Paul Levine: Lassiter

“It was my birthday party. There were some girls. There always were.”

“That’s it?”

I stepped onto the down escalator, Amy right behind.

“It was a long time ago. I don’t remember one night from another, one girl from another, okay?”

I hopped off the escalator and turned the corner, coming alongside Joseph Gillespie, proprietor of Let’em Go Joe Bail Bonds. He tipped his Florida Marlins cap and let me pass, so I could hit the next escalator in full stride. Amy Larkin was a step behind. Three more floors, then the lobby, then the parking lot. She was going to be on my tail for a while.

“So you’re not interested in clearing your name?” she called after me.

“I don’t know what happened to your sister. Hell, I don’t even remember her.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care!”

“Was she just another easy fuck for you?”

“Jesus!”

Three steps ahead, on the escalator, a young female probation officer turned around and glared at me.

“Did you hurt her?” Amy demanded.

I kept quiet.

“Did you kill her?”

Most people would say, “Hell, no!” But having spent fifteen years asking questions under oath and having read thousands of transcripts, I knew the questions wouldn’t end with my simple denial.

Who else was there?

What happened in the strip club that night?

Did you ever see my sister again?

It would be endless, and there would be questions I wouldn’t want to answer. Not truthfully, anyway. It was all so long ago. That guy in the picture. It was me, but a different me. Today, I would behave differently. I would be a better man. Or would I?

“Did you know how old Krista was?” Amy pressed me.

Again, I forced myself to keep quiet. It’s the same advice I give my clients. Even the innocent ones? Yeah. Because no one is a hundred percent innocent. I wasn’t. Not that night.

Amy was still jabbering when we hit the deserted ground floor. The lobby lawyers, guys who scrounge for clients near the elevator bank, had given up for the day.

She grabbed me by the sleeve of my suit coat. “If you had a shred of decency, you’d tell me everything you know.” Her voice tight, her pain palpable.

She had that right. A shred of decency was about my ration.

“Walk with me,” I said, figuring she wouldn’t let up. “But stop pecking at me.”

We exited the building on the 12th Street side and crossed into the parking lot. My old Biarritz Eldo was resting under a skinny palm tree at the far end of the lot, by the Miami River. A rust bucket freighter, its top deck covered with used bicycles, was steaming east, toward the ocean, and a distant port in the islands.

“I’m truly sorry about your sister,” I said. “And for your pain.”

She waited. I wasn’t about to tell her everything I knew. But, ignoring my own counsel, I planned to tell her enough to get her off my ass.

“I do remember her.” Hell, yes, I thought. Krista would be hard to forget.

Still, Amy waited.

I took a deep breath. I looked Amy Larkin in the eyes. Then I told her the story.

It had been Rusty’s idea. Throw his pal a birthday party at Bozo’s, a strip club on LeJeune Road near the airport. Not that I objected. I was a free agent, one year out of Penn State, busting my ass to hang on to the Dolphins’ roster. Rusty MacLean was a flashy wide receiver with deceptive speed, best known for slanting hard across the middle, his long red hair flapping out of his helmet like flames trailing an engine. He was a bad boy and, of course, women loved him.

Rusty knew the guy who owned Bozo’s. Hell, he knew all the guys who owned strip clubs, massage parlors, and peep shows. Rusty paid for the booze and half a dozen strippers. Lap dances included. Anything in the Champagne Room in back was between the stripper and the partygoer. Tips not included.

Rusty had been seeing Sonia What’s-her-name for a couple months. He called her his favorite, but that’s like Tiger Woods calling a seven-iron his favorite club or his wife his favorite woman. There were plenty more in the bag, when the need arose.

On that night long ago, I remember Rusty swooping down on the table where I sat with Sonia and the new girl. Sonia was all plastic boobs and hair extensions. The kid, Krista, had a sprinkling of freckles and a wide, innocent toothpaste commercial smile. Even toasted, I realized she didn’t belong here with a bunch of degenerates like Rusty, my teammates … and me.

The offensive line sat at the bar, looking like giant beer kegs on a loading dock. Models of teamwork, the guys maintained their usual positions, the center in the middle of the group, flanked by both guards, and then the tackles. The tight end must have been taking a piss. One of our defensive backs-a showboater, but aren’t they all? — was demonstrating his karaoke prowess, with a soulful rendition of “Midnight Train to Georgia.” Half a dozen strippers were offering companionship in exchange for tips.

I had just won a drinking game called “Who Shit?” Yeah, I know, very mature. In those days, fueled by testosterone and tequila, I often engaged in clever activities, such as pounding holes in plasterboard with my forehead.

Rusty staggered over, grabbed Krista by the shoulders, and hoisted her out of her chair. “Wanna ride the wild stallion?”

Her body stiffened .

“How old are you, kid?” I asked, realizing she wanted no part of Rusty’s rodeo .

“Twenty-one.”

“Right. And I’m gonna make All-Pro. Rusty, why not pick on someone old enough to vote. Or at least old enough to drive?”

“Stay out of this, benchwarmer.” Rusty slung her onto his back and gave her a horsey ride to the Champagne Room, a dark place separated from the VIP Room by a beaded curtain .

I gave Sonia a look, but she just shrugged .

Rusty will be Rusty.

We left it at that. Rusty was a star, and I was a free agent linebacker, specializing in kamikaze tackles on the kickoff team. My deepest concerns involved running faster and hitting harder. I read the sports pages and the Dolphins’ playbook and little else. I was not given to profound thoughts .

A few moments later, I heard a scream from the back .

A man’s scream. Rusty yelping, then cursing. The words starting with “motherfucking” and ending with a word that rhymes with “punt.” I tore through the beaded curtain and flicked on the lights .

“Bitch stabbed me, Jake!”

Rusty was sprawled naked on the floor. A knife handle protruded from his right buttock, blood seeping around the blade .

“She had a fucking knife in her boot!” Rusty was gasping for air, and I was afraid he was going into shock .

“Calm down, cowboy. We’ll get you to Jackson.”

“No hospitals, Jake. No police. That doc in Hialeah. Get me there.”

The girl was curled in the fetal position in a corner of the sofa. Sobbing. Nude except for one white patent leather boot. She had a bloody lip and her neck was ringed with red marks. Four fingers and a thumb had pressed into her flesh. I could even make out the imprint of Rusty’s Super Bowl ring .

“Jesus, Rusty, what the hell did you do to her?”

“I paid for it rough.” He hacked up a wet cough. “She knew what she was getting into.”

By now, three of our larger teammates had crowded through the doorway. They debated who would take Rusty to Dr. Torano in Hialeah, finally deciding all of them would go. Offensive linemen believe in teamwork. My job was to take care of the girl, or more accurately, make sure the girl caused no problems for Rusty or the team .