reminds me, have you found the gonifs who robbed me blind?”
“Not yet, Sam. With your bonds, the bank, and the windsurfing race, I’m spinning in circles right now. That’s why I needed your kosher kielbasa case like I needed a…”
“A second hole in your bagel,” Kazdoy said.
Judge Lewis was waiting impatiently in the courtroom, but Jake Lassiter was on the pay phone in the corridor.
“Es negocio o es placer?” Berto asked him. “Business or pleasure, Jake?”
“Business. I’m representing Great Southern Bank.”
Silence. Then a hearty laugh. “Jake, I’m glad it’s you, mi amigo. I thought it would be one of those bloodless WASPs downtown, those pasty faces, sin alma ni corazon.”
Funny, that’s what I said about Winston P. Hopkins in, only in English, Lassiter thought. He felt a kinship with Humberto Hernandez-Zaldivar. “Berto, they’ve sucked the blood out of me, too. Working for bankers turns you into one of them.”
“No, nunca. I know you better than you do. We will talk. We will drink wine and eat, and you will tell me what to do, just as you did in law school.”
“But, Berto, I’m representing the bank against you. I’m supposed to collect money from you.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll work it out.”
The phone clicked dead, and Lassiter rushed into the courtroom, where the judge motioned the lawyers to the bench with an imperious wave of his hand. Then he instructed them to move the case along so he could make the daily double at the dog track, and finally he sniffed the air. “Mr. Lassiter, do I detect the scent of alcohol on your breath?”
Lassiter winked a yes. “If Your Honor’s sense of justice is as keen as his sense of smell, I have no fear of the outcome of the case.”
The judge harrumphed and sent the lawyers back to their tables. Lassiter called Sam Kazdoy to testify. He ran through Kazdoy’s past, his philanthropy, his love of Russian films, and how he brought corned beef and social life to the retirees of South Beach.
“Now, Mr. Kazdoy, you heard Mrs. Pivnick testify this morning?”
“Of course, I heard. You think I’m deaf like her?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“The old bubbe bought a hearing aid, twenty-nine dollars mail order.”
“Objection!” Chareen Bailey was on her feet. “Outside scope of the witness’s knowledge.”
“What’s not to know?” Kazdoy asked. “You could hear Radio Havana on the farshtinkener thing all the way across the street.”
“Overruled,” the judge said.
“Did there come a time when you discussed your deli’s food with Mrs. Pivnick?” Lassiter asked.
“She asked if our chicken was stuffed with matzo meal and prunes, and I said, ‘No, with kasha.’”
“Kasha?” the judge asked.
“Buckwheat,” Kazdoy explained. “Cook it with some chicken soup and egg, you got yourself a nice stuffing.”
Lassiter moved a step closer. “So you simply described your stuffing?”
“Twice, I told her,” Kazdoy said. ” ‘Strictly kasha. Strictly kasha.’ She must have thought — “
“I get it,” Judge Lewis said, making a notation in the court file. “Mr. Lassiter, do you have anything further from this witness?”
“Well, I was going to ask — “
“Because,” the judge continued, “I’m prepared to rule in your favor. But if you want to try and change my mind…”
“The defense rests,” Lassiter said.
“Your Honor, please!” Chareen Bailey called out, leaping from her seat. “What about final argument?”
“Don’t need it. Of course, you’re free to appeal to the District Court.” The judge smiled, a phenomenon as rare as snow in Miami. “After all, I answer to a higher authority.”
CHAPTER 10
Berto had said eight o’clock at El Novillo, a Nicaraguan steak house on South Dixie Highway. Lassiter arrived at eight-fifteen, knowing that his old friend operated on Latin Standard Time and was always late. The menu was covered with cowhide, the bristly hair still attached, and Lassiter wondered whether to pet it or read it. He ordered a pitcher of sangria and waited. Finally, at ten past nine, Berto arrived, greeted the hostess with a smack on the cheek, and after scanning the room, found Lassiter in a distant corner.
“Hola, chico,” Berto boomed. “Looks like they put the gringo next to the men’s room.”
“Hello, Berto. Long time.” He looked like hell, Lassiter thought. The hair was still black, shiny, and perfectly cut, and the dark tailored business suit was freshly pressed. But the skin had lost its natural ruddiness, the cheeks were puffy, and the smile was forced.
“Jake, you look great, like you could still put the pads on. And you got some suntan for a guy stuck in the courthouse.”
“Windsurfing. Keeps me in shape. Haven’t made a tackle in a thousand years, but there’s a client or two I wouldn’t mind using for a blocking sled.”
Berto’s eyes skimmed the perimeter of the restaurant. One of those cocktail party looks, Lassiter thought at first, Berto checking out the room for more interesting company. But the eyes were jittery, the mouth tight with tension.
Berto caught Jake staring and responded with a prefab smile. “Let’s order! I know you Anglos like the Early Bird Specials, so you must be starving by now.”
“Why don’t you handle it so I don’t embarrass you with my Spanish?”
“Excellent idea.” Motioning toward the waiter, Berto ordered without consulting the cowhide. “Traiganos una orden de chorizos de cerdo, otra de cuajada con tortilla con platanos maduros, dos lomitos a la plancha, termino medio, y una orden de hongos a la vinagreta. We’ll order dessert later. Jake, you want more sangria?”
“No, Berto, I want to talk about the loans.”
“The loans? The loans are the least of my worries, amigo. Stop playing lawyer and listen.” Berto looked around again. The restaurant was filled, some families, mostly Hispanic businessmen. Lassiter guessed that he was the only Anglo other than the man who had followed Berto in the door and now sat at a corner table drinking American coffee.
“Jake, let me tell you what’s happened to me. I didn’t screw around with the bank until I’d already lost the shopping centers. When the economy turned, the bottom fell out of my real estate holdings. The offices, the strip centers, condos… all gone. Plus Magda left me when the money ran out. Back to Daddy in Caracas.”
“I didn’t know…”
“I don’t broadcast it, Jake. But sometimes, you have to swallow your pride. A veces es mejor tragarse el orgullo. It’s no disgrace to be broke, eh?”
Lassiter looked into Berto’s eyes and shared the pain. He wanted to put his arms around his old friend, not prey on the carcass. Berto smiled. “Hey, Jake, it’s not so bad, I’ve still got this.” Berto reached inside his silk shirt and brought out the heavy chain that was his trademark, huge woven links of gold that could have anchored a catamaran in a squall. “Bought it with the profit from my first deal. Told the jeweler I wanted something different. Every Latino in town wears gold chains, verdad? Make it grande, I told him, links as big around as my penes. Jeweler said, ‘Ingots don’t come that big, how about as big around as your thumb?’”
“It’s you,” Lassiter agreed.
“I never take it off, Jake, I’ll die with my gold on.”
