JL04 - Mortal Sin (17 page)

Usually.

If I’ve lost a case or a woman, I’ll head to the Gaslight Lounge downtown and watch Mickey Cumello make a martini. Plymouth gin, two and a half ounces give or take a drop, four ice cubes, and a splash of dry vermouth. He stirs with a glass swizzle because shaking clouds the drink. Then Mickey strains the potent concoction into a chilled glass. Finally, he squeezes a lemon peel above a burning match, letting the oil pass through the flame and into the drink. The perfect martini—sharp as a polished blade—with just a hint of burnt lemon.

Okay, so I don’t just
watch
him make the martini. But I seldom drink more than two.

Sometimes, I tell Mickey Cumello my problems. He’s a good listener. Quiet, attentive, thoughtful. I’ve never seen Mickey in the light of day and probably wouldn’t recognize him if he came out from behind the scarred teak bar. In the dark, windowless lounge, he’s a stocky man of indeterminate age wearing a short-sleeve white shirt and black bow tie, his gray hair combed straight back, revealing a lot of forehead and a widow’s peak.

“A woman or a trial?” Mickey asked.

“I lost the woman and won the trial,” I told him, “but I wish it was the other way around.”

From behind me, a woman’s voice: “You were always a romantic, Jake.”

I turned on the barstool and didn’t fall off. She was holding a tray full of empty cocktail glasses and soggy napkins. Wanda had red hair she hadn’t been born with, long legs, and the practiced smile of a woman who depended on tips to pay the rent. She was wearing one of those outfits that makes a waitress look like a French maid in a porno flick, a black mini with a deep-V top, bare shoulders, stockings with meandering black seams, and black shoes with stiletto heels. If she had a tail, she could have been a bunny, if they still had bunnies. She’d been in the chorus line in a couple of Broadway musicals, but that had been twenty years and three husbands ago. “I always told Mickey you were a romantic,” Wanda said, winking at me. “Just like what’s-his-name tilting at windmills.”

“Wanda, how long have we known each other?” I asked.

“Jeez, Jake, forever. You handled my last divorce, remember?”

“Do you think I’m a good man?”

“The best. You’re practically the only guy who comes in here who doesn’t hit on me. Except for the choreographer types, I mean.”

“But do you think I’m essentially moral? When faced with questions of good versus evil, which path would I choose?”

“I dunno, Jake. Good, I suppose.”

“What if evil is an easier path, paved with milk and honey?”

“Sounds sticky.”

“While the good path is a potholed son of a bitch.”

“Just like Bird Road,” she agreed, emptying her tray onto the bar. “Hey, Mickey, how ’bout a frozen ’rita, hold the salt, a Campari and soda with a slice, one Pellegrino, and one Calistoga.”

Mickey tried not to wince, but I caught him, anyway. He was from the old school. Bourbon, rye, scotch, and gin, maybe something fizzy for the ladies.

“Good is always the harder path,” I said.

“I know what you mean,” Wanda whispered to me, leaning close. There were freckles at the top of her cleavage. “Like should I declare all my tips to Uncle Sam, right?”

“Something like that.”

“Yeah, and like last weekend, this gentleman—at least I thought he was a gentleman—asked me to cruise the bay on his new Bertram. Wouldn’t you know it, we’re halfway to Bimini, and it’s the same old story. Suck or swim. Spread or tread.”

“A real Hobson’s choice.”

“Huh? This guy’s name was Kornblum. He sells insurance.”

Mickey loaded Wanda’s tray with a green slushy drink, a watery red one, and two bottles of expensive water. Wanda turned and high-heeled it to a corner table where two young men had stripped off their suit coats to reveal suspenders and custom-made shirts with shiny cuff links. I would have known they were lawyers even if they weren’t loudly boasting of recent courtroom triumphs, real or imagined, ridiculing judges and their vanquished opponents. With them were two women dressed for success in designer suits—one blue, one peach—that were probably designer labels from Bal Harbour Shops. I analyzed the two couples in my detached, objective, nonjudgmental way and concluded they were Republican-voting, squash-playing, Volvo-driving Yuppie scum.

I caught Mickey’s eye and made a stirring motion with my index finger. He nodded and reached for the bottle of Plymouth gin.

I thought about it some more, the ethical morass I had wandered into. Hell, had
created
, if we’re being honest. I thought about taking the easy way out. The case was over, so forget it. Gina was out of my life, so forget her. Whatever Nicky Florio and Rick Gondolier had done was none of my business. I did my job, won the case. But I kept wondering. What had Peter Tupton seen on Florio’s desk? What were Florio and Gondolier up to? I waited for the cool drink to erase the thoughts, to clear the mind by muddling it.

Just walk away.

It would be so easy.

Get back to the old routine, a reception room full of clients, a beach full of women. Meaningless work, meaningless play.

Mickey delivered another martini. The first sip seared my throat with its icy heat. The second sent a shiver through me. I felt Wanda’s presence behind me. Actually, I felt her breasts pushed against my back. “I get off at one,” she whispered.

I tried to say something, but my lips were numb. I felt myself nodding, my head too heavy a load for my shoulders to support.

Wanda ran a hand through my hair and pulled hard. “Don’t fall asleep on me, big guy.” She let go and raised her voice a couple of notches. “Hey, Mick, give Jake a cup of coffee, will ya, hon?”

Wanda had a town house in one of those clusters on Kendall Drive west of the Turnpike. All asphalt parking lots and wedge-shaped buildings. Not a blade of grass in sight, even if I could see. The place was furnished in fifties’ ultra-feminine. Fluffy pink pillows, fluffy cream drapes, fluffy white cat. Stuffed animals on the sofa, reproductions of Degas nudes on the living-room wall, a wooden wine rack on the kitchen counter. She slid a CD into the player, and Natalie Cole sang “Unforgettable.” Her dad joined in, thanks to some electronic wizardry.

Wanda cooed sweet things at me and undid my tie with swift, sure fingers. My awesome powers of deductive reasoning told me she had done this before. I got my shirt off without any help, but she intervened when I tried to take off my pants before my shoes.

In her bedroom, I leaned forward to kiss her but missed, my nose ending up in a sweep of red hair that smelled of cigarettes. She turned toward the bed, steadied me with one hand and used the other to pull back a thick white comforter. Then she effortlessly stepped out of her waitress mini, took me by the hand, and pulled me on top of her. My head touched down between her large, freckled breasts. I was aware of the white smooth expanse of her, the womanly scents. From somewhere, she produced a stack of foiled condoms, connected along perforated lines. There must have been a dozen. Either we were going to make party balloons, or she had confused me with somebody else. I fumbled with one of the foil wrappers, before she took it away and expertly opened it. The latex kind. White and cold and sexy as a surgical glove. Prevents disease, pregnancy, and nearly all pleasure. Like having sex through galoshes.

Wanda was one of the sighers and moaners, the omigod-I-never-dreamed-it-could-be-like-this types. I took a few bows, but if you’ve been around the track a few times, you don’t take your press notices seriously. When she wasn’t purring with cinematic sincerity, she was a warm and giving bedmate with the full complement of womanly slopes and curves and warm, tender places.

Sometime around dawn, she told me I looked like Harrison Ford.

Or was it Henry Ford?

I drifted in and out of sleep. I dreamed I was blitzing a quarterback on a rainy day on a field covered with knee-high mud. I moved in slow motion. An offensive lineman stood on sturdy ground and laughed at me. I tried the swim move, a high-arm maneuver, but he got underneath and pancaked me into the cold mud, which filled my nose and mouth. Just before I sank below the surface, I saw his face: Nicky Florio.

I was alone and shivering in a bank vault. Lots of money and no way to spend it, no way to get out. It was hard to breathe. Then it got colder still. I was naked. The vault became a meat locker. Beef carcasses hung from shiny hooks, blackened blood puddling on the icy floor. I fought my way through fat-streaked slabs of meat, desperately trying to escape, my feet slipping out from under me. I raced crazily down an endless row, my hands raised in front of my face, fighting through the carcasses, slick with gristle and bone, smacking against me. Suddenly, I was hit hard and knocked to the floor. A shadow swung back and forth over me. Filled with dread, I looked up. Suspended from a grappling hook, rocking crazily from side to side, was the corpse of Peter Tupton, a ghastly smile frozen on his face.

Laughing at me.

I awoke to find myself alone, the sheet and comforter kicked to the floor. The air-conditioning vent was right above the bed, louvers pointed down. My bare body was a forest of goose bumps.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to kitchen noises—cabinet doors closing, silverware clattering, the beep-beep of a microwave. I got up and pried my eyes open. In the bathroom, I realized I wasn’t home when I found the toilet seat down. In the kitchen, I found Wanda singing to herself as she made breakfast. An old Diana Ross song, “All Night Lover.” Wanda squeezed fresh orange juice, sizzled three eggs sunny-side up, topped by half a dozen strips of bacon, toasted some cinnamon bread, then watched me eat, explaining how it’s a woman’s pleasure to see a man enjoy himself. She allowed as how I had been pretty wonderful, considering my condition.

While we ate, she was moved to ponder how strange it was that we were drawn together after all these years as friends, or at least acquaintances, and isn’t life weird, and what does it all mean, and will I call her later, and maybe we could go to the antique show in Boca Raton next weekend, and would I like it if she cut her hair short.

Antique show?

That old feeling. Total displacement. What have I done? Who is this person, and why am I here? It had been years since I had a one-night stand. Sad then, sadder now. The total futility of the random joining of persons unconnected in any other way.

By the time I headed the old convertible east, the sun glared angrily in my face. I felt pasty, bloated, out of sorts. My mouth was parched. I wanted to run on the beach and swim in the sea. I wanted to cleanse my body and my mind and my soul, if I had any.

I thought about my dreams. Charlie Riggs once told me that Freud was all wet. “Dreams as repressed wishes, what hogwash! A pity Freud didn’t have the benefit of research into brain chemistry.”

I had waited for him to go on. As usual, he didn’t disappoint me. “Dreams let us work on unsolved problems or unfinished business from the day and allow brain cells to recharge their transmitter chemicals.”

Unsolved problems.

Unfinished business.

Story of my life.

Maybe it was time to finish something and not be stuck somewhere between the dreamscape of a muddy football field and a meat locker.

And that’s just what I wanted to do now.

I wanted to play poker with Nicky Florio.

I
F I HAD BEEN JIMMY STEWART PLAYING A COUNTRY LAWYER IN
Anatomy of a Murder
, I just would have hung out a
GONE FISHIN
’ sign. But I toil on the thirty-second floor of a high rise on Biscayne Bay where my time is billed at $250 an hour, and going fishing is an expensive avocation. So first I had to dictate the usual dilatory motions, bill customers for time spent ruminating on their problems while showering, return important phone calls from Granny and Charlie and the guy who’s shaping a new sailboard for me.

I skimmed a lawyers’ magazine with tips on how to get clients to pay for your word-processing system without their knowing it. I answered interrogatories in a lawsuit between two Ocala cattle ranchers over contraband bull semen. I interviewed a man with a mustache and goatee who said he was Carlos Manuel de Cespedes y del Castillo, the great-grandson of the man who proclaimed Cuba’s independence from Spain in 1868. He wanted to sue an imposter who was giving speeches to the Little Havana Kiwanis Club claiming to be a descendant of
el padre de la patria.

I listened to a man whose eyes darted furiously around my office as he explained why he wanted to bring a class action against a brewer that claimed to make its beer with “Rocky Mountain spring water.” The beer actually contained poisonous gases from Neptune, he revealed, brought by aliens in cigar-shaped spacecraft that land on the Continental Divide.

“Neptune?” I asked him.

“Neptune,” he repeated, his eyes seeming to cross as they jumped back and forth.

“You’re sure it’s not Uranus?” I asked him.

I returned a phone call from a plastic surgeon in trouble with the Department of Professional Regulation for failing to warn patients of the dangers of silicone breast implants.

“A frame-up,” he told me. “The medical association’s out to get me because I advertise on TV.”

“What’s wrong with advertising?” I asked.

“They got a hard-on for me because of my toll-free number. I got the idea from a dermatologist friend, ‘444-ACNE.’”

“I still don’t see what’s wrong, unless…no, you didn’t…”

“Yeah, 444-TITS. Hey, business is business.”

The last appointment was with a guy arrested for slashing the bark off red mangrove trees, cooking it, and selling the foul-tasting potion to local
botánicas.
The tannin in the bark either cures diarrhea or causes cancer, depending whether you believe witch doctors from Little Havana or scientists from Harvard. I turned down the case, preferring murderers, con artists, and quack physicians to tree killers.

Then I told Cindy I was going fishing.