Paul Levine - Mortal Sin

“I will be there personally. It is better than sending the lawyers. If necessary, I will remind the board members of a wonderful weekend they spent on my ranch hunting quail.”

There seemed to be some chuckling at that one.

The waiter returned, and Nicky ordered another bourbon. Mineral water for Carlos and Gina this time.

“I am very grateful for your help,” Nicky said. His tone was respectful, his manner formal. I wasn’t used to him that way. But Carlos de La Torre had more money than Nicky Florio, and maybe that was how the pecking order was determined. “I couldn’t do it without-” Cloppity-clop.

“Correcto!’ De La Torre boomed. “ Totalmente correcto! It’s worth ten percent of the gross, right? And we’re not-”

At a nearby table, someone barked instructions at the waiter. Trying to follow the conversation was like listening to overlapping dialogue in a Robert Altman movie. It took all my concentration.

“…the management company’s gross.” Carlos de La Torre again. “You’re not dealing with the Indians here, Nick. I want a dime of every dollar from every slot machine, craps, and blackjack table in the place. Not to mention the roulette and poker and whatever other legalized thievery you’re planning.”

“It’s a lot of money,” Florio said.

“Yes, for a…what did you call me in the contract?”

“A consultant.”

Laughter, Gina joining in.

“My friends on the water board must not know-” Cloppity-clop-clop.

“No, of course not,” Florio responded. A piece of silverware banged against a plate. I pictured Nicky Florio gesturing with a fork. “The bastards would each demand ten percent, and what would I have left?”

More laughing all around. What a hilarious group.

They resumed their small talk, Carlos drawing Gina into the conversation. Then a discussion of diets, and which friends had stopped eating red meat. The waiter returned, and they ordered. Angel hair pasta with fresh tomatoes for Gina, a whole fried snapper in ginger sauce for Carlos, and a Porterhouse steak, medium rare, for Nicky. Caesar salads all around, hold the anchovies.

“One more thing,” Nicky said, his voice a shade lower. I pictured him leaning closer to De La Torre. “We’ve got more soil tests to do out there, and I’d love to drop the water level another foot.”

“So?”

“I can’t tell the board members because they don’t want the Big Cypress any drier, and I don’t want to send the water south through the park because the rangers will scream we’re flooding the gator holes. So, Carlos, can you use a few billion cubic feet of water?”

“Water,” De La Torre mused. “What is it the Bible says? ‘If thine enemy be thirsty, give him water to drink.’”

“Carlos, what are you saying? We are friends.”

“ Verdad, and the very best kind, friends of convenience. Our friendship floats on a river of water. Is there another commodity so precious? In a drought, my company would pay anything for water, but we don’t have to because the Water Management Board would drain the Big Cypress for us. In my business, we have a saying, ‘Water flows uphill, toward the money.’”

There were the sounds of utensils clicking against plates, some mumbled words, feet shuffling under the table.

“We don’t need the water now,” De La Torre continued, “but to help a friend, we’ll take some for the fields and dispose of the rest through canals. It’ll be in the Gulf before anyone knows. But not a word-” cloppity-clop “-or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Thank you, Carlos. You and I understand each other perfectly.” Then Nicky excused himself. Too much bourbon, he said, provoking another laugh.

At first, Gina’s voice was so soft I could barely hear her. But I knew it was her. I had heard that tone before. And the words, too. So many times over so many years. “I’ve missed you, Carlos.”

“And I have missed you, chiquita. ” His voice a whisper now.

“I thought tomorrow…”

“No, business first. Besides, I promised your husband I’d be there.”

“Business, business, business. The two of you are so much alike.”

A soft chuckle. “That is not what you whispered to me when…” Cloppity-clop.

“I should never have gotten involved with you. That first time, it was such a close call, we shouldn’t-”

“That’s why you did it! Don’t you know that? It is the risk you enjoy. In your husband’s home, a hundred people around, it turns you on.”

“We were nearly caught.”

“Nearly! We were…”

A throat cleared. “Would you care for coffee now, or are you waiting for the gentleman to return?”

Damn. Like a policeman, you can never get a waiter when you need one. But when you’d rather be alone…

“Espresso now would be fine,” Carlos said. Here was a man who didn’t wait for anybody.

“Two,” Gina said.

Silence except for the background noise. I wanted to hear more. Come on, Gina.

A mumble. “…comes now.”

The scraping of a chair against the floor. Straining to listen through the earphones was giving me a headache.

“So what were you two talking about?” Nicky Florio asked.

“Price supports for the sugar industry and its effect on the international trade of commodities,” Carlos de La Torre said, and everybody had a good laugh.

My mind was buzzing as I raced down the staircase of threadbare carpeting to the main floor. There was so much I didn’t understand about Gina. What made her tick, anyway? Did boredom make her a thrill-seeker? Was it for the sex, or the power she could wield over men? I had never understood her.

Passing by the dining room and the bar, I headed toward the lobby, aiming for the front door and the parking lot. Etched into the glass wall of the bar was a schooner under full sail. It made me think of open seas and steady winds. I chased the thought away and tried to concentrate on what I had just heard. The door to the bar opened, emitting sounds of happy chatter. A man came out, but I never looked his way. I was still thinking about water and roulette wheels, bribes and sugarcane, Carlos and Gina. Always Gina.

“Lassiter? Lassiter, that you?”

A smart guy would have kept going, head down. A guy in control wouldn’t have jerked around and gaped, a puzzled look on his all-too-visible face. But that’s what I did.

“Jesus H. Christ, Lassiter.” Gunther wore a golf shirt under a brown plaid sport coat. His thick cop neck filled the open-collar shirt. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation.

I stared dumbly at him.

He reached inside his sport coat, patting for the shoulder holster that wasn’t there. His mouth formed the word “shit.”

“Hey, Gunther, you’re out of uniform.”

“But you’re not,” he said, examining my leather pants. “Looks like you’re trolling for queers. You’ll have plenty to choose from where I’m taking you.”

“Where’s that, the Policemen’s Ball?”

He growled at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Think about it. It’ll come to you.”

“I’m taking you in, asshole.” He reached behind his back and came up with a pair of handcuffs. I took a step backward and raised my hands.

“Look, Gunther. Try to get this through your thick skull. We’re on the same side. Nicky Florio is the guy you want. He’s a con man, a murderer, and probably cheats at poker.”

Gunther took a step toward me, so I took another step back. I was pressed against the wall of the corridor. The front door was twenty paces away. I saw Sam Terilli, the felonious maitre d’, standing in the service entrance to the kitchen, thirty paces the other way. He made a slight gesture with his head, telling me to come that way. Okay, Sam, I’m trying.