Lassiter jl-8 Page 16

  “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.”

  42 Orchids and Blood

  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.

  “Hey, Max. Got something for you.”

  He stepped on Perlow’s rib cage. Careful not to leave bruises. He heard a blast of air, like a farting balloon. Or … a punctured lung.

  Perlow cried in pain. “Charlie. Whaaaa …?”

  “That’s for Krista, Max. Remember her?”

  “Char …”

  “You didn’t call the paramedics for Krista, did you, Max?”

  Ziegler adjusted his foot and pressed harder. Blood exploded from Perlow’s chest like a whale spouting.

  Perlow didn’t say another word.

  “And that lifetime deal of ours, Max,” Ziegler said. “It just expired.”

  43 Going Biblical

  “Sorry, Uncle Jake. I should have gotten a license plate.”

  “No problem, Kip. Your description was great. I’ve seen the guy.”

  “Really?” The boy’s spirits were picking up.

  “The tattoos nailed it.”

  We sat at the kitchen table, Kip sipping a mango shake. His mood had roller-coastered ever since he had pedaled home in record time. Hyper-excitement, then a spiral downward, and now he was rallying. The boy didn’t
realize just how shell-shocked he was at nearly being kidnapped. For her part, Granny was baking maple bacon brittle, her salty-sweet antidote to any childhood ailment.

  “I kicked the poop out of the guy,” Kip said.

  “He underestimated you. Happens to me in court sometimes.” I tousled the boy’s hair and said, “Proud of you, kiddo.”

  “I wasn’t scared, Uncle Jake.”

  Right.

  “It’s okay to be scared, as long as you still do the right thing.”

  “Are you gonna whomp the guy?” Kip asked.

  That had been my first inclination. But Nestor was Perlow’s bodyguard and would have been following his boss’s orders. Raising lots of questions. Did Perlow intend to snatch Kip or just show me he could get to someone I loved? Did Ziegler know what was going on? What about Castiel? Was there a larger game plan?

  Something else had just become apparent. It must have been Nestor in the Hummer, following Ziegler to Lighthouse Point. Meaning there was a rift between Perlow and Ziegler. But why? And, more important, how could I take advantage of it?

  Too many questions needed answering before I punched anyone out.

  Perlow didn’t have a listed phone number, so I asked Kip to use his computer skills to find out where the old hood lived. Two minutes later, my nephew showed me an aerial shot of a 1930s Spanish-style house just off Andalusia in Coral Gables. A ficus hedge shielded an alley behind the place. It would be a good way to get onto the porch undetected.

  “I’m gonna go talk to Nestor and the guy he works for,” I told Kip.

  “Talk, Uncle Jake?”

  “Yeah. But if either of them gives me any shit, I’ll go biblical on their asses.”

  Kip looked at me, waiting for an explanation.

  “I’ll bring the walls down on their heads like Samson at the Temple of Dagon.”

  44 Eyeball Witness

  A circus, Ziegler thought, watching from the pool deck.

  His house, the big tent.

  Uniformed cops, plainclothes detectives, crime scene investigators, medical examiners, techs in plastic gloves with tweezers and flashlights. Cameras popping off photos in the solarium, on the deck, up against the windows, and deep in the bayonet bushes.

  A moment before he was to give his statement to homicide detectives, Ziegler caught sight of a distraught Alex Castiel jogging toward him. Ziegler tried to arrange his features into a reasonable facsimile of grief. “Alex, it was awful. I know how much you loved the old guy.”

  Castiel pulled him aside, out of earshot of the cops. “Was it her, Charlie? Was it the Larkin woman?”

  “Couldn’t really tell. Too dark. And I was scared shitless.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Shit, I don’t know, Alex. Wish we could ask Max.”

  They were quiet a moment as a police helicopter flew overhead, its searchlight sweeping across the seawall.

  “What do you mean?” Castiel asked.

  “Max saw the shooter.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he said something.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “He said, ‘You?’ ”

  Castiel ran a hand through his dark hair. “That’s all, Charlie? ‘You?’ ”

  “Like he recognized the shooter. But Max never saw Amy Larkin, so I’m thinking maybe it was someone else.”

  “You’re reading a helluva lot into one word, Charlie.”

  “I don’t know what you expect me to say.”

  Police radios squawked. A tech walked by carrying several plastic evidence bags.

  Castiel lowered his voice. “Step up to the plate. I need an eyeball witness.”

  “C’mon, Alex. You asked if I saw her, and I’m saying I can’t swear to it.”

  Eyes wild, Castiel jammed a finger into his chest. “Didn’t you ever learn anything from Max? Do what’s gotta be done!”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  With a plainclothes cop approaching, Castiel hissed in his ear, “There are only two people who could have killed Max. Amy Larkin and you, Charlie. It’s up to you who goes down for it.”

  45 No Alibi

  Drained from his near-kidnapping and stuffed with maple bacon brittle, Kip had conked out on the sofa. I carried him into his bedroom and tucked him into bed. Then I went through his backpack and found a note from Commodore Perkins at Tuttle-Biscayne.

  Would I please select which date was convenient for Kip’s disciplinary hearing?

  The Commodore thoughtfully provided nine different days. I decided to choose the last one, then, at the last moment, ask for a continuance. If I did this often enough, maybe Kip could graduate before he was expelled.

  An hour later, I was lying in bed watching television. Csonka was sleeping in the corner of the room, snoring and farting. I flipped through the channels, found an old L.A. Law episode just starting. The opening credits rolled, soaring horns and banging drums inviting me to spend time with some lawyers who had a helluva lot more time for bed-hopping than I did.

  My phone rang. Too late for good news. Caller I.D. told me it was our esteemed State Attorney.

  “What’s up, Alex? One of my clients steal your purse?”

  “What are you doing right now, Jake?” Castiel said.

  “Whatever I want. I’m in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

  “Let me speak to Amy Larkin.”

  “Why would she be in my bedroom?”

  “I thought maybe you were nailing her. What time did she leave?”

  “What are you talking about? She wasn’t here tonight.”

  Castiel sounded brusque, but smug. “Thanks, Jake. You haven’t been this much help since you wore the wire.”

  Damn. I’d let my guard down. It happens sometimes after three fingers of Jack Daniel’s. “Wanna tell me what just happened?”

  “You just ruled yourself out as an alibi.”

  Oh, shit.

  “What is it you think Amy did?” I asked.

  “She killed Max Perlow. One bullet to the chest.”

  I bolted up. “No way. Why would she?”

  “Shot at Charlie Ziegler and missed. Charlie I.D.’d her.”

  I could hear my own heart sledge-hammering. Had she really done it?

  “They pulled a.38 slug out of Perlow,” Castiel continued. “If it matches the bullets she fired into your tires …”

  “Wait a second. How’d you get those?”

  “You forgetting I sent a county truck to tow your pimpmobile?”

  “You had the slugs pulled from my tires?”

  “I planned to prosecute your client for firearms violations. Who knew?”

  “Someone stole Amy’s gun two days ago.”

  If it’s possible to hear a man shaking his head, I heard Castiel’s spinning. “You make this shit up as you go along, Jake?”

  “Amy told me. Someone ransacked her motel room and stole the gun. She was all freaked out about it.” Even as I said it, I hated the story. How damn convenient.

  “Just tell her to turn herself in, Jake. I don’t want anything messy.”

  I told him I would if I could find her. It’s one of the ethical rules I happen to believe in. You don’t tell a client to run away. You bring her in to face the music and do your best to keep it from being a funeral march.

  “I loved Max like my own father,” Castiel said, somberly. “This is personal, Jake.”

  “Don’t handle the case yourself, Alex.”

  “You’re the one who better get out. I don’t give a shit about collateral damage.”

  “I don’t abandon clients, you know that.”

  “Up to you. But from here on out, our friendship is meaningless, Jake. I’m taking her down, and I don’t give a shit if I take you down with her.”

  46 Innocence Is Irrelevant

  The next morning, I was having my healthy breakfast of sugary Cuban coffee and guava flan at Versailles in Little Havana when Amy called.

  From the
jail.

  She said she’d seen the story of the shooting on television in a restaurant bar. She’d been shocked-yes, shocked-to see her driver’s license photo on the screen. She called the police and turned herself in.

  “I didn’t do it, Jake,” she said.

  “Not another word on the phone,” I ordered. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I knew what was coming. An indictment for First Degree Murder. Meaning the state had evidence of premeditation. Boy, did they. Surveillance and stalking. Threats. Target practice. And shooting the wrong guy is no defense.

  I carried my coffee to the car and headed east on Calle Ocho, passing Woodlawn Park Cemetery. It’s filled with statues of angels, elaborate crypts, and mausoleums. Woodlawn is where Latin-American rulers go to their eternal rest in marble mausoleums and, this being Miami, it’s a hot tourist attraction.

  When I got to the Women’s Annex, I presented my Bar card at the security window and sat in the visitors’ room on a metal bench that seemed specially designed to put me into traction. I stood and studied the frescoes, which adorned the plaster walls. Mothers and children in splashy Caribbean colors. Shining suns and towering palms. Painted by the inmates, the frescoes seemed to reflect the repressed desires and unobtainable goals of these sorrowful, maladjusted women.

  In a few minutes, a female guard brought Amy into a lawyer’s room with a large glass window, a table, and two chairs. My first question to a jailed client is never “Did you do it?” It’s always “How much money do you have?”

  Amy gave me a number, a few thousand dollars in a savings account. I would run through that for expenses and expert witnesses, so she retained me for her usual fee. Zero.

  “I didn’t kill him, Jake,” Amy blurted out. “Honest, I didn’t.”

  I still hadn’t asked.

  “Hold that thought,” I said.

  “Why would I shoot that old man?”

  “Castiel says you were trying to kill Ziegler and missed. Either way, it’s First Degree Murder.” I recited the murder statute from memory. “That’s the ‘unlawful killing of a human being perpetrated from a premeditated design to effect the death of the person killed or any human being.’ It’s the ‘any human being’ part that does you in.”