“It’s true, jefe,” Pepito said. “I tailed you for three days, and you only made me that once, at the traffic light in the Grove. Unless you saw me on the Trail, too.”
“The purple Impala? That was you?”
“Yeah.”
Then it came to me. Sanchez, owner of the Escalade, had been captured after jumping bail. A fugitive named Terence Connor owned the Impala. Both must have put their cars up as security, which is how Dominguez Bail Bonds got them.
“You borrowed the cars from your dad, didn’t you?”
“Switched them every day,” Pepito said, proudly. “That was my cover.”
“Might have worked better if the cars weren’t so conspicuous.”
He gave me a little sideways grin. “Worked fine yesterday when I followed Charlie Ziegler.”
That stopped me. “How the hell do you know about Ziegler?”
“The other night when it rained like hell, I followed you to an ugly-ass house in Gables Estates. Looked up the property records, found the owner’s name. Charles Ziegler. Stopped in your office the next morning, shot the shit with Cindy, and she filled me in.”
“You little sneak,” I said. Meaning it as a compliment.
Our drinks arrived. Pepito hoisted his beer and offered a toast. “Muerte a Fidel!”
“Death to all Philistines,” I agreed. “Now tell me what the hell you’ve been up to.”
“I tailed Ziegler up to Lighthouse Point. He spent three hours in a condo at the marina. Place is owned by a Melody Sanders.”
My look shot him a question, and he answered, “I checked the mailbox. Looked up the property records on Lexis-Nexis. She’s thirty-nine. Single. Born in Sarasota.”
“Sounds like Saturday morning nooky.”
“Exactly what I figure, jefe. She bought the condo seven years ago. Paid all cash.”
“You’re showing off, Pepito.”
He grinned at me. Okay, I had misjudged him. He’s got real ingenuity.
“So you want me to follow Ziegler some more?” he asked.
“Maybe later. But I’ve got another job for you.”
I told Pepito to find my missing client. I gave him the make and model of her car and told him where she’d been staying before checking out. We tossed around a couple ideas, and then I said, “Just so you don’t get too cocky; I caught you in the other car, too. The Hummer.”
“Big-ass H2?”
“Yeah.”
“Gray?”
“Yeah.”
“Windows tinted black.”
“That’s the one.”
“Wasn’t me.”
I laughed. “Of course it was you.”
“No, man. But I saw the Hummer twice. That night you drove to Ziegler’s house, it was cruising down Casuarina. Then yesterday, I saw it tailing Ziegler on Copans Road.”
That rocked me. “Get a look at the driver?”
“Never had the chance.”
“Shit.”
“Why’s someone following both Ziegler and you, jefe?”
“I don’t know. But if I can figure out who, I’ll know why.”
40 The Hummer
Sweaty and thirsty, Kip dribbled the basketball along the sidewalk. He’d been shooting buckets at the outdoor court in Peacock Park along the bay in the Grove. One hundred jump shots and one hundred free throws. Just like Uncle Jake taught him.
A man was cleaning the windshield of a big-ass gray Hummer parked next to the bike rack where Kip had locked his Cannondale.
Kip wouldn’t have paid much attention, but the car was so big and the chassis so high, the guy had to stand on the running board to reach the middle of the windshield. Big guy, too, in a muscle tee. Sloping shoulders, pumped delts, tats covering both arms and running up his neck.
Kip unlocked his bike chain and squeezed the basketball into his backpack.
“Nice bike,” the guy said, stepping off the running board.
“Nice wheels,” Kip said.
“Ever ride in one?”
“Nah.”
The guy shot a look toward the street, and Kip noticed the five-pointed crown tattoo on the back of his skull. Latin Kings. A sheriff’s deputy had lectured at school, taught them all about the local gangs. The Kings were badasses.
“You wanna take a ride?” The gangbanger circled around him. The Hummer’s passenger door was open.
“You some kind of perv?”
The guy laughed. “Just being nice, kid. I’m a friend of the family.”
“What family?”
“Jeez, you don’t remember. Me and your uncle are tight.”
“What’s his name?” Suspicious as hell.
“Jake. Jake Lassiter. Used to play for the Dolphins.”
“Uh-huh. What’s your name?”
It took a second before the guy said, “Bill.”
Kip sized up the situation. They were in a cul-de-sac just thirty feet from the bay at the end of the park. Only one way out, McFarlane Road, where cars were cruising by. But the perv was three feet away.
He’d knock me off the bike and throw me into the Hummer.
“Lock your bike back up, I’ll take you for a spin over to Jungle Island.”
“Okay, sure.”
Kip fumbled with the lock, and the perv stepped closer.
“Carbon frame?” the guy asked, grabbing the handlebars.
“Yeah.”
The perv’s hands were occupied. This might be his only chance, Kip thought. His uncle had taught him the side-blade kick against the heavy bag. With his weight on his left leg, Kip quickly shot his right knee toward his chest, pivoted, and snapped a foot squarely into the guy’s balls.
The air whoomphed out of the guy, and he sunk to his knees, gasping.
Kip hopped on the bike, bounced off the curb into the street, and pedaled like hell. He was too scared to look back.
41 A New Deal
Sitting in his study, Ziegler was waiting for Max Perlow to rob him deaf, dumb, and blind. Fifteen percent forever. Guys who sell their souls to the devil get better deals.
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.”