Lassiter jl-8

by Paul Levine

  She grabbed me by the sleeve of my suit coat. “If you had a shred of decency, you’d tell me everything you know.” Her voice tight, her pain palpable.

  She had that right. A shred of decency was about my ration.

  “Walk with me,” I said, figuring she wouldn’t let up. “But stop pecking at me.”

  We exited the building on the 12th Street side and crossed into the parking lot. My old Biarritz Eldo was resting under a skinny palm tree at the far end of the lot, by the Miami River. A rust bucket freighter, its top deck covered with used bicycles, was steaming east, toward the ocean, and a distant port in the islands.

  “I’m truly sorry about your sister,” I said. “And for your pain.”

  She waited. I wasn’t about to tell her everything I knew. But, ignoring my own counsel, I planned to tell her enough to get her off my ass.

  “I do remember her.” Hell, yes, I thought. Krista would be hard to forget.

  Still, Amy waited.

  I took a deep breath. I looked Amy Larkin in the eyes. Then I told her the story.

  It had been Rusty’s idea. Throw his pal a birthday party at Bozo’s, a strip club on LeJeune Road near the airport. Not that I objected. I was a free agent, one year out of Penn State, busting my ass to hang on to the Dolphins’ roster. Rusty MacLean was a flashy wide receiver with deceptive speed, best known for slanting hard across the middle, his long red hair flapping out of his helmet like flames trailing an engine. He was a bad boy and, of course, women loved him.

  Rusty knew the guy who owned Bozo’s. Hell, he knew all the guys who owned strip clubs, massage parlors, and peep shows. Rusty paid for the booze and half a dozen strippers. Lap dances included. Anything in the Champagne Room in back was between the stripper and the partygoer. Tips not included.

  Rusty had been seeing Sonia What’s-her-name for a couple months. He called her his favorite, but that’s like Tiger Woods calling a seven-iron his favorite club or his wife his favorite woman. There were plenty more in the bag, when the need arose.

  On that night long ago, I remember Rusty swooping down on the table where I sat with Sonia and the new girl. Sonia was all plastic boobs and hair extensions. The kid, Krista, had a sprinkling of freckles and a wide, innocent toothpaste commercial smile. Even toasted, I realized she didn’t belong here with a bunch of degenerates like Rusty, my teammates … and me.

  The offensive line sat at the bar, looking like giant beer kegs on a loading dock. Models of teamwork, the guys maintained their usual positions, the center in the middle of the group, flanked by both guards, and then the tackles. The tight end must have been taking a piss. One of our defensive backs-a showboater, but aren’t they all? — was demonstrating his karaoke prowess, with a soulful rendition of “Midnight Train to Georgia.” Half a dozen strippers were offering companionship in exchange for tips.

  I had just won a drinking game called “Who Shit?” Yeah, I know, very mature. In those days, fueled by testosterone and tequila, I often engaged in clever activities, such as pounding holes in plasterboard with my forehead.

  Rusty staggered over, grabbed Krista by the shoulders, and hoisted her out of her chair. “Wanna ride the wild stallion?”

  Her body stiffened.

  “How old are you, kid?” I asked, realizing she wanted no part of Rusty’s rodeo.

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Right. And I’m gonna make All-Pro. Rusty, why not pick on someone old enough to vote. Or at least old enough to drive?”

  “Stay out of this, benchwarmer.” Rusty slung her onto his back and gave her a horsey ride to the Champagne Room, a dark place separated from the VIP Room by a beaded curtain.

  I gave Sonia a look, but she just shrugged.

  Rusty will be Rusty.

  We left it at that. Rusty was a star, and I was a free agent linebacker, specializing in kamikaze tackles on the kickoff team. My deepest concerns involved running faster and hitting harder. I read the sports pages and the Dolphins’ playbook and little else. I was not given to profound thoughts.

  A few moments later, I heard a scream from the back.

  A man’s scream. Rusty yelping, then cursing. The words starting with “motherfucking” and ending with a word that rhymes with “punt.” I tore through the beaded curtain and flicked on the lights.

  “Bitch stabbed me, Jake!”

  Rusty was sprawled naked on the floor. A knife handle protruded from his right buttock, blood seeping around the blade.

  “She had a fucking knife in her boot!” Rusty was gasping for air, and I was afraid he was going into shock.

  “Calm down, cowboy. We’ll get you to Jackson.”

  “No hospitals, Jake. No police. That doc in Hialeah. Get me there.”

  The girl was curled in the fetal position in a corner of the sofa. Sobbing. Nude except for one white patent leather boot. She had a bloody lip and her neck was ringed with red marks. Four fingers and a thumb had pressed into her flesh. I could even make out the imprint of Rusty’s Super Bowl ring.

  “Jesus, Rusty, what the hell did you do to her?”

  “I paid for it rough.” He hacked up a wet cough. “She knew what she was getting into.”

  By now, three of our larger teammates had crowded through the doorway. They debated who would take Rusty to Dr. Torano in Hialeah, finally deciding all of them would go. Offensive linemen believe in teamwork. My job was to take care of the girl, or more accurately, make sure the girl caused no problems for Rusty or the team.

  I stripped off my jersey and handed it to her. She put it on, sniffled, and wiped her nose with her arm. “You’re not gonna call the cops on me, are you?”

  “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “I stabbed your friend.”

  “Knowing Rusty, he deserved it.”

  She gave me a look, somewhere between relief and disbelief.

  “Some women I know would give you a medal,” I said. “And trust me, the cops would be worse for Rusty than for you.” I opened my wallet and pulled out several twenties.

  Jake the Fixer.

  I jammed the bills into her hand. Years before I became a night-school lawyer, I was already massaging the justice system. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

  She touched her neck with one hand, feeling where she had been choked.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up.” I dabbed the blood from her lip with a napkin. Our faces were just inches apart, her green-gold eyes staring into mine.

  “I need to get out of here,” she said.

  “Good idea. Do you have a car?”

  “Out of Miami. Out of this …” Her gesture took in the stained vinyl sofa, the cheesy nude prints, the entire mildewed, sleaziness of the place. “Can you help me?”

  “I’m not a social worker. Come on.”

  “You’re kind of cute. Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Dozens. Now, where do you live? I’m gonna get you a cab.”

  “Let’s go to your place.”

  “Nope. Too many sharp objects in the kitchen.”

  “Just for the night.”

  “And then tomorrow, what?”

  “I never worry about tomorrow.”

  “Poetic. Where do you live?”

  “Please. I’ll do anything you want.” In case I didn’t get the point, her tongue darted between painted lips. When I didn’t respond, she grabbed my hand and slipped it under the jersey and onto a warm, natural, silken breast. She took my other hand, raised it to her face, and stuck my thumb into her mouth. She sucked it. Hard and with plenty of tongue and slurping sound effects. Subtlety was not the girl’s strong suit.

  I was tempted. Who the hell wouldn’t have been? But I was still thinking about Rusty and cops and curfews and Coach Shula. A human cold shower.

  “Not gonna happen, kid,” I said.

  She pushed my hand out from under the jersey and spit my thumb out of her mouth. “Asshole!”

  “Right. Okay, where do you live?”

  “Miami Springs, but
I don’t want to go back there. There’s this guy.…”

  “There usually is,” I said. Figuring she lived with some punk. A drug dealer or a pimp.

  “An old guy,” she continued. “Like almost forty. He pays my rent and wants me to do these gross movies, and-”

  “No time for life stories. I’m paying for a cab. You decide where to go.”

  She looked at me then, her eyes empty and defeated. Another man letting her down. I imagined a father or a stepfather, a creep who did things that pushed her out the door and into a seedy place like this.

  But I can’t save the world. I can’t even save one lost girl.

  We didn’t exchange another word, and after I tucked her into the cab, I never saw her again.

  3 The Road to Hell

  That was the story I told Amy Larkin.

  Most of it was true. Rusty. The knife. The busted lip. The cash.

  But I had left things out and cut the story short. I hadn’t sent Krista home. No way would I tell Amy Larkin what really happened. The unedited version would feed her suspicion that I had a motive for wanting Krista to disappear.

  “I don’t believe you,” Amy said, flatly.

  “Why the hell not? If I was gonna lie, I’d have a better story.”

  “It’s a smart story. Better than if you claimed to be a hero.”

  “Right. Who would believe that?”

  “You come out looking like a shit, but not a rapist or a killer.”

  We were standing next to my Eldo convertible in the Justice Building parking lot, nearly empty now, the afternoon sun beating down on the pavement. A snowy white egret had migrated across the street from the river and was scratching at the asphalt where someone had spilled a bag of potato chips.

  “Problem is, you’re lying,” she said.

  “So you’re a human polygraph, that it?”

  She pulled out a leather case and handed me a business card. Amy G. Larkin. Fraud Investigator. Auto Division of some insurance company in Toledo, Ohio.

  “I interview liars every day,” she said.

  “Lot of fender-bender cheats in Toledo, I’ll bet.”

  “Do you have any witnesses? Anyone see Krista get into that cab? Who’ll back up your story?”

  That’s the problem with lies, I thought. To keep them going, you have to fertilize and water them. Then they grow like strangler weeds.

  “I told you the truth. Take it or leave it.”

  “So even by your own account, you had a chance to be a Good Samaritan, and you turned away.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it. Another is that I’m not the last person to see your sister alive.”

  “The cabdriver you can’t name?”

  “And the guy she didn’t want to go home to.”

  “And his name is …?”

  “No idea.”

  Three toots of a horn came from the direction of the river, a freighter asking for the drawbridge to open, pissing off motorists who’d be stuck for the next five minutes.

  “You might want to track down where Krista was living in Miami Springs,” I said. “Maybe there’s some record of who paid her rent.”

  “I know how to investigate, Lassiter. It’s what I do.”

  “Great. Then if there’s nothing more you need from me …”

  “Why so anxious to get rid of me?”

  I imagined her asking the same question to a guy with an inflated bill to repair his rocker panel.

  “Let me ask you something,” I said. “Why’s it taken you so long to find me? Your sister disappeared what, eighteen years ago?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “Fine.” I pocketed her card. “I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  She turned and headed toward her rental at the other end of the lot, forgetting to say what a pleasure it had been to meet me. I stood there a moment in the tropical heat, watching her go. Only when she had ducked into a red Taurus did I bring up the remaining memories of that long ago night.

  The whole truth? I did not put Krista Larkin in a cab and send her home. Oh, I tried. But she refused to get in. Instead, standing in the street in front of Bozo’s, she thrust out a thumb and tried hitchhiking up LeJeune Road. It took about thirty seconds for a car to stop. Four guys were inside, windows down, hooting and hollering, and bragging about the size of their equipment. I grabbed her and dragged her to my car.

  She was laughing as soon as her butt hit the seat. She’d gotten what she’d wanted. I drove to my apartment, telling myself it was with good intentions. Yeah, yeah. I know what paves the road to hell.

  I gallantly gave Krista my bedroom. I’d sleep on the sofa, and in the morning, we’d figure out what to do.

  Deep inside, I knew it was bullshit, and so did she. Teenage girl, beautiful and willing. Horny jock-or is that redundant? It was a sure thing, and no guy I knew would have turned it down.

  The mating dance was a simple two-step. I asked if she wanted to shower. Yes. She asked if I wanted to join her. Yes. I took her standing up under the steaming water, her legs locked around my hips. Then on the chaise on the balcony, Krista wanting to feel the breeze from the bay. Finally in the bed, where we conked out until close to noon.

  When I awoke, I had no regrets. No pangs of conscience. My only worry was making my one o’clock practice. Being late would cost me $500 and enhance the possibility of finishing my career with the Saskatchewan Roughriders.

  Krista found a white dress shirt in my closet. She wore that and nothing else and padded off to the kitchen, where she tried making French toast, creating a lake of egg yolks on the counter. Getting all domestic after one night of play.

  My head ached from the booze. She was already talking about how we might spend the weekend.

  “How old are you?” I asked. “Really.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Bullshit.”

  It took some persuading, but she finally admitted the truth. “Almost eighteen.”

  Shit. Jailbait.

  “You gotta go now, kid.”

  “Whadaya mean?”

  “I’ll drive you to your place.”

  “I wanna stay with you.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “The stuff I did last night. I can do even better.”

  Her eyes brimmed. I felt sorry for her, just as she supposed I would. Still …

  “Get dressed Krista. We gotta go.”

  “Asshole!” She tore off my shirt, popping all the buttons. She stamped into the bedroom. Fifteen minutes later, I was driving west on 36th Street through a frog-strangler of a storm, thunder rattling the windows of my old Camaro. When I pulled up to the curb, I saw a man standing under the awning of Krista’s apartment building, smoking a cigar. Blocky build. Blue jeans and a brown suede jacket, an urban cowboy look. Thinning hair with a bad comb-over. He tossed the cigar into the bushes as we pulled up.

  “Shit, it’s Charlie,” Krista said.

  The guy’s hands were balled into fists at his sides.

  I did the semi-chivalrous thing. Double-parked next to a puddle and said, “see ya,” as she got out of the car. The guy she called “Charlie” stayed under the awning, the rain drilling the canvas like gunshots.

  “In the car, babe.” He gestured toward a lobster red Porsche, the water beading on its waxy finish.

  “I gotta get cleaned up, Charlie.”

  “Now! You’re late and you’re costing me money.”

  “You gonna be okay, kid?” I called through the window.

  “Fuck you, asshole.” She shot me the bird and headed for the Porsche.

  Charlie stepped off the curb and splashed toward my door. He sized me up and didn’t seem impressed. “Have fun, stud?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Lemme guess. Best you ever had.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Hell, she’s the best I ever had, and I’ve had a helluva lot more than you.”

&n
bsp; “I don’t keep score,” I said.

  “We all keep score. Even Boy Scouts like you.”

  From the Porsche, Krista yelled, “You coming, Charlie? Thought we were late.”

  He ignored her and looked at me with a mirthless smile. “Did you play rough? That’s the way she likes it, you know.”

  “This how you get off? Talking to guys about fucking.”

  “You didn’t leave any bruises, did you, stud?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “If you did, it’ll cost you.”

  “Who are you, her pimp?”

  The guy laughed. “Pimp. Manager. Fuck buddy. Man for all seasons. But you, stud? You’re just a john.”

  4 People Change

  I have no excuses, other than being 23, with more sex drive than brain power. I seem to remember rationalizing my conduct: Hey, she was a stripper. It’s not like I deflowered her after catechism class.

  But the truth is that I didn’t care about her. I simply took what was offered and gave nothing in return, except some crumpled twenty-dollar bills.

  That was then. And now?

  I didn’t want to get involved in Amy’s life, either. All I needed was to convince her that I wasn’t the last person to see her sister alive. There was “Charlie.” Problem was, my story of a rainy day and a mystery guy with a comb-over would sound like bullshit. The truth often does. If I could find Charlie’s last name, I’d have something solid to give Amy. Then I would bid her good-bye, good luck, and have a nice life.

  Jake Lassiter, still the escape artist.

  Fifteen minutes after leaving the Justice Building with my DUI jury out, I was cruising across the MacArthur Causeway, headed toward my office on South Beach. It was a crystalline clear, breezy afternoon, the sun bursting into diamonds on the bay. To my right, one of the big cruise ships was steaming out Government Cut, headed to the islands.

  I tried calling my old teammate Rusty MacLean. Back in the day, he’d known a lot of sleazebags. Maybe he could pin a last name on “Charlie.” Rusty’s voicemail promised he’d ring me right back, if he wasn’t fishing, riding his horse, or coaching his daughters’ field hockey team.