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

by Don Donovan

  "It will? Oh, honey, that's fantastic! How did you do it?"

  "Well, it wasn't just me. Abuelo helped out, too. But we should be back in business by the beginning of next week. Monday. Or maybe Tuesday."

  "What did you do? I thought you told me Whitney had postponed the deal for a long time."

  "He did. But we're about to convince him to get it going again. We're on!"

  "I'm so happy! I knew you could do it. I'm going to call Rolando right now and tell him so he can start making his plans."

  "Well," said Mambo, "I wouldn't call him just yet. Let's wait until the deal is officially back on. You know, up and running. Maybe the beginning of next week."

  "Awww, okay. If you say so. But the minute we get word …"

  "The minute we get word, you can call him, okay? I'm on my way to the restaurant right now. They're delivering a new pool table today and I have to be there to get it set up."

  "I love you, baby," she said, and hung up.

  42

  Silvana

  Thursday, July 21, 2011

  10:55 AM

  BOBBY VARGAS HAD JUST CUFFED a couple of street mugs after beating the shit out of them, and Silvana was shoving them into the back seat of their car when her cell went off. She let it go to voicemail. First she and Vargas had to figure out what to charge would stick for these two. They couldn't charge them with the real reason for the beating — giving lip to a cop — so they had to come up with something more compelling. Something that would stand up.

  As they pulled into headquarters, they agreed on a charge — battery on a police officer — and then she glanced at her cell phone. The call was from Flaco. Vargas took over booking the bloodied punks and she returned the call, stepping out into the hallway.

  "Yo, Sergeant Machado. I's hopin' you'd get my message."

  "I didn't listen to it. I just called you back instead. What's up?"

  "My boy Tony Carrillo is out. He thanks you. And so do I."

  "Like I told you, Flaco, I hold up my end. You're welcome."

  "Yeah. Now I got somethin' else for you."

  "Spill it."

  "Can't do it on the phone, you know what I'm sayin'? You never know who else might be on there with us."

  "Okay, where then?"

  "Same place as last time, awright? Twenty minutes?"

  "See you then."

  She hung up and turned to Vargas. "Bobby, finish booking these guys, okay? I've gotta go meet with our CI. I'll be back in less than an hour."

  Vargas said, "Okay, Silvi. Be careful."

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  She arrived at the Bay of Pigs Museum in fifteen minutes. Glancing down the alley, she saw Flaco leaning up against the same spot in the building as the other time.

  "Okay, Flaco, what's cooking?"

  "Plenty. You 'member I tol' you about Maxie wantin' to smoke that dude from Key West?"

  "Of course I remember."

  "Well, word has it that Yayo and his brother are goin' down there to-day. They gonna take care of binness today, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  "Today? You sure they're going themselves? Not sending anyone?"

  "Naw, it's like I tol' you before, they gonna take care of it theyselves. Too important to farm it out."

  Silvana nodded. "When are they leaving, do you know?"

  "I hear Yayo sayin' he leavin' around noon, maybe a little before, you know what I'm sayin', and he be takin' Camilito with him, too. He say don't nobody try to call him all day 'cause he got some important shit to take care of. Say he got to be home by dinnertime and he don't want no interruptions. They ain't plannin' no kind of extended vacay down there, you know what I'm sayin'?"

  Silvana's eyebrows leaped up onto her forehead and she checked her watch. "Okay, thanks. Let me run and take care of this." She started back down the alley for her car.

  "Hey, wait a sec," Flaco cried. "I need you to do somethin' for me."

  "I'll call you tomorrow," she said over her shoulder as she jumped into her car and sped away.

  She punched in Santos's number at headquarters. He answered one ring in.

  "Lieutenant, it's Sergeant Machado."

  "What is it, Machado? I'm pretty busy."

  "We have a tip from our CI that Yayo Dávila is leaving very soon to go down south for that event we spoke about. According to the tip, he'll be leaving around noon."

  Santos's lifted his voice about a half-octave and spoke in a slightly quicker cadence. "How reliable is this information?"

  "Very reliable, sir. I'm asking you to notify your tail on Dávila and give him a heads-up. When he sees that red Mercedes hit the southbound Turnpike, call me. We'll be waiting for him in Florida City and we'll ride his coattails all the way down the Keys."

  "I'll call him now. You and Vargas head south right away. Be in position in case Dávila decides to leave a little early."

  "Yes, sir. I'm picking up Vargas now. We'll leave immediately."

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Florida City is positively the final stop in mainland Florida before entering the Keys. Lining both sides of US 1, or Dixie Highway as it's called locally, the town is a little row of businesses designed for the traveler — gas stations, fast food, all the rest of it. You head south out of Florida City and you hit the eighteen-mile stretch, a lonely strip of highway through desolate mangroves and other inhospitable terrain. The big bridge at the end of the stretch connects you to Key Largo, the first and largest of the chain of islands that reach over a hundred miles, all the way to Key West. Like a little piss dripping out of a limp dick, was how Silvana described the Keys from the way they looked on a map.

  She and Vargas hit the Turnpike hard, seldom dropping below ninety miles an hour, in order to ensure they arrived at Florida City before the Dávila brothers. A few miles south of Miami, Santos called.

  "Machado," he said, "our tail just informed me he lost Dávila in west Hialeah. Says he thinks he may have been spotted because the Mercedes pulled evasive maneuvers. Our man had to lay back and the fucker slipped away. But … he did say Dávila picked up his brother first."

  "How long since he lost him, sir?"

  "Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. What's your location?"

  Fifteen or twenty minutes. Right about the time she and Vargas got on the Turnpike. "We're just north of Caribbean Boulevard right now. He hasn't passed us. We'll speed up and see if we can spot him up ahead."

  "Keep me posted." And he hung up.

  Vargas leaned hard on the gas pedal, pushing their speedometer to a hundred miles an hour. They had surprisingly little traffic to contend with and before long, the sweeping curve at the great highway's end came upon them. They slowed to the speed limit, thirty-five, and were dropped onto a particularly busy US 1.

  They motored carefully along Dixie Highway. Although the sun was bright overhead, the streets were wet from a very recent rain. They closely eyed every parking lot, every gas station, for a fire engine red Mercedes two-seater to leap out at them. Silvana gave a slight exhale of relief after they had dragged the length of Florida City and seen only ordinary cars doing ordinary things.

  The last establishment in town before the eighteen-mile stretch was the RaceTrac, a big gas station with lots of pumps and an oversized store accompanying it. They filled up their tank, then pulled into one of the empty spaces away from the gas pumps, near the exit. They kept the engine running to keep the AC going.

  "How we gonna do this, Silvi?" Vargas asked.

  "Santos wants to let the hit go down and then grab the two of them on the spot, charge them with murder one. He thinks if we bring them in, they'll roll over on Maxie rather than face the death penalty."

  "Sounds about right," said Vargas.

  "Yeah, it sounds right if you want to pin the hit on Maxie."

  "What do you mean? He is the one who put out the contract, right? I mean, these guys are acting on his orders, right?"

  "That's right. He's pulling the strings."

  "So what are you tal
king about, 'if you want to pin it on Maxie'?"

  Silvana injected a professorial tone in her voice, as though she were an Asian guru speaking to a youthful acolyte who had crossed a continent to sit at her feet and absorb cosmic truths. She said, "See, just because Santos wants Maxie for this job doesn't mean we're gonna play it that way."

  "Why not?"

  Her voice softened and she slowed her cadence way down. "Why would we want to pin a murder rap on Maxie when he's paying us a dime a week forever?"

  "Ohhhh, yeahhhh." Vargas the acolyte saw the truth in The Great Silvana's statement. "Yeahhhh. We smoke the Dávilas after they do the hit and say they resisted and fired at us."

  "You've almost got it," Silvana said. "We do them before they do the hit."

  "Before? Why?"

  "Because we don't know how much resistance their target — this DeLima guy — is gonna put up. He might have bodyguards, and if he does, the Dávilas are gonna have to waste them, too. Then we step in and do the brothers, and it's a fucking bloodbath of the first order. With all the gunplay, maybe even a civilian or two might go down. Probably draw statewide headlines. TV, the whole shot."

  "So how do we do it?"

  "Simple. We trail them to wherever they're going, pop caps up their asses, and then tell our story, which is, they were prime suspects in the Little Havana triple homicide, and we got a tip they were in Key West so we came down looking for them. We found them just as they were about to up their body count by killing DeLima and whoever he had around him. They pulled on us and we shot them in self-defense." She smiled and quickly spread her hands out in front of her. "That's all there is to it."

  Vargas got it. "Ha! Silvi, you're all right, you know that? You're my kinda cop."

  Her smile vanished. "You do realize, we're gonna have to bring in the local cops after the fact. We're gonna have to hang around there forever while they poke around the scene, and then we'll have to call Santos. It's gonna be a long-ass time down there."

  "I'm okay with that," said.

  "Yeah, but we're also gonna have to stand for an FDLE investigation. Those slimy State-of-Florida fuckers will be right up our asses. And it won't be fun." She spit out the reference to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement as if it was a piece of wormy fruit.

  "Let 'em come," Vargas said. "They don't scare me. I know how to stick to a story. I've been itching for a crack at those fucking Dávila brothers, so if we can wipe them out, no FDLE asshole is gonna break me."

  She patted his thigh and said, "Good. Now, Santos will back us up. We'll tell him our leads in the triple homicide led us to these two. After Flaco told Maxie about the extra money in the house on Tenth Avenue over and above Chicho's two hundred dimes, Yayo and Camilito — animals that they are — decided on their own they would zip over there and help themselves to the rest of it. That fucking Commissioner will be off his ass and he can close the case."

  "We're not going to nail that Logan guy?"

  "Fuck him. He's small potatoes. He probably did it, but if we can pin this on the Dávila brothers, and clip them at the same time, Santos will forgive us for not keeping them alive to roll over on Maxie. He can get to Maxie at a later date, but this way, he won't have to fade any more heat from that Commissioner and the Chief."

  She reached into the glove box and came out with a camera on a strap. Handed it to him.

  "What's that for?"

  She said, "This is for you. To put around your neck before we get out of the car."

  "Why?"

  Silvana ticked the AC up a notch and adjusted the vent so it blew directly on her face. "So that when we step out of the car, wherever that is, we're gonna look like a tourist couple and not cops. If the Dávilas see us, they won't think anything of it. We'll just be a couple of dipshit tourists wandering around Key West. Their guard will be totally down."

  Ten minutes later, they saw it.

  Neither Silvana nor Vargas had ever seen one of these cars before. With the smoothest lines and the slickest presence either of them had ever imagined in a car, it almost looked like it could fly. It appeared to have been freshly waxed, its dazzling red color glistening bright and mirror-like in the noonday sun. Silvana spotted two men in the car as it pulled into the RaceTrac and filled up. The passenger, a slender, shaved-head guy with a thin beard and a big nose, and wearing a white Hawaiian shirt, got out and went into the building, probably to take a piss, while the other guy worked the gas pump.

  "Why don't we take 'em here? We could just do 'em right now." Vargas said, his hand caressing his holstered piece.

  "No. Too many people here." She gestured to all the cars parked by the numerous pumps, people going in and out of the store in a steady flow. "We don't want to do it in a crowd. Somebody might get hurt. Plus, we don't need any witnesses saying they saw us sitting here waiting, you know? They'll say they saw us jump out of the car and plug two guys, these two motherfuckers, in cold blood."

  "Yeah, you're right."

  "We wait till we get to Key West. That's where it's all got to go down."

  The shaved-head guy came out of the store and slinked back into the Mercedes. It made for the exit and headed south. She nodded at Vargas, who dropped their white Ford Fusion into gear and pulled out onto US 1, where it looked exactly like every other faceless car on the road.

  43

  Logan

  Thursday, July 21

  12:05 PM

  WE'D JUST ORDERED LUNCH when we saw the big Maybach swing out of from behind the shopping center. Blackout windows prevented us from seeing who, or how many, were in the car, so we threw a few dollars on the table and rushed outside.

  Shimmy fired up our rental and I spotted the Maybach about three blocks west on 49th Street. It continued heading west. We moved up to about two blocks behind, a comfortable distance.

  "Looks like he's going back home," Shimmy said.

  "Yeah, looks that way."

  Right after I said that, they surprised us by turning north on Red Road instead of staying straight for Hialeah Gardens. We followed, but my breathing picked up a little and a slight tenseness twisted my gut.

  A few minutes later, the big Mercedes crossed the intersection of 68th Street, and eventually found the spread-out parking lot of Honey Buns Show Lounge, where a big sign over the door advertised a "free lunch menu". I wasn't sure if the menu or the lunch itself was free, but we motored over to a parking spot far away from Méndez and parked. His spot was relatively close to the door, maybe fifty or sixty feet, while ours was about twice as far. There were more than a few cars in the lot, so we didn't stand out. We left the engine on.

  The building was big, imposing, and of course windowless. All the hallmarks of the modern "gentleman's clubs". Same shit inside, though, as you find in the small, dingy dumps. Strippers working the poles, head-banging music, blowjobs in the "VIP rooms", coke if you know how to ask for it — only everything is more expensive. A lot more expensive. Got to pay for that big building, you know.

  "A strip joint?" Shimmy said.

  I nodded. "The Original Mambo told me Méndez owns this place. Maybe he's just dropping in to check up on things. Or to pick up some cash. I'm betting this is his laundry for all his real money. Or one of his laundries, anyway."

  Three men got out of the car. Through my binoculars, I saw a fat guy make a difficult exit from the back seat. He matched the photo The Original Mambo texted me. The other two got out of the front seat and were broad-shouldered, well-muscled types, both in short-sleeved shirts that looked like they were made of black silk, undoubtedly bodyguards.

  "You see that?" I said to Shimmy.

  "Yeah. Three of them."

  "This means there's a good chance there'll be three when he leaves the liquor store tonight."

  "If he ever gets back to the liquor store," Shimmy said. "He might just stay here the rest of the day and fondle the strippers."

  "He might," I said. I thought for about two solid minutes. Then I suggested, "What do you sa
y to doing him here?"

  "When he comes out?"

  "Yeah," I said.

  Shimmy looked around. The club fronted Red Road, where there was plenty of road construction going on. Any traffic at all would make our getaway problematic. I consulted the map on my cell phone.

  "Check it out," I showed him. "We head north on Red Road and pick up 924 a few blocks away. It's a toll road. It takes us right to the Palmetto. Zoom. Down to the Turnpike and back home on US 1."

  "Well —" Shimmy said.

  "Pull over closer to his car. About two or three rows away."

  He did and he looked at me. "Why here?"

  "Because their car is about fifty feet from the door. They have to walk across a lane of asphalt to get to the row where they parked. When they come out, I'm going to be out of the car, standing by another car nearby, pretending to be looking for my keys. You pull out into that lane fast and block their way. I'll come around the back of the car firing. You blast them with your shotgun through the open passenger window."

  Shimmy nodded. He went back to the trunk for the towel that enveloped his Remington 12-gauge. Returning to the driver's seat and placing it on his lap, he looked at me with assurance. "Got it," he said.

  "We'll have the element of surprise," I said. "If there's more than three, like if he picks up another bodyguard or two inside, we'll have to forget it, the odds are too long. But if it's only three, then we should be able to get all of them without any problem. When they come out the door, I'll start running toward them with my piece in my hand. You've got to pull out of this parking spot at the same moment and get into position where you can take one of them straight through the open window."

  His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. "I'll be there, bubba."

  44

  Silvana

  Thursday, July 21, 2011

  1:05 PM

  TRAFFIC ON THE EIGHTEEN-MILE STRETCH was heavy, or so it seemed, anyway. It's only a two-lane highway — speed limit fifty-five — with only a couple of passing zones which are a mile or so long. Any asshole who decides he wants to do thirty-five can back traffic up pretty quick. Even when you get to the passing zone, another asshole, most likely doing only forty or forty-five, will pass the thirty-five asshole, thereby holding up everybody else in the passing lane. Result: no passing.