“That’s exactly what Nicky Florio wants me to do.”
“You know what I mean. Tell Socolow everything. Testify in front of the grand jury.”
“What for?”
“To indict Nicky Florio, of course.”
“For what, or did I just say that?”
“Jake, what’s wrong with you? For murder and attempted bribery.”
Charlie’s fish was getting cold. A breeze was blowing from the bay, and the palm fronds clattered against each other. At least we weren’t getting a whiff of the sewage plant from nearby Virginia Key. “As for murder,” I said, “Socolow’s got no jurisdiction. It didn’t happen in Dade County. Hell, it didn’t happen in any county. It’s Micanopy territory.”
“The locus delicti,’” Charlie muttered.
“The tribal police have investigatory powers, and the federal courts have ultimate jurisdiction if there’s a case. But there’s a big problem, Charlie. No body.”
“No corpus delicti,” Charlie said.
“Now I could go under oath and tell Abe I witnessed this murder, and then helped dispose of the body…”
“Accessory post facto. ”
“But there are three witnesses who’ll claim I’m lying or hallucinating…”
“Ah, the dramatis personae. ”
“Charlie, do you think you could stop that?”
“ Deo volente, God willing.”
“Even if the feds can find the place, and some sophisticated canoe maker like you can find a splotch of blood or a tooth at the bottom of the slough, my word won’t be good enough.”
“Why not?”
I dived into the stone crabs. The claws hadn’t been thoroughly cracked, and I was using a cocktail fork like an ice pick to dig out the meat. “For the same reason I can’t blow the whistle on the bribery. The million bucks came from Rick Gondolier’s safe. He skimmed it from the bingo hall. At least that’s what Florio says. Now I show up, blabbing that Florio’s trying to bribe Abe Socolow, but if Abe is dirty, he’s already in Florio’s pocket, and he’ll tip Florio that I’ve pulled a double-cross. If Abe’s honest and looks into my charges, Florio will claim that Gondolier and I stole the money, then had a falling-out, after which I killed him, and to save my own hide I-”
“Tried to frame Florio,” Charlie said. He stabbed a fried plantain with his fork and toyed with it. “So just give the money back to Florio. Just say no.”
“I can’t do that, either.”
Charlie raised the plantain to his mouth and stopped just short. He was going to lose weight if this kept up much longer.
I gave a helpless shrug. “Nicky told me he still reserved his first option.”
Charlie’s look asked the question.
“To kill me. He’d justify it to Gina. ‘Hey, I gave the guy a chance, and he screwed up.’”
“So what are you going to do?”
I polished off the beer and signaled the waiter for one of its cousins. The kid looked right through me, his optic nerve apparently not connected to his brain.
“The bull rush,” I told Charlie.
“Bull…”
“No spin moves, no snatch and go, just a frontal assault. Hit ’em high, take a shot, hit ’em again. Somebody falls on his ass.”
“Jake, speak English, please.”
“You’re one to talk. Ouch!” My cocktail fork had slipped, and I pierced my thumb on a jagged piece of shell. I sucked a pinprick of blood from the meaty tissue just below my thumbnail. An infinitesimal spot of red, but it made me think of Rick Gondolier, his neck spurting blood, his life gone in seconds.
“What I’m going to do, Charlie, is real simple. I’m going to do my job. I’m going to bribe Abe Socolow.”
In law school, they teach us ethics.
They teach us not to steal from our clients and not to lie to the court. They teach us not to suborn perjury and not to obstruct justice. They teach us to put the client’s interest ahead of our own. They teach us right from wrong, black from white. But they don’t teach us shades of gray.
A long time ago, Charlie Riggs told me there was only so much to be learned from books. Doctus cum libro, he called it, numbered rules and tidy paragraphs intended to guide our conduct. But life is messy. B doesn’t always follow A. The system doesn’t work if you make up the rules as you go along, and the rules work only if the players follow them.
The books don’t describe the icicle shivers down the spine when a man with a machete stands within arm’s reach, measuring the distance with hard eyes. The books don’t describe the taste of bile and the clenching fear. The books don’t prepare you for life, or death.
In the end, we march along a path drawn by our own moral compass. The sum total of our life experiences guides us in a way our conscious minds could never decipher. We make choices without realizing why and trigger events we never foresee. And always we rationalize who we are and why we act the way we do.
Our instinct for self-preservation is accompanied by a hearty dose of self-delusion. Nicky Florio is a lover of nature and a creator of jobs, not a robber baron and a killer. Abe Socolow is a dedicated prosecutor, not just another hack politician on the take. And I am a hardworking professional who dedicates himself to the diaphanous concept of justice, not a shyster who illegally wiretaps, sleeps with another man’s wife, helps cover up a murder, and bribes public officials.
Knowledge of self is acquired through a shattered mirror. But we can always close our eyes.
My friends know the doorbell doesn’t work. Hasn’t for years. Someone who tries the knob will think the door is locked. It doesn’t budge. But friends know the door is humidity-swollen, and one good whack with a shoulder will squeak it open. So I keep it unlocked.
The little house is two stories, made of coral rock, and sits on a Coconut Grove lot ninety-five feet wide. There are Poinciana and chinaberry trees in front and a rope hammock strung between live oaks in the weedy backyard. Inside are several ceiling fans, stacks of newspapers and windsurfing magazines, a bowl of star fruit on the kitchen counter, last night’s spaghetti in the fridge, a coffee table made of a sailboard propped on concrete blocks, and other designer touches that never won an award in Architectural Digest.
It was a fine late afternoon in March. I was wearing cutoff jeans with stringy holes and nothing else when somebody knocked on the door. It was a dainty knock.
A process server would bang harder.
A former teammate would simply barge in.
Charlie would mutter ancient Roman sayings as he tried to sweet-talk the door.
And Granny would curse up a blue streak.
At first, I didn’t know whose fist belonged to the delicate knock.
I must have forgotten, must have banished memories of afternoon visits.
I yanked the door open.
“I had to see you,” Gina said.
She was wearing a pink leotard, white high-top sneakers with pink laces, white tights, and pink wristbands. The manicured nails were perfect and pink. Her long blond hair was pulled back from her forehead by a pink sweatband. She looked like strawberry-swirl ice cream in a sugar cone. Her face was flushed, and a fine line of perspiration trickled down her neck. What was it someone said? Men sweat, women get dewy.
“I just came from the gym. I must look like an old Sweathog.”
Sure. And Venus de Milo is an old chunk of rock.
I stood there, staring dumbly at her.
“May I come in?” She brush-kissed me and slid inside, her steamy fragrance bringing back memories, and not of jogging or aerobics.
“I had to see you,” she repeated, in case I missed it the first time.
She didn’t sit down. She wandered around what passes for a living room, running a finger over furniture the
