“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
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.
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,
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
“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?”
“
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
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:
“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?”
