by Don Donovan
"Shh, shh, don't worry, honey. This is just that bitch spreading a little drama around. The cops don't have anything. Nothing on her, and not the remotest connection to me."
"But you heard her," Dorothy said. "The cops are trying to tie her in to that dancer's killing, really coming on strong with her. And you remember last year, when that dyke cop from Miami came down here giving you a hard time about those three people in Little Havana."
I did remember, all too well. The dyke and her partner had it all figured — the bank job we pulled, Chicho heisting our money, my going up there to get it, leaving three bodies behind. They had it scoped, but they had no real evidence to connect me to it.
"Just to be on the safe side," I said, only now realizing this could get nasty in a hurry, "I'll set up an alibi."
"What kind of alibi? What are you going to tell them?"
"Okay, first of all, honey, don't ask about what I'm going to tell them. The odds are a thousand to one that they will ever lay eyes on me and ask me to account for my time. So don't tie yourself up in knots over it. We're down here in Key West, and I had no connection whatsoever to that ballet dancer who got it in his car. Remember, we paid cash for the gas up and back, and nobody saw us. We didn't make any cell phone calls while we were up there, so they can't track us that way. I'm telling you, we're aces. All the fucking way."
I held her just a little tighter.
≈ ≈ ≈
I stayed with Dorothy a little while longer to calm her nerves. We drank a beer, watched Jeopardy. Then, when I thought she was sufficiently soothed, I said, "I'm going to Mambo's. Try to line something up for that night."
The late afternoon sun was having its way, keeping the temperature in the high eighties along with the sticky, high humidity. I think it was because yesterday was so nice, and last night, too. Fairly cool for August. So today, the sun had to even the score.
Nevertheless, I walked the few blocks to Mambo's, set deep in Old Town on a quiet street near the cemetery. Sweat formed on all areas of my body, and relentless sleeve-wiping couldn't keep it off my face.
I walked in and a cool AC blast hit me right away. I exhaled loudly and took a hefty breath. Looking around, I saw the usual crowd. A few guys at the bar watching the Marlins game on TV, the dark booths in front of the bar and along the wall — some empty, some occupied, but I didn't really look too closely. Sharpies shot pool on the one table in the rear. Three or four gamblers stood around, holding their money, exchanging it after every shot according to who won the bet. I noticed these payments appeared a little more clandestine than usual. The tantalizing aroma of Cuban food flowing from back in the kitchen.
Eduardo snapped open a Presidente and set it in front of me when I took a stool at the bar. I sipped from the frosty longneck and it went down reeeeeeal slow. Slow, and cold. The August heat? A memory.
Mambo DeLima came out of the back room. He buttonholed the waitress and sent her back to the kitchen for something, then watched one of the nine-ball players line up a particularly difficult shot at the seven ball. The guy took his time, sizing up the shot from every angle and every side of the table before stroking his cue. The seven nicked the rail a little too early and rattled around in the jaws of the pocket before resting on its rim. The other guy promptly sank it, followed it up with the eight and nine, and pocketed the twenty on the rail. The gamblers around the table shoved money at each other, again, in a covert manner.
On his way across the room, I waved to get his attention. He spotted me and came over right away.
"Logan! How you doing, man? Long time, no see. How's the straight life treating you?"
It had been a long time. Several months, anyway. Ever since I took my straight job, I didn't hang out at Mambo's nearly as often as I used to.
"Treating me pretty well," I said. "You're looking good. Staying in shape, I see."
"I have to do that if I want to keep these yahoos in line." He gestured toward all his customers. His voice modulated downward.
I said, "I hear tell you're letting civilians in here now. That's a first."
Mambo shrugged. "What can I say? My grandfather laid down the law. No more illegal activity. No bolita, no sports book, no more grifters hanging around. Turn this place into a respectable public place. It's all image, you know. That means letting in civilians."
"They can actually get service in here now?"
"Service with a smile," he said. "And get this. I'm ordering a sign next week. It's going up out front."
"What brought this on? This place has been Outlaw Central for, like, fifty years or something. Now, all of a sudden …"
He said, "You remember from last year, my family and the Whitneys partnered up on that massive redevelopment plan out on North Roosevelt Boulevard." I said I remembered. He continued. "We couldn't afford to have any illegal shit connected with our family name. The Whitneys brought in serious out-of-town money on this deal. We couldn't risk it just to book a few football bets."
"Well," I said, "it just won't be the same." I glanced around, this time looking closely at the clientele. Couples, who looked as clean-cut as you could imagine, sat in the booths and were partaking of the piccadillo and yellow rice. A family of five occupied one of the tables. One booth even had tourists wearing things like I LOVE KEY WEST T-shirts, something no native would ever dream of wearing.
"So … what brings you here tonight?" He swiveled the stool to face me. I did the same.
"I need an alibi. It's got to be ironclad. For last Tuesday night, the twenty-first. From around seven PM till about three or four in the morning.
Mambo thought it over. He wasn't going to ask me what jam I was in. He knew better. His deepset eyes, a brand of the DeLima family genes, looked down. Then back up as he said, "Consider it done."
"Thanks, man. I appreciate it."
"Tuesdays are tournament nights for us. A nine-ball tournament starts about seven, goes till we have a winner. Usually around ten, ten-thirty. Here's the play. You entered the tournament, busted out early, but stuck around to watch it till the end. Then, you and everybody else sat around and watched the Marlins game. They were playing in Arizona that night, so it started late here in the east. The game would've lasted until at least one o'clock, longer if it was extra innings. And if I recall, one of those Arizona games did go extra innings."
"That'll do it," I said.
"And after the game, you hung out here for a while and we caught up with each other over a few beers, since I hadn't seen you in God knows how long. I'll get four of five guys to go along with the whole thing. That should wrap it up for you."
He smiled, showing lots of white teeth. We were the same age, thirty-three, and we were friends since high school. Before high school, actually. When we graduated, I went into crime, and he did a number of things with his family, who were the oldest Cuban family on the island, going back over a hundred and seventy-five years. They were also one of the most powerful families in Key West.
A couple of years ago, his grandfather, The Original Mambo, took a bullet during a gunfight in here. It would've killed most eighty-year olds, but not this guy. Tough as they come. Anyway, Mambo the Third took over and has been running this place ever since. Giving up the gambling action hurt his bottom line, I know. But, like he said, it was for the good of the family.
35
Silvana
Allapattah, Miami, Florida
Thursday, August 30, 2012
6:10 PM
EVER SINCE LAQUITA TIPPED HER LAST WEEK to a Russian gun popping Raúl Nuñez, Silvana had used all her resources to locate any Russians in the city. She knew Fort Lauderdale was crawling with them, but the PD up there didn't take too kindly to Miami cops nosing around on their turf.
She braced Laquita again, this time without G-Man present, but the girl wasn't any more forthcoming. Her story was the same as before and she stuck to it. And besides, Laquita had told her, she wasn't no ho'.
Even though this wasn't Friday — payday — she took a spin
up to Allapattah after she got off work. Specifically, the area around Northwest 18th Avenue and 23rd Street. This was the home ground of D'onte Carter, aka DC. Nothing big, strictly a nickel-and-dime bag operator. Good for only five hundred a week, half of which gets kicked up to Santos, leaving her and Vargas to divvy up two-fifty.
Jesus, this is a tough way to make ends meet, she thought. Acevedo would soon be hopping on the gravy train, so that meant mining new sources of income, which meant getting deeper and deeper into these shitty Niggertown neighborhoods. Bad enough she had to dish out justice every so often, but then to have to give them the spiel, bring them into the fold, and then invariably have to hunt the motherfuckers down week in and week out. The farther into Allapattah she got, the more she thought about all this, and the more she thought about it — eyeballling the squat, windowless buildings along narrow 18th Avenue, the trash strewn everywhere, graffiti, nobody giving a shit — the more depressed she got.
But she did get lucky today. She spotted DC right away, without having to drive all over these godawful streets. He stepped out of a little convenience market which boasted heavy-gauge bars covering its plate glass windows. Silvana pulled up next to him as he moved down the sidewalk. She slid her window down.
"Yo, DC," she called. "Get in."
He turned and saw her. "Hey, what the fuck? Dis ain't Friday."
"I know. That's not why I'm here. Get in. Come on."
He hesitated, frowned. A quick look around to make sure no one he knew was anywhere near. He jumped in.
"What up?" he said, not at all sure of what was up.
She rolled the window back up so no one outside could hear them, and also to keep the air conditioning sealed inside the car, cooling her off.
DC was somewhere in his thirties, a little on the old side for a professional street dealer. Shabby clothes told her he didn't allocate his income wisely. A scar down his cheek, about four inches long, hinted at a knife fight somewhere in his past. No known address, but Silvana had done her homework on him. Two coke falls, probation on one, a four-year bit on the other, an ADW, and assorted other arrests.
"I need some information," she said.
"Yeah, well, you can get it somewhere else, 'cause I don't snitch."
"Not that kind of information," she said. "This is information you'll want to give me if you have it."
"What?"
"Do you know anything about any Russians trying to move in on street action? Or any white foreigners?"
He looked away from her, toward the windshield. A kid on a bicycle rode across his view, and a couple of young animated males walked across it, but Silvana didn't think he saw them. His eyes were far, far away.
"Well?" she said. "How about it?"
A few more seconds of quiet, then, "Yeah, I do know somethin' about that. They moved in on me, you know what I'm sayin'?"
Silvana's heart rate picked up a beat or two. She said, "When was this?"
"Over the weekend," he said. "I think it was Saturday night."
"What happened?"
"I'm standin' around, waitin' for these two bitches who always come by 'round midnight lookin' to score. Then, these two motherfuckers drive up in a black fuckin' Mercedes, you know what I'm sayin'? They get out and one of 'em starts pushin' me around. He be like, 'You buyin' your shit from us now, nigga. Starting this minute'."
"Who were these guys?" Silvana said.
"One of 'em named Damien," he said. "Other named Grigga or Gragga or some fucked-up foreign name. He got blond hair. Real yellow-like, you know what I"m sayin'?"
"So did you buy from them?"
"Ha! Fuckin' right I did. On the motherfuckin' spot! They tell me if I don't, I wind up like that dude in the Dobbs Hotel."
"The Dobbs Hotel?" Silvana nearly leaped out of her skin.
"Yeah. You know. Dat dude who got it a coupla weeks ago in dat dump down off Seventh Street."
"And they said you'll wind up like him if you don't buy from them?"
"Dat what they tol' me."
Silvana put a hand on DC's shoulder. The air cooled them both down and their voices were low and calm. She said, "Okay, DC. Where can I find them?"
"You gonna get them off my ass? Jimmy Quintana gonna shit when he find out I ain't buyin' from him no mo', you feel me?"
"Yeah, I feel you. And yes, I'm going to take care of them. Now where can I find them?"
He rubbed his chin. Silvana noticed he hadn't shaved in about a week. He could've used a shower, too. She was looking forward to getting him the fuck out of her car and getting rid of the odor. "I don't know where they actually live," he said, "but one of 'em, the blond dude, he say they be back again on Saturday night to sell me more shit."
"This Saturday? The day after tomorrow?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
"Where are they meeting you?"
"Down the next block. Corner o' 18th Avenue and 24th Street. Midnight."
Silvana said, "Anything else you want to tell me?"
"Well … I dunno if it's important, but …"
"What? What is it?"
"The blond dude. He say if I need any more dope between deliveries, to call him. He give me his cell number."
36
Jimmy
Las Vegas, Nevada
Thursday, August 30, 2012
7:05 PM, Pacific Daylight Time
THE UKRAINIANS ENDED THEIR MEETING in the Senna Boardroom around seven o'clock. They'd been in there for about six hours with a break for a late lunch. Jimmy sat on a sofa down the hall in a black sport jacket and tan slacks, pretending to be reading a corporate brochure from another meeting in one of the nearby Starvine rooms. He spotted Damien Kushnir leaving the Senna, noting the skull/fangs neck tat peering above Damien's linen sport shirt. He was chatting with another man, Gregor, who checked into the hotel with him. Pavlo Marchuk, from the powwow at the Crowne Plaza in Hollywood, followed a few seconds later. Jimmy buried himself in the brochure to avoid catching Marchuk's eye.
Damien and Gregor went to the elevators and Jimmy slipped in with him, still reading his brochure. They went down to the main level and into a cocktail lounge. Jimmy went over to the Lobby Bar and ordered a Glenlivet.
He sipped the Scotch. Soft piano music drifted around somewhere in the background, failing to override the chaotic sounds of the casino floor. A large seating area spilled out from the bar itself toward the massive lobby. Expensive furniture and other high-end design elements dominated. A crowd of six or eight people, all in their twenties, took over one corner of the seating area. They spoke in animated Spanish. Jimmy made the accent. Mexicans. Sneering, he turned away and from his stool, he could eyeball the cocktail lounge across the lobby where Damien and Gregor went. Still there.
Within minutes, a woman took the seat next to him. Somewhere in her thirties, but if you didn't look too closely, you would think twenties. Jimmy looked closely.
Dark hair, perfectly styled, framed a lovely face dominated by a luscious mouth stretched over a solid chin. White silk blouse, draped in front for a generous dose of cleavage. Navy pencil skirt wrapped tightly around slim hips. At the end of her crossed legs, open cobalt blue stilettos — at least five inches, Jimmy figured — showed off dark red toenails. She looked sharp, all right. Too sharp. He made her right away.
She threw a glance Jimmy's way. "You from here?" she asked in a low, smoky voice.
"No," he said. "How about you?"
A quick nod. "Been here about four years now. Where you from?" He liked that voice.
"Miami."
"Ahhh, Miami," she said. "Magic City. That's what they call it, right?"
"That's what they call it."
She pulled a Marlboro Light package from her purse and shook one out. She offered the pack to Jimmy. "Want one?"
"No, thanks," he said.
She handed him a lighter and he lit the tip of the little white stick, the other end of which rested between thick red lips. Her eyes never left his, and her hand held his clo
se to her cigarette as he lit it. Actually, just a moment or two longer than necessary. Having grown up in brothels, Jimmy was way ahead of her.
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Robyn. With a 'y'. What's yours?"
"You want to make some money tonight, Robyn with a 'y'?" he said.
A long puff on the Marlboro, then, "Sure. You got a room here?"
"I'm not talking about that kind of money. I'm talking about a thousand dollars for a few minutes work."
"Wow," she said. "You like to get it over with fast, don't you?"
"I said I didn't mean that kind of thing. This is a different kind of work. One where you keep your clothes on. They look great on you, anyway."
A slight grin told Jimmy she accepted the compliment and didn't see it coming. "What do you have in mind?"
He motioned toward the cocktail lounge. "There's a guy in that lounge who's got a room here. I don't know when he's coming out, but it shouldn't be too long. He's with another guy. He'll probably want to go up to his room to freshen up before dinner."
He explained the plan to her in great detail. Right down to the script and the timing.
"The timing," he said. "The timing is everything. You think you got it?"
"I got it." She stubbed out the cigarette. "What about the money?"
He pulled out his money clip, keeping it below the level of the bar for minimum visibility. Peeling off five bills, he said, "Here's half now. The other half when we go upstairs. And remember. You keep your mouth shut. Nothing to anybody about this. You never saw me. Got it?"
"Yeah, I got it."
"When it's over, you just come back down here to this barstool and resume working."
She palmed the cash and slipped it into her purse in a professional manner. No one could've seen it.
"Now," she said, "how about buying a girl a drink?"
≈ ≈ ≈
Jimmy had just finished his Glenlivet and Robyn was about halfway through her Grey Goose martini when he saw Damien and Gregor exit the cocktail lounge and head for the elevators. He threw two twenties on the bar and pulled Robyn to her feet.
