by Paul Levine
What could he do, Ziegler wondered, to end the nut-busting arrangement? He’d prayed for divine intervention.
Please God. Smite the old bastard. A heart attack, a stroke, some kreplach stuck in his throat.
He had fantasized about pressing a gun against the back of the old man’s head and pulling the trigger. Splatter Perlow’s brains all over the Romero Britto painting of an Absolut Vodka bottle. Lola had picked it out, with the help of some pop art consultant who was banging her sideways in his SoBe studio.
The more Ziegler thought about Perlow, the more aggravated he became. Then he hatched a plan. He would draw a line in the Gables Estates sand.
“Max, it’s time for a new deal. I’ve repaid you ten times over. It’s done. Finished. Fartik. You wanna threaten me, go ahead. But we both know you got no juice.”
It sounded good to him. At least, in his mind. He’d have to deliver the lines without his hands shaking or a tremolo in his voice.
Ziegler heard a squeak from the corridor. Perlow’s Hush Puppies padding toward the study. He’d let himself in. The bastard had demanded a key to the house years ago, shortly after an old gangster pal had been assassinated while ringing a doorbell.
“Hello, Charlie.” Perlow toddled through the open doorway, his cane banging the marble tile, his pudgy cheeks squeezing his rodent eyes into slits. “Jeez, where’s Ray Decker? You got a crazy woman running around threatening you, and no security at the house.”
“I can take care myself, Max.” Intending a double meaning. He wasn’t scared of a crazy woman … or an old hoodlum.
Perlow sagged into a leather chair in front of Ziegler’s desk. “So, did we have a good month, Charlie?”
I had a good month, you fucking leech.
That’s what Ziegler wanted to say, but what he really said was, “Not so great, Max.”
Jesus, what am I afraid of?
“So work harder next month,” Perlow said. “You got a check for me?”
“Bookkeeping’s running a little late, Max.”
The old man hacked up a wet cough. “You momzer! You make me waste my time coming over here?”
“C’mon, Max. Couple days is all.”
“Screw that.” Perlow pulled out a handkerchief, spat into it, then folded the corners toward the center, as if covering the afikoman matzoh. “Write me a personal check, then reimburse yourself.”
“You gotta understand, Max. Revenue’s down but payroll keeps growing.”
Perlow nodded and Ziegler relaxed for a moment, thinking the old mobster had agreed. Instead, Perlow came back with, “Payroll. I meant to talk to you about that. Your chippy. What’s her name?”
“Who? Who you talking about, Max?”
Perlow reached into his pants pocket, drew out a crumpled piece of paper and read, “Melody Sanders.”
“What the hell? You snooping on me?”
“Nestor Tejada followed you to your little love nest. This Melody. She’s on the payroll.”
“What’s the big deal, Max? I’ve had women on the books before.” Not liking the sound of his own voice. Whiny. Pleading. Weak.
“I didn’t know about this maidel.”
“What, I need your permission to get laid?”
“You in love, Charlie?”
“What kind of question is that? I like the woman or I wouldn’t be spending Saturday mornings with her instead of working on my short irons.”
“When a guy falls for a dame, he starts opening up. Talking about his business and his friends. He lets his guard down, and says stuff he shouldn’t.”
“Only thing I say is, ‘Close your mouth, you’re letting air in.’ ”
“I know you, Charlie. You got this sentimental streak.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Max.”
“Sha! Ben said the same thing to Meyer.”
Here we go again, Ziegler thought. Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky. Maybe Scorsese thinks mobsters are entertaining, but if he’d ever met Max Perlow, he’d have made romantic comedies.
“Ben was schtupping every starlet in Hollywood. He changed girlfriends like he changed his boxer shorts. But he fell for Virginia Hill, and before long, they were opening Swiss bank accounts.”
“I know, Max. I know.”
“Then you also know someone out of Chicago aced Ben right in his living room. Cops found one of his eyeballs halfway across the room.”
“This is bullshit, Max!” Raising his voice to the old man for the first time in twenty years. “I don’t talk to Melody about business. I’m not stealing. She’s not stealing. And I’ve had about as much of you as I can take.”
Perlow sat there, hands resting on his watermelon belly, sausage fingers laced together. “What are you saying, Charlie? Spit it out.”
“My debt to you has been paid ten times over.”
“You haven’t been listening, Charlie. We’re partners for life.”
“Fuck that. My wife’s not even my partner for life.” Proud to be showing some guts after all these years of groveling.
“Weren’t for me, Charlie, you’d still be on the beach, hustling girls with your Nikon.”
“Fine. You gave me seed money, like a hundred years ago.”
“Seed money? You little pisher! You ungrateful shit.”
Perlow’s face reddened and his jowls quivered. With any luck, he’d stroke out.
“Fifteen percent for life! That’s the deal. You don’t want to pay me, Charlie?”
Ziegler didn’t answer. The courage he’d felt just seconds ago was slipping away. He was starting to hate himself all over again. “Maybe slice your piece down to ten percent.”
“Pay me, you miserable gonif!” Perlow exploded. “Every cent.” Perlow’s little ferret eyes were wide open now, dark and dangerous. “Or do you want to finish this conversation with Nestor?”
Ziegler put his hands in the air, as if surrendering. “Sorry, Max. My meds make me nuts. Depression. Anxiety. I say crazy things.”
Perlow still glaring at him
“Won’t happen again,” Ziegler promised.
Just as he was wondering if he should offer Perlow a conciliatory drink, Ziegler heard a jarring noise. A crash from the pool deck on the far side of the solarium. Sounded like one of the hundred-pound clay planters toppling onto the hand-cut tile.
“You got somebody out there?” Perlow demanded.
“No, Max. ’Course not.”
“Then what the hell was that?”
“Don’t know.”
“You been acting queer all night.” Keeping his eyes on Ziegler, Perlow yanked up a polyester pant leg and drew a small handgun from an ankle holster. “Let’s find out what the fuck’s going on, partner.”
42 Orchids and Blood
The moment they walked into the solarium, Ziegler felt the warm air and smelled the moist earth. His favorite corner of the world, home to his beautiful and blessedly silent orchids. His refuge. From his wife, his work, his life.
But not from Max Perlow, whose Hush Puppies squeaked a step behind.
A toad with a gun.
Floor-to-ceiling glass looked directly onto the pool deck, the glare from the solarium lights turning the windows into mirrors. The two men could only see their own reflections.
Ziegler stopped, listened. Nothing.
Perlow shuffled past him, the lavender leaves of a hanging Mendelli orchid catching the old man’s arm. Perlow seemed not to notice the Mendelli or the Sophronitis the color of a Cabernet Sauvignon or the vanilla orchid, its column a delicious snowy white, open like a wet and willing pussy.
“My fucking sinuses,” Perlow said. “How do you live with all these weeds?”
The man is a barbarian, Ziegler thought.
Another sound. Softer. Something brushing up against the glass outside. Spanish bayonet shrubs were planted there. The leaves so thick and dense they barely moved in a windstorm.
Unless someone was out there.
“Turn off the lights,” Perlow ba
rked.
Ziegler flipped the switch, and the solarium went dark. Night lights illuminated the pool deck and cabanas, the Roman pillars casting shadows across the water.
The next few seconds went by in a blur.
Perlow pressed his face to the window.
Outside, a flash of movement in the bushes.
“Max!” Ziegler shouted.
“Sha!” He yelled through the closed window: “Who the hell’s out there?”
An explosion of glass. Behind them, a hanging pot splintered and crashed to the floor.
Ziegler dived under a table.
Unfazed, Perlow stood rock still. Crisis calmed him. He’d once finished a side order of cioppino, moments after a tablemate had his throat slit in a Little Italy restaurant.
“You?” he said, looking into the eyes of the shooter outside. Perlow raised his gun. Maybe thirty years ago, before arthritis chewed at his joints, he would have been faster.
The second gunshot hit him squarely in the chest and knocked him on his ass.
Stunned, Ziegler crawled out from under the table and saw the silhouette of a person running away from the house. Trembling, he gazed at Perlow, flat on his back.
“He-lp,” Perlow croaked, blood oozing from his chest.
Ziegler’s mind careened, his thoughts shooting rapid-fire. Was the bullet meant for him? Would the shooter come back? Could there be another gunman?
“Who was it, Max? Who’d you see?”
“Nine-one-one,” Perlow whispered.
More questions shot through Ziegler’s brain. Did Tejada, around front in Max’s Bentley, hear the shots? How long would an ambulance take? Could the old buzzard survive?
“Paramedics. Please, Charlie.”
A memory flashed back to Ziegler. The worst night of his life. Eighteen years ago. “Paramedics!” he spat out the word.
“Charlie?”
Perlow’s voice pleading, his eyes showing his fear.
Ziegler calmed, feeling a clarity of purpose. He caught sight of a vanilla orchid, its petals streaked obscenely with blood. Perlow was going to die, Ziegler thought.
There is a God, after all.
A God who looks after porn producers, lousy husbands, and tax cheats. Okay, so maybe it’s not God with a capital “G.” Maybe it’s just a cloud of cosmic gases that floats across the Milky Way and settles over the earth, bringing joy to the wicked and Mammon to the greedy. But it’s still a force that evens the score, though it might take decades.
“You want CPR, Max?”
“Huh? Huh?” Wheezing but hanging on. Harder to kill than a cockroach.
“Chrissakes, help me.”
Perlow propped himself up on one elbow, fumbled for his cell phone. Ziegler kicked Perlow’s arm out from under him and the phone skittered away. The old man toppled backwards. Ziegler slipped off a soft leather loafer.
“Hey, Max. Got something for you.”
He stepped on Perlow’s rib cage. Careful not to leave bruises. He heard a blast of air, like a farting balloon. Or … a punctured lung.
Perlow cried in pain. “Charlie. Whaaaa …?”
“That’s for Krista, Max. Remember her?”
“Char …”
“You didn’t call the paramedics for Krista, did you, Max?”
Ziegler adjusted his foot and pressed harder. Blood exploded from Perlow’s chest like a whale spouting.
Perlow didn’t say another word.
“And that lifetime deal of ours, Max,” Ziegler said. “It just expired.”
43 Going Biblical
“Sorry, Uncle Jake. I should have gotten a license plate.”
“No problem, Kip. Your description was great. I’ve seen the guy.”
“Really?” The boy’s spirits were picking up.
“The tattoos nailed it.”
We sat at the kitchen table, Kip sipping a mango shake. His mood had roller-coastered ever since he had pedaled home in record time. Hyper-excitement, then a spiral downward, and now he was rallying. The boy didn’t realize just how shell-shocked he was at nearly being kidnapped. For her part, Granny was baking maple bacon brittle, her salty-sweet antidote to any childhood ailment.
“I kicked the poop out of the guy,” Kip said.
“He underestimated you. Happens to me in court sometimes.” I tousled the boy’s hair and said, “Proud of you, kiddo.”
“I wasn’t scared, Uncle Jake.”
Right.
“It’s okay to be scared, as long as you still do the right thing.”
“Are you gonna whomp the guy?” Kip asked.
That had been my first inclination. But Nestor was Perlow’s bodyguard and would have been following his boss’s orders. Raising lots of questions. Did Perlow intend to snatch Kip or just show me he could get to someone I loved? Did Ziegler know what was going on? What about Castiel? Was there a larger game plan?
Something else had just become apparent. It must have been Nestor in the Hummer, following Ziegler to Lighthouse Point. Meaning there was a rift between Perlow and Ziegler. But why? And, more important, how could I take advantage of it?
Too many questions needed answering before I punched anyone out.
Perlow didn’t have a listed phone number, so I asked Kip to use his computer skills to find out where the old hood lived. Two minutes later, my nephew showed me an aerial shot of a 1930s Spanish-style house just off Andalusia in Coral Gables. A ficus hedge shielded an alley behind the place. It would be a good way to get onto the porch undetected.
“I’m gonna go talk to Nestor and the guy he works for,” I told Kip.
“Talk, Uncle Jake?”
“Yeah. But if either of them gives me any shit, I’ll go biblical on their asses.”
Kip looked at me, waiting for an explanation.
“I’ll bring the walls down on their heads like Samson at the Temple of Dagon.”
44 Eyeball Witness
A circus, Ziegler thought, watching from the pool deck.
His house, the big tent.
Uniformed cops, plainclothes detectives, crime scene investigators, medical examiners, techs in plastic gloves with tweezers and flashlights. Cameras popping off photos in the solarium, on the deck, up against the windows, and deep in the bayonet bushes.
A moment before he was to give his statement to homicide detectives, Ziegler caught sight of a distraught Alex Castiel jogging toward him. Ziegler tried to arrange his features into a reasonable facsimile of grief. “Alex, it was awful. I know how much you loved the old guy.”
Castiel pulled him aside, out of earshot of the cops. “Was it her, Charlie? Was it the Larkin woman?”
“Couldn’t really tell. Too dark. And I was scared shitless.”
“Who else could it be?”
“Shit, I don’t know, Alex. Wish we could ask Max.”
They were quiet a moment as a police helicopter flew overhead, its searchlight sweeping across the seawall.
“What do you mean?” Castiel asked.
“Max saw the shooter.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he said something.”
“What, exactly?”
“He said, ‘You?’ ”
Castiel ran a hand through his dark hair. “That’s all, Charlie? ‘You?’ ”
“Like he recognized the shooter. But Max never saw Amy Larkin, so I’m thinking maybe it was someone else.”
“You’re reading a helluva lot into one word, Charlie.”
“I don’t know what you expect me to say.”
Police radios squawked. A tech walked by carrying several plastic evidence bags.
Castiel lowered his voice. “Step up to the plate. I need an eyeball witness.”
“C’mon, Alex. You asked if I saw her, and I’m saying I can’t swear to it.”
Eyes wild, Castiel jammed a finger into his chest. “Didn’t you ever learn anything from Max? Do what’s gotta be done!”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Wi
th a plainclothes cop approaching, Castiel hissed in his ear, “There are only two people who could have killed Max. Amy Larkin and you, Charlie. It’s up to you who goes down for it.”
45 No Alibi
Drained from his near-kidnapping and stuffed with maple bacon brittle, Kip had conked out on the sofa. I carried him into his bedroom and tucked him into bed. Then I went through his backpack and found a note from Commodore Perkins at Tuttle-Biscayne.
Would I please select which date was convenient for Kip’s disciplinary hearing?
The Commodore thoughtfully provided nine different days. I decided to choose the last one, then, at the last moment, ask for a continuance. If I did this often enough, maybe Kip could graduate before he was expelled.
An hour later, I was lying in bed watching television. Csonka was sleeping in the corner of the room, snoring and farting. I flipped through the channels, found an old L.A. Law episode just starting. The opening credits rolled, soaring horns and banging drums inviting me to spend time with some lawyers who had a helluva lot more time for bed-hopping than I did.
My phone rang. Too late for good news. Caller I.D. told me it was our esteemed State Attorney.
“What’s up, Alex? One of my clients steal your purse?”
“What are you doing right now, Jake?” Castiel said.
“Whatever I want. I’m in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
“Let me speak to Amy Larkin.”
“Why would she be in my bedroom?”
“I thought maybe you were nailing her. What time did she leave?”
“What are you talking about? She wasn’t here tonight.”
Castiel sounded brusque, but smug. “Thanks, Jake. You haven’t been this much help since you wore the wire.”
Damn. I’d let my guard down. It happens sometimes after three fingers of Jack Daniel’s. “Wanna tell me what just happened?”
“You just ruled yourself out as an alibi.”
Oh, shit.
“What is it you think Amy did?” I asked.
“She killed Max Perlow. One bullet to the chest.”
I bolted up. “No way. Why would she?”
“Shot at Charlie Ziegler and missed. Charlie I.D.’d her.”
I could hear my own heart sledge-hammering. Had she really done it?
