by Paul Levine
“What gives you pause when you think about how much we care for each other?” she asked. “What’s the but that you want to use to modify our relationship?”
I just blurted it out. “But because of my condition, I don’t know if it’s a good idea for our lives to become so intertwined. My future is uncertain. You’ve said as much. Dr. Hoch has, too. I’m betting he’s been even more grim in his consultations with you.”
“Wrong. You have a precursor to CTE. Neither of us can say whether that will result in the full-blown disease.”
“But if it does, if the misshapen tau in my brain hardens into those fibrous tangles of sludge, I’ll die. And not quietly. Or prettily. And you can’t offer me any hope of treatment.”
“Currently, there is none.”
“And my life expectancy would be three to five years. Lousy years.”
“Unless medicine makes advances.”
“Like I said, Melissa, an uncertain future. It’s made me get in touch with my own mortality. Meanwhile, for the past year, you and I have been getting closer. And the closer we get, the harder it will be for you if I die. And there’s something else I think about late at night when you’re sleeping alongside me or when I’m tossing and turning alone. The day we met, I ended up unconscious in a restaurant, and later that night, I was hooked up to monitors in an emergency room. If we’d met under ordinary circumstances—waiting for a table at Joe’s, in line at the DMV, or even a blind date—would you have been attracted to me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” There was a touch of frustration in her voice. “Do you think I have feelings for you because you’re ill? Because you may die? We’re all going to die, Jake. And I’ve had lots of patients over the years, but you’re the only one I’ve ever kissed, much less slept with. If you’re thinking that I’m involved with you because of some sort of—I don’t even know—medical empathy, well that’s both insulting and hurtful.”
Before I could say another word, she stood and left the examining room. I sat there a moment as the door slowly closed, and over the loudspeakers, a calm voice announced a Code Blue—cardiac arrest—on the third floor. It wasn’t for me, of course.
Not yet. Not today. But perhaps . . . soon.
-26-
Lawyers Hungry as Locusts
The ambulance chasers were after me.
Reclining in my Barcalounger at home just after 10:00 p.m., a tumbler of Jack Daniel’s in one hand, I reviewed the latest batch of unsolicited mail from “concussion lawyers,” as they called themselves.
“Dear Former Player . . .”
How personal. How heartwarming.
By e-mail and snail mail, by UPS and FedEx, I was on the receiving end of epistles from these hungry-as-locusts mouthpieces.
“Register now for NFL Concussion Settlement Funds. Time is running out!”
Platoons of personal-injury lawyers would be oh-so-happy to take a bite of my apple without having to do any honest lawyering.
“Let our law firm help with doctors, testing, and paperwork.”
Oh, the heavy lifting. The lawyers—or rather, their paralegals—will work themselves into a sweaty lather mailing in my paperwork, then pulling the handle on the slot machine and taking their cut when the coins jangle into the tray. Or trough, if you want to imagine the lawyers as pigs on the farm.
All of this came about because the NFL settled a class action by agreeing to pay about a billion dollars to retirees who suffered from dementia and related ailments. After denying for decades that blocking and tackling could cause traumatic brain injuries, the NFL—much like tobacco companies—finally surrendered to science. Yes, it had been wrong to rush big, tough guys like me back onto the field after sustaining concussions.
I took a long, slow pull on the Tennessee whiskey as I thought of the ramifications of all this. These lawyers were slick. They would conveniently fill in the blanks on the forms, naming themselves as my attorneys. I’d already learned from the Players’ Association that some of the greedier lawyers were trying to double-dip, collecting their fees from a fund created by the NFL and then another 30 percent from their own clients. We’ll see what the federal court says about that.
But do I really stand on higher moral ground?
Do I even have the right to be offended by these hounds sniffing after an easy buck? In my younger days, I used to hang out by the elevators on the fourth floor of the Justice Building. When the elevator door opened, my trained eye could separate defendants from civilians as easily as a shark could distinguish juicy groupers from poisonous rays. The ones heading for their arraignments held yellow computer printouts. Their eyes darted down the corridor. If no lawyer accompanied these lost souls, I would offer directions to the appropriate courtroom and my easily affordable services.
Credit card? Sure, I can take that.
I didn’t get rich being a corridor lawyer. But that never bothered me. I never envied the heavy hitters of the profession, never lusted after their Gables Estates mansions or their trophy wives. I just wanted to do good work defending the wrongfully accused. Surprise! Turns out there were far more people rightfully accused.
I was thinking these weighty thoughts when I heard a pounding on the front door. The chimes haven’t worked in years, and good friends know the door is usually unlocked. Swollen by Miami’s sky-high humidity, the door will open with a sturdy shoulder or a Larry Csonka stiff arm. A cop in jackboots could do it, too.
I heard the crunch of the door opening.
“Jake! You here?”
It was Solomon’s voice, soon followed by his corporeal presence. He hurried into my study. He wore nylon shorts, Nike running shoes, a ball cap that said “FBI,” and a T-shirt emblazoned with “My Lawyer Can Kick Your Lawyer’s Ass.”
“What’s up, Solomon?”
“I told Victoria I was going jogging.”
“Well, you made it three blocks. Sometimes I wish you’d moved to Lauderdale. As long as you’re here, you want a drink?”
“No time. Look, I have to tell you something, just between us.”
“You’re getting cold feet about the wedding. Perfectly natural. Happens all the time. You want to go to Las Vegas for the weekend?”
“Calvert lied to you yesterday.”
“I knew that as soon as he said, ‘Nice to meet you, Mr. Lassiter.’”
“I’m serious, Jake. He lied when he told you he’d never choked another woman.”
I bounced out of the recliner so quickly, I spilled my whiskey. “Whoa, Solomon! Not another word.”
“Calvert got in trouble for choking a nurse he was dating when he was on staff at a hospital in Boston.”
“Shut up, damn it! I’m not listening. I was just sitting here thinking about some shysters preying on retired football players, and you come to me with the sleaziest deal I’ve ever heard. Just shut the hell up.”
“You can find her, Jake, and you can use it.”
“You can get disbarred. And for what?”
Solomon took a breath. “To get this narcissistic bastard out of my life . . . and Victoria’s life.”
“Calvert’s no threat to you, and Victoria loves you. Why, I couldn’t begin to answer. But she does. Now go home, and let’s both forget you came here tonight. Okay?”
He let out a long sigh. I took it to be a yes.
“Do you want a Tennessee Mule for the road?” I asked. “I’ve got some ginger beer and Jack Daniel’s that are dying to get together.”
He shook his head. “I oughta get home.”
Just before he reached the front door, I said, “How’d you find out Calvert was lying?”
“I thought we weren’t gonna talk about it.”
“Just this. Did he tell you personally?”
“No, he told Victoria.”
“But he had to know she’d tell you.”
“Sure. He knows we share everything.”
I concentrated so hard I could see the pins and tumblers trying to unlock some thought in my min
d.
“What is it, Jake? What are you thinking?”
“Calvert knows you don’t like him.”
Solomon gave me a puzzled look. “I never told him that, and I’m sure Victoria wouldn’t have.”
“Your body language and your facial expressions,” I said. “Your words aren’t the only giveaways to your attitude. Calvert’s a smart guy. He knows you’re threatened by him, and he knows you and I are pals.”
“Not following you.”
“Is it possible Calvert wanted Victoria to tell you and then have you tell me about the nurse?”
“Why would he give you a tool to convict him?”
“No idea. But he’s a twisty motherfucker. And smarter than the two of us put together. You watch your ass, and I’ll watch mine.”
Solomon looked at me wordlessly, and his eyes got moist.
“What is it?” I said.
“Except for Victoria, you’re the best friend I ever had.”
“Don’t hug me, Solomon. I’m not a hugger.”
“I know, Jake. I know.”
“And don’t say—”
“I love you, pal.”
“Get the hell out of here before I deck you.”
-27-
Gator Shit
Sofia Calvert,” I said. “You know her?”
Billy Burnside’s head jerked as if I’d popped a left jab off his jaw. “Who are you?”
I introduced myself as a “specially appointed assistant state attorney,” which seemed to impress him.
“Yes, sir,” he said respectfully. “I know Mrs. Calvert.”
Mrs. Calvert.
We talked for a few minutes, and I sized up Burnside: Handsome. Lazy. Stupid.
It had been a six-minute drive from my house on Poinciana in Coconut Grove to Camp Sano Country Club on Blue Road in Coral Gables. I had found Burnside in the pro shop, stringing a tennis racket. He was in his late thirties, about six-one, with the lean, muscular body of the veteran tennis player. He was right-handed, judging from his highly developed right forearm, which was significantly more muscular than his left. Streaked blond-brown surfer hair over the ears and a cinnamon suntan. From across the street, he probably still looked like king of the prom. Up close, his once-sculpted jawline had begun to sag. The pencil-line wrinkles on his sun-damaged face were a preview of the decline that was not far off. His chick-bait days were numbered.
He was one of those guys who had peaked at eighteen, when he was the number one player on his high school tennis team. College had been a disappointment. He’d been an indifferent student, and only the number four player on a midmajor program. Not nearly good enough for the tour, too short an attention span for a desk job, he’d been stringing tennis rackets for fifteen years and would do so for another twenty. He made spare cash giving club members hitting lessons and told himself he still had the goods when he banged one of their bored and ignored wives.
The pro shop was a two-room freestanding building with a window air conditioner and a few racks of tennis apparel. The stringing machine was in the adjacent room, and that’s where Burnside and I talked, as the AC coughed and sputtered.
“Do you know where Sofia is?” I asked.
He shook his head, and a sprig of blond-brown hair dusted his eyes. “Like I told the detective, I haven’t heard from her in almost a month. She missed a lesson with me. We were focusing on her footwork, which was really out of sync. Never called to cancel, and I haven’t heard from her since.”
“What did Sofia tell you about her relationship with her husband?”
“For starters, that she was afraid of him. More than once, she said to me, ‘If I ever disappear, don’t bother looking for me. Clark will have dumped my body in the Glades, and I’ll already be gator shit.’”
He watched me a second, and when I didn’t react, he added, “Can you use that in court?”
“Technically it’s hearsay. There’s a narrow exception in domestic abuse cases, but no telling how a judge will rule. Are you willing to testify?”
“If he killed her, you’re damn right I am.”
“Calvert says she’s a drama queen. Did you get the impression she was exaggerating or looking for sympathy when she discussed her husband?”
“I don’t like to talk smack about anyone, but Dr. Calvert? He’s a scary dude. You ever shake hands with him?”
I nodded and shook my right hand, as if warding off the pain.
“Exactly,” Burnside said. “I’ve hit about twenty million tennis balls, so my right arm is pretty developed.” He flexed his fist for me, and the thick cords of his extensor muscles danced up and down his forearm. “The son of a bitch got me in a grip before I knew what he was doing, and he tried to break my knuckles.”
“Was this before or after he learned you were screwing Sofia?”
He took a step back and sat down on the high stool behind the stringing machine. “Before. Look, I’m not gonna lie to you.”
I stayed quiet, and like I figured, he kept talking. “I know it was stupid. Violated my own rule about not messing with members’ wives. It’s different if I’m doing lessons over at the Biltmore. Tourists. You see the woman two nights and never again. Doesn’t matter if her husband’s on the golf course or back in Cleveland. But at Campo Sano, I know better. I shouldn’t shit where I eat.”
“Why did Sofia think her husband might kill her?”
“Because the weekend she disappeared, she was planning to tell him the marriage was over.”
That was news to me.
“She told you that?” I asked.
“She’d been saying it for weeks. Just kept putting it off because she was afraid of him. Said he was controlling and violent. Made her cut off contact with girlfriends he didn’t like. Wouldn’t let her take a job, even though she had a master’s in social work. And he was always angry. A kettle ready to boil over, that’s the way Sofia described him. Do you know about the psychiatrist’s letter?”
I allowed as how I did.
“It really freaked me out. A doctor predicting your husband is going to kill you. How weird is that?”
“Very.”
“I told her to move out when he wasn’t there. Or have the cops there when she did. But she was reckless. Sometimes I thought she wanted to see how far she could push her husband. Got off on it, really.”
“How did Calvert find out about the two of you?”
“Sofia thought he might have someone following her. And frankly, we weren’t very careful. She’d come to my apartment, park her Mercedes out front.”
“Were you her only extracurricular activity?”
“Only current one. But she led me to believe there’d been others.”
From the front of the shop, a bell tinkled. Two women in their thirties in tennis togs came in and headed for a sales rack of clothing.
“Anything else you want to tell me about either one of them?” I asked.
“The doc cheats at tennis. Calls balls out where you can see the chalk dust fly where they hit the line.”
He sounded offended, a tennis cheat maybe as evil as a wife killer.
“He likes to hit drop shots and little dinky-doos like Bobby Riggs,” Burnside continued. “Makes you run your ass off; then when you’re coming to the net, he screams ‘Banzai’ or some other Chinese shit . . .”
“Japanese shit.”
“Whatever. Then he nails a passing shot for the point and laughs his ass off. Lousy court etiquette.”
“When I asked you for anything else, I didn’t mean to analyze Calvert’s tennis game.”
“What then? I already told the detective everything.”
“The insurance policy. You didn’t tell him about that.”
He looked genuinely confused. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Three million dollars. About a month before she disappeared, Sofia changed the beneficiary from her husband to you.”
“No way.”
“It’s the truth.”
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“Jeez, I had no idea.”
I studied him, looking for signs of deception but not finding any. Then again, I’m not a homicide detective.
“Are you surprised?” I asked.
“Totally. I mean, she never said ‘I love you’ or anything like that. Me, either. I never misled her. Never gave her grief about anything, and I always let her come first.”
“Excellent attributes for a paramour,” I said agreeably.
“I was her sport fuck. Nothing more. At least that’s what I thought. Life insurance? It’s pretty shocking.”
“Three million dollars is a lot of money.”
“No kidding. So what?”
I let his question hang there and watched thoughts cross his face like slow-moving clouds.
“You think I killed Sofia for money?”
I shrugged.
“I didn’t even know about the policy.”
“Calvert wants me to think you did.”
“The bastard probably forged her signature to frame me.”
“We’ll look into that.”
“And if I knew about the policy and wanted to collect, wouldn’t I sure as hell leave a body somewhere? I mean, isn’t it hard to collect insurance when there’s no body?”
“It is, indeed, Billy Burnside. It takes years. And off the record, I don’t think you’re a lady-killer, at least not in the meaning that involves a corpse.”
He let out a long breath I didn’t know he’d been holding.
“Do you think the doc killed her?” Burnside asked.
“I’m not even convinced she’s dead.”
He scratched his chin with the knuckles of his right hand and said gravely, “I am, Mr. Lassiter.”
“Go on.”
“She used to call me almost every day. Just for a few minutes. Usually while she was driving somewhere. To pass the time, I guess, because the conversations weren’t meaningful. Just chitchat, the way women do. She’s been missing, what, almost a month now? If she were alive, she’d call me. I know she would. I keep thinking back to what she said, and if I were you, I’d be looking in the Everglades for some fat and happy gator.”