Lassiter

19 The Marvelous Jew

“Nestor, what’s the problem?” Perlow asked his driver and bodyguard. The creamy white Bentley was stuck in the exit lane of the Ziegler Enterprises building.

“Car being towed.”

Perlow saw it then. Ziegler’s black Lincoln. The car Ray Decker used. Four flat tires.

Lassiter, he thought.

What the hell to do about him?

Ziegler had gloated after Lassiter left. Thought he’d won the round. But all he’d done was bloody the nose of a street fighter. Lassiter wasn’t a weaker foe because Charlie shamed him, but a more determined one. The lawyer didn’t have a booming practice or a 24-karat reputation. But again, that only made him more dangerous.

“A man who has nothing in his pockets has nothing to lose.”

Meyer Lansky himself said that more than half a century ago. The man President Batista of Cuba called “El Judio Maravilloso,” the marvelous Jew. The man with nothing in his pockets turned out to be a bearded guerrilla fighting in the mountains of Cuba. His name was Fidel Castro. Lansky tried to warn Batista that the rebel leader had a ruthlessness of purpose that not even overwhelming forces and firepower of the army could stop.

Charlie Ziegler never understood such things. He had always been undisciplined. Those damn parties with the girls and the drugs. There were men around town who would remember. Witnesses. If Lassiter turned up the heat, how would Ziegler react? Charlie was not the strong and silent type. Perlow figured he could crack like a pinata, all his secrets-their secrets-spilling out.

Perlow sighed, looked at his aged hands. He wished Meyer were still around. Meyer kept emotion out of the equation and never acted rashly. When the boys suspected that Bugsy Siegel was skimming from the Flamingo, Meyer urged caution. Only when the proof was overwhelming did he authorize the hit. Quick and efficient.

What would Meyer do now?

“If a man is a moneymaker, you can forgive a lot of his faults.”

El Judio Maravilloso was right. With all his failings, Ziegler still made Perlow money from the reality channel and international distribution of porn. Not only that, it was all legitimate. Jeez, they even paid taxes. You had to be careful these days. With that RICO crap, they could convict you for just thinking about committing a crime.

“Nestor, you remember Jake Lassiter? Used to play for the Dolphins.”

Tejada laughed. “First time I saw him play I was doing sixty days in Youth Hall. I liked his style, his helmet flying off when he made a big hit on a kickoff.”

Sounded right to Perlow. A guy who would sacrifice his body for the team.

“Reminded me of a pit bull,” Tejada said. “You ever go to a dog fight, Mr. P?”

“Never.”

“A pit bull latches on to another dog and don’t let go. Beat ’em on the head with a shovel. Chop off a hind leg. Don’t matter. He just fights to the death.”

Perlow felt revulsion at the description of a maimed animal. He never considered himself a violent man. On the few occasions when he had to make someone disappear, it was always with regret and sadness. More than once, he dipped into his own pocket to send money, anonymously, to the widows and children.

“Fought like a dog,” Tejada said, tying up his thoughts. “Right up to the whistle and a little after.”

When the tow truck pulled the Lincoln out of the exit lane, Tejada eased the Bentley toward Coral Way, the engine purring. Perlow considered the tattoo on the back of Tejada’s shaved head. A five-pointed crown. Symbol of the Latin Kings, which Perlow thought sounded like Desi Arnaz’s mambo band, but was the largest Hispanic street gang in the country. A steroid-pumped hulk, Tejada had done time for armed robbery and aggravated assault, both pluses on his resume.

“You hungry, Nestor?”

“You know me, Mr. P. I can always eat.”

“How about the Forge? I’ll treat you to crab cakes.”

“Forge is closed, sir.”

“Jeez, I forgot about the remodeling.”

I’m getting old.

Perlow thought of Vincent Gigante, “The Oddfather,” wandering around Manhattan in his bathrobe, showing up for court unbathed and unshaven. The press thought Gigante was faking it, but Perlow knew the man. Alzheimer’s was a bitch.

“How about Pumpernik’s for a pastrami sandwich?” Perlow said.

Tejada laughed. “You’re messing with me, Mr. P.”

“Yeah. How many years they been closed, I wonder?”

Perlow longed for the old days. When you could still make a buck shy-locking and running numbers and shooting craps in a cabana at the Fontainebleau. Before they had slots at the racetracks and offshore gambling on the Internet.

Jesus, video poker!

How can you trust a card game where you don’t see the deck?

His thoughts returned to Lassiter. If Lassiter tried to go public with accusations against Charlie, he would have to be stopped. Perlow would find it distasteful, but what else could he do?

“Nestor, I haven’t asked you to get your hands dirty for a while.…”

“Anything you want, Mr. P, you just ask.”

“Thank you, Nestor.”

“When do you want it done, sir?”

“I have to think it through. These decisions are never easy.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. P, if your interests are threatened, the sooner you act the better. ‘Mas vale matar a la primera rata antes de que la casa se llene de ellas.’ ”

“Something about rats in the house.” Perlow had once spoken decent Spanish, but that was half a century ago.

“Better to kill the first rat before the house gets full of them,” Tejada translated.

Perlow smiled. Meyer himself would have warmed to the concept.