by Paul Levine
Perlow stirred, bracing his cane to get to his feet. “If that’s it, Mr. Lassiter, it would appear you have nothing placing the girl in Charlie’s company the night she disappeared.”
“Maybe today I don’t. But this isn’t over. Hell, it hasn’t even started.” Trying to salvage the moment by sounding tough, but really just spraying a garden hose on the Hindenburg.
I turned to leave, listening to Ziegler snicker like a horse. Just as I reached the door he said, “Hey, Lassiter, why do you think I sent Angel your way?”
I didn’t answer, and he said, “Because I know you. You’re just like me.”
“Bullshit. I sent her home.”
“My mistake. Next time, I’ll send jail bait.”
He was still cackling when the door closed behind me.
19 The Marvelous Jew
“Nestor, what’s the problem?” Perlow asked his driver and bodyguard. The creamy white Bentley was stuck in the exit lane of the Ziegler Enterprises building.
“Car being towed.”
Perlow saw it then. Ziegler’s black Lincoln. The car Ray Decker used. Four flat tires.
Lassiter, he thought.
What the hell to do about him?
Ziegler had gloated after Lassiter left. Thought he’d won the round. But all he’d done was bloody the nose of a street fighter. Lassiter wasn’t a weaker foe because Charlie shamed him, but a more determined one. The lawyer didn’t have a booming practice or a 24-karat reputation. But again, that only made him more dangerous.
“A man who has nothing in his pockets has nothing to lose.”
Meyer Lansky himself said that more than half a century ago. The man President Batista of Cuba called “El Judio Maravilloso,” the marvelous Jew. The man with nothing in his pockets turned out to be a bearded guerrilla fighting in the mountains of Cuba. His name was Fidel Castro. Lansky tried to warn Batista that the rebel leader had a ruthlessness of purpose that not even overwhelming forces and firepower of the army could stop.
Charlie Ziegler never understood such things. He had always been undisciplined. Those damn parties with the girls and the drugs. There were men around town who would remember. Witnesses. If Lassiter turned up the heat, how would Ziegler react? Charlie was not the strong and silent type. Perlow figured he could crack like a piñata, all his secrets—their secrets—spilling out.
Perlow sighed, looked at his aged hands. He wished Meyer were still around. Meyer kept emotion out of the equation and never acted rashly. When the boys suspected that Bugsy Siegel was skimming from the Flamingo, Meyer urged caution. Only when the proof was overwhelming did he authorize the hit. Quick and efficient.
What would Meyer do now?
“If a man is a moneymaker, you can forgive a lot of his faults.”
El Judio Maravilloso was right. With all his failings, Ziegler still made Perlow money from the reality channel and international distribution of porn. Not only that, it was all legitimate. Jeez, they even paid taxes. You had to be careful these days. With that RICO crap, they could convict you for just thinking about committing a crime.
“Nestor, you remember Jake Lassiter? Used to play for the Dolphins.”
Tejada laughed. “First time I saw him play I was doing sixty days in Youth Hall. I liked his style, his helmet flying off when he made a big hit on a kickoff.”
Sounded right to Perlow. A guy who would sacrifice his body for the team.
“Reminded me of a pit bull,” Tejada said. “You ever go to a dog fight, Mr. P?”
“Never.”
“A pit bull latches on to another dog and don’t let go. Beat ’em on the head with a shovel. Chop off a hind leg. Don’t matter. He just fights to the death.”
Perlow felt revulsion at the description of a maimed animal. He never considered himself a violent man. On the few occasions when he had to make someone disappear, it was always with regret and sadness. More than once, he dipped into his own pocket to send money, anonymously, to the widows and children.
“Fought like a dog,” Tejada said, tying up his thoughts. “Right up to the whistle and a little after.”
When the tow truck pulled the Lincoln out of the exit lane, Tejada eased the Bentley toward Coral Way, the engine purring. Perlow considered the tattoo on the back of Tejada’s shaved head. A five-pointed crown. Symbol of the Latin Kings, which Perlow thought sounded like Desi Arnaz’s mambo band, but was the largest Hispanic street gang in the country. A steroid-pumped hulk, Tejada had done time for armed robbery and aggravated assault, both pluses on his résumé.
“You hungry, Nestor?”
“You know me, Mr. P. I can always eat.”
“How about the Forge? I’ll treat you to crab cakes.”
“Forge is closed, sir.”
“Jeez, I forgot about the remodeling.”
I’m getting old.
Perlow thought of Vincent Gigante, “The Oddfather,” wandering around Manhattan in his bathrobe, showing up for court unbathed and unshaven. The press thought Gigante was faking it, but Perlow knew the man. Alzheimer’s was a bitch.
“How about Pumpernik’s for a pastrami sandwich?” Perlow said.
Tejada laughed. “You’re messing with me, Mr. P.”
“Yeah. How many years they been closed, I wonder?”
Perlow longed for the old days. When you could still make a buck shy-locking and running numbers and shooting craps in a cabana at the Fontainebleau. Before they had slots at the racetracks and offshore gambling on the Internet.
Jesus, video poker!
How can you trust a card game where you don’t see the deck?
His thoughts returned to Lassiter. If Lassiter tried to go public with accusations against Charlie, he would have to be stopped. Perlow would find it distasteful, but what else could he do?
“Nestor, I haven’t asked you to get your hands dirty for a while.…”
“Anything you want, Mr. P, you just ask.”
“Thank you, Nestor.”
“When do you want it done, sir?”
“I have to think it through. These decisions are never easy.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. P, if your interests are threatened, the sooner you act the better. ‘Más vale matar a la primera rata antes de que la casa se llene de ellas.’ ”
“Something about rats in the house.” Perlow had once spoken decent Spanish, but that was half a century ago.
“Better to kill the first rat before the house gets full of them,” Tejada translated.
Perlow smiled. Meyer himself would have warmed to the concept.
20 Just Like the Rest of Them
I had nearly turned around after leaving Ziegler’s office. I wanted to crash back through the door, hoist him from his chair by his designer lapels, and toss him through a wall. Let all those certificates and plaques come raining down. But I knew my anger was with myself, not him. I’d given Ziegler the ammunition and the weapon, and he’d been happy to blow me away.
I took a cab home, showered, and changed into fresh shorts and T-shirt. I called Amy’s cell and told her we needed to talk. I didn’t tell her I had a confession to make. She said she was going jogging on the beach, trying to sweat out her frustrations and clear her mind.
I drove across the Rickenbacker Causeway, watching a line of thunderheads rumble across open water toward Key Biscayne. Summer in Miami, where it rains every afternoon at 3:17 P.M., give or take.
I caught up with Amy on the white sand near the old lighthouse at the southern tip of the island. She wore cutoffs and a red bikini top and was Ohio pale, but her carved abs and rounded delts revealed she was no stranger to the gym.
I needed to tell her the truth about my night with Krista. If she heard it from Ziegler instead of me, I’d lose whatever trust I’d struggled to build. Amy might even begin to suspect me again in her sister’s disappearance. That’s the problem with lies and cover-ups. They make the underlying wrong seem even more grievous.
“I want you to take precautio
ns,” I told her, as wind gusts rustled the palm fronds and swirled loose sand across the dunes. I couldn’t bring myself to confess. Instead, I stalled.
“Why?”
“Ziegler’s rattled and he’s called in reinforcements.”
I told Amy about the two tough guys in a Lincoln and my confrontation with Perlow and Ziegler, the old gangster and the new humanitarian.
“Perlow’s the one who concerns me,” I said. “He looks soft as a nougat but he’s got flint and steel in his eyes.”
“So we must be on to something.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what. Just promise you’ll be careful, and if you feel threatened in any way, you’ll call me, day or night.”
“Okay, sure. And thanks for caring, Jake.”
Saying it as if she wasn’t used to anyone giving a shit about her.
“You might think about moving out of the motel,” I added.
“Where to?”
“I have an extra bedroom.”
She looked at me with suspicion. Of course, that was a main component of her character.
“Hey, c’mon. No strings attached. If I wanted more, I’d come to your motel.”
“Really?”
“What I meant was, I have my nephew and Granny at home. It’s not exactly a bachelor pad.”
She was shaking her head.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I was just thinking that eighteen years ago, Krista asked if she could spend the night at your place. But you turned her down.”
“Actually …”
“What?”
A dozen terns, which had been pecking away at the wet sand, took to the air. I wanted to fly with them. But I took a deep breath of sea air and told her the truth. That I had taken Krista home with me, knowing deep down that it wasn’t to protect her from the night. That she offered herself, as I knew she would, and I wasn’t man enough to turn her down. As I spoke, the squall hit us, the rain driven sideways, fat juicy drops, warm as spit. A jagged lightning bolt passed over the island and hit on the bay side with a thunderclap that hurt my ears.
When I got to the part where I dropped Krista off in the morning, delivering her to the man I now knew to be Charlie Ziegler, Amy’s face froze. She turned away and looked out to sea.
“You’re just like the rest of them,” she said, staring at the whitecaps sloshing toward the beach.
“Them?”
“Men!”
Without warning, she whirled and hit me, her fist bouncing off my temple. It didn’t hurt, but the surprise knocked me a step sideways. She swung again. And again. I did the rope-a-dope, just standing there with my arms up, as a barrage of blows ricocheted off my shoulders and elbows. I let her punch herself out until, exhausted, she dropped to one knee, sobbing. Lightning zinged across the sky, followed by a thunderclap.
I crouched next to Amy in the wet sand at the water’s edge. “I’m sorry. But I’ll work even harder for you. For Krista.”
“Bastard.”
She said it so softly I could barely hear her over the wind and the rain.
Amy turned and ran up the beach, the wind howling in her wake. I watched until she disappeared. She never looked back.
21 Partners for Life
Sipping a mojito and cursing the gods for the crud they were throwing his way, Charlie Ziegler stood on the seawall separating his property from the roiling water of the bay. He watched the storm plow across Key Biscayne, the sky darkening in its path. He felt the first raindrops, knew the deluge was just seconds away.
“Goddamn lawyer,” he said aloud. That crazy bastard. Can’t be bribed, won’t be scared. Threatening to go public. All these years of building up a reputation. All those galas for diabetes, kidneys, and cancer, every disease north of hemorrhoids. Nibbling canapés with the culture vultures, then snoring through the opera. He wasn’t going to let Lassiter smear the good name he’d built.
Then there was his wife Lola, off to France, probably gonna charge the Eiffel Tower to her Platinum card. God, how he longed to be in his mistress’s arms. Melody was a woman who—against all odds—seemed to actually love him for himself.
And what about Max Perlow? Jesus. Treating him like shit in front of that prick lawyer.
“Shut up, Charlie.…”
What the fuck was that about? After all the money I’ve made for him.
The money.
The old man might be getting senile, but he could still count. Fifteen percent of gross profits. All because of that loan twenty years ago. At least Ziegler had thought it was a loan. Once the porn business took off—all cash, all the time—suddenly the terms changed.
“C’mon Max. I’ve paid you off, already.”
“There’s no paying off. I made an investment. We’re partners, Charlie. Partners for life.”
So die, already.
Instead, Perlow insisted on picking his pocket.
At the time they made the deal, Perlow still had juice. Not a man to fuck with. But these days? Who’s he got, other than that gangbanger Tejada?
Why the hell does Max even have a bodyguard? All his enemies are either dead or drooling into their oatmeal.
Except for me.
Lightning flashed over the bay, and the thunder took its time rumbling toward him. The air smelled of dust and nitrogen. He began taking his own measure as the raindrops pelted him. Could he kill Perlow? Knowing even as he asked that he didn’t have the stomach for it.
What about Tejada? How loyal was he? Would he take $25K to drive the Bentley into a swamp with Perlow strapped into the backseat? Maybe, Ziegler concluded, it was worth pondering over another drink.
22 Talking Trash
Our upbringing may not determine where we finish the race, but it surely draws the starting line. I was mulling this deep thought while huffing and puffing up and down the basketball court. The Miami Mouthpieces—my boys—were taking on the Avengers, Castiel’s band of prosecutors, and I was guarding my opponent.
Until yesterday, I had considered Alex Castiel a friend. We had bonded years ago when I wore the wire for him. We’d shared many meals and many stories since. If he turned out to be dirty, I would feel betrayed.
He was dangerously close to “Uncle Max.” Then there was Ziegler. How well did Castiel know him back in the day? What would he be willing to do for Perlow? And one even bigger question nagged at me.
Yo, Alex, were you at Ziegler’s party the night Krista Larkin disappeared?
I planned to ask, just as soon as I elbowed him in the ribs a few times.
Back then, Castiel would have been a young hotshot a few years out of law school. He’d gotten his name in the papers for winning a few high-profile cases and had recently been promoted to the Major Crimes Division of the State Attorney’s Office. Just the kind of up-and-comer Ziegler wanted as a pal.
Castiel once told me we were friends because of similarities in our past. Both our fathers were murdered. Both of us were raised by surrogates. Castiel was the adopted child of a wealthy Coral Gables family. I was raised by Granny, a tough, honest woman who took no guff.
In high school, I was not King of the Prom. I was Most Likely to Do Time. At Coral Shores High in the Keys, I was a fist-in-the-dirt defensive tackle who enjoyed the combat, much of which consisted of clawing, spitting, and cursing. I wasn’t recruited for major college ball because I was a tweener. Not big enough to play defensive line and not fast enough to be a great linebacker. I walked on at Penn State, made the team, and earned straight C’s in the classroom.
No NFL team drafted me. I was the last free agent signed by the Dolphins, usually a guarantee to get cut before opening day. But I made the final roster spot and hung on a few years, flying ass-over-elbows on what used to be called the “suicide squad,” the kickoff and punt teams.
Similar story after law school. No downtown firms wanted to interview me. I got the job in the P.D.’s Office because I wasn’t afraid to park in the jail visitors’ lot after midnight, and I didn’t w
orry about my clients having cooties. Basically, I’ve never been sought after for anything, but if I get my cleats in the door, you’ll find it’s hard to keep me out.
Now I backpedaled down the court, intent on keeping Castiel from scoring, or knocking him on his ass if I couldn’t.
“You’re not fast enough to cover me, Jake,” he taunted, dribbling high, as if daring me to steal the ball.
“We talking basketball here, Alex?”
Top of the key. Castiel faked the jumper. I left my feet, and he streaked around me. Ed Shohat, a white-collar defense lawyer, tried to plug the lane, but Castiel let fly a teardrop floater. Swish.
Loping back down the court, Castiel laughed and talked trash. “A step too slow, Jake. You’re a step too slow.”
I know, I know. Story of my life.
Castiel was captain of the Avengers, the highly disciplined prosecutors’ team. I was the leading scorer of the Mouthpieces, a rowdy group of criminal defense lawyers.
I liked playing against Castiel’s team. Sure, the prosecutors threw some elbows, but they never whined over lousy calls. The worst were the personal injury lawyers, the Contingency Cats, who always faked injuries and threatened to file lawsuits. The Downtown Defenders—insurance company lawyers—tampered with the clock, refused to stop play when an opponent was hurt, and handpicked friends as referees.
Intending to put Castiel on his duly elected ass, I set up in the low post and took a bounce pass from Shifty Sullivan—the nickname stemming from criminal court, not the basketball court. My back was to Castiel, and he kept a hip planted on my butt. I pivoted and faked left, but Castiel knew I seldom drove that way. A weakness in my game, the left-handed dribble.
I tossed an elbow into Castiel’s gut, heard him whoomph as I went around him to the right and sank a baby hook from six feet away.
He doubled over, fought for a breath, and could barely get the words out. “Hey, ref. You swallow your whistle?” Pantomiming my elbow toss.
“Crybaby!” I whooped.
It went on that way for the entire game. I hit Castiel hard enough to draw a flagrant foul and barreled into him enough times to draw two charges. I fouled out but still led the scoring with 21 for the Mouthpieces. With greater finesse, the unflappable Castiel led the Avengers to a nine-point win.