JL04 - Mortal Sin (32 page)

“It’s my fault? Is that the way you see it?”

“It’s too big for you, Jake. You think in little bits and pieces, always asking if something is right or wrong. Nicky’s on a different scale entirely. With him, it’s a question of power. Is everything lined up? Can it get done?” She sat up on an elbow and looked at me. “You don’t understand him.”

“You’re wrong. I understand he’s completely immoral.”

“That’s what I mean. You’re judgmental, and as long as you see things in moral terms, you’ll never beat him. You’ll never play by his rules.”

The gods make their own rules.
There it was again.

“If it’s being judgmental to determine that murder is wrong, that’s what I am. Your husband killed Tupton and had Gondolier butchered and tried to blast a hole in me that you could toss a bowling ball through.”

“He didn’t kill Tupton,” she said.

“Okay, so two out of three. Time off for good behavior.”

Outside the bedroom window, a cuckoo was singing—brisk
cuck-cuck-cucks
without the
ooo
—sounding like rapid-fire laughter.

“Tupton wasn’t murdered, Jake. Really.”

“So tell me.”

She sat up and looked at the clock on the bed stand. “Uh-oh. I’ve got to get moving. I’m meeting Nicky at the club for an early dinner with Mr. Sugar.”

My look told her I didn’t understand.

“Carlos de La Torre. There’s some hearing tomorrow, and Nicky needs to know everything’s set.”

“The Water Management Board,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I thought it was a done deal. Big Sugar won’t oppose the casino plan.”

“Right, but with Nicky, even after the nail’s driven into the board, he gives it one more whack.”

“Does De La Torre know about the rest of it, Gina?”

“He knows a lot, but not that.” She smiled. “Carlos would not be happy about that, not at all.”

“Carlos,”
I said.

She cocked her head at me. “A very handsome man in a very Latino way.” Then she laughed. “Jealous?”

“No, curious.”

“Really, Jake, I’ve got to get going, and I’ve said too much already.” She bounded out of the bed and headed into the master-bath suite, disappearing into a maze of showers, tubs, and makeup mirrors suitable for a Hollywood star. When I heard the water gushing, I got up and went through some dresser drawers. I found a pair of silk pajamas, turquoise and white, with Nicky’s initials embroidered on the breast pocket. In his closet, I pulled out a jaunty sailor’s hat. A nice ensemble, I thought, as I got dressed.

I ran quickly downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed the newspaper from the breakfast nook table, and dashed back up to the bedroom. I snatched the Polaroid camera Gina had brought in from the cabana, found a spot on the dresser that had a clear view of the bed, and pushed the ten-second delay shutter.

I hopped into the bed, showed my best shit-eating grin, held up the newspaper like a hostage in the Middle East, gave the thumbs-up sign, and blinked when the flash lit up the room. I waited the prescribed time and looked at the photo. The pajamas and hat were unmistakable, the canopied bed distinctive in its own right. The newspaper had a headline,
HOMICIDE RATE UP
. They didn’t know the half of it.

I took off the cap and pajamas and put them back where they belonged. I found a pair of Nicky’s shorts that were too big and a polo shirt that was too small, and got dressed. I borrowed fifty dollars from Gina’s purse, scooped up the photo of the sewer rat taken on the pool deck and the one of the satisfied lover from the bedroom—a bizarre before and after—called a cab, and tiptoed down the stairs.

I left the house without giving Gina the chance to set the odds on seeing me again.

The apartment building once had been seafoam green with sunny-yellow racing stripes darting through the stucco. Now the two colors blended into one pale pastel. Cantilevered sunshades hung over the windows like eyebrows. Despite the building’s Art Deco origins, this one hadn’t been restored for trendy yuppies with Volvos. It was still home to the geriatrics, who watched life from lawn chairs on the front porch.

Marvin the Mayen was having afternoon tea when I rapped on the hollow door of his apartment. Afternoon tea was not freshly brewed West Bengal Darjeeling with a silver platter of scones and brandy snaps. For Marvin, it was a twice-used bag of Lipton dipped in a cup of steaming water, a prune Danish on the side.

Marvin cracked the door, leaving the chain attached. I didn’t recognize him at first without the gray toupee. He looked up at me, squinting. “Jacob,
boychik
, what are you doing here?”

“I need to use the phone.”

“What, you cross the causeway for that?”

I told him I couldn’t go home or to my Granny’s or to Charlie’s or to my office. He led me to the kitchen table and offered me a Danish, prune or poppy seed, take my choice. The open second-floor window overlooked Flamingo Park. I could hear the shouts of the handball players.

Marvin the Mayen slurped his tea, wrinkled his puss at me, and asked what kind of
mishegoss
I’d gotten into now, and why were my shorts so loose, my shirt so tight, and what’s with the bare feet?

“I’m in a little trouble,” I said.

Marvin offered me a another Danish, and I accepted. Then I asked him for a small favor. Could he go out and buy me some clothes?

His high, creased forehead added a few furrows. “Clothes?”

“You know, pants, shoes, a shirt. I’ll tell you my sizes.”

“Where do I get these clothes?”

“I don’t know. Wherever you shop. I’ll pay you back.”

“Shop? I shop at the deli and the bakery, once in a while the fruit stand. Clothes I haven’t bought since Harry Truman ran a haberdashery.”

I told him some new stores had opened on Ocean Drive, but stay away from the ones where the clerks are going through their Carmen Miranda stage.

When he was gone, I started dialing the phone, which is what you do on an old-fashioned black rotary number. I called Abe Socolow, who asked where the hell I was, and before I had time not to answer, he pleaded with me to surrender.

“Come on in, Jake. I’m worried about you. This has really gotten serious. Gunther and half of Metro are combing the streets for you. So are the federal marshals, and one of Florio’s hired hands has been snooping around the courthouse, your office, your house, the bars you frequent….”

“Let me guess, Guillermo Diaz.”

“Right. I’ve seen his rap sheet, and I know all about that business with a horse trainer upstate. I want to find you before he does, old buddy. We can protect you, and you’ll get a fair trial, I promise you that.”

“Trial? Abe, listen. Nicky Florio’s pulling off some gigantic scam involving Micanopy land. He’s got a hearing tomorrow in front of the Water Management Board, and if—”

“Screw water management! You listen to me, Jake. The grand jury handed up two indictments for first-degree murder, and your name is on the front page of each one.”

“Two?”

“Yeah. One Ricardo Galliano aka Rick Gondolier and one James White Feather Tiger.”

“I didn’t kill Gondolier.”

“Jesus Christ, Jake. What are you saying? You have the right to remain silent. You have the right—”

“I know my rights. Look, Tiger killed Gondolier. Nicky Florio ordered it. I was there. I killed Tiger, but it was self-defense.”

“He was attacking you?”

“Not at the time. He was trying to coerce me into signing a confession.”

“So you
killed
him? He was a cop, for Christ’s sake. He was doing his job.”

“He was framing me for a murder he committed, and then he and Diaz were going to kill me and make it look like a suicide. He was doing Nicky Florio’s dirty work. I did what I had to do.”

Through the line, I heard a bitter laugh. “I’ve seen the autopsy report, Jake. You rammed a pen into his brain, then blew off both his legs with shotgun blasts. It looks like an assassination, and the pictures aren’t pretty. Two grand jurors blew their lunch.”

“Florio must have used the shotgun.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? Because he was angry, because he wanted to make it look worse for me.”

“Florio told the grand jury that you and Gondolier stole a million bucks from the bingo hall. He says you killed Gondolier in some dispute between thieves and then killed Tiger, who was investigating the murder.”

“Then Florio’s guilty of perjury besides everything else.”

“Look, Jake, my sources tell me Tiger was dirty, but that stuff tends to get overlooked when a guy with a badge gets blown away. What we’re looking at here is a twenty-one-gun salute, a funeral with uniforms from all over the state, and a half-assed lawyer branded as a cop-killer. All hell will break loose when the indictments get unsealed. Even now, we got some trigger-happy guys on Metro who might take you out if this Diaz creep doesn’t find you first. Jake, I figure you got about twenty-four hours to live if you don’t get your ass in here where I can protect you.”

We both listened to the buzzing on the line for a moment.

“You’re not coming in, are you?” he asked finally.

“No. If I do, I’ll never get what I need on Florio. I can’t clear myself sitting in the can.”

I heard him sigh.

“Okay, what’s this shit about the Water Management Board? Anything illegal, anything I can pull Florio’s chain about?”

“I don’t know. Just show up. The hearing’s in Belle Glade. If I can’t nail Nicky there, you can bring me in, but leave Gunther home. Next time I see him, I’m going to put him on his ass.”

Socolow was telling me to stop threatening state officers, I was already in enough trouble, but I hung up halfway through his speech and laboriously dialed another number. Mike Goldberg answered the phone in his red Ferrari. He was a private investigator who specialized in divorce work and once did ninety days for wiretapping the lusty wife of a bank executive. I asked him about some technical equipment, and he said he could have it ready and working in thirty minutes.

Then I called Sam Terilli, who used to run a cockfighting racket in Sweetwater. I walked him on animal cruelty and gambling charges when the roosters refused to testify, and now he took bets on pro football when he wasn’t seating the beautiful people at the Ocean Club. I asked him if he knew Nicky Florio, and he told me that everybody knew Nicky Florio. I asked if he was seating Nicky’s party at a particular table this evening, and he took a moment looking at his reservations book. In about an hour, Sam said, Nicky would be at his usual table. It overlooks the marina, and he can see his Bertram through the window. I looked at the clock on Marvin’s old stove and told Sam I’d see him in forty-five minutes.

T
HE LOBBY OF THE OCEAN CLUB WAS DIM
. On the wall of the reading room was a faded mural of three pink flamingoes. The building was aging gracefully, if that’s what you call it when the stucco walls might have been used for mortar practice. To demonstrate a blasé attitude about appearances, the upper crust relishes a gentle seediness that distinguishes its playpens from those shining chrome palaces of the nouveau riche. Still, in hard times, old money makes compromises, like admitting into membership a contentious real estate developer named Nicky Florio.

The club was 1930s Miami, complete with portholes for windows and wooden decks for balconies. On the roof were soaring towers resembling the smokestacks of a ship. It looked like a cardboard set for a Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers movie. Critics who worship the period would call it theatrical, romantic, and imbued with a sense of fantasy and animation. To me, it was just a dank old place with peeling paint, a society joint that discriminated against minorities and gave shelter to politicians and businessman who hatched quiet deals out of view of the public and press.

There was a dining room that fronted on a marina, an adjoining bar, and forty-five hotel rooms on three upper floors. I passed under an ornate chandelier with hanging crystal doodads, and went straight to room 212, the desk clerk studying me as I breezed past him. I was wearing a blousy black silk shirt with enough material for a parachute. The pants were black leather and crackled with each step. My feet hurt from the high-heeled boots, black again, with silver piping. I looked like a reject from a Harley-Davidson convention, but Marvin the Mayen told me it was either this or rayon pants with pink roses, so I thanked him and vowed never to shop on South Beach.

Sam Terilli said I would be directly over the dining room. The door was open, just as he had promised. Mike Goldberg had already installed the equipment. The small console was turned on, the red light glowing, the volume adjusted. I picked up the earphones. Just the faraway clatter of a busy dining room.

The telephone rang.

Terilli told me the Florios had arrived and were in the bar. They were waiting for Mr. de La Torre.

The bar.

I hadn’t counted on that. They could sit there and drink half the evening away, and I wouldn’t hear a thing. I drummed my fingers on a cigarette-scarred dresser, studying a print on the wall, a still life of avocadoes and mangoes.

The telephone rang again.

Mr. de La Torre had joined the Florios in the bar. Everyone ordered drinks. Nicky and Carlos were doing the talking, but when Terilli tried to move close, they clammed up.

Five minutes later, another ring. “Pick up the earphones. I just seated them.”

Another round of drinks. Jack Daniel’s straight up for Nicky, Absolut on the rocks for Carlos, and white wine for Gina.

Small talk and the gentle clinking of glasses.

What a lovely dress you’re wearing, Mrs. Florio. Hasn’t it been a dry winter? Are you going to Aspen for spring skiing, or have they ruined the place? The ambience in Idaho is so much better. The discount rate dropped half a point, maybe construction will pick up. The audio was decent, but the
cloppity-clop
of footsteps on the old tile floor kept interfering. The microphone must be under the table. Carlos de La Torre had a faint Cuban accent and the loudest voice. He complained about the damn do-gooders pushing for better working conditions for his Jamaican sugarcane cutters.