Lassiter 08 - Lassiter (20 page)

“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.
”

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.

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 folded 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.

“Ben was
schtupping
every starlet in Hollywood. He changed girlfriends like he changed his boxer shorts. But he fell for Virginia Hill, and before long, they were opening Swiss bank accounts.”

“I know, Max. I know.”

“Then you also know someone out of Chicago aced Ben right in his living room. Cops found one of his eyeballs halfway across the room.”

“This is bullshit, Max!” Raising his voice to the old man for the first time in twenty years. “I don’t talk to Melody about business. I’m not stealing. She’s not stealing. And I’ve had about as much of you as I can take.”

Perlow sat there, hands resting on his watermelon belly, sausage fingers laced together. “What are you saying, Charlie? Spit it out.”

“My debt to you has been paid ten times over.”

“You haven’t been listening, Charlie. We’re partners for life.”

“Fuck that. My wife’s not even my partner for life.” Proud to be showing some guts after all these years of groveling.

“Weren’t for me, Charlie, you’d still be on the beach, hustling girls with your Nikon.”

“Fine. You gave me seed money, like a hundred years ago.”

“Seed money? You little
pisher
! You ungrateful shit.”

Perlow’s face reddened and his jowls quivered. With any luck, he’d stroke out.

“Fifteen percent for life! That’s the deal. You don’t want to pay me, Charlie?”

Ziegler didn’t answer. The courage he’d felt just seconds ago was slipping away. He was starting to hate himself all over again. “Maybe slice your piece down to ten percent.”

“Pay me, you miserable
gonif
!” Perlow exploded. “Every cent.” Perlow’s little ferret eyes were wide open now, dark and dangerous. “Or do you want to finish this conversation with Nestor?”

Ziegler put his hands in the air, as if surrendering. “Sorry, Max. My meds make me nuts. Depression. Anxiety. I say crazy things.”

Perlow still glaring at him

“Won’t happen again,” Ziegler promised.

Just as he was wondering if he should offer Perlow a conciliatory drink, Ziegler heard a jarring noise. A crash from the pool deck on the far side of the solarium. Sounded like one of the hundred-pound clay planters toppling onto the hand-cut tile.

“You got somebody out there?” Perlow demanded.

“No, Max. ’Course not.”

“Then what the hell was that?”

“Don’t know.”

“You been acting queer all night.” Keeping his eyes on Ziegler, Perlow yanked up a polyester pant leg and drew a small handgun from an ankle holster. “Let’s find out what the fuck’s going on,
partner
.”

The moment they walked into the solarium, Ziegler felt the warm air and smelled the moist earth. His favorite corner of the world, home to his beautiful and blessedly silent orchids. His refuge. From his wife, his work, his life.

But not from Max Perlow, whose Hush Puppies squeaked a step behind.

A toad with a gun.

Floor-to-ceiling glass looked directly onto the pool deck, the glare from the solarium lights turning the windows into mirrors. The two men could only see their own reflections.

Ziegler stopped, listened. Nothing.

Perlow shuffled past him, the lavender leaves of a hanging Mendelli orchid catching the old man’s arm. Perlow seemed not to notice the Mendelli or the Sophronitis the color of a Cabernet Sauvignon or the vanilla orchid, its column a delicious snowy white, open like a wet and willing pussy.

“My fucking sinuses,” Perlow said. “How do you live with all these weeds?”

The man is a barbarian, Ziegler thought.

Another sound. Softer. Something brushing up against the glass outside. Spanish bayonet shrubs were planted there. The leaves so thick and dense they barely moved in a windstorm.

Unless someone was out there
.

“Turn off the lights,” Perlow barked.

Ziegler flipped the switch, and the solarium went dark. Night lights illuminated the pool deck and cabanas, the Roman pillars casting shadows across the water.

The next few seconds went by in a blur.

Perlow pressed his face to the window.

Outside, a flash of movement in the bushes.

“Max!” Ziegler shouted.

“Sha!”
He yelled through the closed window: “Who the hell’s out there?”

An explosion of glass. Behind them, a hanging pot splintered and crashed to the floor.

Ziegler dived under a table.

Unfazed, Perlow stood rock still. Crisis calmed him. He’d once finished a side order of cioppino, moments after a tablemate had his throat slit in a Little Italy restaurant.

“You?” he said, looking into the eyes of the shooter outside. Perlow raised his gun. Maybe thirty years ago, before arthritis chewed at his joints, he would have been faster.

The second gunshot hit him squarely in the chest and knocked him on his ass.

Stunned, Ziegler crawled out from under the table and saw the silhouette of a person running away from the house. Trembling, he gazed at Perlow, flat on his back.

“He-lp,” Perlow croaked, blood oozing from his chest.

Ziegler’s mind careened, his thoughts shooting rapid-fire. Was the bullet meant for him? Would the shooter come back? Could there be another gunman?

“Who was it, Max? Who’d you see?”

“Nine-one-one,” Perlow whispered.

More questions shot through Ziegler’s brain. Did Tejada, around front in Max’s Bentley, hear the shots? How long would an ambulance take? Could the old buzzard survive?

“Paramedics. Please, Charlie.”

A memory flashed back to Ziegler. The worst night of his life. Eighteen years ago. “Paramedics!” he spat out the word.

“Charlie?”

Perlow’s voice pleading, his eyes showing his fear.

Ziegler calmed, feeling a clarity of purpose. He caught sight of a vanilla orchid, its petals streaked obscenely with blood. Perlow was going to die, Ziegler thought.

There is a God, after all
.

A God who looks after porn producers, lousy husbands, and tax cheats. Okay, so maybe it’s not God with a capital “G.” Maybe it’s just a cloud of cosmic gases that floats across the Milky Way and settles over the earth, bringing joy to the wicked and Mammon to the greedy. But it’s still a force that evens the score, though it might take decades.

“You want CPR, Max?”

“Huh? Huh?” Wheezing but hanging on. Harder to kill than a cockroach.

“Chrissakes, help me.”

Perlow propped himself up on one elbow, fumbled for his cell phone. Ziegler kicked Perlow’s arm out from under him and the phone skittered away. The old man toppled backwards. Ziegler slipped off a soft leather loafer.