horse racing, jai alai, and dogs will fight you every step of the way. Even the teachers’ unions will be against you, since the state lottery benefits education. I’d be willing to bet that you’d have a drastic effect on lottery revenues.”
“A forty to fifty percent decrease, according to our studies,” Florio said, “plus we’d cripple racing and jai alai within three years. Hell, we’ll hurt Vegas and Atlantic City, too. With no state or federal taxes to pay, our slots can increase the payoff and give a higher rate of return than anything there. On the games that have some room, we’ll give better odds.”
“That’s why you’d be such a threat,” I agreed, “and I don’t have to tell you that the courts are moved by political realities. If the attorney general decides to sue, you could be tied up for years. The state could argue that you’re the real operator of the casino, not the Indians, so the whole setup is a sham. Your response is that the state has no legitimate concern how the profits are divided or who runs the gambling. In fact, the judicial inquiry must be limited to the narrow question of whether casino gambling is permitted under state law. If so, no state or federal court has the power to inquire further. The Indians can allow casino gambling on their land, and it’s simply none of the government’s business.”
Florio was beaming at me. “Gina was right about you. You’re smarter than you look. Anything else? Anything you need to know?”
“I don’t understand what Carlos de La Torre and the sugar industry have to do with this.”
Florio showed a sour smile. “The Indians foolishly gave up a piece of their sovereignty to the Water Management Board. They signed a damned compact. No new development in land covered by the board’s jurisdiction without board approval. Part of the move was to help the tribe’s image after the big-game fiasco.”
My look told him I didn’t understand.
“The Indians were going to bring in lions, tigers, elephants, and let the yahoos blast them out of the saw grass for five thousand bucks a pop. No way the state could stop them, but the public furor made ’em back down. Then the tribal council agreed to submit all plans that will affect the environment to the Water Board, and to abide by its decisions. It’s a binding compact. The board doesn’t do anything without the sugar industry’s approval, and that means Carlos de La Torre. All he cares about is water for the cane and money for his pockets. But I’ve got him covered, and a damn good thing, too. The board meets next Tuesday, and that’s when we submit our proposal.”
“You’re going to make the casino plan public?”
“It has to be done, sooner or later, but that’s what I meant about timing. The papers won’t have anything about it beforehand. Most meetings, it’s just some tomato farmers feuding with the cane growers and your usual assortment of fruitcakes from the Audubon Society. The board meets in a school gym up in Belle Glade on the edge of a cane field, in case the commissioners forget who pays the freight. There’s an agenda item that simply says, ‘Micanopy land-use plan.’ We’ll have the vote recorded before the newspapers go to print. So I’m not worried about Big Sugar or the Water Management Board. But you tell me, Jake. What about the state cabinet?”
“The governor will ask for an AGO, an attorney-general opinion, as to the legality of the planned casino. The attorney general is Don Russo, but he hasn’t read a law book in thirty-five years. Either he’s on the golf course, or he’s taking his secretary to Sanibel Island at taxpayer’s expense. He’ll turn to Abe Socolow as the local state attorney.”
“Socolow’s a friend of yours, isn’t he, Jake?”
“‘Friend’ is maybe too strong a word. We’re adversaries, have been for years. Let’s just say we have a healthy respect for each other.”
“C’mon, Jake, you’re too modest. You’ve been involved in his election campaign.”
“I’ve endorsed him. That’s all. Me and a thousand other lawyers.”
Florio helped himself to the scotch bottle. “I’m a supporter of his, too. Contributions strictly legit. All reported, none above the legal limit. The guy’s a straight arrow.”
Florio was right. Abe Socolow had been appointed acting state attorney when Nick Wolf was indicted for playing footsie with major drug dealers. Before then, Socolow had been chief of the major-crimes division in the office. A working prosecutor, not a paper pusher or a politician, Socolow had a messianic drive to rid the streets of murderers and other hoodlums. He looked like an undertaker but was seldom as cheerful. He was long and lean, sallow and mean. And honest.
“Look, Nicky, if you’re thinking of bribing Abe Socolow, you’ve been out in the sun too long. The guy’s untouchable. He’ll indict you. He’ll set you up and sting you with TV cameras popping out of the ceiling.”
“I wouldn’t even consider bribing Mr. Socolow,” Florio said, solemnly.
“Good. For a moment, I was afraid you-”
“That’s your job, partner.”
Chapter 17
“He gave you a million dollars?” Charlie Rlggs asked, his bushy eyebrows arched in disbelief.
“Cash. In fifties.”
“Goodness gracious!” Charlie’s hand trembled and he slurped conch chowder through his mustache. “And where have you stashed the loot?”
When he gets excited, Charlie tends to talk like a B movie. “I stashed it in an old Dolphins’ equipment bag that I liberated from the locker room about a thousand years ago. The bag is sitting in the trunk of my antique Oldsmobile about thirty yards yonder.”
Charlie shot a glance into the parking lot and back to me again. When he tries to act inconspicuous, Charlie looks like a man trying to act inconspicuous. Beneath the bushy beard, his face was beginning to color. Either he was holding his breath or they put too much Tabasco in the chowder. We were sitting on the front porch of Tugboat Willie’s, a ramshackle fish joint behind the Marine Stadium on the Rickenbacker Causeway. With the February boat show on Miami Beach and the art show in Coconut Grove, it was just about the only place you could eat outdoors that wasn’t mobbed with tourists in Bermuda shorts and Hooters’ tank tops. “More than a mouthful,” according to the slogan on the back.
Charlie looked from side to side, then lowered his voice. “You should sequester the, ah-chem, cookies in your safe-deposit box.”
“Huh?”
“A million cookies.”
“Oh, I get it. You afraid I’ll eat them?”
“No, lose them.”
“Can’t put them in the box,” I said. “My safe-deposit box is about as thick as a goal-line stripe. You knowhow much room a million in cash takes?”
Charlie made a shushing sound with a finger to his lips.
“To give you an idea, my old equipment bag used to hold all the shoulder pads for the offensive line, and it’s jammed full. We’re talking twenty thousand fifty-dollar bills.”
“Okay, okay,” Charlie whispered hoarsely, glancing nervously at two boaters at the next table. The men were chomping dolphin sandwiches-fried fillets with mayo and onions on white bread-oblivious to our discussion, though Charlie doubtless imagined them fugitives from Interpol.
I was scooping smoked fish spread onto saltines and nursing a beer. “Sometimes in the movies, a guy opens a briefcase, one of those three-inch Samsonites, and there’s supposed to be a couple million bucks inside. No way.”
A pouting waiter in a Florida State T-shirt, a kid with a ponytail and one earring, brought Charlie’s yellowtail snapper, broiled well done, and dropped a plate of stone crabs in front of me. Maybe I’m just getting old, but the young today seem to slouch and sulk more than we did.
When the waiter retreated to the kitchen, Charlie whispered, “You’ve got to go to Abe Socolow at once. lake the money to him.”
