Miami.”
“So this is why Brighton Beach canceled the viatical contract?” said Vladimir.
“Your man shot her up with a virus so rare that the National Center for Disease Control has her blood under the microscope. And then he took three liters of her blood with him. Why not just paint a big red ‘M’ on your chest that stands for ‘murderer’? You’re going to get us all caught.”
“So you admit it. One mistake in the whole arrangement, and the hot shots in Brighton Beach think they can just walk away from our deal.”
“We don’t have to explain ourselves to you people. The decision was made, and it was blessed at a high level. End of story.”
“It’s not the end of it,” Vladimir said as he pounded the table with his fist. “We put a lot of time into this viatical deal. Things are in place. And you just think you can pull the plug, see ya later?”
“We have good reasons.”
“None that I’ve heard.”
“I’ve said all I’m going to say.”
“Then fuck you!” said Vladimir as he threw a glass of vodka in his guest’s face.
The wrestler lunged across the table. Dancers screamed and ran for it as the banker ducked to the floor. Three huge bouncers were all over the wrestler before he could get a hand on Vladimir.
The wrestler was red-faced, eyes bulging. But the bouncers had both his arms pinned behind his back.
“This is the way you treat your guests?” he said, huffing. “I was
“And now you’re invited to leave.” Vladimir jerked his head, a signal to his boys. “Throw his ass out.”
The wrestler cursed nonstop in Russian and at the top of his lungs as the bouncers put the strong-arm on him and dragged him away.
The banker peered out from under the table.
“You too, Sasha. Beat it.”
The little man scurried away like a frightened rabbit.
The barmaid immediately replaced the spilled bottle of vodka. Vladimir refilled his drink, and with a snap of his fingers the dancers resumed their posts at the brass poles, backs arched, breasts out, hair flying. The music had never stopped, and the scuffle was over.
Or maybe it had just begun.
Either way, the girls kept right on dancing.
48
•
Jack watched the six-o’clock evening news from the couch in his living room. Cindy was right beside him, their fingers interlaced. She was squeezing so hard it almost hurt, and Jack wasn’t sure if it was a sign of support or anger.
Rumors of an impending indictment had been flying all afternoon, and in a competitive news market where a story just wasn’t a story unless “You heard it here first,” the media was all over it.
A silver-haired anchorman looked straight at him as the obligatory graphic of the scales of justice appeared behind him on the screen. “A former girlfriend is dead, and a questionable million-and-a-half-dollar deal is under scrutiny by a Florida grand jury. Jack Swyteck, son of Florida’s former governor Harold Swyteck, may be in trouble with the law again.”
“Why do they have to do that?” said Cindy.
“They always have.” His entire life, any time he’d gotten into trouble, he was always “Jack Swyteck, son of Harold Swyteck.”
Trumpets blared and drums beat, the usual fanfare for the
“Good evening,” the newsman continued. “We first brought you this exclusive story several weeks ago, when the body of thirty-one-year-old Jessie Merrill was found dead in the home of prominent Miami attorney Jack Swyteck. At first blush her death appeared to be suicide, but now prosecutors aren’t so sure.
The screen flashed to a perfectly put-together young woman standing in a parking lot at dusk. The Justice Center was visible in the distant background, and a half-dozen teenage boys wearing bulky gang clothing, thick gold chains, and backward Nike caps, were gyrating behind her, as if
“Steve, sources close to this investigation have told
The anchorman jumped in. “Is there any indication who may be charged and what the charges may be?”
“That information has yet to be released. But again, the operative word here is ‘indictments,’ plural, not just the indictment of a single suspect. Sources tell us that this could turn into a case of alleged murder-for-hire. Right now, the spotlight is on Jack Swyteck and his former client, Theo Knight. Mr. Knight has a long criminal record and even spent four years on Florida’s death row for the murder of a nineteen-year-old convenience store clerk before being released on a legal technicality.”
“Technicality?” said Jack, groaning. “The man was innocent.”
Cindy gave him a soulful look, as if she fully understood the telling nature of the media’s negative spin on Theo’s belated vindication. It would probably be the same for Jack. In the court of public opinion, it didn’t matter what happened from here on out. The stigma would always be there.
Jack switched stations and caught the tail end of the anchorwoman’s report on
“What the heck?” said Jack.
The screen flashed to a snow-covered man on the side of a steep mountain. It was a blizzard, nearly white-out conditions. Jack watched his father stumble off the chair lift, practically assaulted by some guy in a ski mask who was chasing him with a microphone.
“Governor! Governor Swyteck!”
Harry Swyteck looked back, obviously confused, one ski in the air in a momentary loss of balance, poles flailing like a broken windmill. He finally caught his balance, and momentum carried him down the slope.
The shivering reporter looked back toward the camera and said, “Well, looks like the former governor won’t speak to us, either.”
Jack hit the off button. “I can’t watch this.”
The phone rang. For an instant, Jack was sure that his father was calling from deep in some snow bank to ask “What the hell did you do this time, son?” The Caller ID display told him otherwise. Jack hadn’t been answering all afternoon, but this time it was Rosa.
“Well, the wolves are out,” she said.
“I saw.”
“Your old man should take up hot-dog skiing. He must have skidded at least fifty yards on one ski before sailing down that mountain.”
“That’s not funny.”
“None of this is. That’s why I called. I want to meet with both you and Theo. Tonight.”
