Paul Levine - Riptide

Lassiter speared a fried plantain from Charlie’s plate. “Nothing as exciting as a giant sapphire here. My client kept the bonds in his office. He’s an old man who’s got a younger woman working for him, hanging around the office, hanging all over him. She’s got a look that says she’s been around the track a few times and hasn’t cashed any winning tickets yet. My client may be her last race.”

“ Auri sacra fames, the cursed hunger for gold. I assume she has an alibi.”

“A most convenient one. She was with my client at the time of the theft.”

“She has friends, does she not? A husband, boyfriend, nephew, that sort of thing. Have you done a workup on her, any surveillance?”

“The client won’t let me. He’s… fond of her.”

“Fingerprints at the scene?”

“None.”

“You’ve notified the banks, I suppose.”

“Immediately.”

“So what do you propose?”

“Don’t know, Charlie. I could confront her, make the accusation, see her reaction.”

“No. Sapiens nihil affirmat quod non probat. A wise man states as true nothing he cannot prove. You must have patience and wait. The problem with a burglary is there’s no body. Bodies are full of clues. But with a burglary, the thieves take the corpus delicti with them. For the time being, you’re stuck. Let the police handle it or mishandle it. But examine every clue they turn up. And don’t go looking for any geniuses.”

“I won’t, Charlie. You’re the only one I know.”

At seven-thirty, Jake Lassiter pulled under the canopy of the Sonesta Beach Hotel and gave his yellow Olds convertible to a goofy teenage valet — “Rad, man, that a GTO?” — who promptly ground the gears. Lassiter gritted his teeth and walked to the veranda overlooking the ocean. In five minutes they appeared, freshly scrubbed and wholesome as a Pepsi ad.

Keaka’s short black hair was still wet from the shower. He wore baggy cotton pants and a polo shirt, his arms strung with steel-cable veins. Lila had changed into a simple pink cotton dress, the sleeveless tank top clinging to her breasts and a full skirt falling away from a dropped waist. The long skirt flung easily with each athletic stride. When they walked outside and Lila felt the breeze from the Atlantic, she locked both hands behind her head, cradled her neck, and tossed her hair downwind. The ocean was streaked with creamy light as the moon rose in the east and smoothed a warm glow over her face. The wind was gusty and scented with salt, and as it blew, Lila’s skirt gathered between her long, strong legs. She stood there with eyes closed, back arched, and breasts thrust forward, listening to a silent song, laughing into the wind.

Jake Lassiter stood transfixed. Her physical beauty was intoxicating, as natural as a windswept beach. Never had he seen a woman so exquisite, so removed from his world of the mundane and mendacious… and never one so beyond his reach. His mind recorded the sight, savored it, and burned it into place.

“God I love the wind,” Lila said finally, her hair flying.

“Easterly,” Lassiter said. “About eighteen knots, but there’s a venturi effect here from the buildings. Feels more like twenty-five.”

Idiot! He cursed himself. The occasion called for savoir faire, for poetry, anything but a weather report. Then the moment was gone.

With the top down, they headed across the Rickenbacker Causeway to the mainland, through downtown and across the MacArthur Causeway, the lights from the moored cruise ships twinkling in Government Cut. On South Beach, Keaka Kealia paused before entering Joe’s, the famous stone crab restaurant, and said, “Surf here.” His head was cocked toward the ocean half a mile away. Lassiter listened and couldn’t hear a thing.

“The ocean’s just at the end of the street,” Lassiter said, “but not much surf, at least not by Hawaiian standards.”

“Three feet, maybe a little less,” Keaka announced judiciously.

They entered the restaurant, the Hawaiian still listening for the distant shore break, Lassiter wondering if he was being put on. A throng of tourists huddled in the foyer and the adjacent bar, and Lassiter had to elbow his way toward the maitre d’.

In Miami, there are three enduring personalities who, like Franklin Roosevelt, have defined an era. There is Shula the coach, Fidel the dictator, and Roy the maitre d’. Without access to Roy, the highlight of your trip to Joe’s was standing in line with fifty John Deere tractor salesmen from the Midwest.

Bespectacled and sleek in a black dinner jacket, Roy saw Jake towering over the crowd and waved him to the front. “How do you like the Fins against the Bills Sunday?” he asked.

“Give the points and put your money on Marino.” It was the same advice he always gave — give the points, or take the points — but bet on the Dolphins. He was right about half the time.

The captain took them to a corner table under a black-and-white photo of Miami Beach in the 1930s. When they were seated, Lassiter turned to his guests. “Keaka, did you really know there was surf here?”

Lila said, “Keaka has a sixth sense for water. His ancestors paddled canoes from Tonga to Hawaii, and Keaka believes in reincarnation, so he thinks he was a great sailor or King Kalaniopuu from an earlier life.”

Lassiter nodded nonchalantly, as if he often dined with reincarnated royalty. “King Kalan…”

Keaka smiled for the first time. “He killed Captain Cook.”

“And ate him,” Lila laughed.

“A lie!” Keaka barked at both of them. “A lie invented by the British. Cook was a fool. He did not know the people or the land but thought he was invincible because he had guns and the natives had only stones and slings.”

The outburst silenced the table. Lassiter shifted uneasily in his chair, wanting to change the subject. Anything but cannibalism or the weather. But Keaka wasn’t ready to let it go. “Do you know anything of Hawaiian history?”

“Not much,” Lassiter answered. “There was one king who united the islands, wasn’t there?”

Keaka gave a small smile of approval. “Kamehameha the Great, an invincible warrior. A string of war canoes four miles long. Of course, I am descended from Kamehameha the Great.”

“Of course,” Lassiter said.

Lila laughed and her hair fell across a shoulder. “It’d be hard to prove. Old Kame-ha-ha had about forty wives.”

“Only twenty-one,” Keaka corrected her. “Just enough to serve him.”

“Give me a break,” Lila said, “and pass the pumpernickel while you’re at it, Keaka the Great.”

Lassiter ordered stone crabs for the table. Boiled and served cold with a tangy mustard sauce, the hard colorful claws contain a meat sweeter than lobster. Keaka Kealia devoured his order and asked for a second portion. He ate quickly, going from one side dish to another, creamed spinach and hash browns and fried eggplant. Together, they put away several cold beers and the room became warmer. Around them was the clatter of plates and the cacophony of voices. At the table, everything was in softer focus now, the atmosphere changed. Keaka became more talkative, weaving tales of Hawaiian folklore, warriors from the jungle defeating great forces of invaders. Lila’s face radiated happiness, her eyes sparkling, and Lassiter thoughtfully concluded that the world’s most glorious sight was a dab of mustard sauce clinging impossibly to a cheekbone carved by Michelangelo.

On request, Keaka passed the second portion of stone crabs to Lassiter, but suddenly he winced, and Lassiter caught the platter before it crashed to the table.

“Good reflexes,” Keaka said.

“The pass-tip drill,” Lassiter replied. “You okay?”