Fool Me Twice

by Paul Levine

  I was getting aggravated, so I stood up and paced. Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is sit still. In court, I have a tendency to prowl when the opposition is doing the questioning. To fight the urge, I imagine myself chained to my chair. Here the chains were broken, but Blinky’s living room felt like a cage. Something wasn’t making sense, but I didn’t know what. After a moment, I stopped pacing and turned back to Socolow. “Why are you telling me all this? What do you want from me?”

  “We figure Baroso will contact you,” he said.

  “Yeah, clients occasionally call their lawyers, so what?”

  “When he does, call me.”

  I started to say something, but Socolow raised his hand as a teacher might to an unruly student. “Now, before you shout attorney-client privilege, hear me out. He killed Hornback, or he knows who did, and either way, I want to talk to him. So, get his story and see if you can bring him in.”

  I gave Socolow a look that asked what’s in it for my client.

  “A voluntary surrender and things will go easier for him,” Socolow said. “Maybe the muscle was just supposed to muss up Hornback, and he went too far. If your client surrenders, I wouldn’t fight a reasonable bail request. If he makes us bring him in, he can sit in county jail until his case is called. He’ll have the jailhouse pallor and bum haircut that’ll tell the jury he’s right out of the can.”

  “What if he didn’t kill Hornback and doesn’t know who did?” I asked.

  “Then he’s got nothing to worry about, does he?” Abe Socolow answered.

  ***

  Jo Jo Baroso walked back onto the balcony and lit a cigarette. I don’t know if statistics bear it out, but it seems more women than men are smoking these days. I’m not sure why, and any speculation would sound like male chauvinism, something I gave up along with bell bottoms and muttonchop sideburns. Male or female, smoking is something I’ve never understood. Not that I’m a health nut. Sure, I pour skim milk over my granola with mangoes. And I’ve cut back on the saturated fats and cholesterol, limiting my cheeseburgers (with a chocolate shake, double fries on the side) to days with an “r” in them.

  I believe in moderation, not fanaticism. In my younger days, I would close every after-hours bar in the eastern division of the AFC. Yeah, even Buffalo. Some guys work hard and play hard. I played hard and played hard. I was a step too slow and often injured. Coaches, like generals, have great tolerance for other people’s pain. In one snowy game against the Patriots, I dislocated a shoulder making a tackle on a kickoff. To pop it back into place, the trainer handed me a cinder block and let go. Gravity and Xylocaine got me back in the game. The shoulder still clickety-clacks on the few occasions I comb my hair.

  It’s the nineties, and recklessness—booze, drugs, and casual sex—is out. Caution is in. I know this is true. There’s a chart in USA Today to prove it. So now, I don’t drink and drive, sleep around, or draw to an inside straight. I’m still not quite housebroken, but I’ve left some of the wildness behind. I take fewer chances. Where I used to spin the wheel and choose red or black—what difference did it make?—now, I stay out of the casino. I am convinced, you see, that sooner or later, the ball will plop into double zero.

  ***

  Two policemen I didn’t know showed up. Without excusing himself, Socolow, the detective, and the policemen disappeared into a back bedroom Blinky uses as an office. A woman cop in uniform came in from the elevator pushing what looked like a bellman’s cart. I heard drawers opening and closing and what sounded like furniture being moved.

  I walked onto the balcony, standing to the ocean side— windward—of Jo Jo Baroso’s smoke plumes. The bridge was up on the Venetian Causeway as a forty-something-foot sloop sailed through, heeling slightly in the easterly. Three gulls lazily rode the updrafts, singing their gull songs.

  “He’s really fooled you, hasn’t he?” Jo Jo said.

  “Abe?”

  “My brother!”

  “I just don’t think he’s capable of murder, in person or with help.

  “That’s not what I mean. He’s charmed you.”

  “He’s a charming rogue,” I admitted.

  Behind the city, the sky was streaked with scarlet at the horizon, and the sun was setting over the Everglades. “You’ve gotten him out of trouble so many times, you, of all people must know what he’s really like.”

  “Blinky’s a dreamer. You remember the Miami Ski Mountain deal? He ordered three hundred million cubic yards of limestone to build a mountain along Dixie Highway.”

  “I remember. He tried to sell stock in a ski lift. Even the most gullible figured you couldn’t keep snow from melting in the tropics.”

  “My point is, Blinky believed it. He spent ten grand on the drawings.”

  “His overhead, just overhead. How could he sucker the rubes without some slick displays?”

  “You won’t cut him a break will you?”

  “He doesn’t deserve one.”

  “You are a tough customer,” I told her.

  She studied me a moment. Her gaze seemed to look back over the years, or maybe I was imagining it. “You know what infuriates me about you, Jake?”

  ‘‘Virtually everything.’’

  “Your naïveté. You see life like an overgrown Boy Scout. I bet you help little old ladies across the street.”

  “Yep, and sometimes tall, young ones.” In the blush of the sunset, her dark complexion glowed the color of café au lait. I gave her my crooked grin and looked straight in those dark, velvet eyes.

  Josefina Jovita Baroso didn’t melt. She didn’t faint. She narrowed her eyes just a bit to appraise me, and finally said, “You’re still a damned attractive man, Jake Lassiter.”

  Now, that was a switch.

  “You have presence,” she went on, “and you manage to project strength and warmth at the same time. You have a full crop of hair that looks like a wheat field that needs cutting, a tan that reveals you spend too much time at the beach, and your size is most appealing. Thank God you don’t wear those suits with the padded shoulders or you wouldn’t be able to fit through doorways.”

  I was beginning to enjoy this.

  “You are sentimental to a fault, which causes you to have terrible judgment about people. You are bright enough, I suppose, though I doubt anyone ever considered you brilliant, unless it was one of your teammates whose jersey number approximated his IQ. You are a nonconformist, which makes your choice of professions somewhat curious. As far as your lawyering is concerned, while perhaps not technically unethical, it is amoral, at the very least ...”

  Had there been a subtle shift in tone?

  “...You have a certain easygoing charm and affability. Your eyes crinkle when you smile, and doubtless, there are numerous women who find you irresistible, chief among them I suspect are cocktail waitresses, South Beach models, and bubble-brained cheerleaders.”

  Somehow, I heard a “but” coming.

  “But if you think a smile and a laugh can get you inside my panty hose, you’d better think again, buster.”

  “Buster? Whatever happened to mi corazón?”

  “What happened between us is ancient history. I swear I barely remember it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Really, what do you remember?”

  “A lot of caring,” I said, “a lot of moist heat.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Squabbles, lots of squabbles.”

  “That’s what I remember, that and your leaving me.”

  “I still care for you,” I told her, the words surprising me as much as her.

  Her eyes measured me for just a moment. “Nostalgia, Jake. Don’t get carried away. Right now, you’re fantasizing about rekindling something that’s been burnt out a long time. It’s a way of reliving your youth.”

  “I wasn’t that young.”

  “You were playing ball and having fun, and your future seemed infinite. Whatever you think you’re feeling right now isn’t real.”r />
  I tried to examine what I felt, real or not. It wasn’t easy. “What I’m feeling, what I’m wondering really, is if I stuck with your brother all these years just to maintain some connection with you.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m wondering if you want to give it another go.”

  For a moment, her eyes softened. Thoughts seemed to race around in her head, but I couldn’t catch them. Her brow furrowed. She didn’t smile and she didn’t frown. She was processing information, computing what she needed and what she didn’t. And then the moment was gone. The thoughtful expression changed. It was almost as if she willed herself not to yield, not to show weakness, which to her, was any hint of emotion, other than one: anger. Her eyes shone with determination, and her voice was fire and steel.

  “Never, never, never. As far as I’m concerned, Jacob Lassiter, Esquire, you’re just the mouthpiece for that trashy brother of mine. You’re no better than he is. You’re the enemy, get it?”

  Whew! From sunshine to squall in the blink of an eye. The suddenness and the fury shocked me.

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  She blew a puff of smoke in my face, which is a good trick against the wind. “You’re hopeless. Why don’t you do something useful like find my brother and bring him in?”

  Before I could answer, I heard Abe Socolow calling from inside the living room. “Hey, Jake, c’mere.”

  I think Socolow liked bossing me around. Maybe it compensated for the few times I beat him in court. I went back inside to let him insult me some more. Jo Jo followed a step behind, and I made a mental note to check for knife wounds later.

  The file drawers from Blinky’s bedroom/office were stacked in the living room. Every drawer was open, and the contents were being searched by patient, if bored, cops. In the foyer, an antique milk can, lacquered bright orange, was turned upside down. A dozen carved wooden canes and shillelaghs along with a couple of umbrellas were spilled onto the floor. The canes weren’t just for show. Blinky used them after tearing up his knee crawling out of a Dumpster filled with credit card receipts.

  Now Socolow marched around the living room, holding a handsome cherry cane with a large polished knob for a handle. The whole thing was fairly phallic, but I didn’t bother to share my thoughts with Socolow, who was gesturing at me with the damn thing.

  “You know what’s in those papers?” he said, pointing in the general direction of the cocktail table where he had spread out several thick, typewritten documents.

  “No, Abe. You tell me.”

  He hunched over the table, leaning on the cane like a pettifogger out of Dickens. He ran a finger along the lines of a page, furrowing his brow.

  “You could read faster if you didn’t move your lips,” I told him, helpfully.

  “What the hell is Rocky Mountain Treasures, Inc.?”

  “A company Blinky formed,” I answered.

  “I can see that. What’s it do?”

  “Hunts for treasure.”

  Socolow scowled. “Didn’t Baroso get indicted for something like that, selling stock in a deep-sea salvage company down in the Keys?”

  “Only civil suits, and that involved sunken Spanish galleons,” I corrected him. “This is all about gold and silver in the Colorado mountains.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it says here under ‘corporate mission.’ Socolow began turning pages, again, reading aloud now. “‘The company will use its best efforts and employ the latest sophisticated technology to locate and reclaim one or more of the following: the Arapaho Princess Treasure, the Golden Mummy, the Treasure of Apache Gulch, La Caverna de Oro, the Lost Dutchman mine, the Purgatory Canyon Treasure, Moccasin Bill’s Lost Mine, the Lost Gulch mine, the Devil’s Head Treasure.’ “Socolow closed the folder and looked up at me. “Hey, Jake, what are you doing involved in this wild West shit?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Now he was looking at the corporate minute book. “Says here you’re a ten percent shareholder...”

  “That’s right.”

  “And secretary treasurer of the company.”

  “What?”

  “Plus general counsel.”

  “What?” I said again.

  “You heard me. Your bio is in the prospectus that goes to potential investors. You’re described as one of the leading trial lawyers in Florida. Who wrote that, your granny?”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” I said, honestly. “Blinky gave me the stock in lieu of a fee, but I never agreed to be a corporate officer or to let my name be used. You know I’d never subject myself to liability like that.”

  Socolow was back in the file again, still leaning on his cane. “Blinky’s bio says nothing about his criminal record or the lawsuits against him. What do they call that in securities law, Jake?”

  “A material omission of fact,” I said.

  “Right. The feds would be real interested in that, wouldn’t they? Maybe a 10 (b) (S) violation. What else do we have here?” He turned over a few more pages. “The corporation issued one hundred shares of stock, twenty to Louis Baroso, ten to Jacob Lassiter, and seventy to Kit Carson Cimarron.”

  “Who?”

  “Just what I was going to ask you, Jake.”

  “Damned if I know. Sounds like a cowboy.”

  Socolow closed the folders, looked at the detective, at Jo Jo Baroso, and back at me. He didn’t say anything. He was into his genius-at-work mode. He started pacing, the cane clacking against the tile. At the moment, he was probably the most irritating person on the planet. He stopped at the sliding glass door to the balcony and seemed to study the smooth waters of Government Cut. To the south, cars were streaming across the newly renovated MacArthur Causeway, and below us, the fronds of the palm trees swayed gently in the breeze. Finally, he turned and faced me. “Jake, I’ll bet you all the gold in Apache Gulch that Kyle Hornback was going to sing about Rocky Mountain Treasures, Inc. Maybe it’s a little farther from home, but it’s just another of Blinky’s scams. Now, as for you, I know you step over the line once in a while, but I gotta tell you, I’m real disappointed.”

  “Abe, listen to me, I—”

  “Lemme finish. The way I see it, Blinky figured he’d worn out his welcome down here. Kyle was doing his selling up there, and this Carson probably put up the money and added some local credibility. That left you to handle legal problems.”

  “Abe, you’re not listening. I never agreed to represent the company or be an officer. I didn’t ask for the stock, and I didn’t write the prospectus. As far as I know, the company’s legitimate, but even if it’s not, where’s the proof Blinky killed Kyle. “

  “Who’s talking about Blinky? I’m starting to agree with you. Baroso’s not a tough guy, at least not without someone to back him up.”

  “Like who, or is it whom?”

  “How about the guy who owned the house where the decedent was killed, the guy whose tie was the murder weapon, whose prints are on the body, and who just happened to discover the body and call the cops?”

  “Are you nuts? Why would I kill Kyle Hornback?”

  “Ah, motive,” Socolow said in that infuriating tone intended to indicate his intellectual prowess. “The missing ingredient. If I nailed down the motive, Jakie my boy, I’d be in front of the grand jury quicker than you can say life without parole. But I’m getting warm, aren’t I? It’s got to do with Rocky Mountain Treasures, doesn’t it, Jakie?”

  “It’s your case, Abe. You figure it out.”

  “Let’s see now. If Kyle had flipped, it wasn’t just Blinky who was at risk, was it? What about the company lawyer? Come on, Mr. Secretary-Treasurer and General Counsel. Want to bet that the motive is buried with all that fool’s gold in cowboy country?”

  He aimed the damn cane at me.

  “Abe, I hope you’re prepared to use that thing. If not, I may just ram it up your tight ass.”

  Socolow glared at me, but the detective growled and shifted in his chair. “There’s no need for tha
t kind of talk. The state attorney doesn’t have to stand for it.”

  “It’s all right, Major,” Socolow said, pleased he’d gotten to me. “Jakie seldom hits anyone. Hell, he seldom hit anyone when he played ball.”

  Still Socolow kept the cane leveled at my chest. He was enjoying this too much. I strained to keep my temper under control, my mind’s eye playing a little fantasy involving Socolow’s head and a heavy piece of polished wood.

  “You see, Major,” Socolow said, “I’ve come face-to-face with every category of miscreant known to the law, but essentially there are only two types, wicked scoundrels and foolish scoundrels. I fear that what you see at the end of my cane is nothing but a foolish scoundrel.”

  I kept my voice low and didn’t raise an eyebrow. “At which end, Abe?”

  CHAPTER 9

  EL AMOR ES CIEGO

  Sylvester Houston Conklin fell asleep in front of the television, watching Clint Eastwood blast five bad guys in a San Francisco diner. Earlier, Kip had put away a double portion of spaghetti and meatballs and a protein shake. Carbs and protein, I was bulking him up. Yesterday, it was brown rice, broiled fish, and raw vegetables for the fiber. I did the cooking, and he ate it all. As a reward, we split a sixteen-ounce Grolsch.

  Now he was sacked out on the sofa, so I carried him upstairs to the second bedroom, his body warm in my arms. I tucked him in, pulling the sheet up under his chin, and pushed the blond bangs out of his eyes. I was starting to feel avuncular, if not downright fatherly.

  Kip stirred, half opened his eyes, and said, “Did you really threaten to jam a cane up the state attorney’s ass?”

  “Guilty.”

  “He’s such a dweeb.”

  “A major dweeb,” I agreed. “You should have seen him prancing around with that cane, putting on a show.”