Lassiter 08 - Lassiter (12 page)

I told Amy about the two tough guys in a Lincoln and my confrontation with Perlow and Ziegler, the old gangster and the new humanitarian.

“Perlow’s the one who concerns me,” I said. “He looks soft as a nougat but he’s got flint and steel in his eyes.”

“So we must be on to something.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what. Just promise you’ll be careful, and if you feel threatened in any way, you’ll call me, day or night.”

“Okay, sure. And thanks for caring, Jake.”

Saying it as if she wasn’t used to anyone giving a shit about her.

“You might think about moving out of the motel,” I added.

“Where to?”

“I have an extra bedroom.”

She looked at me with suspicion. Of course, that was a main component of her character.

“Hey, c’mon. No strings attached. If I wanted more, I’d come to your motel.”

“Really?”

“What I meant was, I have my nephew and Granny at home. It’s not exactly a bachelor pad.”

She was shaking her head.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I was just thinking that eighteen years ago, Krista asked if she could spend the night at your place. But you turned her down.”

“Actually …”

“What?”

A dozen terns, which had been pecking away at the wet sand, took to the air. I wanted to fly with them. But I took a deep breath of sea air and told her the truth. That I had taken Krista home with me, knowing deep down that it wasn’t to protect her from the night. That she offered herself,
as I knew she would, and I wasn’t man enough to turn her down. As I spoke, the squall hit us, the rain driven sideways, fat juicy drops, warm as spit. A jagged lightning bolt passed over the island and hit on the bay side with a thunderclap that hurt my ears.

When I got to the part where I dropped Krista off in the morning, delivering her to the man I now knew to be Charlie Ziegler, Amy’s face froze. She turned away and looked out to sea.

“You’re just like the rest of them,” she said, staring at the whitecaps sloshing toward the beach.

“Them?”

“Men!”

Without warning, she whirled and hit me, her fist bouncing off my temple. It didn’t hurt, but the surprise knocked me a step sideways. She swung again. And again. I did the rope-a-dope, just standing there with my arms up, as a barrage of blows ricocheted off my shoulders and elbows. I let her punch herself out until, exhausted, she dropped to one knee, sobbing. Lightning zinged across the sky, followed by a thunderclap.

I crouched next to Amy in the wet sand at the water’s edge. “I’m sorry. But I’ll work even harder for you. For Krista.”

“Bastard.”

She said it so softly I could barely hear her over the wind and the rain.

Amy turned and ran up the beach, the wind howling in her wake. I watched until she disappeared. She never looked back.

Sipping a mojito and cursing the gods for the crud they were throwing his way, Charlie Ziegler stood on the seawall separating his property from the roiling water of the bay. He watched the storm plow across Key Biscayne, the sky darkening in its path. He felt the first raindrops, knew the deluge was just seconds away.

“Goddamn lawyer,” he said aloud. That crazy bastard. Can’t be bribed, won’t be scared. Threatening to go public. All these years of building up a reputation. All those galas for diabetes, kidneys, and cancer, every disease north of hemorrhoids. Nibbling canapés with the culture vultures, then snoring through the opera. He wasn’t going to let Lassiter smear the good name he’d built.

Then there was his wife Lola, off to France, probably gonna charge the Eiffel Tower to her Platinum card. God, how he longed to be in his mistress’s arms. Melody was a woman who—against all odds—seemed to actually love him for himself.

And what about Max Perlow? Jesus. Treating him like shit in front of that prick lawyer.

“Shut up, Charlie.…”

What the fuck was that about? After all the money I’ve made for him
.

The money
.

The old man might be getting senile, but he could still count. Fifteen
percent of gross profits. All because of that loan twenty years ago. At least Ziegler had
thought
it was a loan. Once the porn business took off—all cash, all the time—suddenly the terms changed.

“C’mon Max. I’ve paid you off, already.”

“There’s no paying off. I made an investment. We’re partners, Charlie. Partners for life.”

So die, already.

Instead, Perlow insisted on picking his pocket.

At the time they made the deal, Perlow still had juice. Not a man to fuck with. But these days?
Who’s he got, other than that gangbanger Tejada?

Why the hell does Max even have a bodyguard? All his enemies are either dead or drooling into their oatmeal
.

Except for me
.

Lightning flashed over the bay, and the thunder took its time rumbling toward him. The air smelled of dust and nitrogen. He began taking his own measure as the raindrops pelted him. Could he kill Perlow? Knowing even as he asked that he didn’t have the stomach for it.

What about Tejada? How loyal was he? Would he take $25K to drive the Bentley into a swamp with Perlow strapped into the backseat? Maybe, Ziegler concluded, it was worth pondering over another drink.

Our upbringing may not determine where we finish the race, but it surely draws the starting line. I was mulling this deep thought while huffing and puffing up and down the basketball court. The Miami Mouthpieces—my boys—were taking on the Avengers, Castiel’s band of prosecutors, and I was guarding my opponent.

Until yesterday, I had considered Alex Castiel a friend. We had bonded years ago when I wore the wire for him. We’d shared many meals and many stories since. If he turned out to be dirty, I would feel betrayed.

He was dangerously close to “Uncle Max.” Then there was Ziegler. How well did Castiel know him back in the day? What would he be willing to do for Perlow? And one even bigger question nagged at me.

Yo, Alex, were you at Ziegler’s party the night Krista Larkin disappeared?

I planned to ask, just as soon as I elbowed him in the ribs a few times.

Back then, Castiel would have been a young hotshot a few years out of law school. He’d gotten his name in the papers for winning a few high-profile cases and had recently been promoted to the Major Crimes Division of the State Attorney’s Office. Just the kind of up-and-comer Ziegler wanted as a pal.

Castiel once told me we were friends because of similarities in our past. Both our fathers were murdered. Both of us were raised by surrogates.
Castiel was the adopted child of a wealthy Coral Gables family. I was raised by Granny, a tough, honest woman who took no guff.

In high school, I was not King of the Prom. I was Most Likely to Do Time. At Coral Shores High in the Keys, I was a fist-in-the-dirt defensive tackle who enjoyed the combat, much of which consisted of clawing, spitting, and cursing. I wasn’t recruited for major college ball because I was a tweener. Not big enough to play defensive line and not fast enough to be a great linebacker. I walked on at Penn State, made the team, and earned straight C’s in the classroom.

No NFL team drafted me. I was the last free agent signed by the Dolphins, usually a guarantee to get cut before opening day. But I made the final roster spot and hung on a few years, flying ass-over-elbows on what used to be called the “suicide squad,” the kickoff and punt teams.

Similar story after law school. No downtown firms wanted to interview me. I got the job in the P.D.’s Office because I wasn’t afraid to park in the jail visitors’ lot after midnight, and I didn’t worry about my clients having cooties. Basically, I’ve never been sought after for anything, but if I get my cleats in the door, you’ll find it’s hard to keep me out.

Now I backpedaled down the court, intent on keeping Castiel from scoring, or knocking him on his ass if I couldn’t.

“You’re not fast enough to cover me, Jake,” he taunted, dribbling high, as if daring me to steal the ball.

“We talking basketball here, Alex?”

Top of the key. Castiel faked the jumper. I left my feet, and he streaked around me. Ed Shohat, a white-collar defense lawyer, tried to plug the lane, but Castiel let fly a teardrop floater.
Swish
.

Loping back down the court, Castiel laughed and talked trash. “A step too slow, Jake. You’re a step too slow.”

I know, I know. Story of my life
.

Castiel was captain of the Avengers, the highly disciplined prosecutors’ team. I was the leading scorer of the Mouthpieces, a rowdy group of criminal defense lawyers.

I liked playing against Castiel’s team. Sure, the prosecutors threw some elbows, but they never whined over lousy calls. The worst were the personal injury lawyers, the Contingency Cats, who always faked injuries and
threatened to file lawsuits. The Downtown Defenders—insurance company lawyers—tampered with the clock, refused to stop play when an opponent was hurt, and handpicked friends as referees.

Intending to put Castiel on his duly elected ass, I set up in the low post and took a bounce pass from Shifty Sullivan—the nickname stemming from criminal court, not the basketball court. My back was to Castiel, and he kept a hip planted on my butt. I pivoted and faked left, but Castiel knew I seldom drove that way. A weakness in my game, the left-handed dribble.

I tossed an elbow into Castiel’s gut, heard him
whoomph
as I went around him to the right and sank a baby hook from six feet away.

He doubled over, fought for a breath, and could barely get the words out. “Hey, ref. You swallow your whistle?” Pantomiming my elbow toss.

“Crybaby!” I whooped.

It went on that way for the entire game. I hit Castiel hard enough to draw a flagrant foul and barreled into him enough times to draw two charges. I fouled out but still led the scoring with 21 for the Mouthpieces. With greater finesse, the unflappable Castiel led the Avengers to a nine-point win.

He approached me in the locker room, pressing a cold can of Heineken to his forehead where a welt was flaring up. “Buy you dinner, Jake?”

“Why?”

“To find out why you’re so pissed at me.”

“More like disappointed in you.”

“Let’s talk about it, Jake. C’mon, I’ll treat you to martinis and a porterhouse.”

“I’ll go if you answer one question for me, Alex. Were you—?”

“Yes.”

“Why not wait for the question?”

“I know what you’re gonna ask. It’s about Ziegler’s party. And the answer’s yes. I was there the night Krista Larkin disappeared.”

I don’t usually order shrimp cocktail when they charge by the piece—eight bucks!—but tonight Castiel was paying, and I didn’t give a shit about the cost. We sat on the front patio of Prime One Twelve, a noisy, trendy hangout for NBA players and others with the Am Ex Centurion card. The restaurant is at the foot of Ocean Drive on South Beach, the epicenter of hedonism run amok. We started with the shrimp and martinis—as cold as liquid nitrogen—with steaks to follow.

When we sat down, Castiel had said he would tell me everything he knew about Ziegler and Krista Larkin. That he had nothing to hide.
“I should have told you straight off, Jake, but I’m embarrassed about some of the shit from my past.”
Well, that made two of us.

“I was at Ziegler’s house,” Castiel said now, “but Krista wasn’t. She never showed up.”

“To be so sure, you must have known her by sight.”

“She was around a lot that summer. Charlie’s flavor of the month. Maybe three months.”

“And this night, who was the lucky girl?”

“Girls, plural. Half a dozen playthings. Porn starlets. Strippers. Strays. All interchangeable, all forgettable.”

“Not to their families.”

“I’m just saying how it was with Ziegler. One second he’s doing a couple
actresses in the living room, then three more girls are hopping over the sofa like a hockey team changing lines. The Larkin girl wasn’t one of them.”

“What were you doing there?”

“What do you think? I was young. Single. Horny.”

Castiel sipped his martini and told me his story, while flicking that gold cigarette lighter that had belonged to his father. In the early nineties, when he was a young prosecutor, Castiel met Charlie Ziegler, courtesy of Uncle Max.

Ziegler’s porn business was just taking off. He was renting a waterfront manse on Sunset Island that belonged to a Saudi sheik who came to town to buy diamonds and frolic with young women. Jewelers on Flagler Street provided the gems, Ziegler the women.

“The house was tricked out like a disco,” Castiel said. “A glitter ball, a D.J., a sound system you could hear in Bimini. The place decorated like a bordello. Gold fixtures in the bathrooms, an infinity pool, marble columns with eagles on top, like some Roman emperor lived there.”

“The Fuck Palace.” I’d heard Sonia Majeski use the term.

“Oh, man, The Fuck Palace.” Alex smiled at the memory. “That was the cabana. Silk canopies. Mirrored ceilings and wide-screen porno.”

“Sounds like you knew the place well.”

“Like I said before, I was young and single.”

“And horny,” I reminded him.

“I forgot about your time in the seminary,” he shot back.

I sipped at the second martini, sharp as a dagger in the throat. Next to us, a boisterous table of eight sang “Happy Birthday” in Spanish, then Portuguese, and finally Hebrew. They’d gone through four bottles of Cristal at $450 a whack.

“You know a bunch of the guys who were there that night, right?” I asked.

“Some of them, sure.”

“So subpoena them. Put them under oath and see what they know.”

“You’re talking about important men in this town. They have families now. Hell, some had families then. All of them are gonna have faulty memories.”

“If you don’t want to mess with those guys, I will. I have some names
from Sonia Majeski. You must have others. I’ll jump-start your investigation.”