Paul Levine - Lassiter

“Don’t think so.”

“So, what was Ziegler doing? Just watching Max Perlow die?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Castiel again. “Argumentative.”

“Overruled. You may answer, Mr. Tejada.”

“Ziegler was kind of paralyzed. In shock, like.”

“Maybe he’d never seen anyone shot before?”

“I’m sure he hadn’t.”

“But you have, correct? You’ve seen men shot.”

At the prosecution table, Castiel stirred but didn’t stand up. He could easily object. But Castiel knew which hills to defend, and which ones to give up without losing any troops.

“I’ve seen a couple dudes shot, yeah.”

Tejada glanced toward the man in the last row.

“Let’s step back for a minute. Just why was Mr. Perlow visiting Charles Ziegler that night?” I asked.

“To collect money.”

I liked the answer. “Collect money” had a seedy sound.

“You had a business deal of your own with Mr. Perlow, didn’t you?” I already knew this from taking Tejada’s depo.

“Slot-machine contract. We serviced Indian reservations.”

“What were the terms between you and Mr. Perlow?”

“I had a third of the business. When Mr. P died, I got the rest.”

Bingo .

“So you stood to gain financially on Mr. Perlow’s death?”

“I see where you’re going, but I was happy working for Mr. P.”

“Really? Driving his car was better than owning his business?”

“I wasn’t in a hurry. The old dude was like family.”

“Weren’t you getting tired of waiting for the old dude to die?”

“Nope. I enjoyed his company.”

I was out to collect a string of “no”s. Get enough negatives, they sometimes turn into a positive.

“So that wasn’t you on the pool deck with a gun …”

“No way, man!”

“… purposely making a noise to lure Perlow into the solarium …”

“Hell, no!”

“… where you could shoot him through the glass?”

“Screw you, Lassiter! That’s crap.”

His face had heated up with a look that was positively murderous.

“The witness will keep his voice down,” the judge instructed.

“So now, Mr. Tejada, you’re the proud owner of one hundred percent of the slot-machine business, correct?”

He answered softly. “As soon as the legal papers are done, yeah.”

I decided to throw a Hail Mary, see who would catch it. “Is that why your lawyer is here today?”

Tejada’s eyes flicked again to the man in the last row of the gallery. “That’s not why he’s here.”

Okay. I was half right. At least, the guy was his lawyer.

I took another chance. “Are you currently charged with a crime, Mr. Tejada?”

“Downtown. The feds indicted me for money laundering.”

“Is the charge related to your slot-machine business?”

“That’s what they say. My lawyer’s gotta talk to the U.S. Attorney about my plea deal.”

His plea deal. Oh, shit .

If Tejada had been indicted for the slots business, Perlow was likely to be charged, too. The old mobster was the bigger fish, so Tejada had some leverage in a plea deal in which he cooperated with the feds. Meaning … Tejada didn’t want Perlow dead. Perlow was Tejada’s ticket out of jail .

I had fallen into a gator hole, and I needed to get the hell out before I got my leg chewed off. “Your witness,” I told Castiel.

The State Attorney gave me a snarky smile and said, “Mr. Tejada, let’s tidy up a bit.”

Translation: The defense lawyer took a dump on the floor. Let’s rub his face in it .

“Did you become a cooperating witness after your indictment?”

Tejada looked down as he answered, “Yeah, I did.”

“What were the terms of your cooperation?”

“If I testified against Mr. P, I’d get a reduced sentence. Maybe no prison time.”

“So did you have a motive to see Max Perlow dead?”

“ Todo lo contrario . The opposite, man. With him dead, I got no deal with the feds.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tejada.” Castiel slid back into his chair.

Two tons of sand weighted me down, but I still managed to get to my feet. There was no reason to flail away any longer, but I always prefer going to the lunch break with my words in the air, rather than the prosecutor’s. “Your Honor, just a couple questions.”

“Quickly, Counselor.”

“Are you what’s called a rat, Mr. Tejada? A snitch?”

“That and a lot worse names.”

“Max Perlow was good to you, wasn’t he?”

“He was the best.”

“And you turned on him?”

“He wouldn’t look at it that way,” Tejada said. “Mr. P used to tell a story. Two men are walking through the woods and come across a big bear. The bear starts chasing them, and one guy says, ‘You think we can outrun this bear?’ The other guy says, ‘I only have to outrun you.’ It’s what Mr. P taught me. When the shooting starts, put someone between yourself and the shooter. Save yourself first. Worry about others later. I was just doing what the old man taught me.”

Amy was back in her holding cell, probably gagging on her lunch. Two slices of bologna on white bread with a packet of mustard, a half pint of milk, and a small bag of potato chips. Yeah, I hate how we pamper our prisoners.

Judge Duckworth was off to the Bankers Club, sliced tenderloin with a tangy horseradish sauce, a Caesar salad, and a martini, straight up. The jurors were downstairs in the cafeteria, escorted by the bailiff.

The courtroom abandoned, I sat alone at the defense table, surveying the wreckage of my case. Basically, I had a client who wouldn’t level with me, and she had an incompetent lawyer.

I was riffling through my file folders, as if I could find a scrap that would win the case. There was nothing in the paperwork. There seldom is. I opened Kip’s research files, pulled out the forty-year-old photo of Max Perlow and Meyer Lansky walking into the very courtroom where I now sat brooding. Then another photo, an aged Lansky, in dark slacks and light sweater, walking a little dog on a leash.

“Bruzzer!”

The voice from over my shoulder startled me. I turned and saw Castiel.

“Lansky’s dog was named ‘Bruzzer,’ ” he said. “Spelled with two ‘z’s.”

“I know. Max Perlow told me that. Said he used to go with Lansky on his dog walks.”

Castiel eased into my client’s chair, propped his feet on the defense table, and leaned back, both hands behind his head. “Not like you to skip lunch, Jake.”

“Not like me to step on one of your land mines, either.”

“You’re overly aggressive. Sometimes it works. And sometimes …”

His shit-eating grin made me want to slug him. “Tell me the truth, Alex. Did you tell Tejada to stop by Althea’s truck with his lawyer this morning?”

“I might have mentioned something about Althea’s high-octane Cuban coffee.”

“Shit. You suckered me.”

“I’ve been watching Althea feed you plantains and state secrets for a dozen years.” He gave me his politician’s laugh. “I know you too well, amigo.”

Funny thing was, I didn’t know Castiel at all. Until Amy Larkin came to town, I hadn’t known just how closely my pal had been tied to shady characters like his Uncle Max and the Prince of Porn.

“Is Tejada really gonna do time?” I asked.

“Doubt it. He’s a professional snitch. He’s got others to rat out.”

Other bears to outrun, I thought. “Dammit, Alex, you played me.”

“Coming and going.” He whipped a Cuban Torpedo out of his suit pocket and grabbed his gold lighter, that fancy gift from General Batista to Bernard Castiel. “Just wanted you to know I’m a better trial lawyer than you. Always have been.”