Lassiter 08 - Lassiter (10 page)

“If it’s any consolation, it’s my first time, too.”

There was the sound of bare feet padding across the Mexican tile. Kip, all sleepy-eyed, appeared from the corridor wearing his Miami Marlins pajama bottoms.

“I thought I heard voices,” he said, eyeing my guest, or rather the twin globes rising from her tube top.

“Kip, this is Angel Roxx,” I said.

“I know!
A Tale of Two Titties.
”

The air was soggy as a steam bath as I started my morning run. The violet morning glories in my neighbor’s yard were yawning open for the day, just like me. The grass wet with morning dew, the sweet tang of jasmine in the air. No breeze, the palm fronds hanging as limp as laundry on the line.

It’s not a fancy neighborhood of mini-manses and well-tended lawns. More like a tropical jungle, small houses on crowded lots overgrown with ragged ficus hedges and creeping bougainvillea.

I wore an old pair of Penn State shorts and a T-shirt with the slogan “A Friend Will Help You Move, but a Real Friend Will Help You Move a Body.” I’d only recently started carrying an iPod and wearing headphones. Off-season training would have been a lot easier if we’d had them in the old days. Still, there was a tradeoff. I missed the slap of shoes on asphalt and the call of the wild parrots in the neighborhood.

I slogged along, sweat streaming down my chest. Loquat to Solana to Poinciana, then south on LeJeune toward the Gables Waterway. A black-and-white wood stork strutted across the street, apparently lost. I wanted to point it toward Biscayne Bay. In my earphones, I heard Joe Nichols worrying that his lady was going out for the evening, and “tequila makes her clothes fall off.”

Traffic was already building, and car fumes had overwhelmed the jasmine.
I hung a right on Barbarossa, planning to cut over to Riviera and then north toward Dixie Highway. A pair of land crabs the size of catchers’ mitts scuttled across the pavement, headed toward the waterway.

A black Lincoln followed me through the turn, then slowed to keep pace. I tried to see through the tinted windows but could not, the morning sun shooting daggers into my eyes. I picked up my speed, and so did the Lincoln. I slowed, and the car edged closer, until it was directly alongside me.

I stopped short, and the car braked. The passenger door opened, and a man in khaki pants and blue blazer hopped out. Nimble for a big galoot. Gray-blond crew cut, Marine neck, maybe fifty or so.

Ray Decker. Jesus!

“Where you going, turd face?” Decker said. He came onto the sidewalk and stood in my path, just out of arm’s reach.

Turd face? And they say our era lacks sophisticated wit
.

“Nice to see you, Ray. When’d you get out of jail?”

“Never been in jail, shyster.”

“Another failure of our justice system. When will it ever end?”

He glared at me. The look of a man who wanted to step on a cockroach but didn’t want to soil his shoe.

Decker had been a detective in the Sheriff’s Department. In a marijuana case—possession with intent to distribute—I’d sweated him for five hours on cross-exam to show he lied on his affidavit. A judge dismissed another of his cases when I proved Decker repeatedly smacked my client in the testicles with a phone book while interrogating him. I didn’t personally get Decker tossed from the force, but I didn’t help him win any commendations, either.

The driver’s door opened and another man stepped out, staring at me over the roof of the car. African-American, early thirties, smaller but with the broad, sloping shoulders of a body builder. Identical blazer and pants. There is no good reason to wear a jacket in the Miami summer unless you’re hiding a shoulder holster.

“You got a license for that thing, Decker?”

“CWP signed by the State Attorney himself.” He patted his jacket over the bulge. “I’m head of security for Ziegler Enterprises, and my boss wants to see you.”

“Last night a woman delivered the same message. Offered a blow job. Same deal, Decker?”

The driver chuckled and Decker’s face heated up. “Get in the car, asshole.”

“Answer one question first. When Shorty isn’t chauffeuring your fat ass, do you drive a red Escalade with spinners and lake pipes?”

“You think I’m a Liberty City pimp?”

“Nah. They have to be good at math.”

“That’s enough, dickhead. Get in.”

“Changed my mind. If Ziegler wants to see me, he can make an appointment.”

I turned away as if to resume plodding down Barbarossa Avenue. Decker’s gun was holstered on his left shoulder. Meaning he was right-handed. I figured he would take one step and reach for me with that right hand.

He did.

I spun around and locked onto his right wrist. First with my left hand, then with both hands. I whipped his right arm behind his back, kicked him on the side of his left knee, and pushed him face-first to the ground. I reached around him, grabbed the lapels of his jacket and ripped downward, tearing the fabric at the shoulders, pinning his arms in the sleeves.

I knew the Lincoln’s engine was running. I knew the driver would race around the car. I wasn’t sure whether he’d pull his gun, but it didn’t matter. By the time his top-heavy body rounded the hood, I had dived into the car through the open passenger side. I scrambled into the driver’s seat without closing either door. Threw the gearshift into drive. Floored the accelerator. Heard the shriek of tires and the
thwomp
of the open door smacking the driver and cartwheeling him to the ground.

I hung a right on San Vicente and headed north toward Ponce de Leon and downtown Coral Gables.

Charlie Ziegler, you want to talk to me?

I got some things to say to you, pal
.

The sign on top of the building read,
Ziegler Enterprises
. The sign on the parking garage read,
Exit Only
. So there I was, plowing ass-backward into trouble, right past the sign that read,
Danger! Tire Damage
.

I drove Ziegler’s Lincoln straight onto the sharp end of the curved spikes. I hit the gas and the spikes harpooned the front tires, tearing the steel radials to shreds. Accelerated again and bounced forward. Spikes punctured the rear tires, too. I listened to all four tires farting, then hopped out, entered the building, and rode the elevator to the top floor.

The receptionist was a flame-haired, warhead-breasted young woman in a black silk blouse two sizes too small. For a second she didn’t sense anything unusual about the thick-chested man in running shorts and a sweaty T-shirt.

“Are you here for the auditions?” she asked.

I came around the desk, grabbed one arm of her swivel chair, and spun her away. She shrieked. I felt under her desk, found the button, and buzzed myself inside. Two seconds later, I was through the interior door, and the receptionist was shouting at me to stop. A couple toadies sat at their computers, looking alarmed but doing nothing to stop me.

I found a corner office with a giant bronze “Z” sculpture outside a set
of smoked glass doors. I burst in and found a stocky man at his desk yammering into the phone. Older and heavier than the guy in jeans and suede jacket I’d run into that rainy morning eighteen years ago. But still a prick.

“Don’t waste your time on Bangladesh, you stupid motherfucker!” Ziegler was in his late fifties, bald on top, with rust-colored fringes of hair dusting his ears. He wore a black silk suit that screamed “Italian designer” and a bright blue shirt unbuttoned a couple slots lower than absolutely necessary.

He didn’t seem to care about my intrusion, just kept yelling. “They’re not gonna buy
Bimbos of Baltimore
. They’re Muslim!”

Ziegler punctuated his words by jabbing the air with a cigar. A Cuban Torpedo, judging both from its shape and aroma. They seemed to be the rage in certain circles. So did humidors of polished cherry. Alex Castiel had one in his office; its twin brother sat on Ziegler’s credenza.

“Get me Bulgaria and Romania!” he shouted into the phone. “If you can’t sell to those horny fuckers, I’ll find someone who can!”

Abusing an underling. Real class.

Ziegler’s phone beeped. He shot a look at his computer monitor and said, “Hang on, Irv. I got the Archbishop on the other line.” He punched a button and radically adjusted his tone and volume. “Your Eminence. How kind of you to call.”

I tossed the Lincoln’s keys on Ziegler’s desk and said, “If you want to talk to me, scumbag, don’t send hookers and don’t send thugs. Call me yourself.”

Unfazed, Ziegler gave me the once-over. No indication he recognized me from our brief encounter all those years ago. He motioned with his cigar that I should sit down. I wasn’t there to follow orders, so I stood rock still, hands on hips.

Ziegler listened a moment, nodding and smiling. “Ice skating rink for the orphans. You’ve got my support. Have a wonderful day, Your Eminence.”

He punched a button and yelled into the other line: “Irv, drop your cock and sell some product!”

As Ziegler caterwauled some more, I took inventory of the office. All chrome and glass with light fixtures like dripping icicles and spindly chairs designed to make visitors slip a disc. The floor was green marble tile with
gold veins running through it. Paintings—Impressionist nudes—looked expensive, but what do I know about art?

There was a “me wall.” Fancy certificates, and award statuettes. The Miami Archdiocese’s Humanitarian of the Year award, the B’nai Brith’s philanthropy medal, and an achievement badge from the Florida Synod of the Lutheran Church.

An ecumenical asshole
.

He wasn’t hard to figure out. The merit badges were his soft spot. Now that he’d screwed all those girls and made all that money, what mattered to him was his reputation. I knew where to hit him and how to make it hurt.

“Gotta go, Irv,” he said. “There’s a guy in my office who’s a dead ringer for Studley Do-Right, you remember him? Yeah,
Horny in America
back in the Reagan Administration. Guy packed a flagpole in his Speedos.”

Ziegler hung up, waved the Torpedo like a scepter, and said, “Sit, Studley.”

I didn’t sit down. I stared him down. “My name’s Jake Lassiter.”

He stared back, took a long drag on the cigar. “I got pull in this town, Studley. What do you got?”

“A telephone. I’m gonna call a press conference. Tell the
Herald
what I know about the old porn producer and the missing girl. Helluva headline: ‘Humanitarian of the Year a Murder Suspect.’ ”

“I’ll sue you for slander.”

“I hope so. Then I can put you under oath. I’ll videotape you taking the Fifth at your depo. Gonna put you on a spit and light the fire. Let your country club pals watch you sweat.”

“You don’t have the juice.”

“Then what are you worried about? Why send that cooch to my house? Or that moron Decker to pick me up?”

“To warn you to watch your mouth. And one warning is all you get.”

“You ask me, you’re running scared.”

“Not scared of you, pal. You’re a nobody.”

“Fine. Then tell me what happened to Krista Larkin. Where’d you bury her?”

“
Please
sit down, Mr. Lassiter.” A soft voice from behind me. An old man sitting on a sofa. I hadn’t seen him back in the corner.

The guy must be in his eighties. He had a gut like a bowl of pudding, tired eyes, and a thin, Errol Flynn mustache. He wore olive green polyester pants with an elastic waistband, a short-sleeve shirt, and Hush Puppies the color of root beer. His hands rested on the head of a polished black cane, which he held between his legs.

I sat down because the old guy had asked nicely, and Granny taught me to be respectful to my elders.

“My name is Max Perlow, Mr. Lassiter. Have you ever heard of me?”

I hadn’t and told him so.

“I used to be in the papers a bit. Before your time. I’m Charlie’s business partner. I’ve been fixing problems for a very long time, so perhaps I can be of assistance.”

“Just how do you propose to do that?”

“Permanently, Mr. Lassiter.” Max Perlow leaned forward in his chair and spoke in a whisper. “When I fix something, it stays fixed.”

As threats go, it was pretty impressive, especially coming from a guy who looked like he should be playing shuffleboard at Century Village.

“Surely, Mr. Lassiter,” he continued, his tone amiable, “you know Charlie had nothing to do with the disappearance of some runaway girl.”

Great, I thought, Al Capone vouching for Baby Face Nelson.

“I don’t know anything yet,” I said, getting my voice back. “Except good old Charlie pushed an underage girl into porn, then she vanished the night she was supposed to be entertaining his scuzzball friends.”

Ziegler made a sound like a pig snorting. “I can ruin you, Lassiter. Take every cent you have and punch your ticket with the Bar.”

“Shut up, Charlie.” Perlow spoke softly, but with the authority of a man who is accustomed to having his orders followed. Turning back to me, he said, “Alejandro tells me good things about you.”

“For a public servant, Alex Castiel gives a lot of private advice.”

“His father was like a brother to me.”

“Bernard Castiel, the gangster? Or Bernard Castiel, the hero?”

Perlow leaned back. “Do you sum up a man’s life so neatly, Mr. Lassiter?”

“Sometimes. You, I’m guessing pure gangster. But a polite one.”

“I was in my teens when Bernard gave me a job at the Nacional casino.
Before long, I was going to
Shabbos
services with his family at Centro de Israelita.”

Perlow paused a moment, and I could swear his eyes teared up.

“Such a tragedy,” he continued, “Bernard dying so young. I stood in for him at Alejandro’s bris.”

A tidbit missing from Alex Castiel’s campaign brochures:
“Circumcised in Cuba.”

“When Alejandro’s mother died, who do you suppose got him a Pedro Pan flight to Miami?”

“Wild guess, you.”

“I made sure he was placed with a good family, that he wanted for nothing. He calls me ‘Uncle Max.’ Do you take my point, Mr. Lassiter?”