“To hell with that. I’m calling Tallahassee. Let the A.G. investigate Ziegler and look up your butt while he’s at it.”
“Take your best shot, pal.”
The phone clicked off and I stood there in the damp midday heat, cursing at my old friend. A mosquito buzzed around my neck, and I swatted the little bastard, squashing him, and leaving a speck of blood in the palm of my hand.
I slid back into my wounded car and pulled up the top to get out of the sun. The tow truck should be here soon. I keyed the ignition and turned on the A/C. Thank God for air-conditioning. If not for the know-how of Mr. Willis Carrier-a native of Buffalo! — South Florida would be unlivable. On the C.D. player, Bob Dylan delivered the problematic news that “beyond here lies nothin’,” advising folks there’s no reward in the Great Beyond.
After twenty minutes, I dozed off. I don’t know how long I was out because the next thing I remember, the driver’s door flew open.
I toppled half out of the Eldo. The other half was helped-none too gently-by Ray Decker.
“Hello, dickwad,” he greeted me.
He hoisted me to my feet and I saw the blur of a fist a millisecond before it hit my jaw. I crumpled against the side of my car and slid to the ground. I could no longer hear the gunfire. Instead, the bells of Notre Dame Cathedral began peeling.
“Asshole!” Decker, standing over me.
I was neither brave enough nor stupid enough to try to stand while comets blazed across a night sky. Instead, I curled into the fetal position, sucked in air, and tried to clear my head.
Decker kicked me in the back. “That’s for fucking up Charlie’s car.”
Another kick, near kidney land. “That one’s for messing with me.”
A third kick glanced off my tailbone. He didn’t say what it was for.
The wallops were starting to lose their whoompf. Was Decker tired already? Big guys who seldom get outside don’t do well in Miami.
I uncurled. Reached out, grabbed an ankle when Decker was in mid-kick with the other leg. I yanked hard and he toppled backwards, his head clunking off the trunk of my Eldo. A solid sound, courtesy of U.S. Steel and GM, when those names meant something.
Decker crumpled to the ground, as woozy as I was. We both got up slowly, intent on doing grievous damage to the other. I took a swing that he blocked. He swung and I ducked it. I was panting and Decker’s face was as red as the three-ball in billiards. We circled each other, Decker with his fists like a boxer, me crouched like a linebacker.
“Where’s your old Impala, Decker?” I asked, looking around the parking lot.
“The fuck you talking about?” He could barely get the words out.
“The purple Chevy. You were following me on the Trail.”
“Not me, pal.”
I saw the black Lincoln then, the car I’d hijacked from Decker that first day. So who the hell was in the Impala?
“You were at my house night before last. You took off when my dog started barking.”
“You’re hallucinating, Lassiter.”
I didn’t know if he was telling the truth. But if he was, who could it have been? Amy came to mind. She left angry at me. Did she come back and break in? But why?
Decker started toward me, tired of foreplay. I did the same, my hands ready to break bones.
“Freeze, both of you!”
On television, if someone shouts, “Freeze,” he’s always holding a gun. I looked up and saw the range master standing six feet away. Unarmed. But next to him were half a dozen men and one woman. All with guns, all holstered. This crew didn’t need to brandish them. A couple of uniforms. Miami P.D. County sheriff. A man and a woman in plain clothes, guns shoulder-holstered. And a guy in a muffler shop T-shirt, a Western six-shooter strapped to his thigh, gunfighter style.
“I want you two jerks out of here!” the range master ordered. “No violence allowed at the shooting range.”
35 The Fairy Godfather
Twenty-four hours after Amy shot out my tires and disappeared, I was sitting on the coral rock wall along Ocean Drive, near my office, wearing a bandage on my forehead.
Amy hadn’t shown up at Ziegler’s office. Or her old motel. Or my office. I tried calling her cell a dozen times. Nothing but voicemail.
An hour earlier, Alex Castiel had called with the non-news that police couldn’t find Amy. He wanted to charge her with reckless display and discharge of a firearm. Would I cooperate? No, I would not. I wanted to get her into a therapist’s office, not a jail cell.
I was eating my lunch. My jaw ached with each bite, and for once, I couldn’t blame the stale bread Havana Banana used for its Cuban sandwiches. Ray Decker’s boot prints were tattooed on my back. My ribs felt brittle as crystal stemware, and it hurt to swallow. A patch of skin from my forehead had been left on the pavement. I’d been blindsided by tight ends before, but this was more like a head-on with a sixteen-wheeler.
The beach was behind me, The Scene in front. The air smelled of coconut oil and car exhaust. Ocean Drive was wall-to-wall outdoor cafes where wannabe actors served tables with an air of boredom with their work and superiority to their clientele. The tourists arrived sunburned, the pasta arrived al dente, the margaritas arrived watery. Models zipped by on Rollerblades. Bodybuilders with shaved, lubed chests paraded shirtless. A flock of green parrots streaked overhead, squawking-or maybe laughing-at what they saw below.
“Ay, bubee, you should see a doctor. You look like drek.”
I swung stiffly toward the voice, feeling like Frankenstein. Max Perlow waddled toward me, his cane clicking the concrete. He wore a gray silk guayabera with twirled piping and fancy buttons that looked like ivory. A skinny-brimmed green fedora sat on his head. His pencil mustache looked freshly trimmed and waxed.
“Thanks, but I feel great,” I lied.
He looked across Ocean Drive toward the bustling cafes and shops. “I love this neighborhood. Such life it’s got! Wouldn’t Meyer have loved to see the changes?” Perlow gestured with his cane toward the canyons along Collins Avenue. “Meyer lived just north of the Eden Roc. Modest little condo. I used to keep him company while he walked his dog.” Perlow grinned at the memory. “Yappy little bastard he called ‘Bruzzer.’ ”
I didn’t invite him, but Perlow sat down next to me on the coral wall, doffing his fedora in a polite, outdated way. The hat had a jaunty orange feather, and I wondered if a nearsighted heron might try to mate with it.
“Alex tells me you’re gonna ask the Attorney General to open an investigation.”
“His relationship with Ziegler compromises his impartiality,” I said. “So, yeah, I’m gonna rattle some cages in Tallahassee, see if I can get a team of FDLE agents down here. Turn over some rocks, maybe find some scorpions underneath.”
“Innuendos about Alex would be damaging to his career.”
“Not my concern.”
He gave me a look through those drooping eyelids, but the eyes themselves burned hot.
“Walk with me, Mr. Lassiter. I need the exercise.”
I followed him, tossing the rest of the sandwich into a trash can. In the street, a creamy white Bentley crept alongside us.
Perlow waved at the driver, a Hispanic man who filled a considerable portion of the front seat. “Go on, Nestor. Leave us.” The car pulled away, quiet as diamonds dropping on velvet.
“Your bodyguard?”
“Feh! Why would I need protection? I’m an honest businessman.” He gave me a little smile. “Of course, Nestor is excellent with a handgun. As good as Lucky Luciano’s boys, and they could shoot.”
A BMW convertible drove by, top down, C.D. player cranked up, as if the entire neighborhood was dying to listen to Bob Marley admit he’d shot the sheriff but spared the deputy.
“Where’s your client?” Perlow asked.
“I don’t know, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Are you not concerned, Mr. Lassiter? A neurotic woman threatened you with a gun.”