Paul Levine - Riptide

Chareen Bailey cleared her throat and moved a step closer to the witness stand. “Mrs. Pivnick, what did Mr. Kazdoy say to you as to whether his food was kosher?”

“Ay, that’s what you want to know.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So why beat around the bush?”

“Mrs. Pivnick, in the courtroom, the lawyer asks the questions, and the witness answers,” Chareen Bailey said. “Do you understand?”

“What’s not to understand?”

Judge Morgan Lewis sighed and rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Pivnick, just tell us what Mr. Kazdoy said to you.”

“All right, already. I asked him about the food, and he said, ‘Strictly kosher.’ Twice he said it. ‘Strictly kosher.’”

Mrs. Pivnick smiled triumphantly at having done her civic duty. Ms. Bailey sat down, and the judge politely asked whether Mr. Lassiter wished to inquire.

Lassiter stood and smiled at the witness, then turned his back. “How is your hearing, Mrs. Pivnick?”

“Vad you say?”

Lassiter wheeled around toward the bench. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

As soon as Lassiter was in his chair, Sam Kazdoy poked him in the ribs. “That’s it? Perry Mason wouldn’t sit down so quick unless it was time for a commercial.”

“Trust me, Sam.”

“But I never said such a thing. She’s meshugge.”

“She’s a sympathetic witness, and I don’t want to embarrass her. We’ll win or lose on your testimony.”

The old man looked at him skeptically.

“Sam, please trust me. You’re like family to me, and I’d do anything for you.”

“You mean that?” Sam Kazdoy said, his eyes going misty.

“Yeah, I do. And I haven’t said anything like that since I told Coach Shula I’d do whatever was best for the team.”

“He must have liked that.”

“Sure did,” Lassiter said. “He told me to retire.”

Isidor Pickelner scratched at his beard and waited for the next question.

“What is your official capacity, Mr. Pickelner?” Chareen Bailey asked.

“Officially, I’m the Kosher Food Inspector for the City of Miami Beach. Unofficially, I’m Izzy.”

Chareen Bailey leveled her gaze at the witness to tell him this was serious business. “Are you a rabbi?”

“No, ma’am. I’m a shochet. I slaughter animals according to the Jewish dietary laws as laid down in Leviticus and Deuteronomy. And I investigate all establishments in Miami Beach that hold themselves out to be kosher.”

“What do your duties entail?”

“Ascertaining the ingredients and the method of preparation of foods served in restaurants and delicatessens. Only those four-footed animals that chew their cud and have cloven hooves are kosher. So, a cow is kosher, a pig is not. Creatures that crawl such as lizards or snakes are forbidden. Fish must have both scales and fins, so shellfish is taboo.”

“No stone crabs?” Judge Lewis mused.

“Afraid not, Your Honor,” Pickelner replied.

“Did you have an occasion to investigate the food served at Kazdoy’s All-Nite Deli?” Ms. Bailey asked.

Did he ever. Pickelner claimed the sausage was made of pork!

“ Trayf, Your Honor. Unclean! Kielbasa sausage posing as kosher knockwurst. An abomination under the religious laws and false advertising under state laws.”

Ms. Bailey allowed as how she had no further questions, and the judge suggested it was a good time for lunch.

The courthouse wits could not restrain themselves as they stopped at Lassiter and Kazdoy’s table at the Quarterdeck Lounge.

“Hey, Jake, that Reuben’s not kosher,” announced Marvin the Maven. “No mixing meat and cheese.”

“How Trout the beer?” Lassiter asked.

“No problem.”

A few ex-clients wandered over. Luis “Blinky” Baroso, a con man and lobster pot poacher stopped by to say hello. He was being arraigned in federal court for stealing rare ostrich eggs. Stuart Bornstein was eating grilled grouper at the next table. He once tried to cash in on the fast-food craze but went bankrupt when no one would buy into his franchise for Escargot-to-Go. Mike DuBelko was perched on a barstool and saluted Jake with his old-fashioned glass. He owned a service station and was still on probation for pilfering freon from his customers’ cars while he changed their oil. At twenty bucks a pound, the freon was more profitable than tune-ups.

Sam Kazdoy frowned when Lassiter ordered a second sixteen-ounce Grolsch. “What now, I got a shikker for a lawyer?”

“Don’t worry, Sam. I can hold it. Let’s talk about the case.”

“Why get fartootst? What does God care what we eat? What matters is how we treat each other. Which reminds me, have you found the gonifs who robbed me blind?”

“Not yet, Sam. With your bonds, the bank, and the windsurfing race, I’m spinning in circles right now. That’s why I needed your kosher kielbasa case like I needed a…”

“A second hole in your bagel,” Kazdoy said.

Judge Lewis was waiting impatiently in the courtroom, but Jake Lassiter was on the pay phone in the corridor.

“Es negocio o es placer?” Berto asked him. “Business or pleasure, Jake?”

“Business. I’m representing Great Southern Bank.”

Silence. Then a hearty laugh. “Jake, I’m glad it’s you, mi amigo. I thought it would be one of those bloodless WASPs downtown, those pasty faces, sin alma ni corazon.”

Funny, that’s what I said about Winston P. Hopkins in, only in English, Lassiter thought. He felt a kinship with Humberto Hernandez-Zaldivar. “Berto, they’ve sucked the blood out of me, too. Working for bankers turns you into one of them.”

“No, nunca. I know you better than you do. We will talk. We will drink wine and eat, and you will tell me what to do, just as you did in law school.”

“But, Berto, I’m representing the bank against you. I’m supposed to collect money from you.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll work it out.”

The phone clicked dead, and Lassiter rushed into the courtroom, where the judge motioned the lawyers to the bench with an imperious wave of his hand. Then he instructed them to move the case along so he could make the daily double at the dog track, and finally he sniffed the air. “Mr. Lassiter, do I detect the scent of alcohol on your breath?”

Lassiter winked a yes. “If Your Honor’s sense of justice is as keen as his sense of smell, I have no fear of the outcome of the case.”

The judge harrumphed and sent the lawyers back to their tables. Lassiter called Sam Kazdoy to testify. He ran through Kazdoy’s past, his philanthropy, his love of Russian films, and how he brought corned beef and social life to the retirees of South Beach.

“Now, Mr. Kazdoy, you heard Mrs. Pivnick testify this morning?”

“Of course, I heard. You think I’m deaf like her?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The old bubbe bought a hearing aid, twenty-nine dollars mail order.”

“Objection!” Chareen Bailey was on her feet. “Outside scope of the witness’s knowledge.”

“What’s not to know?” Kazdoy asked. “You could hear Radio Havana on the farshtinkener thing all the way across the street.”

“Overruled,” the judge said.

“Did there come a time when you discussed your deli’s food with Mrs. Pivnick?” Lassiter asked.

“She asked if our chicken was stuffed with matzo meal and prunes, and I said, ‘No, with kasha.’”

“Kasha?” the judge asked.

“Buckwheat,” Kazdoy explained. “Cook it with some chicken soup and egg, you got yourself a nice stuffing.”

Lassiter moved a step closer. “So you simply described your stuffing?”

“Twice, I told her,” Kazdoy said. ” ‘Strictly kasha. Strictly kasha.’ She must have thought — “