." Mambo summoned all the sincerity he could gather into his eyes and voice. Logan nodded. "Any other possibilities out there?"

  "Not yet, but something'll turn up. Meanwhile, I've got a little money coming in."

  "Well, that's good. That's very good." He took a slight sip of rum. God damn, he liked this stuff.

  He said, "You know, I'm sure something will happen for you any time now. Have you talked with any of the other tree-trimming people in town?"

  "No, not yet. I just found out about this one thing, this job falling through, I just found out today."

  "Ah, well … you'll be out tomorrow, I'm sure, out and about. Beating the bushes, right?"

  "I guess so." No confidence whatsoever in his voice.

  "You know, in the meantime, amigo, I maaaay have something for you to, you know, kind of, uh, tide you over for a little while."

  "Tide me over?" Logan's eyebrow shot up.

  "Yeah. A kind of one-time deal."

  "I don't know, Mambo. I'm really trying to retire here. I really do want out."

  "I know, I know, I know. This is not anything permanent. Like I said, it's one time and one time only."

  "I don't … well … my mind has already checked out of the life, you know? I'm just not that into it anymore."

  "Could I get you to check back in for one day and fifteen grand?"

  Logan took a long pull at his Presidente. "Fifteen grand?"

  "That's right. For one day's work. One day only! Plus maybe a little time to set it up."

  "Well, what is it? There's no harm in listening."

  Mambo spread his hands in front of him. "Exactly right. No harm at all."

  "So what is it?"

  Another sip of the rum. "I'm very glad you're willing to at least listen to this proposition, Logan.

  "Right. So what is the proposition?" Logan anxious and showing it.

  "I want you to go to Miami and take someone out."

  His shoulders sagged and surprise flashed over his face. "Are you kidding? Take someone out?"

  "I'm not kidding at all, Logan. I need this done and you're the best man I know for the job."

  "But I'm not a killer! I'm not a murderer! I'm —"

  "Come on, man. I know you've wasted people before. This isn't your first rodeo."

  "Yeah, I've done it before, but it was always in the heat of another job. I never took money to go kill somebody!"

  Mambo moved his chair slightly closer to Logan. He dialed his voice down a peg. "Look, Logan. I need you. You are the only guy I can count on for this."

  "The only guy? What about your other guys? What about Felo here? What about Arturo? Shit, he'll do it in a heartbeat."

  "I know he will. Only problem is, Arturo doesn't have the intelligence for this one. This needs planning, smart planning. I need someone who's used to sitting down and planning a job. Someone who can use his head. This has got to be done the right way. It's a big fucking target. That's why the big money."

  "Who's the target?"

  "Maxie Méndez."

  "Who's he?"

  "He's an operator in Hialeah. Controls a lot of the rackets there and in Little Havana. Gambling, whores, dope, all of it."

  "Jesus Christ! You're asking me to go up into enemy country and take out a crime kingpin? No fucking way."

  "Logan, please."

  "No way, Mambo. It's fucking suicide."

  "I'd want you to take one or two others with you. They get the same pay. Or you can pay them less and keep the rest yourself."

  "Absolutely not. You think I'm out of my mind? This Maxie whoever is probably surrounded by armed guards twenty-four seven! He's gotta be fucking invulnerable! You think somebody in his position is just gonna go walking down a dark street by himself one night waiting for someone like me to come along and blast him from a passing car? No way am I getting involved."

  "I'll give you twenty-five grand. That's twenty-five thousand dollars, Logan. Plus another fifteen for a partner."

  "I'll say it again, Mambo. No … fucking … way." Logan set the beer bottle down, got up from his chair, and went to the door. Before opening it, he said, "I'm gonna do us both a favor and forget this conversation ever happened."

  And he was gone.

  26

  Silvana

  Friday, July 15, 2011

  12:25 PM

  MICHAEL CONNELLY'S NOVEL, The Overlook, was just getting good. Harry Bosch was breaking in a new partner on a big murder case where some radioactive shit was stolen, and out of nowhere this wiseass bitch from the FBI tries to muscle in on him and take over the case. Sitting in Denny's over a grilled chicken sandwich, Silvana was so completely wrapped up in the book, she almost didn't hear her cellphone go off.

  God damn it! Who the hell is calling me during lunch?

  She didn't recognize the number, but answered anyway. Get the fucking call over with already.

  "Sergeant Machado?"

  "Yeah, who's this?"

  "Flaco. You remember me? From a couple of weeks ago at the 305?"

  "Flaco. Yes, I remember you. You have something for me?"

  "Well," he said, "you told me to call you if I heard anything about those thre
e people who, uh, had that accident over on Northwest 10th Avenue."

  "That's right. You can talk. Don't worry. What have you got?"

  "I don't wanna talk about this on the phone. Meet me in Little Havana."

  "Whereabouts?"

  "There's an alley right next to the Bay of Pigs Museum on Southwest 9th Street."

  "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Located in a 1940s-style building along a tree-lined section of Southwest Ninth Street, the museum is a memorial to the fateful day in 1961 when the CIA-financed invasion of Cuba turned into colossal disaster. American and Cuban flags fly side by side in front of the building, and a small alley runs along one side.

  Silvana arrived inside of fifteen minutes and saw Flaco leaning against the building about halfway down the alley, lighting a cigarette. She parked on the street and went to him.

  "This better be good, my man," she said. "I don't like wild goose chases." She looked up. Dark thunderheads rose in the southern sky. God, I hope he makes this quick. And good. I don't want to get caught in a sudden Miami rain.

  "Don't worry," Flaco said. "You gonna like this. But you said you would help me out, too. Right?"

  "If you've got something worthwhile, yeah, I'll help you out. Now what is it?"

  "I got your word on that?" he said.

  "Out with it, Flaco. Come on."

  "Awright." He took a big drag on the cigarette. "You know that dude, Borraga, who got blasted that night."

  Silvana sighed like this kid was never going to spill. "What about him?"

  "A coupla months ago, Maxie Méndez's brother got married, got married down in Key West. Maxie and the Dávila brothers were there. So was Borraga. Turns out he and Maxie were tight, you know what I'm sayin'?"