Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (11 page)

He finally let go of her hand and ran his own
beefy paws around her shoulders and down her sides, feeling the merchandise.
"Well," he said, "you
are
a pretty young thing, now, aren't you. And there ain't no better spot than the
Wild Thing. Logan here'll tell you that. Shit, anybody in town'll tell you
that." He chuckled, then added, "Excep' the owners of the other strip
clubs."

Sharma threw her shoulders back, jutting her
tits out even farther, and said, "Well, it looks like a pretty good place
to work."

"You pay a hundred and twenty-five bucks a
shift to rent the stage. You can make that back on one or two lap dances.
You'll get a commission on every bottle of champagne you sell …"

I tuned out the remaining details and started to
think of what her grand a week would do for my finances. And for my peace of
mind at home with Dorothy.

Finally, LeeRon and Sharma made their deal. She
would start on Wednesday night. He said with a smirk, "Logan, why don't
you show her the VIP Lounge? Give her the lay of the land."

We left the office. On our way to the VIP
Lounge, I informed her that this job would cost her a thousand a week, not the
five hundred she had agreed on with Trey. Again, I had to yell over the music,
but she got it. Letdown flashed across her face and I saw what a bitter pill it
was for her.

We entered the lounge. It was empty and a little
quieter, but only a little. She had summoned up all her attitude and said,
"Trey said it was only gonna cost five hundred."

"Yeah, well, I'm the one who's getting you
this job, not Trey, and I say it's a thousand. Don't worry about it. You're
gonna make a ton of dough here."

"What if I tell you to go fuck
yourself?"

I yanked her arm and pulled her toward me.
"Then I call the Miami PD and tip them to Ranger. I'm sure they know who
he is, and I'm sure he won't have an alibi for the night of Cinnamon's death.
I'm also pretty certain that when crunch time comes, he's gonna roll over on
you in a heartbeat for a lighter sentence."

Her attitude disappeared like a magician's white
dove. Instead, she gave me a coy smile while she stroked my arm and said,
"Well, maybe we can work this out another way."

This was where Sharma the veteran dropped to her
knees to show me her other way. For an instant, I felt sorry for her, I truly did.
For an instant, I wanted to tell her she didn't have to give blowjobs to
improve her quality of life. I gently pulled her back up by the elbows.

"That's not necessary," I said.

She looked almost lost. "Are … are you
gay?"

"Hardly. But I have someone who takes care of
my every need. And she's the one I want." I added, "Our deal stays at
a thousand. Every Saturday night. Now, because you're starting here in the
middle of the week, I'll let the first Saturday slide. But after that, you pay
up."

≈ ≈ ≈

I gave Sharma cab fare
before leaving her at the Wild Thing and headed back to Duval Street toward my
car. The night had grown warmer and the crowd had grown thicker. As I made the
turn onto Duval, perspiration broke out in a trickle down my spine and on my scalp.
Passing by Rick's, I was held still by music coming from the entertainer on
stage inside the club. Visible from the street, he played guitar and sang in a
determined voice, delivering a heavy dose of country, not typical for this
place. It pulled me in.

The joint was packed. I found one of the few
empty seats and ordered a beer. When it arrived, I took a big, long pull. It
tasted good and helped to cool me down. The musician ran through his repertoire
— Travis Tritt, Blake Shelton, all the rest — and the crowd was
with him every step of the way. Twenty sweaty minutes and two Millers later, so
was I.

He cranked up Merle Haggard's
Working Man Blues
, and the tight, hot
bar began to move to the uptempo anthem. Haggard's lyrics — a powerful
statement about working with two hands as long as they're fit to use —
cut through the heat of the night, the beery smell of the place, through sweat
which by now flowed freely in key parts of my body. I felt this guy was singing
directly to me.

I polished off my beer and signaled for another.
Okay, I thought, now it's just a question of getting Mambo on board with Trey's
payment plan, which should be no problem, and collecting from Trey and Sharma
every week. Which better not be a problem.

My situation had brightened. I was looking at a
weekly income for the foreseeable future, staying inside the law, and getting
into that landscaping business soon with Don Roy Doyle's cousin. I allowed
myself an inner smile as I saw myself moving away from that bloody night in
Little Havana into a life of contentment with Dorothy. Already, I was regarding
my criminal activities as part of my past, swiftly sliding into ancient
history.

Logan

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

10:05 AM

D
OROTHY PLACED A PLATE
OF BACON STRIPS
and scrambled eggs on the kitchen table in front of me. She knew exactly how to
make them and they always came out perfect. I don't know about you, but to me,
one of the most irresistible aromas in the world is the smell of bacon frying.
I'll do anything you ask just to get close to it.

"So
was Mambo pissed at you for not bringing back his money last night?" She
asked the question in her morning voice, light, like a leaf floating softly to
the ground.

I
sprinkled tabasco on my eggs and dug into them right away. Through the first
mouthful, I said, "There wasn't any problem at all. I stopped off at his
bar on the way home and hashed it out with him. He figured what happened would
happen."

"He
did? You mean he wasn't expecting the money?"

"When
a guy gets in real deep like Trey is, it's not reasonable to think he's gonna
come up with the cash all at once. Just like credit card companies do when Joe
Average gets in over his head. An overall, long term plan is your only real
option at that point. You know, regular payments along with high vig." I
sliced off a piece of bacon. "Plus, Mambo's not taking any more of Trey's
action."

She
sat down and jabbed a little forkful of eggs. "So when do you get your
first envelope from the stripper?"

"A
week from Saturday."

"And
that goes on for how long?"

"Every
Saturday till Trey pays off what he owes. Which could be a long, long time. The
vig is so high, he might be paying it forever. For years, anyway. The only
thing I have to do from now on is collect the vig from him every week. And
collect the envelope from the stripper."

She
reached over and squeezed my hand. Through a smile, she said, "I have to
hand it to you, honey. You pulled it off. A regular little income and you can
still lay down your gun. Nicely done."

"You
like it?"

"I
love it. I know I wasn't too crazy about you getting out at first. But now with
this money from the stripper, and maybe an occasional job for Mambo every so
often, we'll get by just fine. Another squeeze of the hand.

"No,
this is it. The end, I mean. Except for collecting from Trey every week, there
won't be any more jobs for Mambo. I'm done."

She
nodded, but I knew she wasn't buying it. "Of course, honey. You're
done." Then out of nowhere, she said, "You've made me very, very
happy."

The
noontime sun flooded our kitchen and accented Dorothy's uneven complexion. The
small red blotches that you normally never noticed now popped off her face at
me in the intense sunlight. But you know what? I didn't care. I didn't care
about her complexion or her overbite or her weight or any of it. Because just
to hear her say that to me, that I made her happy, is … well … it's everything
to me. I live for it. She's been my rock for ten years now, and I love her so
much, I just —

"I
really, really love you, baby," I heard myself say.

Back
at me. "And I love you. Very much."

We
looked into each other's eyes and found what we always knew was there. Through
all her hounding and haranguing about wanting me to quit and my throwing it
back at her, we always knew there would never be anyone else for either of us.
It was like … like each of us was the half that completed the other. Like I'd
been walking around only half a man till I met her ten years ago, when she
coupled onto me like one train car onto another, a perfect fit.

One thing she was neurotic
about, she absolutely could not stand the idea of my going to prison. Or even
the county jail. Now, I was always very careful and I never got caught, not
even once, but we both knew that being careful might not always cut it, that
one day I might have to do time. The thought of going to prison didn't bother
me as much as it did her. I could take care of myself pretty well if I had to,
but she couldn't bear the thought of my going away, leaving her all alone for
what might be years.

 
So she dedicated her life to nagging me
into retirement. But it was always with a … a qualifier, you know? It was like
she wanted me to retire, but only so long as I could keep up our income and
standard of living. I'm sure that was why I felt she wasn't totally on board with
my landscaping deal. Because I probably wouldn't be pulling down the kind of
money she was used to. This was her big difference with Carmela Soprano.
Dorothy didn't demand the real high life: diamonds, furs, all the rest of it.
But she did insist on keeping our nice apartment, maybe even one day moving
into a home of our own. She wanted to keep her SUV and a couple of other
things. And now, the landscaping work plus the stripper money would keep us at
or above that level for the foreseeable future.

The closer we became, the
more I listened to her, even though I never knew how to live on the right side
of the law. During all these years, though, we both figured this day would
eventually come. That I would finally do what she wanted. It had to come, or else
some bullet out there that had my name stamped on it was going to find me, sure
as shit. Maybe a bunch of bullets.

That was what we both
really feared, truth be known. That I would die on some godforsaken job taking
down some godforsaken score without getting to say goodbye to her, without
telling her she meant everything to me. That I would leave the apartment one
day … and just never come back.

Like
that time about eight months ago when we hijacked that truck up in Broward.

≈ ≈ ≈

It was full of men's suits, all high-end stuff. Two and three grand
a pop in the stores. Our contact had given us the route and we trailed it late
one rainy night to a warehouse district on the seamy west side of Pompano
Beach. We were in two stolen cars. Me and Chicho in one, Shimmy and JD in the
other. Zaz had come down with the flu the day before, so JD, an old friend and
trusted comrade, stepped into his spot.

We
knew which warehouse the truck was going to. There would be workers waiting
there to unload. Our job was to isolate it and nail it well before it got
there. The truck stopped at a stop sign about eight blocks from its
destination. There was no sign of life anywhere. Only dark buildings and their
empty loading docks getting pounded by hard rain.

"Go!"
I hollered into my bluetooth.

Shimmy
skillfully maneuvered his car around the truck and blocked it in front. I
remember seeing his windshield wipers stay on as we all leaped out into the
downpour, guns in hand, yelling.

"Out
of the fuckin' truck!"

"Out!
Now!"

"Get
out of the truck, asshole!"

There
were two of them in the truck. The usual reaction: raised eyebrows,
open-mouthed stares, and within a few seconds, they got out on command, but we
never saw they had weapons of their own.

The
sharp crack of gunfire ripped through the rain around those unlit, lonely
warehouses. One shot whooshed past my ear, by no more than an inch or two. Me,
getting off a few shots into the blinding glare of the truck's headlights, but
I wasn't sure I hit anyone. More yelling, more shooting. Chicho cut down the
shotgun rider, I don't know who got the driver.

A
few confused, terrifying seconds later, it was silent again, only falling rain,
gunsmoke in the air, and bodies in the dark, wet street.

A
quick look around. I said, "Everybody all right?"

Shimmy
cried out, "JD's been hit!"

We
rushed to him. Blood pouring from a wound in his neck. Shimmy had lifted his
head and shoulders off the pavement and tried to help him, tried to plug up the
bleeding. He gasped a couple of times with his eyes rolling back in his head.
Never said a word and then … gone. I knew him since grade school. He grew up on
Georgia Street, right around the corner from me. His mother used to make us
Kool-Aid on hot days after we got done playing in Bayview Park.

A
deep breath, then I said, "Shim, start the truck. Chicho, take Shimmy's
car. Let's get the fuck out of here."

We
drove down to Fort Lauderdale in the heavy rain. Our fence met us in an alley
behind a liquor store. He examined the goods, and paid us off. Based on value
received, our cut came to twenty-nine grand. A little less than ten apiece, now
split three ways. We whacked up JD's end. He died for suits.

We
ditched the cars and the truck in North Miami and picked up Shimmy's car that
he and JD and I drove up in. Chicho took his own car and went back to Little
Havana. Shimmy and I headed home. It rained hard almost the whole way.

Dorothy
went ballistic when I told her what happened. Describing the scene didn't do me
any good. Neither did telling her it was against extremely long odds that those
truckers were heeled. She was in my face. She knew JD as well. Liked him a lot.
Used to joke around with him on those occasions when we all got together for
drinks and dinner with him and whatever girlfriend he had at the moment. He was
the only one who could kid her about her overbite without getting her pissed
off. I don't remember the exact line he used, but he delivered it perfectly,
with the timing of a professional comedian, and it sent her into a fit of
laughter. I know she remembered that time, along with many others when she told
me it could've been me lying up there face down in the wet gutter. Said if I
didn't get out of the life, she'd get out of mine.

She
was right and I knew it.

I
said I'd think about it.

≈ ≈ ≈

When I heard Dorothy say she loved me just now, my world stood
still. Putting all that shit behind me … I don't know, it makes me feel, well,
released, I guess. Liberated, kind of. Like I've finally broken loose of
stifling chains. I allowed myself a smile, then took a deep breath, inhaling
more of that great bacon aroma, looking forward to the rest of my life.

But
the pounding on the door blew the whole moment apart.

I
dropped my fork and went to the door. It was Chuck, the square from the
upstairs apartment. He worked on one of the sunset cruises or some such shit, I
couldn't remember. But he generally went out of his way to be a pain in the
ass. There he stood in the doorway, his tan cargo shirt perfectly wrinkled to
Key West standards. It was like he hovered over each wrinkle, slaving away to
make it come out looking perfect.

"Logan,
your SUV is taking up two parking spots again. I'm gonna have to ask you to
move it."

"I'll
get to it after breakfast." I turned away and went to shut the door, but
he stuck a hand out, pushing it back open.

"How
about moving it now? I need to park my car."

I
grabbed the knob, regaining control of the door and allowing a chill to creep
into my voice. "How about you park it on the street till I finish my
breakfast?"

He
stood there with defiant eyes, not moving. For a minute, I thought this jerkoff
was actually going to throw a punch at me. In his heart, I'm sure he knew
better, even though he didn't really know me, nor was he aware of how I earned
my living. But a guy like Chuck? With his soft build and corporate-looking
haircut? He had to figure he couldn't come up against a guy who looks like me.
He was most likely just playing a mind game, trying to make me think he was
capable of punching me out.

After
his testosterone staredown, he said with all the seriousness he could muster,
"Okay, but make sure you move it soon."

I
closed the door and went back to my woman and my breakfast.