by Paul Levine
I still hadn’t said a word.
“Mr. Lassiter, you did call my office asking to see me.”
I took a seat at the table directly across from him. “Most clients simply call back, set up an appointment. They don’t send two goons to scoop me up.”
His look told me he was not like most clients. I glanced over the rail toward the beach. “Besides, I had other plans.”
“Don’t worry about your friend. My crew members saw to it that she made it safely to shore.”
“Your crew members are thugs,” I said. Beneath my feet, the deck of Yagamata’s yacht swayed with the surge of the windwhipped tide.
Yagamata nodded so gravely it was almost a bow. “You have my sincere apologies for the conduct of Hector and Jorge. They obviously did not convey my invitation in the proper manner. Had the occasion been strictly social, I could have asked your beautiful friend to join us, also.”
Yagamata was wearing khaki cotton slacks and a matching short-sleeve shirt with buttoned pockets and epaulets. He looked at me from behind wire-rimmed sunglasses. A pair of waterproof binoculars hung around his thick neck.
“I watched you approach her on the beach. You can learn a lot about a man by the way he handles women. I have heard a saying in your country that all you need to know about a man is the car he drives, the shoes he wears, and the woman he marries. Would you agree?”
“My car’s twenty-five years old; I go barefoot whenever possible; and no woman has ever had the nerve.”
Yagamata allowed himself a brief smile. From somewhere below deck, a pump began whooshing. I had changed into a dry pair of trunks that were too small for me, and I wore a terry-cloth robe with the monogram “Yugen,” which was the name of the fifty-one-foot Bluewater cruiser whose deck was now pitching beneath my feet. My broken board and rig had been hauled aboard and were lashed to the starboard rail.
A handsome beige helicopter was tied down near the stern. An Italian model, the Agusta. The Yugen was a fine boat, Yagamata told me, with a modified V-hull and a flared bow, and though it displaced twenty-six thousand pounds, its draft was only twenty-three inches. So it was suited for cruising the shallows of Biscayne Bay, but here on the ocean side, in twenty knots of wind, it was top-heavy and rocked me right out of my appetite. I can windsurf in the choppiest water for hours and never feel a thing. But anchor me on a bouncing tug, I’d lose my lunch.
Whether he sensed the problem or not, Yagamata barked orders at his captain—a sunbaked man in his forties—in what I first thought was Japanese but then realized was Russian. Somewhere among the guttural sounds, I picked up the word “Intracoastal.” Then, Yagamata asked again if I wanted some sushi.
I had to be polite. This guy was an important client, who also went to some effort to demonstrate that a luncheon date was more a command than an invitation. I hoped I could get the raw tuna down with no problem. It looked like beef tenderloin, and I’d had it before with ample quantities of Kirin. But the salmon roe and eel did not make my mouth water, and I’d stepped on enough sea urchins to know I’d rather eat porcupine quills. Besides, I’ve seen the sludge that pours into our waters, so I prefer my fish cooked.
When I hesitated, Yagamata tried gentle persuasion. “Perhaps some miso ae, a very light appetizer?”
I looked a question at him.
“Conch, octopus, and cucumbers in a miso sauce. Or you may prefer flying fish eggs and swordfish belly.”
I would have preferred a cheeseburger with a chocolate shake, but I settled for cold tofu spiced with ginger and scallions. The taste was fine, though the consistency reminded me of a soggy sponge. I was washing it down with some of Matsuo Yagamata’s champagne when he asked why I had wanted to see him.
“To learn more about Crespo and Smorodinsky,” I told him.
His arms were folded across his stocky chest. “You received their personnel files from my office, did you not?”
I had. There was nothing useful in them. Crespo had worked for Yagamata Imports for five years, Smorodinsky for three. Each one had been shifted around, sometimes assigned to the Atlantic Seaboard warehouse, sometimes helping at a wholesale distribution office, or on the Yugen, even doing chores at Yagamata’s Palm Island home.
“The two men shared some work details,” I said. “Did they ever argue? Did Smorodinsky do anything to provoke Crespo?”
Yagamata dismissed the notion with an economical wave of his hand. “I am not that close with my workers. Ask your client these questions.”
“I have. All he talks about is an argument over eighteen dollars.”
Yagamata speared a slice of squid on a fancy toothpick with a frizzy red head like Little Orphan Annie. “Men have been killed for less. Surely you know that.”
“Crespo’s making it up as he goes. He didn’t kill the Russian.”
Yagamata showed me a meager, quizzical smile. “Tell me, what does a lawyer do when he doesn’t believe his own client?”
“Keeps on breathing, ‘cause it happens every day.”
“So your job is not to find the truth, Mr. Lassiter.”
“Truth is for judges and juries. My job is to make the best possible case with whatever evidence I’ve got, and leave judgment day to somebody else.”
“Then why do you worry so much? Take what you have and present it to your judge and jury.”
“What I have stinks worse than two-week-old catfish.”
I immediately regretted the reference to rotting fish, but staring at octopus tentacles doubtless has a subliminal impact. I drained the rest of my champagne, which made my head rock gently with the tide. I am not used to midday doses of the bubbly. Especially combined with sun and a swaying boat.
“Besides,” I continued, “I lied.”
He looked puzzled.
“I can’t do it, leave judgment day to someone else,” I explained. “I have to know. It isn’t enough just to win or lose. Like the sign says in the courtroom, ‘We who labor here seek only the truth.’ My problem is I believe it. Not that the system searches for the truth. It doesn’t. It only seeks evidence, and that can be true or false; it doesn’t matter as long as it meets certain technical rules of admissibility. The truth can be excluded and the falsehoods can be admitted and polished to a fine gloss by smooth-talking lawyers. I’m looking for the literal truth. Who done it? And why? I can’t help it. I just have to know.”
“Regardless of the consequences?”
Now it was my turn to look puzzled.
“Isn’t it conceivable that your client knows better than you how his interests are best served?” Yagamata asked.
“It’s possible,” I said, warily.
“So that if you thwart his intentions out of some misguided belief that you are helping him, you could actually do him great harm.”
We were dancing around like a couple of boxers in the first round, feeling each other out. I said, “It’s also possible he’s being misled by others, and unless he levels with me, or I figure out on my own what’s going on, he could be doing himself great harm without knowing it.”
Yagamata’s eyes were hooded by the wire-rimmed sunglasses. “And who would do such a thing to your angelic client?”
His voice was tinged with sarcasm, the words filled with challenge. Would I call his bluff? He didn’t think so, and he was right. Yagamata had probably paid for the thick carpet the senior partners of Harman & Fox loved so much in their offices. He was also paying my client’s fees. “I don’t know who wishes my client harm. That’s why I do my best to poke around in the shadows, to turn over rocks.”
“In my country,” Matsuo Yagamata said, “we have an expression. If you look under enough rocks, you will eventually find a snake.”
I was just this side of woozy but could still figure that one out. A warning in pleasant tones. While I was thinking about it, a crewman in a white smock silently delivered another bottle of champagne and expertly popped the cork. He refilled our glasses without spilling a drop. I could take being ric
h if I didn’t have to lie, cheat, and steal to get there.
Okay, I figured, my head buzzing. Why not listen to the rich guy and let Francisco Crespo take the fall? He seemed willing enough to do the time. Be smart for once, Jake old boy. Go for the champagne lunches and six-figure fees. Or be a schmuck and keep turning over rocks until you grab a rattlesnake by the tail. Which would it be?
I moved the champagne glass across the table, out of my reach, “I noticed several Russian names on your payroll.”
Yagamata sighed, a sound of exasperation and disappointment.
Yeah, I couldn’t just play along. I couldn’t let it go. Why? I don’t know. I just can’t!
“So anyway,” I continued, “I was wondering about all those Russian names. Besides Smorodinsky, or course.”
He didn’t reply. Just another sigh, but it might have been the wind. We were cruising at a stately ten knots, the cruiser ably cutting through the chop, headed for calmer waters.
He probably considered telling me to go to hell. Or having Hector and friends toss me overboard. But after a long moment, he said, “As you know, I collect Russian art. I did business there even in the days of Brezhnev. It is much easier now, of course, though knowing who to bribe is a little more complex.” He allowed himself a slender laugh. “I do not have the traditional Japanese antipathy for the Russians. They are a sad, yet beautiful people. Very warm, very spiritual. Lovers of high art, ballet, the finest music. Even Smorodinsky was a worldly man of culture.”
I must have been thinking about the brute on the slab in the morgue, because Yagamata smiled and said, “Don’t look so surprised. Americans believe that you have to live on Park Avenue and subscribe to the Metropolitan Opera to be cultured. In Russia, art has long been enjoyed and understood by the masses. Both Smorodinsky and his brother were well versed in native Russian art and had a passing familiarity with European painting. Vladimir was an intelligent man, who knew the lessons of history. There were many nights he and I walked along the River Neva debating the future of his beloved homeland. He was more than a valued employee. He became a friend.”
Vladimir? Whatever happened to I am not that close with my workers?
“You brought Smorodinsky here from the Soviet Union? You collect Russians, too.”
A hundred yards off the stern, two dolphins jumped in unison, their question-mark silhouettes etched into the horizon. Yagamata’s look was impenetrable. He seemed to be deciding how much to tell me. “Vladimir began as a low-level operative for one of my business contacts in St. Petersburg, when it was still called Leningrad. He spoke English reasonably well and knew how to grease the wheels in the old bureaucracy to get things done. He was a resourceful man who helped me obtain certain, shall we say, hard-to-get items.”
“He was a thief, a smuggler?”
Yagamata very nearly smiled. If he found me amusing, maybe next time he’d send a limo for me, instead of two goons. “The Russians have a far kinder term. Fartsovshchiki, black marketeer. Religious icons, vestments, antique weaponry, a divan from Mikhailovsky Castle, silver bridle chains that may or may not have belonged to a czar, these were his specialties.”
“Still, he was a criminal. If Smorodinsky had a known propensity for violence, it could help Crespo’s defense.”
Yagamata gave me a quizzical look. “Criminal,” he said, rolling the word around his tongue, “is a relative term. In my country, and yours, a successful businessman who generously shares his wealth with underpaid public servants is considered a criminal. Yet, in certain Latin American countries, that is the accepted method—indeed the only method—of doing business. When there was still a Soviet Union, everyone looked for ways to circumvent a system no one but the party apparatchiki wanted. It was great sport to battle the government, to get the extra sausage or to steal state property from a factory.”
“Not that much difference form my clients who all have excuses for their crimes.”
“Not quite the same,” he said. “Mr. Lassiter, do you know much about art?”
“No, I don’t even know what I like.”
“Japanese art is very simple, very clear. By Western standards, the depiction is unreal, highly idealized, and there is little perspective. If a painter always has his cherry blossoms in bloom, always facing the viewer, always in full color with no shading, the art is mere decoration.”
“And you find Russian art more complex and interesting.”
“European art. Once Peter the Great came to the throne in the early 1700s, Russia left its Byzantine past behind. Its artists were greatly influenced by those in France, Italy, and Holland. The Russians know fine art and appreciate it. Have you ever been to the Hermitage in St. Petersburg?”
He didn’t wait for me to say no before continuing. “The Winter Palace of the czar. Three million artifacts! Let your mind try to comprehend it. It is impossible.”
I thought about it. “How do they even keep track of it all?”
“Precisely, and if you know anything about the laziness and incompetence of the Russians under the old order, you would know that they do not keep track. Less than ten percent of these works are on display. What is in storage is priceless. What is available for viewing will take your breath away. More than a hundred forty rooms of just Western masterpieces. Monet, Gauguin, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Matisse, da Vinci, Rubens, Goya, El Greco, Raphael …”
Yagamata kept going, a roster of first-team All-Pro painters.
“You know the place pretty well,” I said.
He let out a little snort. “You could live in the Hermitage and not know it well. It is too vast. Too much of the great work is simply not to be found. Even with special privileges, even knowing Russians with blat—connections—they can’t find half of what I wish to have.”
“Have?”
He drained his sparkling champagne. “Have a look at. Unfortunately, you cannot buy them.” He scowled, apparently thinking of the injustice of it. “It wasn’t always so. After the Revolution, the Bolsheviks were so strapped for hard currency they sold off a number of priceless pieces. You’ll find more than twenty in your own National Gallery in Washington, thanks to Andrew Mellon.”
There was no doubt Matsuo Yagamata preferred it the old-fashioned way. Pay as you go; buy what you want.
“So you are left smuggling silver bridle chains . . .”
“I have business associates who take care of the necessities of exporting certain items of value,” he explained in language a clever shyster could admire.
“Like the Fabergé egg with the choo-choo train.”
Yagamata looked as if he suddenly regretted kidnapping me for lunch. Off the stern, an osprey with lethal talons swooped low, eyeing our wake, on the lookout for an a la carte lunch. I thought about offering the bird some swordfish belly.
“A gift,” he said.
The party at Yagamata’s house. The way he had stage-managed our privileged view of his precious egg. I could have sworn he said he bought it. But I couldn’t quite remember. And it would be awkward to ask who gave it to him. Still, if it had anything to do with Smorodinsky, I needed to know more.
“A generous friend,” I probed.
“The Russian people are indeed generous.”
He left it hanging there and I didn’t know how to grab it. After a moment, I said, “The liberalizing of the Russian economy under Gorbachev and Yeltsin must have helped your exporting business.”
“Perestroika was irrelevant to what I do, Mr. Lassiter. Politics is irrelevant. What was it your Will Rogers said? ‘All politics is applesauce.’ There was always a profit motive in the Soviet Union, at least among those who knew how to manipulate the system. Before the liberalization, the masses would say of the Party leaders: ‘They preach water, but they drink wine.’ It was only a matter of time before the leaders were toppled. For me, there were methods of doing business before Gorbachev and Yeltsin, and there will always be methods. You cannot stop what the Russians call spekulatsiya, speculation and profiteering, u
nder any system. It’s all applesauce, yes?”
The yacht was slowing, and the water had calmed. Hard shafts of sunlight danced off the bay. “You like the Russians for what they do. Sort of what you do, spekulat…”
Yagamata’s brow furrowed with just a hint of surprise, like maybe I wasn’t as dumb as he thought. I should shut up. It’s better if they think I could be used for a blocking sled.
“True, I have great affection for the Russian people. They have a finely tuned sense of the human dilemma. Far superior to the Japanese, I must say.”
“And Smorodinsky. What can you tell me that will help my client?”
“Nothing, Mr. Lassiter. Vladimir Smorodinsky was not a violent man. And in many ways that even he did not understand, he was true to his principles and a patriot. Perhaps too much so.”
“Too much a patriot?”
We were in the quiet waters of the channel with the old Mediterranean homes of Star Island visible off the bow. The skyline of downtown Miami—built with loot from failed savings and loans—dominated the horizon. Yagamata took off his sunglasses and turned to me. The nosepiece had left little red dents alongside his nose. His eyes were black and bottomless and he clearly wasn’t going to reply.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean about Smorodinsky,” I said.
“It is not necessary that you do,” Matsuo Yagamata said.
7
A TROUT IN THE MILK
Judge Herman Gold sat at his bench, barely visible behind a tower of files. To his right, , the flag of the state of Florida hung forlornly. The flag itself is a glorious historical fabrication. A Seminole woman stands on the beach, greeting an arriving steamship with flower petals. A more appropriate state symbol would be a fat county commissioner taking cash from a condo developer with the skeleton of a rickety high-rise in the background.
Judge Gold had retired eleven years ago, but that didn’t keep him off the bench. With our crowded dockets and the propensity of our criminal judges to be removed from office in the wake of bribery scandals, we need retired judges to help out. Some of the old judges have forgotten more law than most of us ever learned. That could have been true of Judge Gold, but he’d also forgotten most everything else. Hardening of the arteries had left the bulb a bit dim.
