Paul Levine - Mortal Sin

“I didn’t kill Gondolier.”

“Jesus Christ, Jake. What are you saying? You have the right to remain silent. You have the right-”

“I know my rights. Look, Tiger killed Gondolier. Nicky Florio ordered it. I was there. I killed Tiger, but it was self-defense.”

“He was attacking you?”

“Not at the time. He was trying to coerce me into signing a confession.”

“So you killed him? He was a cop, for Christ’s sake. He was doing his job.”

“He was framing me for a murder he committed, and then he and Diaz were going to kill me and make it look like a suicide. He was doing Nicky Florio’s dirty work. I did what I had to do.”

Through the line, I heard a bitter laugh. “I’ve seen the autopsy report, Jake. You rammed a pen into his brain, then blew off both his legs with shotgun blasts. It looks like an assassination, and the pictures aren’t pretty. Two grand jurors blew their lunch.”

“Florio must have used the shotgun.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? Because he was angry, because he wanted to make it look worse for me.”

“Florio told the grand jury that you and Gondolier stole a million bucks from the bingo hall. He says you killed Gondolier in some dispute between thieves and then killed Tiger, who was investigating the murder.”

“Then Florio’s guilty of perjury besides everything else.”

“Look, Jake, my sources tell me Tiger was dirty, but that stuff tends to get overlooked when a guy with a badge gets blown away. What we’re looking at here is a twenty-one-gun salute, a funeral with uniforms from all over the state, and a half-assed lawyer branded as a cop-killer. All hell will break loose when the indictments get unsealed. Even now, we got some trigger-happy guys on Metro who might take you out if this Diaz creep doesn’t find you first. Jake, I figure you got about twenty-four hours to live if you don’t get your ass in here where I can protect you.”

We both listened to the buzzing on the line for a moment.

“You’re not coming in, are you?” he asked finally.

“No. If I do, I’ll never get what I need on Florio. I can’t clear myself sitting in the can.”

I heard him sigh.

“Okay, what’s this shit about the Water Management Board? Anything illegal, anything I can pull Florio’s chain about?”

“I don’t know. Just show up. The hearing’s in Belle Glade. If I can’t nail Nicky there, you can bring me in, but leave Gunther home. Next time I see him, I’m going to put him on his ass.”

Socolow was telling me to stop threatening state officers, I was already in enough trouble, but I hung up halfway through his speech and laboriously dialed another number. Mike Goldberg answered the phone in his red Ferrari. He was a private investigator who specialized in divorce work and once did ninety days for wiretapping the lusty wife of a bank executive. I asked him about some technical equipment, and he said he could have it ready and working in thirty minutes.

Then I called Sam Terilli, who used to run a cockfighting racket in Sweetwater. I walked him on animal cruelty and gambling charges when the roosters refused to testify, and now he took bets on pro football when he wasn’t seating the beautiful people at the Ocean Club. I asked him if he knew Nicky Florio, and he told me that everybody knew Nicky Florio. I asked if he was seating Nicky’s party at a particular table this evening, and he took a moment looking at his reservations book. In about an hour, Sam said, Nicky would be at his usual table. It overlooks the marina, and he can see his Bertram through the window. I looked at the clock on Marvin’s old stove and told Sam I’d see him in forty-five minutes.

The lobby of the Ocean Club was dim. On the wall of the reading room was a faded mural of three pink flamingoes. The building was aging gracefully, if that’s what you call it when the stucco walls might have been used for mortar practice. To demonstrate a blase attitude about appearances, the upper crust relishes a gentle seediness that distinguishes its playpens from those shining chrome palaces of the nouveau riche. Still, in hard times, old money makes compromises, like admitting into membership a contentious real estate developer named Nicky Florio.

The club was 1930s Miami, complete with portholes for windows and wooden decks for balconies. On the roof were soaring towers resembling the smokestacks of a ship. It looked like a cardboard set for a Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers movie. Critics who worship the period would call it theatrical, romantic, and imbued with a sense of fantasy and animation. To me, it was just a dank old place with peeling paint, a society joint that discriminated against minorities and gave shelter to politicians and businessman who hatched quiet deals out of view of the public and press.

There was a dining room that fronted on a marina, an adjoining bar, and forty-five hotel rooms on three upper floors. I passed under an ornate chandelier with hanging crystal doodads, and went straight to room 212, the desk clerk studying me as I breezed past him. I was wearing a blousy black silk shirt with enough material for a parachute. The pants were black leather and crackled with each step. My feet hurt from the high-heeled boots, black again, with silver piping. I looked like a reject from a Harley-Davidson convention, but Marvin the Mayen told me it was either this or rayon pants with pink roses, so I thanked him and vowed never to shop on South Beach.

Sam Terilli said I would be directly over the dining room. The door was open, just as he had promised. Mike Goldberg had already installed the equipment. The small console was turned on, the red light glowing, the volume adjusted. I picked up the earphones. Just the faraway clatter of a busy dining room.

The telephone rang.

Terilli told me the Florios had arrived and were in the bar. They were waiting for Mr. de La Torre.

The bar.

I hadn’t counted on that. They could sit there and drink half the evening away, and I wouldn’t hear a thing. I drummed my fingers on a cigarette-scarred dresser, studying a print on the wall, a still life of avocadoes and mangoes.

The telephone rang again.

Mr. de La Torre had joined the Florios in the bar. Everyone ordered drinks. Nicky and Carlos were doing the talking, but when Terilli tried to move close, they clammed up.

Five minutes later, another ring. “Pick up the earphones. I just seated them.”

Another round of drinks. Jack Daniel’s straight up for Nicky, Absolut on the rocks for Carlos, and white wine for Gina.

Small talk and the gentle clinking of glasses.

What a lovely dress you’re wearing, Mrs. Florio. Hasn’t it been a dry winter? Are you going to Aspen for spring skiing, or have they ruined the place? The ambience in Idaho is so much better. The discount rate dropped half a point, maybe construction will pick up. The audio was decent, but the cloppity-clop of footsteps on the old tile floor kept interfering. The microphone must be under the table. Carlos de La Torre had a faint Cuban accent and the loudest voice. He complained about the damn do-gooders pushing for better working conditions for his Jamaican sugarcane cutters.

He complained about having to pay $4 million in fines for dumping carcinogenic chemicals into the water waste at his sugar mills. He complained a lot.

They ordered appetizers. Melon and prosciutto for Gina, an eggplant crepe filled with mozzarella and covered with tomato sauce for Carlos and a good old shrimp cocktail for Nicky.

“Well, tomorrow’s the day,” Nicky said, after the waiter took the order.

“Todo en orden?” Carlos asked.

“No problems at my end. I’m counting on you, of course.”