Paul Levine - Lassiter

I needed to tell her the truth about my night with Krista. If she heard it from Ziegler instead of me, I’d lose whatever trust I’d struggled to build. Amy might even begin to suspect me again in her sister’s disappearance. That’s the problem with lies and cover-ups. They make the underlying wrong seem even more grievous.

“I want you to take precautions,” I told her, as wind gusts rustled the palm fronds and swirled loose sand across the dunes. I couldn’t bring myself to confess. Instead, I stalled.

“Why?”

“Ziegler’s rattled and he’s called in reinforcements.”

I told Amy about the two tough guys in a Lincoln and my confrontation with Perlow and Ziegler, the old gangster and the new humanitarian.

“Perlow’s the one who concerns me,” I said. “He looks soft as a nougat but he’s got flint and steel in his eyes.”

“So we must be on to something.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what. Just promise you’ll be careful, and if you feel threatened in any way, you’ll call me, day or night.”

“Okay, sure. And thanks for caring, Jake.”

Saying it as if she wasn’t used to anyone giving a shit about her.

“You might think about moving out of the motel,” I added.

“Where to?”

“I have an extra bedroom.”

She looked at me with suspicion. Of course, that was a main component of her character.

“Hey, c’mon. No strings attached. If I wanted more, I’d come to your motel.”

“Really?”

“What I meant was, I have my nephew and Granny at home. It’s not exactly a bachelor pad.”

She was shaking her head.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I was just thinking that eighteen years ago, Krista asked if she could spend the night at your place. But you turned her down.”

“Actually …”

“What?”

A dozen terns, which had been pecking away at the wet sand, took to the air. I wanted to fly with them. But I took a deep breath of sea air and told her the truth. That I had taken Krista home with me, knowing deep down that it wasn’t to protect her from the night. That she offered herself, as I knew she would, and I wasn’t man enough to turn her down. As I spoke, the squall hit us, the rain driven sideways, fat juicy drops, warm as spit. A jagged lightning bolt passed over the island and hit on the bay side with a thunderclap that hurt my ears.

When I got to the part where I dropped Krista off in the morning, delivering her to the man I now knew to be Charlie Ziegler, Amy’s face froze. She turned away and looked out to sea.

“You’re just like the rest of them,” she said, staring at the whitecaps sloshing toward the beach.

“Them?”

“Men!”

Without warning, she whirled and hit me, her fist bouncing off my temple. It didn’t hurt, but the surprise knocked me a step sideways. She swung again. And again. I did the rope-a-dope, just standing there with my arms up, as a barrage of blows ricocheted off my shoulders and elbows. I let her punch herself out until, exhausted, she dropped to one knee, sobbing. Lightning zinged across the sky, followed by a thunderclap.

I crouched next to Amy in the wet sand at the water’s edge. “I’m sorry. But I’ll work even harder for you. For Krista.”

“Bastard.”

She said it so softly I could barely hear her over the wind and the rain.

Amy turned and ran up the beach, the wind howling in her wake. I watched until she disappeared. She never looked back.

Sipping a mojito and cursing the gods for the crud they were throwing his way, Charlie Ziegler stood on the seawall separating his property from the roiling water of the bay. He watched the storm plow across Key Biscayne, the sky darkening in its path. He felt the first raindrops, knew the deluge was just seconds away.

“Goddamn lawyer,” he said aloud. That crazy bastard. Can’t be bribed, won’t be scared. Threatening to go public. All these years of building up a reputation. All those galas for diabetes, kidneys, and cancer, every disease north of hemorrhoids. Nibbling canapes with the culture vultures, then snoring through the opera. He wasn’t going to let Lassiter smear the good name he’d built.

Then there was his wife Lola, off to France, probably gonna charge the Eiffel Tower to her Platinum card. God, how he longed to be in his mistress’s arms. Melody was a woman who-against all odds-seemed to actually love him for himself.

And what about Max Perlow? Jesus. Treating him like shit in front of that prick lawyer.

“Shut up, Charlie.…”

What the fuck was that about? After all the money I’ve made for him .

The money .

The old man might be getting senile, but he could still count. Fifteen percent of gross profits. All because of that loan twenty years ago. At least Ziegler had thought it was a loan. Once the porn business took off-all cash, all the time-suddenly the terms changed.

“C’mon Max. I’ve paid you off, already.”

“There’s no paying off. I made an investment. We’re partners, Charlie. Partners for life.”

So die, already.

Instead, Perlow insisted on picking his pocket.

At the time they made the deal, Perlow still had juice. Not a man to fuck with. But these days? Who’s he got, other than that gangbanger Tejada?

Why the hell does Max even have a bodyguard? All his enemies are either dead or drooling into their oatmeal .

Except for me .

Lightning flashed over the bay, and the thunder took its time rumbling toward him. The air smelled of dust and nitrogen. He began taking his own measure as the raindrops pelted him. Could he kill Perlow? Knowing even as he asked that he didn’t have the stomach for it.

What about Tejada? How loyal was he? Would he take $25K to drive the Bentley into a swamp with Perlow strapped into the backseat? Maybe, Ziegler concluded, it was worth pondering over another drink.

Our upbringing may not determine where we finish the race, but it surely draws the starting line. I was mulling this deep thought while huffing and puffing up and down the basketball court. The Miami Mouthpieces-my boys-were taking on the Avengers, Castiel’s band of prosecutors, and I was guarding my opponent.

Until yesterday, I had considered Alex Castiel a friend. We had bonded years ago when I wore the wire for him. We’d shared many meals and many stories since. If he turned out to be dirty, I would feel betrayed.

He was dangerously close to “Uncle Max.” Then there was Ziegler. How well did Castiel know him back in the day? What would he be willing to do for Perlow? And one even bigger question nagged at me.

Yo, Alex, were you at Ziegler’s party the night Krista Larkin disappeared?

I planned to ask, just as soon as I elbowed him in the ribs a few times.

Back then, Castiel would have been a young hotshot a few years out of law school. He’d gotten his name in the papers for winning a few high-profile cases and had recently been promoted to the Major Crimes Division of the State Attorney’s Office. Just the kind of up-and-comer Ziegler wanted as a pal.

Castiel once told me we were friends because of similarities in our past. Both our fathers were murdered. Both of us were raised by surrogates. Castiel was the adopted child of a wealthy Coral Gables family. I was raised by Granny, a tough, honest woman who took no guff.

In high school, I was not King of the Prom. I was Most Likely to Do Time. At Coral Shores High in the Keys, I was a fist-in-the-dirt defensive tackle who enjoyed the combat, much of which consisted of clawing, spitting, and cursing. I wasn’t recruited for major college ball because I was a tweener. Not big enough to play defensive line and not fast enough to be a great linebacker. I walked on at Penn State, made the team, and earned straight C’s in the classroom.