Lola was at the dinner, putting on her usual show of eating three micrograms of the most expensive entree on the menu. Which turned out to be the Japanese Wagyu strip steak. One-hundred forty-five bucks!
“Try a bite, Charlie. It melts in your mouth.”
If she really wanted something to melt in her mouth, Charlie told her, she could put bearnaise on his nutsack.
Ordinarily on Saturdays, he’d lie to Lola and say he was off to play golf at Riviera. No need this morning. She was out of town, and he was happily on his way to Lighthouse Point to see Melody Sanders, as he’d been doing for several years now.
He’d bought Melody a two-bedroom condo near the marina and put her on the payroll at three grand a month. Talk about a frugal fuckmate, he’d once paid that for six hours with an escort in Buenos Aires. On the books, Melody was listed under “consulting services,” which was basically true, as she’d taught him the reverse Amazon, a position that let her do all the work and eased his aching back.
He loved giving Melody gifts. Inexpensive artsy and craftsy stuff he picked out himself. She was always grateful, not like the whiny Lola. He’d given his wife a kumquat-size diamond for their anniversary and still didn’t get a blow job. Her excuses for refusing sex ran from the old, reliable headache to the exotic yeast infection. Lately, she insisted that she couldn’t get turned on because of anxiety over global warming.
Melody was uncomplicated and undemanding and had pubic muscles that could squeeze the buttercream out of a pastry bag. Not long ago, he realized that Saturday mornings in Melody’s bed were the high point of the week. Only one downside. His golf game was going to shit.
The Ferrari was purring through North Lauderdale, a steady 75, only possible on weekend mornings. He checked the mirror. The Escalade was back again, three cars behind and one lane over.
His thoughts turned to Lassiter. Had Perlow scared him off? Lassiter didn’t seem like the kind of guy whose asshole puckered up when threatened. Was he really going to bring in the state Attorney General? And what’s this shit about the Justice Department? No way Ziegler wanted the feds pawing over his tax returns.
Won’t be long, he thought, imagining Melody’s naked body entwined with his. Wouldn’t those alter kockers at the country club be jealous? He could see the old farts now, taking a dip in the Jacuzzi. Pale and flabby, bobbing like matzoh balls in chicken soup.
With all the crap raining down on him, he needed Melody today more than ever.
Lassiter breathing down my neck.
Perlow picking my pocket.
And that cinema verite phony Rodney Gifford. Could he really know what happened the night of the party?
Just how much pressure could a man take?
Another check of the mirror. No Escalade. It must have taken an earlier exit. The only vehicle keeping up with him was a big gray Hummer directly behind his Ferrari.
Shit! Ziegler realized he was still in the speed lane, and the Copans Road exit was just ahead. He floored it and cut across the expressway. Horns honked behind him, and he saw the Hummer tear across four lanes and take the exit behind him.
Ziegler drove into the town of Lighthouse Point, feeling better the closer he got to Melody’s bed. He pulled up at the four-story, pink stucco building with balconies overlooking the harbor. Sweet anticipation, he was starting to feel better already. He emerged from the Ferrari tumescent, thanks to the Viagra he swallowed before leaving the house. He took the elevator to the fourth floor and hurried along the exterior walkway to her apartment.
As he rang the doorbell, he heard the rumble of an engine, looked down, and saw the gray Hummer pull into the parking lot, where it stopped next to a Dumpster and sat there, idling. But he didn’t take the time to think about it, once Melody opened the door wearing a black silk teddy and saying she was so horny, would he mind terribly if they screwed right away and had brunch later?
“I can live with that,” he said.
39 A Semi-Pro P.I
Where the hell was Amy?
After her motel room had been broken into, she said she was coming over to the house, but she never showed. I tried calling a dozen times. Never called me back.
I was thinking all this while the Eldo rumbled across the 12th Avenue bridge over the Miami River. I was headed south toward Coconut Grove and home. I passed what used to be the Orange Bowl. For the last few years, it’s been an empty lot, sad as a cemetery. Now it’s a hole in the ground, workers building a new baseball stadium for the Marlins, but it won’t be the same. With its view of the downtown skyline, the rickety and rusty O.B. was a classic of the game. Home to Joe Namath’s heroic Super Bowl, Doug Flutie’s impossible Hail Mary, and the Fins undefeated season, two decades before I suited up.
I played for the Dolphins in the cold and sterile Joe Robbie Stadium, carved out of the sawgrass near a turnpike exit. The stadium was renamed Pro Player Stadium in return for some loot from a now-defunct clothing line, then back to Joe Robbie, then Land Shark Stadium because a beer company paid for the privilege, and finally Sun Life, after an insurance company. Ah, Miami. So rich in tradition.
I had already hit South Dixie Highway when I saw a candy-apple red Escalade two cars ahead and one lane over. Correction, I heard the Escalade, the lake pipes rumbling like thunder. Then I saw the spinning wheel covers and the shiny paint job. Last week, I’d seen an identical pimpmobile double-parked in front of the Justice Building. Then it had tailed me down Douglas Road, barely three miles from here.
I passed the pair of cars between us and swung behind the Escalade, getting close enough to see the vanity plate, U R NEXT.
Gotcha.
Same vehicle. Miguel Sanchez of Homestead.
But who the hell’s driving your car, now that you’re an inmate at FCI?
The Escalade stayed in the right-hand lane and passed the Red Road intersection in South Miami. I was two cars behind when it turned right onto Sunset Drive, and I followed.
We passed South Miami Hospital and headed west. The driver gave no indication he knew he was being tailed. I let another car get between us. Just past 97th Avenue, the Escalade turned into a strip mall. I continued for another two blocks, hung a U-turn, and doubled back.
When I pulled into the lot, I saw the Escalade parked next to Scully’s Tavern, a neighborhood joint known for its fish sandwiches fried in a potato-chip batter. At least, that’s what the sign in the window said.
I parked in front of a snake and iguana shop a few doors away and headed for the tavern. I didn’t know who I was looking for, but figured if the guy saw me, he’d react.
The lunch crowd was gone, and the place was nearly empty. In a side room, two guys in University of Miami T-shirts shot pool. They paid no attention to me.
A couple of solitary drinkers at the bar. A young couple at a table. I circled the bar and saw the guy. Recognized him from behind, thanks to the diamond earring and barbed-wire tattoo around his neck. Pepito Dominguez, my DUI client. Sitting on a bar stool, drinking a Bud.
“You asshole.” I lifted him off the bar stool by the scruff of his neck.
“Jake!” His eyes registered shock, about twenty thousand volts’ worth. “I’m sorry, jefe! Just one beer.”
“I don’t care about the beer.” I let him fall back onto the stool. “Why you following me? What the hell’s going on?”
“Just practicing, man. That’s all.”
“Practicing for what?”
“To be your P.I.”
“Bullshit.”
The bartender, an older guy in a Dolphins polo, came over to see if there was a problem. We both said no, and I ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.