Lassiter

21 Partners for Life

Sipping a mojito and cursing the gods for the crud they were throwing his way, Charlie Ziegler stood on the seawall separating his property from the roiling water of the bay. He watched the storm plow across Key Biscayne, the sky darkening in its path. He felt the first raindrops, knew the deluge was just seconds away.

“Goddamn lawyer,” he said aloud. That crazy bastard. Can’t be bribed, won’t be scared. Threatening to go public. All these years of building up a reputation. All those galas for diabetes, kidneys, and cancer, every disease north of hemorrhoids. Nibbling canapes with the culture vultures, then snoring through the opera. He wasn’t going to let Lassiter smear the good name he’d built.

Then there was his wife Lola, off to France, probably gonna charge the Eiffel Tower to her Platinum card. God, how he longed to be in his mistress’s arms. Melody was a woman who-against all odds-seemed to actually love him for himself.

And what about Max Perlow? Jesus. Treating him like shit in front of that prick lawyer.

“Shut up, Charlie.…”

What the fuck was that about? After all the money I’ve made for him.

The money.

The old man might be getting senile, but he could still count. Fifteen percent of gross profits. All because of that loan twenty years ago. At least Ziegler had thought it was a loan. Once the porn business took off-all cash, all the time-suddenly the terms changed.

“C’mon Max. I’ve paid you off, already.”

“There’s no paying off. I made an investment. We’re partners, Charlie. Partners for life.”

So die, already.

Instead, Perlow insisted on picking his pocket.

At the time they made the deal, Perlow still had juice. Not a man to fuck with. But these days? Who’s he got, other than that gangbanger Tejada?

Why the hell does Max even have a bodyguard? All his enemies are either dead or drooling into their oatmeal.

Except for me.

Lightning flashed over the bay, and the thunder took its time rumbling toward him. The air smelled of dust and nitrogen. He began taking his own measure as the raindrops pelted him. Could he kill Perlow? Knowing even as he asked that he didn’t have the stomach for it.

What about Tejada? How loyal was he? Would he take $25K to drive the Bentley into a swamp with Perlow strapped into the backseat? Maybe, Ziegler concluded, it was worth pondering over another drink.