Who'll Stop The Rain: (Book One Of The Miami Crime Trilogy) (4 page)

Mambo

Sunday, June 26, 2011

5:10 PM

P
ALMIRA DeLIMA BENT OVER THE BED
and gently kissed her husband,
stirring him from much-needed sleep. Mambo the Third lay naked beneath the
bedcovers and groaned at her touch. He felt silky black hair across one cheek
and her soft lips on the other. He forced his eyes open and saw her flawless
complexion lit up by her alluring half-smile.

He
always loved that. It was the kind of smile which, aimed at anyone else, might
be resented, as if it were a cynical grin or a tagline to an insult. But when
she turned it on him, it turned him on. The smile was one of the many exciting
things that propelled their marriage, now in its seventh year.

"What
time is it?" he asked in a cloudy voice.

"A
little after five," she whispered. "You said to wake you. You slept
all day." She gave his hard body an easy nudge. "We don't want to
keep your grandfather waiting. We're supposed to be there at six." He
loved her singsongy voice. "Come on, honey. Time to get up."

"Jesus,
it's five already?" He rubbed his eyes with his fists and yawned a big
one. "Feels like I just went to sleep." He always slept deep and
sound after a rough morning like the one he had.

Another
little shake. "Come on. Up you go." She lifted his shoulder in
encouragement.

He
forced himself off the bed and staggered to the bathroom, yawning and rubbing
his face. "I'll be down in twenty minutes," he said.

≈ ≈ ≈

Showered and dressed, Mambo lingered over coffee at his kitchen
table. He had to be right tonight. More than usual for a Sunday night. They
were having dinner over at his grandfather's house on William Street, just like
they did every week at this time. Every Sunday night, Mambo the Third, Palmira,
and their little Carlena, would make the short drive to William Street and dine
with his grandfather, The Original Mambo, and his lovely grandmother Lisbeth.
Tonight was a little different, though. Tonight, Winston Whitney would be in
attendance.

Winston
Whitney, the Duke of Duval, sixty-some-odd-year-old patriarch of the other
prime-mover family in Key West, would be there to discuss "the deal".
And that meant Mambo the Third had to be right. No yawning, no sleepy-time
shit.

He
had the scope of the deal firm in his mind, and he reviewed it to himself over
his coffee. Some smaller details may have escaped him, but he had the broad
strokes down. This was his big chance, the first time his grandfather had
brought him in on a major family endeavor. The near-total redevelopment of a
wide swath of North Roosevelt Boulevard — primo property near the light
where US 1 turns north to Stock Island, to Miami and up the East Coast of
America — had consumed the DeLima family's dreams for decades. But in the
end, it was too big a chunk for them to bite off, even with their deep pockets
and heavy banking connections.

The
Original Mambo had suggested bringing the Whitneys in on the deal. The two
families seldom worked together, and several DeLimas were against it, but they
eventually realized it was either get serious help or forget the whole thing.
So The Original Mambo got his way, as he almost always did.

Palmira
spoke: "Have you heard anything more about what's going to happen tonight,
honey?"

"I
talked to
Abuelo
yesterday,"
Mambo the Third said. "He told me everything's still in place. The overall
plans are in from the architect — preliminary plans, that is — and
they're waiting, just waiting for the go-ahead. We'll probably look those over
tonight."

"What
about the new hospital?" Her voice a little less cutesy.

"It
was just like I told you a couple of weeks ago.
Abuelo
thinks it's too far from the Lower Keys Hospital. Doctors
and everybody having to drive there from Stock Island, you know, he thinks —"

"It's
only about two miles," she said. "And it'll be right here in Key
West, where people need it. Close by."

"Honey,
you're talking about a hospital," he said. "With all kinds of
specialized equipment, medical stuff. This development is really for hotels.
You know, hotels and restaurants. That kind of thing. Tourist stuff."

Palmira's
eyes narrowed. "You sound like you don't want to put the facility there.
Just because your grandfather thinks it's too far from the existing hospital.
Like you don't think it's a moneymaker. Is that it?"

"Well,"
he said, "just because you want your brother to come down here and run it
is no reason to include it in the project. And besides, it
is
just a hospital."

"Come
on! You don't think hospitals make money? People are always gonna be
sick."

"And
people are always gonna want a hotel room in Key West," he replied.

"Honey,"
she said, her voice going back to cutesy, "you promised me you would fight
for this and I expect you to do it. We've been over this. It's not like it's
going to be any kind of gigantic place. It'll be a lot smaller, almost like an
annex, sort of a mini-hospital." She sighed. "Look, you're right. I
do want Rolando to run it. But it's not like he's incompetent."

"I
didn't say that."

"He's
doing great up at Tampa General. They love him up there. But this … this would
give him his own facility to run. It would mean a real step up for him. And it
would bring him back home, which is what he's always wanted." She exhaled
like she was through talking, but then quickly added, "I know there's room
for it among all that land you're piecing together. Plus, it would keep it in
the family. We'd have our own little hospital."

Mambo
looked at her. Following her speech, she remained sitting upright, shoulders
squared, instead of leaning back in her chair. Her hands were clasped on the
table in front of her. Her liquid brown eyes never left his for a second.

After
a few seconds, he looked down at his coffee. He knew he was going to cave, he
loved her so much. But still he said, "This is the biggest deal our family
has ever been involved in. In fact, it's the single biggest real estate project
in Key West history. By far. This is going to transform the entire north end of
the island, eventually the whole island itself. We can't let personal shit get
in the way —"

"You
know it's not personal," she said. "Like in
The Godfather
, it's business. The island needs something besides
these little storefront clinics. We need a real hospital facility right here in
town. We need
this
."

He
didn't really want to admit it, but she was right. Key West did need something
like that within easy reach. The big hospital on Stock Island, while only a
couple of miles from Key West proper, still seemed to most Key West residents
like it was in a foreign country. With sagging shoulders, he said, "All
right. I'll go to bat for it." A dazzling full-face smile washed over her
face. He raised an index finger and said, "But don't count on it. I told
you
Abuelo
doesn't like the
idea."

She
reached over and took his hand in hers and murmured, "But I know
you
can change his mind." Her smile
finally got to him. He smiled back.

The
smilefest was interrupted by Mambo's cellphone announcing an incoming text
message. He glanced at it. From Arturo.

$625 from Kiki.
He dashed off a reply:
Bring 2 restaurant tomorrow noon.
He
swiped the screen off and looked back at his wife, snapping back to his kitchen
table.

"Okay,"
he said. "The hospital. I'll give it my best shot."

She
squeezed his hand with both of hers. "What else is happening?" she
asked.

"Well,
we're still providing our family contractors, Whitney's bringing some big
pension fund in on the deal. It all looks good right now. Looks like we're just
going to agree to keep moving forward." He looked at his watch.
"Where's Carlena?"

Palmira
turned toward the living room. "Carlena," she called. "
Chiquitita. Ven aca. Vamos a salir."

Carlena
came running into the kitchen with gleaming dark eyes and a broad smile, ready
for whatever the day would throw at her. Mambo and Palmira smiled back,
involuntarily. She ran into Mambo's waiting arms.

She's going to be a good one,
Mambo thought as he held her close.
Able to handle herself. Look at that smile.
Five years old and she's already a charmer.
He started to imagine her
smiling as a young woman, beguiling every man she saw, but he quickly pushed
that thought from his mind. As far as he was concerned, she was always going to
be like this. Five years old and defenseless. Looking to him for her every
need.
Don't think about the future. It'll
get here soon enough.

Another
quick squeeze and he released Carlena. "Let's go," he said.

≈ ≈ ≈

They pulled up at The Original Mambo's house within five minutes.
Located in the heart of Old Town, on William Street in the shade of an enormous
banyan tree, it was one of those grand old Victorian places that Old Town Key
West is famous for. This one had been in the DeLima family since it was built
in the late nineteenth century, and they'd kept it up. Three stories high,
spacious wraparound porch, original gingerbread along the railings, cupola
topping it off like a Christmas tree star. The grounds were garnished with
hibiscus and bougainvillea in a riot of reds and oranges. A trio of coconut
palms out front provided additional grace.

Mambo
the Third and his family were greeted with lots of hugs and cheer from his
grandparents. The familiar aroma of Cuban food was everywhere, as though it had
wafted continuously through that house for decades, not just conjured up on
this night for dinner. Even though Mambo lived with that aroma every hour of
every day he spent in his restaurant, it never grew old for him. It just made
him hungry.

These
dinners were generally loose family gatherings, but tonight, because of Winston
Whitney's presence, they all made an attempt to spruce up. Tonight, the two
Mambos wore their best guayaberas and the women were decked in crisp, but
sensible dresses and high heels. Carlena wore her newest party dress.

They
all walked into the living room and Winston Whitney stood to greet them.
Handshakes and niceties all around, then Grandma Lisbeth went to the kitchen to
pour the drinks. The Original Mambo gestured for everyone to sit. There was
plenty of comfortable seating in the spacious, airy room.

Mambo
the Third and Palmira took the seat next to Whitney on the long couch. He
acknowledged Mambo with welcoming body language. Mambo noticed he already had a
drink. Looked like whiskey, over ice, in a rocks glass.

"Good
to see you again, Mambo." He said it like he meant it. "We don't
really see enough of each other. Maybe this deal will bring us together more
often." He sipped his drink.

"I'm
sure it will, Mr Whitney," Mambo said.

"Please.
Call me Win."

"Win."

"Mr
Whitney was my father," he said. "A great man." Whitney appeared
very comfortable saying that, as though everyone already knew it but he had to
say it to make sure no one forgot.

Mambo
nodded. "We all remember him well. Died way too soon."

Whitney's
appearance belied his age. He carried a few extra pounds, but he wore them
well. As he had mentioned, he and Mambo the Third had never had much occasion
to spend time together, but every time they did, Mambo was genuinely amazed at
how time seemed to stand still for this guy, despite all the hard work and long
hours he put in over the years. He had to be over sixty, but looked twenty
years younger.

After
a brief ceremony of fluffing up the chair cushion, The Original Mambo took his
seat. He lifted an elaborately engraved cedar humidor from a side table and
opened it, offering cigars to his grandson and to Whitney.

"Cohibas,"
he said with a wide smile. "Best in the world."

Eighty-one
years old and with hair still thick and dark, showing only a few strands of
salt amid all the pepper. Broad, hard shoulders stretched under a cream-colored
linen guayabera, long-sleeved to reflect the dressy nature of the gathering. He
was still an intimidating presence.

Each
man took a cigar, snipped off the end with a guillotine cutter supplied by
their host, and lit up. Within moments, the thick aroma of the apartments of
Old Havana floated through the room, masking the food simmering in the kitchen.

A
couple of satisfying puffs and then The Original Mambo opened: "So where
are we, Win? Is the pension fund in place?"

Whitney
crossed his legs and set his cigar in the hollow of the big glass ashtray that
dominated the end table. From his relaxed position, he said, "We've got a
preliminary commitment for two hundred sixty million, conditional on approval
of our revised pro forma and the finalized plans. With the hundred million
you're bringing from your banking friends, that puts us over the top and ready to
roll."