Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  “It is undeniably true that Americans, whether native or immigrant, have been blessed with a fertile continent protected by oceans that allowed the development of stable political system rooted in democracy. But they have used their legacy wisely. They have not wasted the world’s time.”

  Emma Shields closed her notebook.

  “And I hope I haven’t wasted yours. Are there any questions?”

  A hand shot up.

  “How can you be so naïve? The rest of the world hates our guts. We attack anybody we want. Our bankers bleed us while their CEOs make millions. We’re the richest country in history and we don’t have universal health care or free college education. I don’t buy this crap.”

  The kid who delivered this diatribe was thin, scrawny and long-haired. He didn’t stand up. In fact, he was slouched in his seat with one foot perched on the back of the seat in front of him. He was wearing the uniform of the day for college: jeans, ratty shirt and some sort of cowboy vest. Scarne wanted to punch him, even if he had made a couple of good points.

  Emma Shields gripped the podium with both hands and looked directly at the boy, scowling in mock seriousness.

  “Jeremy, it’s considered bad form to embarrass your teacher with facts.”

  Even Jeremy, who sat up straighter, joined in the laughter.

  “Oh, you know what I mean,” he said.

  “Sure I do. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t agree with some of the things you said. But you’re smart enough to know that your view of the United States is colored by your age, your friends, your current position in life. I’m not happy about a lot of what is going on either, and I get pretty discouraged. But I wasn’t talking about the United States or its policies and politicians today. I was talking about the country we want, the country at its best. The ideal. The United States as it may be remembered. You might do well to recall what Napoleon said: ‘History is a fable agreed upon.’ It may be too early to judge.”

  A few of the students started to stand, slinging their backpacks. Emma Shields gathered some papers and walked down the stairs at the side of the stage and started up the aisle, chatting with kids as she went. Jeremy said something to her and she swatted him playfully on the back of the head. Scarne stood as she passed him.

  “Ms. Shields. I hope you don’t mind, but I had some time to kill and crashed your class. Caught the tail end.”

  “I saw you come in. Did you get anything out of it? And how about Emma and Jake from now on?”

  “Sure. I liked the De Gaulle story. I’d heard it before. I hope it’s true. Sounds like something he’d say. He wasn’t noted for his diplomacy.”

  “I see you know your history. Churchill said that of all the crosses he had to bear in the war, the heaviest was the Cross of Lorraine.”

  “But they sure can cook. Which reminds me, I’m hungry.”

  ***

  They had just been seated when Emma Shields said, “Do you know why this is called the Rose Café?”

  “Is this a riddle?”

  “Of sorts. I figured it out my second time here. You’re a detective. Let’s see if you can do better.”

  Scarne looked around. At the wallpaper, which was a pale yellow. At the flowers on the tables and in the windows. They weren’t roses. At the lights and fixtures. The tableware and tablecloths. The linen. The wait staff uniforms.

  “I presume it’s not owned by someone named Rose.”

  “No, you’re not getting off that easily. All I will say is that the clues are in this room.”

  “Can I have until the end of the meal?”

  “Sure.”

  They turned to a hovering waiter. Emma Shields ordered the café’s signature “Five-Napkin” burger, rare, with fries. She saw Scarne’s look.

  “I’m starving,” she said.

  “You’d better be. I’m not sure I could finish one of those.” Looking up to the waiter he said, “I’ll have the lamb chops. Rare. Mint jelly. Enough grilled asparagus to share. And a bottle of the Chateau Mouton Bordeaux.”

  Without preamble Emma said, “Josh and I were very close. We grew up together. I adored him. He was kind of shy and I was pretty outgoing so we complemented each other. Sometimes cousins of a certain age get along better than siblings. We didn’t have to see each other every day and fight over toys or for attention. What a sister would have found annoying about him was cute to me. And I’m sure it worked that way for him as well. We told each other our deepest, darkest secrets and presented a united front to the world.”

  Her eyes glistened.

  “Josh was my best chum. I spoke to him a couple of days before he died. We were planning my visit. I was bereft...especially coming so soon after my husband passed away.”

  “I didn't know about your husband. I'm sorry.”

  “Mike died a year and a half ago. Cancer. Josh had helped me through that and, well, that made our bond even stronger.”

  Scarne decided that money wasn’t buying the Shields clan much luck.

  “How often did the two of you speak?”

  “Once or twice a week. Josh was my rock. He did everything he could to keep my spirits up.” Emma Shields started to laugh, then caught herself. “Sorry. I was just remembering. Josh had a ribald sense of humor. I told him some of his emails were going to get us arrested. Over the phone he did his best to keep my spirits up. He said he spent so much time cultivating straight guys for me to sleep with it was crimping his love life.”

  “What about his love life? Any problems?

  “Well, over the years, he had his heartbreaks, like everyone.”

  “Emma, could Josh have taken his own life? Rejection can be cumulative.”

  She bit her lip in thought, then shook her head.

  “Josh wasn't depressed. I can never recall him being seriously down. I was on medication after Mike died and he was concerned that I would become dependent. He hated medicines. I don’t think he’d ever been in therapy. He was fine on the phone. It was obvious he was still worried about me and couldn’t wait for us to get together. Josh didn’t kill himself.”

  The waiter arrived with their wine and Scarne went through the tasting ritual. They clinked glasses and drank appreciatively.

  “Your uncle thinks Josh's death was connected to a story he was writing about Victor Ballantrae.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you met Ballantrae?”

  “Once. On the yacht. We threw a party for him. He's a phony. And a boor. Now, the Dragon Lady, she's the real deal.”

  “Dragon Lady?”

  “Alana Loeb. His chief of staff. One of the most beautiful, accomplished women I've ever met. Ballantrae is a forceful figure, but she could shut him up with a look. She was the center of attention for every man there. And every woman on the yacht wanted to pitch her overboard.”

  Emma’s eyes took on a look that any man immediately recognized. The Green Monster.

  “Every woman?”

  “It was my first big social function since Mike died. I was dressed to kill. You'd think I'd have a home field advantage on my own fucking yacht. But Alana stole my thunder.” She paused and smiled. “The bitch.”

  Scarne took a sip of wine and tilted the glass in her direction.

  “You were probably just a little out of practice. When you’re on your game you could launch a thousand ships.”

  “Thank you,” she said, coloring slightly.

  “Is there anything else you can think of that might help me? Your father believes Josh was tilting at windmills. As usual.”

  “No. But I can’t believe Josh would make something up, or even exaggerate. If Ballantrae is a legitimate investor an infusion of cash would have been in Josh’s best interests, too. And he prided himself on getting things right. When he wrote for us he knew that as a Shields his work would be scrutinized for errors or prejudice. His stories annoyed the hell out of Dad, but no one ever said they were inaccurate, including Dad.” Emma Shields hesitated. “My father was wrong ab
out Josh. I was angry when he left and I blamed him. That was unfair. Josh was his own man. He even made me apologize to Dad. That was so like him, worrying about us.”

  She looked away. When she turned back to Scarne, her eyes were wet.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You needn’t be, Emma. You’ve lost a husband and a best friend in short order. And now you’re caught between your father and your uncle. This is just a job for me. For you, it’s more than that. I’ll try to remember that.”

  Emma Shields smiled and nodded. Their food arrived. She took a long pull of wine. Scarne suspected the conversation had been more draining than she anticipated. But she tucked into her burger with gusto. She looked at him.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Jurassic Park.”

  She laughed so loudly that other diners looked over.

  “I told you I was hungry.”

  Scarne started to pour more wine but she waved him off.

  “I have a class at 2. The students already think I’m full of it.”

  “I doubt that. Those kids seemed to really like you. But why do you do it?”

  “Teach? Well, for one thing I love it. My husband was a professor of history at Columbia. I wasn’t sure that I was going to stay in the family business so I got my Masters and am working on my doctorate. I have two stepbrothers who were assumed to have an inside track at the company.”

  “Were assumed?”

  Emma Shields smile did not extend to her eyes.

  “The issue is now in doubt.”

  Over coffee, Scarne got her to talk more about herself. She was a graduate of both Chestnut Hill in Philadelphia and the Sorbonne. Fluent in French and conversant in German and Spanish, she worked as a correspondent in various European bureaus of Shields before returning to the States, where she met, and married, her late husband. They had a daughter, now seven.

  That took Scarne by surprise. She read his face.

  “Disappointed? Why does that matter to a man?”

  He suddenly felt defensive. And he was damned if he knew why.

  “That’s silly. I’m not disappointed. I’m a bit surprised you took so long to mention it, that’s all. It certainly doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Don’t be disingenuous. Sure it does. A man looks at a woman who has a child differently than a woman who is, shall we say, un-tethered.”

  Scarne hated being called disingenuous, especially when it had the ring of truth. He started to say that since his only interest in her was professional, it didn’t matter what ties she had. But he suddenly decided not to go there. That might really be disingenuous. What he did say turned out to be the right thing.

  “Emma, if you were having lunch with a woman, how long would it have taken you to bring up your daughter?”

  She gave him a long, appraising look, and smiled.

  “Touché. Want to see her picture? Her name is Rebecca.”

  Please let the child be pretty, Scarne thought, as she handed him the photo. This woman reads me like a book. I don’t need a Seinfeld moment now.

  The child was stunning. Thank God.

  “She will break a lot of hearts.”

  Emma Shields smiled at the gallantry.

  “Becky is the reason I decided to talk to you. My father wants me back in the company. For all his perceived male chauvinism and arm candy, he will leave the company to the best qualified heir, man or woman. If I go back, it will be to protect my daughter’s future. My father may be right about Ballantrae, but if he’s not….”

  Her stepbrothers better watch out, Scarne thought.

  “And there’s something else. Rebecca loved Josh. In many ways he replaced her father. Last summer she found a large shell on the beach. Josh put it to her ear so she could ‘hear the ocean.’ I guess every kid is told that.”

  Scarne smiled. He still did it himself. The familiar hollow roar was a straight line back to childhood innocence few adults could resist.

  “She ran to my father, so excited. But Dad was never much of a romantic. Despite, or maybe because of, his many escapades. He told her it wasn’t the sea she heard. The shell reverberates the sound of our own blood rushing past the tympanic membrane. The inner ear. Rebecca was crushed. Later that afternoon Josh took her to the library in town. At dinner she marched up to my father holding a science book and the shell, which she passed around the table. She looked at my father and said: ‘Human blood has the same chemical makeup as sea water, from which all life springs. So we do hear the ocean!’”

  “That’s a wonderful story.”

  “Josh put the magic back in her childhood. I know my father tried to buy you off. Not many men would turn him down. If anyone killed Josh, I want them punished. But I love my father. I hope you won't do anything to hurt him...or Uncle Sheldon.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Scarne turned to her.

  “I’m sorry I made that crack about your portfolio.”

  “You had every right.”

  They shook hands. Scarne held hers for a moment.

  “The pictures on the wall. Rose Kennedy. The woman working in a war plant, ‘Rosie the Riveter.’ The stripper, Gypsy Rose Lee. The woman with the microphone in the dowdy dress. That was tough. Tokyo Rose. Every photo in the place concerns a woman named Rose. Very obscure and very clever.”

  Emma Shields smiled.

  “I’m impressed. Now let’s see how you do up against the Dragon Lady.”

  With that, she turned and walked briskly up the street.

  CHAPTER 14 – MIAMI LICE

  Scarne walked directly to the taxi line at Miami International.

  “Take me to 63rd and Collins in Miami Beach, please,” he said to the driver of a yellow minivan that pulled up. “Place called La Gorce by the Sea.” He threw his carry-on into the back seat.

  “Sure thing. You from New York?”

  Russian accent. There were a lot of Russians in Miami who immediately took to a city surrounded by ocean, bays, rivers and canals and full of women not swaddled in layers of sweaters and coats. They exchanged tales about the crummy weather “up North” as Scarne looked out the window on the drive through downtown.

  “Building boom still going on? Thought the easy money dried up.”

  “Don’t get me started. The speculators and developers were like lice. Started all these condo projects and now have to finish them. Can’t give them away. Serves them right. All this construction clogged the streets. Takes forever to get around. Costs me money. Same in New York, no?”

  “It’s the same all over. Where do you live?”

  “Miami Lakes. Near Shula’s. You know, the golf resort with the steakhouse? I rent. It’s cheap, so many apartments on the market. But I’m gonna buy a two-bedroom on Brickell. Flip it when the market recovers.”

  Scarne’s amusement showed on his face in the rear view mirror.

  “I know,” the cabbie said. “I’ll be one of the lice. Can’t scratch ‘em, join ‘em, I say.”

  They entered the Julia Tuttle causeway, one of several that connected Miami to Miami Beach. As they rode above Biscayne Bay Scarne enjoyed the spectacular view of downtown Miami’s glistening skyline. The cabbie left the Tuttle and cut over to 41st Street, also known as Arthur Godfrey Road, which would take them to Collins Avenue. He began pointing out restaurants.

  “That’s the Forge, most expensive restaurant in Miami. Wednesday nights, it’s nuts. Would embarrass Caligula. Local rich bitches and the studs. Anything goes. I’ve dropped off some unbelievable women. Went in once just to see the bar. Cost me $15 for a drink! Took a look at the menu. Want a $100 steak, that’s your place. Not me. The steer would have to blow me.”

  From the outside the Forge looked like a bank in Zurich. Scarne made a mental note to stop by for dinner before he left Miami. He’d read about its famous wine cellar, one of the largest in the world. And he knew something of the restaurant’s colorful history from friends in law enforcement.

  As if on cue, the cabbi
e said, “Meyer Lansky, you’ve heard of him, right, opened it in the 1920’s. The mob controlled this town. Some say they still do.”

  “I can’t believe you know who Lansky was,” Scarne said.

  “Oh, sure. A lot of these rich old Jews around here brag about the good old days. Rich ones. Not poor Russian Jews like me driving cabs.”

  “What’s it like inside?”

  “The Forge? Beautiful. I could have sat at that bar all night, if I hit the lottery. Very baroque. Hah! That’s the word. You go baroque eating there.”

  The cabbie roared at his joke. They crossed over the Indian River onto Collins Avenue. Scarne’s cab headed slowly northward, dodging cement trucks. Huge cranes loomed dangerously overhead, dozens of stories high, swinging girders into place. There was hardly any room to walk on the sidewalks, and dust was everywhere. Huge waste chutes spewed detritus into dumpsters. The racket was unceasing.

  “You couldn’t pay me enough to work on one of those buildings,” the cabbie said. “Last week three guys in Bal Harbour were working on a floor that collapsed and they fell down to the next floor into wet cement. They drowned in it. Their buddies started digging them out but the cement hardened and they finally had to use picks and jackhammers. Can you imagine dying like that? No, I’ll stick to my cab.”

  “Accidents happen.”

  “This ain’t New York, my friend. It’s Miami. Buildings fall down without planes crashing into them. The building code dates from the Flintstones.”