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-
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.
“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.
“You hungry, Nestor?”
“You know me, Mr. P. I can always eat.”
“How about the Forge? I’ll treat you to crab cakes.”
“Forge is closed, sir.”
“Jeez, I forgot about the remodeling.”
Perlow thought of Vincent Gigante, “The Oddfather,” wandering around Manhattan in his bathrobe, showing up for court unbathed and unshaven. The press thought Gigante was faking it, but Perlow knew the man. Alzheimer’s was a bitch.
“How about Pumpernik’s for a pastrami sandwich?” Perlow said.
Tejada laughed. “You’re messing with me, Mr. P.”
“Yeah. How many years they been closed, I wonder?”
Perlow longed for the old days. When you could still make a buck shy-locking and running numbers and shooting craps in a cabana at the Fontainebleau. Before they had slots at the racetracks and offshore gambling on the Internet.
How can you trust a card game where you don’t see the deck?
His thoughts returned to Lassiter. If Lassiter tried to go public with accusations against Charlie, he would have to be stopped. Perlow would find it distasteful, but what else could he do?
“Nestor, I haven’t asked you to get your hands dirty for a while.…”
“Anything you want, Mr. P, you just ask.”
“Thank you, Nestor.”
“When do you want it done, sir?”
“I have to think it through. These decisions are never easy.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. P, if your interests are threatened, the sooner you act the better.
“Something about rats in the house.” Perlow had once spoken decent Spanish, but that was half a century ago.
“Better to kill the first rat before the house gets full of them,” Tejada translated.
Perlow smiled. Meyer himself would have warmed to the concept.
20 Just Like the Rest of Them
I had nearly turned around after leaving Ziegler’s office. I wanted to crash back through the door, hoist him from his chair by his designer lapels, and toss him through a wall. Let all those certificates and plaques come raining down. But I knew my anger was with myself, not him. I’d given Ziegler the ammunition and the weapon, and he’d been happy to blow me away.
I took a cab home, showered, and changed into fresh shorts and T-shirt. I called Amy’s cell and told her we needed to talk. I didn’t tell her I had a confession to make. She said she was going jogging on the beach, trying to sweat out her frustrations and clear her mind.
I drove across the Rickenbacker Causeway, watching a line of thunderheads rumble across open water toward Key Biscayne. Summer in Miami, where it rains every afternoon at 3:17 P.M., give or take.
I caught up with Amy on the white sand near the old lighthouse at the southern tip of the island. She wore cutoffs and a red bikini top and was Ohio pale, but her carved abs and rounded delts revealed she was no stranger to the gym.
I needed to tell her the truth about my night with Krista. If she heard it from Ziegler instead of me, I’d lose whatever trust I’d struggled to build. Amy might even begin to suspect me again in her sister’s disappearance. That’s the problem with lies and cover-ups. They make the underlying wrong seem even more grievous.
“I want you to take precautions,” I told her, as wind gusts rustled the palm fronds and swirled loose sand across the dunes. I couldn’t bring myself to confess. Instead, I stalled.
“Why?”
“Ziegler’s rattled and he’s called in reinforcements.”
I told Amy about the two tough guys in a Lincoln and my confrontation with Perlow and Ziegler, the old gangster and the new humanitarian.
“Perlow’s the one who concerns me,” I said. “He looks soft as a nougat but he’s got flint and steel in his eyes.”
“So we must be on to something.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what. Just promise you’ll be careful, and if you feel threatened in any way, you’ll call me, day or night.”
“Okay, sure. And thanks for caring, Jake.”
Saying it as if she wasn’t used to anyone giving a shit about her.
“You might think about moving out of the motel,” I added.
“Where to?”
