Paul Levine - Lassiter

Melody’s bed was his sanctuary from an increasingly cruel and heartless world. But today he couldn’t stop thinking about that prick Alex Castiel.

“There are only two people who could have killed Max. Amy Larkin and you, Charlie. It’s completely up to you who goes down for it.”

“Mel, I want to take you to Buenos Aires,” he said.

“Really?”

“Or Rio. I think I meant Rio.”

Argentina or Brazil? He could never remember which one refused to extradite fugitives to the United States.

“Or Casablanca.” He was pretty damn sure there was no treaty with Morocco.

“What are you talking about, Charlie?”

“I can sell the cable channel. Fox is always in the market for more sleaze. And Rodney Gifford would buy the porn distribution business if the price was right.”

Melody propped up on an elbow, her face close to his. When she frowned, her nose wiggled like a rabbit’s. She was so all-fire cute Ziegler wanted to kiss her from head to toe and frequently did.

“A fresh start for both of us.” A youthful bounce to his voice.

“What about your wife?”

“She’s not invited.”

“Slow down, Charlie.” She traced figure-eights on his chest with an index finger. “You’re under a lot of stress.”

“Damn straight.”

“It’s not the time to make major decisions.”

She was right, Ziegler knew. So damn smart. And supportive. Not just a good lay. His relationship with Melody had always been more than just sex. As the years went by, he relied more on her for advice and counsel. If he had a problem with cable operators or DVD distributors, he’d discuss it with her. She was also the only person in the world Ziegler trusted completely.

“Alex is threatening me and Tejada’s strong-arming me.” He took her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. “A man can’t live like that. Not for long.”

“Running away? It’s not like you, Charlie.”

“I’m talking about a new life. Right after the trial, let’s do it.”

“Not until you have some breathing room, some time to think. Maybe a couple weeks in the islands, let you unwind. You might see things differently then.”

Right again, he thought.

“I have some new toys we can bring along.” Showing her salacious smile.

“You’re on.” Lately, he’d ceded the dominant role in the bedroom to Melody. As he got older, he took pleasure in surrendering power. Ball and gag, rubber mask, clothespins, he loved it all. Who knew that ass beads could add twenty megatons to his orgasm?

“Did you want to talk about the trial?” she asked, gently.

He knew that was her sweet way of saying, “We have to talk about the trial.”

“Sure.”

“I’m worried, Charlie.”

“I screwed up that night, but I can make it right.”

“So you’ve been thinking about what you’re going to say on the stand.”

“Constantly.”

“And …?”

He sighed. “Gonna say I couldn’t see who fired the shot.”

Worry clouded her face. “Are you going to tell Castiel you’re changing your testimony?”

“The opposite. I’ll tell him I’m on board.”

“Are you sure that’s the way to do it?”

Her concern had dug little creases in her forehead. Ziegler loved that look, a mixture of vulnerability and caring.

“I’ll let Castiel tell the jury I’m his star witness, then sandbag the fucker.”

“How do you think he’ll react?”

“Shit his pants in the courtroom, I’m hoping.”

“Just be careful, Charlie.”

“No worries, Mel.”

Ziegler lifted the sheet and buried his head between her breasts. He didn’t want to talk about Castiel. Even years ago, when the prick came around sniffing after pussy, he always acted superior, like he was slumming. Ziegler blamed Perlow for spoiling Castiel when he was a kid, telling him he was so damn special. What a crock.

“What are you thinking about, Charlie?”

“It’s winter in Rio, hon,” Ziegler whispered. “Buenos Aries, too. I love winter.”

Nestor Tejada, bodyguard of the late Max Perlow, took the Copans Road exit and headed east toward the town of Lighthouse Point. Nearing the harbor, he parked in the scant shade of a stubby palm tree, got out of the car, and walked to the pink condominium building.

Fucking Ziegler .

Once Tejada had threatened to reveal what he’d seen-Ziegler finishing off poor old Perlow-the weasel had changed his tune. All of a sudden, the reality show idea, “Gangbangers,” was a high-concept, dead-solid hit. Ziegler had agreed to terms. But ever since, he’d been stringing Tejada along. Refusing to put anything in writing, saying that’s how deals were done in television.

“My word is my bond, amigo. You’ve got a play-or-pay deal.”

Bullshit, Ziegler. You’ve got a pay-or-die deal.

It was time to let Ziegler know that. Saturday morning. A man of habit, Ziegler would be curled up with his honey. Always best to catch a man with his pants down.

Tejada took the elevator to the fourth floor and headed toward the corner apartment. He hadn’t decided whether to ring the bell or kick in the door. When he got to the apartment, the decision was made for him. The door was open. He walked inside. The smell of fresh paint was in the air.

No furniture.

No nobody.

“You’re so tense, baby,” Melody said.

His back oiled, Ziegler was facedown on the bed, Melody straddling him. She dug her thumbs into the muscles along the shoulder blades. Pain . Then slid forward, letting her nipples trace circles in the massage oil. Pleasure .

“Relax, baby,” she said. “Let the tension drain out.”

“Give me five minutes, I got something that’ll shoot out.”

He could see the bay through the floor-to-ceiling glass. He’d bought the apartment for Melody after realizing Tejada had followed him to the Lighthouse Point condo. So here they were on the seventeenth floor of a Brickell Key high-rise just south of the Miami Avenue bridge. This part of his life had to be kept away from Tejada and Castiel and anyone else who could do them harm.

Her hands felt warm, and his eyes fluttered shut. As he drifted off, he thought again of Rio, and the “The Girl from Ipanema” floated through his dreams.

“Oye, oye, oye. The 11th Judicial Circuit is now in session. Judge Melvia Duckworth presiding.”

Everyone scrambled up, and Her Honor breezed through a back door, robes flying like an untrimmed sail. Judge Melvia Duckworth was an African-American woman in her fifties who had been an army captain, handling court-martials as a JAG lawyer. I liked her, mainly because she let lawyers try their cases without too much interference, and she hadn’t yet said the magic words: “Mr. Lassiter, you are hereby held in contempt.…”

The judge wore a white, filagreed rabat at her neck, giving her the appearance of a member of the clergy. She wished everyone good morning and instructed the bailiff to bring in the jurors.

Next to me, Amy had the pallor common to inmates and barflies but did not seem nervous or agitated. Going on trial for murder apparently agreed with her. She wore a prim little business suit. Charcoal gray. White blouse with a little bow. The outfit shouted “innocent.” I always want my clients well dressed and well groomed. I could have walked Charles Manson if he’d had a haircut and a Band-Aid covering the swastika on his forehead.

Sometimes I use props. Bibles and rosary beads are my old reliables. I’ll put a wedding band on a male client to create the impression that someone loves him. I’ll take a wedding band off a female client if someone on the jury might want to bone her.