by Paul Levine
“Are you here for the auditions?” she asked.
I came around the desk, grabbed one arm of her swivel chair, and spun her away. She shrieked. I felt under her desk, found the button, and buzzed myself inside. Two seconds later, I was through the interior door, and the receptionist was shouting at me to stop. A couple toadies sat at their computers, looking alarmed but doing nothing to stop me.
I found a corner office with a giant bronze “Z” sculpture outside a set of smoked glass doors. I burst in and found a stocky man at his desk yammering into the phone. Older and heavier than the guy in jeans and suede jacket I’d run into that rainy morning eighteen years ago. But still a prick.
“Don’t waste your time on Bangladesh, you stupid motherfucker!” Ziegler was in his late fifties, bald on top, with rust-colored fringes of hair dusting his ears. He wore a black silk suit that screamed “Italian designer” and a bright blue shirt unbuttoned a couple slots lower than absolutely necessary.
He didn’t seem to care about my intrusion, just kept yelling. “They’re not gonna buy Bimbos of Baltimore. They’re Muslim!”
Ziegler punctuated his words by jabbing the air with a cigar. A Cuban Torpedo, judging both from its shape and aroma. They seemed to be the rage in certain circles. So did humidors of polished cherry. Alex Castiel had one in his office; its twin brother sat on Ziegler’s credenza.
“Get me Bulgaria and Romania!” he shouted into the phone. “If you can’t sell to those horny fuckers, I’ll find someone who can!”
Abusing an underling. Real class.
Ziegler’s phone beeped. He shot a look at his computer monitor and said, “Hang on, Irv. I got the Archbishop on the other line.” He punched a button and radically adjusted his tone and volume. “Your Eminence. How kind of you to call.”
I tossed the Lincoln’s keys on Ziegler’s desk and said, “If you want to talk to me, scumbag, don’t send hookers and don’t send thugs. Call me yourself.”
Unfazed, Ziegler gave me the once-over. No indication he recognized me from our brief encounter all those years ago. He motioned with his cigar that I should sit down. I wasn’t there to follow orders, so I stood rock still, hands on hips.
Ziegler listened a moment, nodding and smiling. “Ice skating rink for the orphans. You’ve got my support. Have a wonderful day, Your Eminence.”
He punched a button and yelled into the other line: “Irv, drop your cock and sell some product!”
As Ziegler caterwauled some more, I took inventory of the office. All chrome and glass with light fixtures like dripping icicles and spindly chairs designed to make visitors slip a disc. The floor was green marble tile with gold veins running through it. Paintings-Impressionist nudes-looked expensive, but what do I know about art?
There was a “me wall.” Fancy certificates, and award statuettes. The Miami Archdiocese’s Humanitarian of the Year award, the B’nai Brith’s philanthropy medal, and an achievement badge from the Florida Synod of the Lutheran Church.
An ecumenical asshole.
He wasn’t hard to figure out. The merit badges were his soft spot. Now that he’d screwed all those girls and made all that money, what mattered to him was his reputation. I knew where to hit him and how to make it hurt.
“Gotta go, Irv,” he said. “There’s a guy in my office who’s a dead ringer for Studley Do-Right, you remember him? Yeah, Horny in America back in the Reagan Administration. Guy packed a flagpole in his Speedos.”
Ziegler hung up, waved the Torpedo like a scepter, and said, “Sit, Studley.”
I didn’t sit down. I stared him down. “My name’s Jake Lassiter.”
He stared back, took a long drag on the cigar. “I got pull in this town, Studley. What do you got?”
“A telephone. I’m gonna call a press conference. Tell the Herald what I know about the old porn producer and the missing girl. Helluva headline: ‘Humanitarian of the Year a Murder Suspect.’ ”
“I’ll sue you for slander.”
“I hope so. Then I can put you under oath. I’ll videotape you taking the Fifth at your depo. Gonna put you on a spit and light the fire. Let your country club pals watch you sweat.”
“You don’t have the juice.”
“Then what are you worried about? Why send that cooch to my house? Or that moron Decker to pick me up?”
“To warn you to watch your mouth. And one warning is all you get.”
“You ask me, you’re running scared.”
“Not scared of you, pal. You’re a nobody.”
“Fine. Then tell me what happened to Krista Larkin. Where’d you bury her?”
“Please sit down, Mr. Lassiter.” A soft voice from behind me. An old man sitting on a sofa. I hadn’t seen him back in the corner.
The guy must be in his eighties. He had a gut like a bowl of pudding, tired eyes, and a thin, Errol Flynn mustache. He wore olive green polyester pants with an elastic waistband, a short-sleeve shirt, and Hush Puppies the color of root beer. His hands rested on the head of a polished black cane, which he held between his legs.
I sat down because the old guy had asked nicely, and Granny taught me to be respectful to my elders.
“My name is Max Perlow, Mr. Lassiter. Have you ever heard of me?”
I hadn’t and told him so.
“I used to be in the papers a bit. Before your time. I’m Charlie’s business partner. I’ve been fixing problems for a very long time, so perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“Just how do you propose to do that?”
“Permanently, Mr. Lassiter.” Max Perlow leaned forward in his chair and spoke in a whisper. “When I fix something, it stays fixed.”
As threats go, it was pretty impressive, especially coming from a guy who looked like he should be playing shuffleboard at Century Village.
“Surely, Mr. Lassiter,” he continued, his tone amiable, “you know Charlie had nothing to do with the disappearance of some runaway girl.”
Great, I thought, Al Capone vouching for Baby Face Nelson.
“I don’t know anything yet,” I said, getting my voice back. “Except good old Charlie pushed an underage girl into porn, then she vanished the night she was supposed to be entertaining his scuzzball friends.”
Ziegler made a sound like a pig snorting. “I can ruin you, Lassiter. Take every cent you have and punch your ticket with the Bar.”
“Shut up, Charlie.” Perlow spoke softly, but with the authority of a man who is accustomed to having his orders followed. Turning back to me, he said, “Alejandro tells me good things about you.”
“For a public servant, Alex Castiel gives a lot of private advice.”
“His father was like a brother to me.”
“Bernard Castiel, the gangster? Or Bernard Castiel, the hero?”
Perlow leaned back. “Do you sum up a man’s life so neatly, Mr. Lassiter?”
“Sometimes. You, I’m guessing pure gangster. But a polite one.”
“I was in my teens when Bernard gave me a job at the Nacional casino. Before long, I was going to Shabbos services with his family at Centro de Israelita.”
Perlow paused a moment, and I could swear his eyes teared up.
“Such a tragedy,” he continued, “Bernard dying so young. I stood in for him at Alejandro’s bris.”
A tidbit missing from Alex Castiel’s campaign brochures: “Circumcised in Cuba.”
“When Alejandro’s mother died, who do you suppose got him a Pedro Pan flight to Miami?”
“Wild guess, you.”
“I made sure he was placed with a good family, that he wanted for nothing. He calls me ‘Uncle Max.’ Do you take my point, Mr. Lassiter?”
Suddenly, the State Attorney’s role had come into focus. Castiel might be my basketball buddy, but he’d had a relationship with Perlow far longer and deeper. The old hood was grandfathered in.
“You own Alex Castiel,” I said. “If Uncle Max wants a favor, he can’t say no.”
“You are so hasty with accusations,
Mr. Lassiter.”
“Always honest, seldom kind. That’s me.”
“Back in Cuba-”
“Max, is this shit necessary?” Ziegler interrupted. “This prick lawyer accuses me of murder, and you’re telling Bar Mitzvah stories?”
“Sha!”
Hush! I didn’t know much Yiddish, but a Jewish stockbroker I once dated was always telling me to shut up.
Ziegler sank deeper into his chair, sulking.
“Once in a while, in the gaming business,” Perlow said, in a grandfatherly tone, “someone was entitled to wet his beak, but he starts drinking the whole birdbath. I didn’t send out a couple half-wits to throw the guy into the backseat of a car.”
“Aw, Jesus.” Ziegler wheeled around and stared out the window.
“I invited the man to my suite,” Perlow continued. “I offered espresso, pastelitos. We talk like gentlemen. He sees the error of his ways and agrees it won’t happen again.”
“You must serve good pastry,” I said. “What’s on the menu today?”
“Hypothetically, let’s say I have a grievance with a lawyer. To make a living, this lawyer needs cooperation from judges, from prosecutors, even from the clerk of the court. If suddenly no one offers him a plea, if his files go missing, if every client gets the max, the whole town knows he can’t deliver the goods.”
I was starting to feel sorry for this hypothetical lawyer.
“Maybe the poor schlemiel starts cutting corners in order to survive,” Perlow went on. “Someone lets the Florida Bar know of the man’s malefactions. Soon he’s broke and without a law license.”
First Alex Castiel, now Max Perlow. Double-teaming me like two linemen on a draw play. “Ruining me seems like a lot of trouble to go to if your sleazy pal had nothing to do with Krista Larkin’s disappearance.”
“Fuck you,” Ziegler shot back, still looking out the window.
Perlow tapped the floor with his cane. Rat-a-tat-tat. I think he was telling both of us to settle down. “There’s another solution, Mr. Lassiter. Maybe you need some work. A retainer from Ziegler Enterprises.”
“What the hell!” Ziegler whirled around in his chair to face his partner.
“Calm down, Charlie.”
“How much?” I asked, being a stickler for details.
Perlow allowed a small smile, thinking he had me. “Serious shekels, I assure you.”
Things were moving way too fast, I thought. First they send Angel Roxx to seduce me, then Ray Decker to escort me. Then I encounter Mutt and Jeff. Good gangster, bad gangster. I’d hit a nerve, and these two were freaking out. I sure as hell wasn’t going to take their money, but I’d like to know why it was being offered. What did they have to hide?
“This retainer,” I said. “I get the money whether or not there’s work to do?”
“Isn’t that how a retainer works?”
“So does a bribe.”
“If it makes you feel better, I’m sure Charlie can find something for you to do.”
Ziegler drilled me with eyes cold as coins. “Wish I was still in hard core. You could mop up jism on the set.”
“Keep your retainer,” I said. “I’d rather come after you.”
“Take your best shot, shyster.”
“I’ll start by asking questions of your bigshot friends. Maybe the Archbishop has something to say.”
Ziegler emitted a sound very much like a dog growling.
“A suggestion, Mr. Lassiter,” Perlow said. “You’re here now. Ask Charlie anything you want. Whatever you learn, feel free to take to Alejandro.”
Surprising me. “Sure, why not?” I said.
With a hostile witness, many lawyers begin with soft violins before they start pounding the kettle drums. They try to lull the witness into a false sense of security. I think subtlety is overrated.
“Were you fucking Krista Larkin when she was seventeen?” I began.
Ziegler blinked and shot a look at Perlow, who said, “Tell him the truth, Charlie.”
“Yeah, I was fucking her. So what? I wasn’t the only one.”
“Did she come to parties at your house?”
“Yeah, lots of them.”
“What about the night she disappeared?”
“Never showed up.”
“You invited her?”
“On the set that day. She said she’d come by, but she didn’t.”
“Any idea why?”
“Maybe she was worn out from sucking cock all day.”
“Am I mistaken, or did you just get the Humanitarian of the Year award?”
“Cor-fucking-rect, and I’m a Grand Claw, too. You know how much you gotta give to charity to get a golden bib?”
“Who cares? Underneath your bib, you’re still a sleazebag.”
He turned to Perlow. “A fucking criminal defense lawyer lecturing me.”
“One difference,” I said, “I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not.”
“You hypocrite! Max, did you hear him?”
“Not now, Charlie.”
But Ziegler barreled on. “Hey, Lassiter, you think I don’t remember you? You think Krista didn’t tell me about you? I know what happened that night, you two-faced fuck!” He smirked at me. “Did you tell your client you fucked her sister? Or do you want me to?”
I couldn’t breathe. It felt as if someone had cinched leather straps around my chest and pulled tight.
“Charlie, that’s not the way to resolve this,” Perlow said. “Mr. Lassiter, do you have anything else?”
I was reeling from Ziegler’s accusations. I’d tumbled from the moral high ground to the gutter.
Ziegler knew.
He even guessed that I hadn’t been honest with Amy Larkin. I had to fix that and fast.
I had blundered coming here. I could see it in his triumphant grin. If a snake could smile, that would be its look.
Perlow stirred, bracing his cane to get to his feet. “If that’s it, Mr. Lassiter, it would appear you have nothing placing the girl in Charlie’s company the night she disappeared.”
“Maybe today I don’t. But this isn’t over. Hell, it hasn’t even started.” Trying to salvage the moment by sounding tough, but really just spraying a garden hose on the Hindenburg.
I turned to leave, listening to Ziegler snicker like a horse. Just as I reached the door he said, “Hey, Lassiter, why do you think I sent Angel your way?”
I didn’t answer, and he said, “Because I know you. You’re just like me.”
“Bullshit. I sent her home.”
“My mistake. Next time, I’ll send jail bait.”
He was still cackling when the door closed behind me.
19 The Marvelous Jew
“Nestor, what’s the problem?” Perlow asked his driver and bodyguard. The creamy white Bentley was stuck in the exit lane of the Ziegler Enterprises building.
“Car being towed.”
Perlow saw it then. Ziegler’s black Lincoln. The car Ray Decker used. Four flat tires.
Lassiter, he thought.
What the hell to do about him?
Ziegler had gloated after Lassiter left. Thought he’d won the round. But all he’d done was bloody the nose of a street fighter. Lassiter wasn’t a weaker foe because Charlie shamed him, but a more determined one. The lawyer didn’t have a booming practice or a 24-karat reputation. But again, that only made him more dangerous.
“A man who has nothing in his pockets has nothing to lose.”
Meyer Lansky himself said that more than half a century ago. The man President Batista of Cuba called “El Judio Maravilloso,” the marvelous Jew. The man with nothing in his pockets turned out to be a bearded guerrilla fighting in the mountains of Cuba. His name was Fidel Castro. Lansky tried to warn Batista that the rebel leader had a ruthlessness of purpose that not even overwhelming forces and firepower of the army could stop.
Charlie Ziegler never understood such things. He had always been undisciplined. Those damn parties with the girls and the drugs.
There were men around town who would remember. Witnesses. If Lassiter turned up the heat, how would Ziegler react? Charlie was not the strong and silent type. Perlow figured he could crack like a pinata, all his secrets-their secrets-spilling out.
Perlow sighed, looked at his aged hands. He wished Meyer were still around. Meyer kept emotion out of the equation and never acted rashly. When the boys suspected that Bugsy Siegel was skimming from the Flamingo, Meyer urged caution. Only when the proof was overwhelming did he authorize the hit. Quick and efficient.
What would Meyer do now?
“If a man is a moneymaker, you can forgive a lot of his faults.”
El Judio Maravilloso was right. With all his failings, Ziegler still made Perlow money from the reality channel and international distribution of porn. Not only that, it was all legitimate. Jeez, they even paid taxes. You had to be careful these days. With that RICO crap, they could convict you for just thinking about committing a crime.
“Nestor, you remember Jake Lassiter? Used to play for the Dolphins.”
Tejada laughed. “First time I saw him play I was doing sixty days in Youth Hall. I liked his style, his helmet flying off when he made a big hit on a kickoff.”
Sounded right to Perlow. A guy who would sacrifice his body for the team.
“Reminded me of a pit bull,” Tejada said. “You ever go to a dog fight, Mr. P?”
“Never.”
“A pit bull latches on to another dog and don’t let go. Beat ’em on the head with a shovel. Chop off a hind leg. Don’t matter. He just fights to the death.”
Perlow felt revulsion at the description of a maimed animal. He never considered himself a violent man. On the few occasions when he had to make someone disappear, it was always with regret and sadness. More than once, he dipped into his own pocket to send money, anonymously, to the widows and children.
“Fought like a dog,” Tejada said, tying up his thoughts. “Right up to the whistle and a little after.”
When the tow truck pulled the Lincoln out of the exit lane, Tejada eased the Bentley toward Coral Way, the engine purring. Perlow considered the tattoo on the back of Tejada’s shaved head. A five-pointed crown. Symbol of the Latin Kings, which Perlow thought sounded like Desi Arnaz’s mambo band, but was the largest Hispanic street gang in the country. A steroid-pumped hulk, Tejada had done time for armed robbery and aggravated assault, both pluses on his resume.
