Paul Levine - Lassiter

“Surely, Mr. Lassiter,” he continued, his tone amiable, “you know Charlie had nothing to do with the disappearance of some runaway girl.”

Great, I thought, Al Capone vouching for Baby Face Nelson.

“I don’t know anything yet,” I said, getting my voice back. “Except good old Charlie pushed an underage girl into porn, then she vanished the night she was supposed to be entertaining his scuzzball friends.”

Ziegler made a sound like a pig snorting. “I can ruin you, Lassiter. Take every cent you have and punch your ticket with the Bar.”

“Shut up, Charlie.” Perlow spoke softly, but with the authority of a man who is accustomed to having his orders followed. Turning back to me, he said, “Alejandro tells me good things about you.”

“For a public servant, Alex Castiel gives a lot of private advice.”

“His father was like a brother to me.”

“Bernard Castiel, the gangster? Or Bernard Castiel, the hero?”

Perlow leaned back. “Do you sum up a man’s life so neatly, Mr. Lassiter?”

“Sometimes. You, I’m guessing pure gangster. But a polite one.”

“I was in my teens when Bernard gave me a job at the Nacional casino. Before long, I was going to Shabbos services with his family at Centro de Israelita.”

Perlow paused a moment, and I could swear his eyes teared up.

“Such a tragedy,” he continued, “Bernard dying so young. I stood in for him at Alejandro’s bris.”

A tidbit missing from Alex Castiel’s campaign brochures: “Circumcised in Cuba.”

“When Alejandro’s mother died, who do you suppose got him a Pedro Pan flight to Miami?”

“Wild guess, you.”

“I made sure he was placed with a good family, that he wanted for nothing. He calls me ‘Uncle Max.’ Do you take my point, Mr. Lassiter?”

Suddenly, the State Attorney’s role had come into focus. Castiel might be my basketball buddy, but he’d had a relationship with Perlow far longer and deeper. The old hood was grandfathered in.

“You own Alex Castiel,” I said. “If Uncle Max wants a favor, he can’t say no.”

“You are so hasty with accusations, Mr. Lassiter.”

“Always honest, seldom kind. That’s me.”

“Back in Cuba-”

“Max, is this shit necessary?” Ziegler interrupted. “This prick lawyer accuses me of murder, and you’re telling Bar Mitzvah stories?”

“Sha!”

Hush! I didn’t know much Yiddish, but a Jewish stockbroker I once dated was always telling me to shut up.

Ziegler sank deeper into his chair, sulking.

“Once in a while, in the gaming business,” Perlow said, in a grandfatherly tone, “someone was entitled to wet his beak, but he starts drinking the whole birdbath. I didn’t send out a couple half-wits to throw the guy into the backseat of a car.”

“Aw, Jesus.” Ziegler wheeled around and stared out the window.

“I invited the man to my suite,” Perlow continued. “I offered espresso, pastelitos . We talk like gentlemen. He sees the error of his ways and agrees it won’t happen again.”

“You must serve good pastry,” I said. “What’s on the menu today?”

“Hypothetically, let’s say I have a grievance with a lawyer. To make a living, this lawyer needs cooperation from judges, from prosecutors, even from the clerk of the court. If suddenly no one offers him a plea, if his files go missing, if every client gets the max, the whole town knows he can’t deliver the goods.”

I was starting to feel sorry for this hypothetical lawyer.

“Maybe the poor schlemiel starts cutting corners in order to survive,” Perlow went on. “Someone lets the Florida Bar know of the man’s malefactions. Soon he’s broke and without a law license.”

First Alex Castiel, now Max Perlow. Double-teaming me like two linemen on a draw play. “Ruining me seems like a lot of trouble to go to if your sleazy pal had nothing to do with Krista Larkin’s disappearance.”

“Fuck you,” Ziegler shot back, still looking out the window.

Perlow tapped the floor with his cane. Rat-a-tat-tat . I think he was telling both of us to settle down. “There’s another solution, Mr. Lassiter. Maybe you need some work. A retainer from Ziegler Enterprises.”

“What the hell!” Ziegler whirled around in his chair to face his partner.

“Calm down, Charlie.”

“How much?” I asked, being a stickler for details.

Perlow allowed a small smile, thinking he had me. “Serious shekels, I assure you.”

Things were moving way too fast, I thought. First they send Angel Roxx to seduce me, then Ray Decker to escort me. Then I encounter Mutt and Jeff. Good gangster, bad gangster. I’d hit a nerve, and these two were freaking out. I sure as hell wasn’t going to take their money, but I’d like to know why it was being offered. What did they have to hide?

“This retainer ,” I said. “I get the money whether or not there’s work to do?”

“Isn’t that how a retainer works?”

“So does a bribe.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’m sure Charlie can find something for you to do.”

Ziegler drilled me with eyes cold as coins. “Wish I was still in hard core. You could mop up jism on the set.”

“Keep your retainer,” I said. “I’d rather come after you.”

“Take your best shot, shyster.”

“I’ll start by asking questions of your bigshot friends. Maybe the Archbishop has something to say.”

Ziegler emitted a sound very much like a dog growling.

“A suggestion, Mr. Lassiter,” Perlow said. “You’re here now. Ask Charlie anything you want. Whatever you learn, feel free to take to Alejandro.”

Surprising me. “Sure, why not?” I said.

With a hostile witness, many lawyers begin with soft violins before they start pounding the kettle drums. They try to lull the witness into a false sense of security. I think subtlety is overrated.

“Were you fucking Krista Larkin when she was seventeen?” I began.

Ziegler blinked and shot a look at Perlow, who said, “Tell him the truth, Charlie.”

“Yeah, I was fucking her. So what? I wasn’t the only one.”

“Did she come to parties at your house?”

“Yeah, lots of them.”

“What about the night she disappeared?”

“Never showed up.”

“You invited her?”

“On the set that day. She said she’d come by, but she didn’t.”

“Any idea why?”

“Maybe she was worn out from sucking cock all day.”

“Am I mistaken, or did you just get the Humanitarian of the Year award?”

“Cor-fucking-rect, and I’m a Grand Claw, too. You know how much you gotta give to charity to get a golden bib?”

“Who cares? Underneath your bib, you’re still a sleazebag.”

He turned to Perlow. “A fucking criminal defense lawyer lecturing me.”

“One difference,” I said, “I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not.”

“You hypocrite! Max, did you hear him?”

“Not now, Charlie.”

But Ziegler barreled on. “Hey, Lassiter, you think I don’t remember you? You think Krista didn’t tell me about you? I know what happened that night, you two-faced fuck!” He smirked at me. “Did you tell your client you fucked her sister? Or do you want me to?”

I couldn’t breathe. It felt as if someone had cinched leather straps around my chest and pulled tight.

“Charlie, that’s not the way to resolve this,” Perlow said. “Mr. Lassiter, do you have anything else?”

I was reeling from Ziegler’s accusations. I’d tumbled from the moral high ground to the gutter.

Ziegler knew .

He even guessed that I hadn’t been honest with Amy Larkin. I had to fix that and fast.