“How about two months’ severance?”
“But you’re still working.”
“Talking about if they sever your head. How about writing a check now?”
“Relax, Cindy. Nothing’s gonna happen.”
“Maybe not if you bail. Forget about Krista Larkin.”
“Can’t do it. I’m getting close or Ziegler and Perlow wouldn’t be going bat shit.”
“Really? You’re getting close?” Cindy cocked a pierced eyebrow. “First Alex Castiel says there’s nothing his office can do, he thinks Charlie Ziegler is a great guy. Then Ziegler sends a little honey to your house. Against all odds, you turn her down, and Ziegler has two thugs grab you. This Perlow guy tells you to back off or he’ll wreck your law practice. Then Ziegler says Krista ran off with some biker. But to make everyone feel better, he offers Amy a hundred grand and thirty for you. When that doesn’t work, an ex-cop who works for Ziegler beats you up.”
“I think that was personal.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Your client flips out, shoots the car you love, which? — just guessing here-means she fired you. It doesn’t sound like you’re getting close to anything except erased. Which is why I’m asking for two months’ pay in advance, plus medical.”
“Forget it.” Before shooing her out of my office, I asked what she’d found on the old purple Impala that followed me to the shooting range.
“Registered to a Terence Connor of Boca Raton.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Pension planner who owns about a dozen vintage cars.”
“Get me a phone number.”
“Doubt he’s gonna answer. He looted his clients’ accounts, got indicted, and skipped town. He’s a fugitive.”
It made no sense. The owner of the Escalade was in prison, and this guy was on the run. I failed to get the plate number of the Hummer, so no telling who might own that vehicle, but I wasn’t ruling out Bernie Madoff.
Cindy returned to her cubicle and I looked over my calendar of appointments. It was New Customers day, and pickings were slim. A lawyer pal faced disciplinary action for dressing as a priest and rushing over to a downtown building that had just collapsed. While giving last rites, he whipped out contingency fee contracts. I made a note to look into getting a seminary degree online-backdated, if possible.
The phone rang, as it does once in a while. I was hoping it was Amy. Cindy answered and buzzed me. “There’s trouble at Kip’s school, boss. Get over there, ASAP.”
37 The Old Instep Stomp
I drove across the MacArthur Causeway on new steel-belt radials and looped onto I-95, which dropped me off on Miami Avenue. The top was down, and Ramblin’ Jack Elliott was going full throttle, singing “The Sky Above, the Mud Below,” a tale of horse rustling and kangaroo court justice.
The old Eldo rolled through the business section of Coconut Grove, then under a canopy of Japanese banyan trees, and into the gated entrance of Tuttle-Biscayne, the ritzy bayfront school where Motor Boating is an elective.
A moment later, I was in the reception room of Winston Perkins, Director of Student Affairs. His assistant said “The Commodore” would see me now.
Commodore Perkins was in his fifties and wore a blue blazer with gold buttons, a blinding white shirt, and a red silk ascot. Yeah, an ascot like the Duke of fucking Windsor, or Don Knotts on
“Tell me, Mr. Lassiter,” the Commodore said, “does violence run in your family?”
I didn’t get it. Then he made a small gesture toward my face. Aha. The bruises and scrapes.
“Oh, this? I got stomped by an ex-cop I’d kicked around a few days before.”
He looked as if he’d just tasted curdled milk, so I added, “But I’ve always taught Kip that violence is wrong.”
My nephew stifled a semi-snicker.
“Then how can you explain his assaulting Carl Kountz?”
“You kidding? Carl’s a horse, your star fullback and first baseman and whatever you call it in lacrosse.”
“Mid-fielder,” the Commodore said.
They played a lot of fancy sports at Tuttle. Squash. Golf. Sailing. Four-oar shells. Plus some varsity teams that didn’t seem like sports at all. Paintball. Chess. And my personal favorite, the Green Technology Team.
“Carl is an outstanding scholar-athlete, and your nephew sent him to the hospital.”
“That sounds serious.” I tried not to sound pleased but didn’t quite succeed.
“I hit him with the combination you taught me, Uncle Jake,” Kip said. “A left jab, then a right to the jaw. He didn’t fall, so I stomped on his instep as hard as I could.”
The Commodore made a
“The prick pissed in my locker, and all his friends laughed,” Kip said.
“Watch your language, lad,” Commodore Perkins said. “Even if Carl did such a thing, there was no reason for violence. We have channels to air grievances.”
In my experience, you air laundry. You handle grievances by yourself.
“I didn’t hit back right away,” Kip said. “But then, at baseball practice, Carl sucker punched me, really hard.”
“Only a bully and a coward does that,” I said.
I hate bullies. Big guys who are puny on the inside. Filled with self-hatred, they take it out on those they think can’t fight back. I’d told Kip to clobber Carl the next time something happened. A fist to the nose is a good start. It will make a man’s eyes tear, and a gusher of blood makes some guys pass out. The instep stomp is a little more creative. I’d bought a dozen bags of potato chips for practice. After a few tries, Kip was able to explode the bag and shoot crushed chips halfway across the backyard.
“Carl denies instigating the event, either physically or verbally,” Perkins said.
“Fine. Bring him in, and I’ll cross-examine.”
The Commodore tilted his chin upward so that I could count his nose hairs, and gave me a tolerant little smile. I hate that look.
“We don’t have trials here, Mr. Lassiter. I personally handle all disciplinary hearings, as outlined in the parent-student handbook, which I assume you have read.”
“Cover to cover.”
“In this case, I will take into account Carl’s stellar record and your nephew’s problematic status.”
“Meaning?”
“On his application, you failed to disclose his juvenile record. Trespassing. Malicious mischief. Destruction of property.”
“A little graffiti tagging.” I felt my face heat up, the scrapes on my forehead burning. “Kip was living in an abusive situation with his mother-that’s my sister-and he acted out.”
“Your sister, I note, also has a criminal record.”
“She’s a tweaker and a crackhead. You gonna hold that against Kip?”
“Only insofar as it affects his actions.”
“Kip finished a counseling program, and the record was expunged.” Then it occurred to me. The juvenile file was sealed. “How the hell did you get Kip’s file?”
The Commodore shifted in his chair and looked out the window. He had a fine view of the campus quadrangle. Overprivileged girls in tartan plaid skirts and knee socks sashayed to class alongside gangly boys in
