by Paul Levine
Lola was at the dinner, putting on her usual show of eating three micrograms of the most expensive entree on the menu. Which turned out to be the Japanese Wagyu strip steak. One-hundred forty-five bucks!
“Try a bite, Charlie. It melts in your mouth.”
If she really wanted something to melt in her mouth, Charlie told her, she could put bearnaise on his nutsack.
Ordinarily on Saturdays, he’d lie to Lola and say he was off to play golf at Riviera. No need this morning. She was out of town, and he was happily on his way to Lighthouse Point to see Melody Sanders, as he’d been doing for several years now.
He’d bought Melody a two-bedroom condo near the marina and put her on the payroll at three grand a month. Talk about a frugal fuckmate, he’d once paid that for six hours with an escort in Buenos Aires. On the books, Melody was listed under “consulting services,” which was basically true, as she’d taught him the reverse Amazon, a position that let her do all the work and eased his aching back.
He loved giving Melody gifts. Inexpensive artsy and craftsy stuff he picked out himself. She was always grateful, not like the whiny Lola. He’d given his wife a kumquat-size diamond for their anniversary and still didn’t get a blow job. Her excuses for refusing sex ran from the old, reliable headache to the exotic yeast infection. Lately, she insisted that she couldn’t get turned on because of anxiety over global warming.
Melody was uncomplicated and undemanding and had pubic muscles that could squeeze the buttercream out of a pastry bag. Not long ago, he realized that Saturday mornings in Melody’s bed were the high point of the week. Only one downside. His golf game was going to shit.
The Ferrari was purring through North Lauderdale, a steady 75, only possible on weekend mornings. He checked the mirror. The Escalade was back again, three cars behind and one lane over.
His thoughts turned to Lassiter. Had Perlow scared him off? Lassiter didn’t seem like the kind of guy whose asshole puckered up when threatened. Was he really going to bring in the state Attorney General? And what’s this shit about the Justice Department? No way Ziegler wanted the feds pawing over his tax returns.
Won’t be long, he thought, imagining Melody’s naked body entwined with his. Wouldn’t those alter kockers at the country club be jealous? He could see the old farts now, taking a dip in the Jacuzzi. Pale and flabby, bobbing like matzoh balls in chicken soup.
With all the crap raining down on him, he needed Melody today more than ever.
Lassiter breathing down my neck.
Perlow picking my pocket.
And that cinema verite phony Rodney Gifford. Could he really know what happened the night of the party?
Just how much pressure could a man take?
Another check of the mirror. No Escalade. It must have taken an earlier exit. The only vehicle keeping up with him was a big gray Hummer directly behind his Ferrari.
Shit! Ziegler realized he was still in the speed lane, and the Copans Road exit was just ahead. He floored it and cut across the expressway. Horns honked behind him, and he saw the Hummer tear across four lanes and take the exit behind him.
Ziegler drove into the town of Lighthouse Point, feeling better the closer he got to Melody’s bed. He pulled up at the four-story, pink stucco building with balconies overlooking the harbor. Sweet anticipation, he was starting to feel better already. He emerged from the Ferrari tumescent, thanks to the Viagra he swallowed before leaving the house. He took the elevator to the fourth floor and hurried along the exterior walkway to her apartment.
As he rang the doorbell, he heard the rumble of an engine, looked down, and saw the gray Hummer pull into the parking lot, where it stopped next to a Dumpster and sat there, idling. But he didn’t take the time to think about it, once Melody opened the door wearing a black silk teddy and saying she was so horny, would he mind terribly if they screwed right away and had brunch later?
“I can live with that,” he said.
39 A Semi-Pro P.I
Where the hell was Amy?
After her motel room had been broken into, she said she was coming over to the house, but she never showed. I tried calling a dozen times. Never called me back.
I was thinking all this while the Eldo rumbled across the 12th Avenue bridge over the Miami River. I was headed south toward Coconut Grove and home. I passed what used to be the Orange Bowl. For the last few years, it’s been an empty lot, sad as a cemetery. Now it’s a hole in the ground, workers building a new baseball stadium for the Marlins, but it won’t be the same. With its view of the downtown skyline, the rickety and rusty O.B. was a classic of the game. Home to Joe Namath’s heroic Super Bowl, Doug Flutie’s impossible Hail Mary, and the Fins undefeated season, two decades before I suited up.
I played for the Dolphins in the cold and sterile Joe Robbie Stadium, carved out of the sawgrass near a turnpike exit. The stadium was renamed Pro Player Stadium in return for some loot from a now-defunct clothing line, then back to Joe Robbie, then Land Shark Stadium because a beer company paid for the privilege, and finally Sun Life, after an insurance company. Ah, Miami. So rich in tradition.
I had already hit South Dixie Highway when I saw a candy-apple red Escalade two cars ahead and one lane over. Correction, I heard the Escalade, the lake pipes rumbling like thunder. Then I saw the spinning wheel covers and the shiny paint job. Last week, I’d seen an identical pimpmobile double-parked in front of the Justice Building. Then it had tailed me down Douglas Road, barely three miles from here.
I passed the pair of cars between us and swung behind the Escalade, getting close enough to see the vanity plate, U R NEXT.
Gotcha.
Same vehicle. Miguel Sanchez of Homestead.
But who the hell’s driving your car, now that you’re an inmate at FCI?
The Escalade stayed in the right-hand lane and passed the Red Road intersection in South Miami. I was two cars behind when it turned right onto Sunset Drive, and I followed.
We passed South Miami Hospital and headed west. The driver gave no indication he knew he was being tailed. I let another car get between us. Just past 97th Avenue, the Escalade turned into a strip mall. I continued for another two blocks, hung a U-turn, and doubled back.
When I pulled into the lot, I saw the Escalade parked next to Scully’s Tavern, a neighborhood joint known for its fish sandwiches fried in a potato-chip batter. At least, that’s what the sign in the window said.
I parked in front of a snake and iguana shop a few doors away and headed for the tavern. I didn’t know who I was looking for, but figured if the guy saw me, he’d react.
The lunch crowd was gone, and the place was nearly empty. In a side room, two guys in University of Miami T-shirts shot pool. They paid no attention to me.
A couple of solitary drinkers at the bar. A young couple at a table. I circled the bar and saw the guy. Recognized him from behind, thanks to the diamond earring and barbed-wire tattoo around his neck. Pepito Dominguez, my DUI client. Sitting on a bar stool, drinking a Bud.
“You asshole.” I lifted him off the bar stool by the scruff of his neck.
“Jake!” His eyes registered shock, about twenty thousand volts’ worth. “I’m sorry, jefe! Just one beer.”
“I don’t care about the beer.” I let him fall back onto the stool. “Why you following me? What the hell’s going on?”
“Just practicing, man. That’s all.”
“Practicing for what?”
“To be your P.I.”
“Bullshit.”
The bartender, an older guy in a Dolphins polo, came over to see if there was a problem. We both said no, and I ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.
“It’s true, jefe,” Pepito said. “I tailed you for three days, and you only made me that once, at the traffic light in the Grove. Unless you saw me on the Trail, too.”
“The purple Impala? That was you?”
“Yeah.”
Then it came to me. Sanchez, owner of the Escalade, had been captured after ju
mping bail. A fugitive named Terence Connor owned the Impala. Both must have put their cars up as security, which is how Dominguez Bail Bonds got them.
“You borrowed the cars from your dad, didn’t you?”
“Switched them every day,” Pepito said, proudly. “That was my cover.”
“Might have worked better if the cars weren’t so conspicuous.”
He gave me a little sideways grin. “Worked fine yesterday when I followed Charlie Ziegler.”
That stopped me. “How the hell do you know about Ziegler?”
“The other night when it rained like hell, I followed you to an ugly-ass house in Gables Estates. Looked up the property records, found the owner’s name. Charles Ziegler. Stopped in your office the next morning, shot the shit with Cindy, and she filled me in.”
“You little sneak,” I said. Meaning it as a compliment.
Our drinks arrived. Pepito hoisted his beer and offered a toast. “Muerte a Fidel!”
“Death to all Philistines,” I agreed. “Now tell me what the hell you’ve been up to.”
“I tailed Ziegler up to Lighthouse Point. He spent three hours in a condo at the marina. Place is owned by a Melody Sanders.”
My look shot him a question, and he answered, “I checked the mailbox. Looked up the property records on Lexis-Nexis. She’s thirty-nine. Single. Born in Sarasota.”
“Sounds like Saturday morning nooky.”
“Exactly what I figure, jefe. She bought the condo seven years ago. Paid all cash.”
“You’re showing off, Pepito.”
He grinned at me. Okay, I had misjudged him. He’s got real ingenuity.
“So you want me to follow Ziegler some more?” he asked.
“Maybe later. But I’ve got another job for you.”
I told Pepito to find my missing client. I gave him the make and model of her car and told him where she’d been staying before checking out. We tossed around a couple ideas, and then I said, “Just so you don’t get too cocky; I caught you in the other car, too. The Hummer.”
“Big-ass H2?”
“Yeah.”
“Gray?”
“Yeah.”
“Windows tinted black.”
“That’s the one.”
“Wasn’t me.”
I laughed. “Of course it was you.”
“No, man. But I saw the Hummer twice. That night you drove to Ziegler’s house, it was cruising down Casuarina. Then yesterday, I saw it tailing Ziegler on Copans Road.”
That rocked me. “Get a look at the driver?”
“Never had the chance.”
“Shit.”
“Why’s someone following both Ziegler and you, jefe?”
“I don’t know. But if I can figure out who, I’ll know why.”
40 The Hummer
Sweaty and thirsty, Kip dribbled the basketball along the sidewalk. He’d been shooting buckets at the outdoor court in Peacock Park along the bay in the Grove. One hundred jump shots and one hundred free throws. Just like Uncle Jake taught him.
A man was cleaning the windshield of a big-ass gray Hummer parked next to the bike rack where Kip had locked his Cannondale.
Kip wouldn’t have paid much attention, but the car was so big and the chassis so high, the guy had to stand on the running board to reach the middle of the windshield. Big guy, too, in a muscle tee. Sloping shoulders, pumped delts, tats covering both arms and running up his neck.
Kip unlocked his bike chain and squeezed the basketball into his backpack.
“Nice bike,” the guy said, stepping off the running board.
“Nice wheels,” Kip said.
“Ever ride in one?”
“Nah.”
The guy shot a look toward the street, and Kip noticed the five-pointed crown tattoo on the back of his skull. Latin Kings. A sheriff’s deputy had lectured at school, taught them all about the local gangs. The Kings were badasses.
“You wanna take a ride?” The gangbanger circled around him. The Hummer’s passenger door was open.
“You some kind of perv?”
The guy laughed. “Just being nice, kid. I’m a friend of the family.”
“What family?”
“Jeez, you don’t remember. Me and your uncle are tight.”
“What’s his name?” Suspicious as hell.
“Jake. Jake Lassiter. Used to play for the Dolphins.”
“Uh-huh. What’s your name?”
It took a second before the guy said, “Bill.”
Kip sized up the situation. They were in a cul-de-sac just thirty feet from the bay at the end of the park. Only one way out, McFarlane Road, where cars were cruising by. But the perv was three feet away.
He’d knock me off the bike and throw me into the Hummer.
“Lock your bike back up, I’ll take you for a spin over to Jungle Island.”
“Okay, sure.”
Kip fumbled with the lock, and the perv stepped closer.
“Carbon frame?” the guy asked, grabbing the handlebars.
“Yeah.”
The perv’s hands were occupied. This might be his only chance, Kip thought. His uncle had taught him the side-blade kick against the heavy bag. With his weight on his left leg, Kip quickly shot his right knee toward his chest, pivoted, and snapped a foot squarely into the guy’s balls.
The air whoomphed out of the guy, and he sunk to his knees, gasping.
Kip hopped on the bike, bounced off the curb into the street, and pedaled like hell. He was too scared to look back.
41 A New Deal
Sitting in his study, Ziegler was waiting for Max Perlow to rob him deaf, dumb, and blind. Fifteen percent forever. Guys who sell their souls to the devil get better deals.
What could he do, Ziegler wondered, to end the nut-busting arrangement? He’d prayed for divine intervention.
Please God. Smite the old bastard. A heart attack, a stroke, some kreplach stuck in his throat.
He had fantasized about pressing a gun against the back of the old man’s head and pulling the trigger. Splatter Perlow’s brains all over the Romero Britto painting of an Absolut Vodka bottle. Lola had picked it out, with the help of some pop art consultant who was banging her sideways in his SoBe studio.
The more Ziegler thought about Perlow, the more aggravated he became. Then he hatched a plan. He would draw a line in the Gables Estates sand.
“Max, it’s time for a new deal. I’ve repaid you ten times over. It’s done. Finished. Fartik. You wanna threaten me, go ahead. But we both know you got no juice.”
It sounded good to him. At least, in his mind. He’d have to deliver the lines without his hands shaking or a tremolo in his voice.
Ziegler heard a squeak from the corridor. Perlow’s Hush Puppies padding toward the study. He’d let himself in. The bastard had demanded a key to the house years ago, shortly after an old gangster pal had been assassinated while ringing a doorbell.
“Hello, Charlie.” Perlow toddled through the open doorway, his cane banging the marble tile, his pudgy cheeks squeezing his rodent eyes into slits. “Jeez, where’s Ray Decker? You got a crazy woman running around threatening you, and no security at the house.”
“I can take care myself, Max.” Intending a double meaning. He wasn’t scared of a crazy woman … or an old hoodlum.
Perlow sagged into a leather chair in front of Ziegler’s desk. “So, did we have a good month, Charlie?”
I had a good month, you fucking leech.
That’s what Ziegler wanted to say, but what he really said was, “Not so great, Max.”
Jesus, what am I afraid of?
“So work harder next month,” Perlow said. “You got a check for me?”
“Bookkeeping’s running a little late, Max.”
The old man hacked up a wet cough. “You momzer! You make me waste my time coming over here?”
“C’mon, Max. Couple days is all.”
“Screw that.” Perlow pulled out a handkerchief, spat into it, then fol
ded the corners toward the center, as if covering the afikoman matzoh. “Write me a personal check, then reimburse yourself.”
“You gotta understand, Max. Revenue’s down but payroll keeps growing.”
Perlow nodded and Ziegler relaxed for a moment, thinking the old mobster had agreed. Instead, Perlow came back with, “Payroll. I meant to talk to you about that. Your chippy. What’s her name?”
“Who? Who you talking about, Max?”
Perlow reached into his pants pocket, drew out a crumpled piece of paper and read, “Melody Sanders.”
“What the hell? You snooping on me?”
“Nestor Tejada followed you to your little love nest. This Melody. She’s on the payroll.”
“What’s the big deal, Max? I’ve had women on the books before.” Not liking the sound of his own voice. Whiny. Pleading. Weak.
“I didn’t know about this maidel.”
“What, I need your permission to get laid?”
“You in love, Charlie?”
“What kind of question is that? I like the woman or I wouldn’t be spending Saturday mornings with her instead of working on my short irons.”
“When a guy falls for a dame, he starts opening up. Talking about his business and his friends. He lets his guard down, and says stuff he shouldn’t.”
“Only thing I say is, ‘Close your mouth, you’re letting air in.’ ”
“I know you, Charlie. You got this sentimental streak.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Max.”
“Sha! Ben said the same thing to Meyer.”
Here we go again, Ziegler thought. Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky. Maybe Scorsese thinks mobsters are entertaining, but if he’d ever met Max Perlow, he’d have made romantic comedies.