Paul Levine - Mortal Sin

I had the sensation that she was shaking her head, the long butterscotched hair tickling my chest. “I can’t, Jake. Nicky’s still my husband.”

“And you’re loyal to him? After everything I’ve told you? After all you know? After this?” My gesture encompassed the bed. It was a little clumsy, but she knew what I meant.

“It’s too dangerous,” she whispered. “None of this would have happened if you had backed off after the trial. You should have let it die.”

“Nice choice of words.”

“You know what I mean. Why are you stirring everything up?”

“It’s my fault? Is that the way you see it?”

“It’s too big for you, Jake. You think in little bits and pieces, always asking if something is right or wrong. Nicky’s on a different scale entirely. With him, it’s a question of power. Is everything lined up? Can it get done?” She sat up on an elbow and looked at me. “You don’t understand him.”

“You’re wrong. I understand he’s completely immoral.”

“That’s what I mean. You’re judgmental, and as long as you see things in moral terms, you’ll never beat him. You’ll never play by his rules.”

The gods make their own rules. There it was again.

“If it’s being judgmental to determine that murder is wrong, that’s what I am. Your husband killed Tupton and had Gondolier butchered and tried to blast a hole in me that you could toss a bowling ball through.”

“He didn’t kill Tupton,” she said.

“Okay, so two out of three. Time off for good behavior.”

Outside the bedroom window, a cuckoo was singing-brisk cuck-cuck-cucks without the ooo — sounding like rapid-fire laughter.

“Tupton wasn’t murdered, Jake. Really.”

“So tell me.”

She sat up and looked at the clock on the bed stand. “Uh-oh. I’ve got to get moving. I’m meeting Nicky at the club for an early dinner with Mr. Sugar.”

My look told her I didn’t understand.

“Carlos de La Torre. There’s some hearing tomorrow, and Nicky needs to know everything’s set.”

“The Water Management Board,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I thought it was a done deal. Big Sugar won’t oppose the casino plan.”

“Right, but with Nicky, even after the nail’s driven into the board, he gives it one more whack.”

“Does De La Torre know about the rest of it, Gina?”

“He knows a lot, but not that.” She smiled. “Carlos would not be happy about that, not at all.”

“Carlos,” I said.

She cocked her head at me. “A very handsome man in a very Latino way.” Then she laughed. “Jealous?”

“No, curious.”

“Really, Jake, I’ve got to get going, and I’ve said too much already.” She bounded out of the bed and headed into the master-bath suite, disappearing into a maze of showers, tubs, and makeup mirrors suitable for a Hollywood star. When I heard the water gushing, I got up and went through some dresser drawers. I found a pair of silk pajamas, turquoise and white, with Nicky’s initials embroidered on the breast pocket. In his closet, I pulled out a jaunty sailor’s hat. A nice ensemble, I thought, as I got dressed.

I ran quickly downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed the newspaper from the breakfast nook table, and dashed back up to the bedroom. I snatched the Polaroid camera Gina had brought in from the cabana, found a spot on the dresser that had a clear view of the bed, and pushed the ten-second delay shutter.

I hopped into the bed, showed my best shit-eating grin, held up the newspaper like a hostage in the Middle East, gave the thumbs-up sign, and blinked when the flash lit up the room. I waited the prescribed time and looked at the photo. The pajamas and hat were unmistakable, the canopied bed distinctive in its own right. The newspaper had a headline, HOMICIDE RATE UP. They didn’t know the half of it.

I took off the cap and pajamas and put them back where they belonged. I found a pair of Nicky’s shorts that were too big and a polo shirt that was too small, and got dressed. I borrowed fifty dollars from Gina’s purse, scooped up the photo of the sewer rat taken on the pool deck and the one of the satisfied lover from the bedroom-a bizarre before and after-called a cab, and tiptoed down the stairs.

I left the house without giving Gina the chance to set the odds on seeing me again.

The apartment building once had been seafoam green with sunny-yellow racing stripes darting through the stucco. Now the two colors blended into one pale pastel. Cantilevered sunshades hung over the windows like eyebrows. Despite the building’s Art Deco origins, this one hadn’t been restored for trendy yuppies with Volvos. It was still home to the geriatrics, who watched life from lawn chairs on the front porch.

Marvin the Mayen was having afternoon tea when I rapped on the hollow door of his apartment. Afternoon tea was not freshly brewed West Bengal Darjeeling with a silver platter of scones and brandy snaps. For Marvin, it was a twice-used bag of Lipton dipped in a cup of steaming water, a prune Danish on the side.

Marvin cracked the door, leaving the chain attached. I didn’t recognize him at first without the gray toupee. He looked up at me, squinting. “Jacob, boychik, what are you doing here?”

“I need to use the phone.”

“What, you cross the causeway for that?”

I told him I couldn’t go home or to my Granny’s or to Charlie’s or to my office. He led me to the kitchen table and offered me a Danish, prune or poppy seed, take my choice. The open second-floor window overlooked Flamingo Park. I could hear the shouts of the handball players.

Marvin the Mayen slurped his tea, wrinkled his puss at me, and asked what kind of mishegoss I’d gotten into now, and why were my shorts so loose, my shirt so tight, and what’s with the bare feet?

“I’m in a little trouble,” I said.

Marvin offered me a another Danish, and I accepted. Then I asked him for a small favor. Could he go out and buy me some clothes?

His high, creased forehead added a few furrows. “Clothes?”

“You know, pants, shoes, a shirt. I’ll tell you my sizes.”

“Where do I get these clothes?”

“I don’t know. Wherever you shop. I’ll pay you back.”

“Shop? I shop at the deli and the bakery, once in a while the fruit stand. Clothes I haven’t bought since Harry Truman ran a haberdashery.”

I told him some new stores had opened on Ocean Drive, but stay away from the ones where the clerks are going through their Carmen Miranda stage.

When he was gone, I started dialing the phone, which is what you do on an old-fashioned black rotary number. I called Abe Socolow, who asked where the hell I was, and before I had time not to answer, he pleaded with me to surrender.

“Come on in, Jake. I’m worried about you. This has really gotten serious. Gunther and half of Metro are combing the streets for you. So are the federal marshals, and one of Florio’s hired hands has been snooping around the courthouse, your office, your house, the bars you frequent…”

“Let me guess, Guillermo Diaz.”

“Right. I’ve seen his rap sheet, and I know all about that business with a horse trainer upstate. I want to find you before he does, old buddy. We can protect you, and you’ll get a fair trial, I promise you that.”

“Trial? Abe, listen. Nicky Florio’s pulling off some gigantic scam involving Micanopy land. He’s got a hearing tomorrow in front of the Water Management Board, and if-”

“Screw water management! You listen to me, Jake. The grand jury handed up two indictments for first-degree murder, and your name is on the front page of each one.”

“Two?”

“Yeah. One Ricardo Galliano aka Rick Gondolier and one James White Feather Tiger.”