Lassiter

34 Ratting Out the Client

I watched Amy drive off in her Toyota with Ohio plates. Birthplace of Aviation, indeed.

I wanted to call 9-1-1.

But do I say she’s armed and dangerous?

No way I could ask a cop to stop her without warning about her gun. But what then? A jittery cop, an unstable woman with a gun. Disaster.

The sun pounding me with waves of tropical heat, I took out my cell and dialed a number.

“You got an answer to my offer?” Ziegler said, when he came on the line.

“Yeah. Amy would rather empty a clip into your gut than take your money.”

“What the fuck?”

“She’s got a gun, Ziegler, and she might be headed your way. But I’m telling you right now, if you or Decker or anyone else harms her, I’m coming after you.”

“Are you insane? She takes a pop at me, I got a right to take her out.”

“Lots of things you can do short of that. Lock down your building. Block her car when she pulls into your garage. Or if she gets into the building, seal the elevator.”

“This is what I get for trying to work with you? You fucked up big-time.”

And here I thought I’d get a big thanks for warning him. There was a pause on the line before Ziegler said, “Where are you? What’s all that noise?”

“The gun range on the Trail.”

“Get your ass over here and keep your lunatic client away from me.”

“I can’t. I’ve got flat tires. Plural.”

“That happens to you a lot, doesn’t it, jerkoff?”

He hung up on me and I quickly dialed Castiel’s private number.

The State Attorney calmly told me he would get Coral Gables P.D. to send a team to Ziegler’s building. There’d be a hostage negotiator, someone to talk to Amy. No trigger-happy rookies. I thanked him, and he said he would also dispatch a county truck to tow my car. I thanked him again.

Then he told me off. “Dammit, Jake, I warned you. If anyone gets hurt, I’ll hold you responsible.”

This time, I didn’t thank him. “You’ve got it ass-backwards, Alex. I handed you evidence, but you wouldn’t do a thing. You wouldn’t even ask the Miccosukee cops to dredge the canal. Amy smells cover-up, and so do I.”

“Let it go, Jake. For fuck’s sake, let it go.”

“To hell with that. I’m calling Tallahassee. Let the A.G. investigate Ziegler and look up your butt while he’s at it.”

“Take your best shot, pal.”

The phone clicked off and I stood there in the damp midday heat, cursing at my old friend. A mosquito buzzed around my neck, and I swatted the little bastard, squashing him, and leaving a speck of blood in the palm of my hand.

I slid back into my wounded car and pulled up the top to get out of the sun. The tow truck should be here soon. I keyed the ignition and turned on the A/C. Thank God for air-conditioning. If not for the know-how of Mr. Willis Carrier-a native of Buffalo! — South Florida would be unlivable. On the C.D. player, Bob Dylan delivered the problematic news that “beyond here lies nothin’,” advising folks there’s no reward in the Great Beyond.

After twenty minutes, I dozed off. I don’t know how long I was out because the next thing I remember, the driver’s door flew open.

I toppled half out of the Eldo. The other half was helped-none too gently-by Ray Decker.

“Hello, dickwad,” he greeted me.

He hoisted me to my feet and I saw the blur of a fist a millisecond before it hit my jaw. I crumpled against the side of my car and slid to the ground. I could no longer hear the gunfire. Instead, the bells of Notre Dame Cathedral began peeling.

“Asshole!” Decker, standing over me.

I was neither brave enough nor stupid enough to try to stand while comets blazed across a night sky. Instead, I curled into the fetal position, sucked in air, and tried to clear my head.

Decker kicked me in the back. “That’s for fucking up Charlie’s car.”

Another kick, near kidney land. “That one’s for messing with me.”

A third kick glanced off my tailbone. He didn’t say what it was for.

The wallops were starting to lose their whoompf. Was Decker tired already? Big guys who seldom get outside don’t do well in Miami.

I uncurled. Reached out, grabbed an ankle when Decker was in mid-kick with the other leg. I yanked hard and he toppled backwards, his head clunking off the trunk of my Eldo. A solid sound, courtesy of U.S. Steel and GM, when those names meant something.

Decker crumpled to the ground, as woozy as I was. We both got up slowly, intent on doing grievous damage to the other. I took a swing that he blocked. He swung and I ducked it. I was panting and Decker’s face was as red as the three-ball in billiards. We circled each other, Decker with his fists like a boxer, me crouched like a linebacker.

“Where’s your old Impala, Decker?” I asked, looking around the parking lot.

“The fuck you talking about?” He could barely get the words out.

“The purple Chevy. You were following me on the Trail.”

“Not me, pal.”

I saw the black Lincoln then, the car I’d hijacked from Decker that first day. So who the hell was in the Impala?

“You were at my house night before last. You took off when my dog started barking.”

“You’re hallucinating, Lassiter.”

I didn’t know if he was telling the truth. But if he was, who could it have been? Amy came to mind. She left angry at me. Did she come back and break in? But why?

Decker started toward me, tired of foreplay. I did the same, my hands ready to break bones.

“Freeze, both of you!”

On television, if someone shouts, “Freeze,” he’s always holding a gun. I looked up and saw the range master standing six feet away. Unarmed. But next to him were half a dozen men and one woman. All with guns, all holstered. This crew didn’t need to brandish them. A couple of uniforms. Miami P.D. County sheriff. A man and a woman in plain clothes, guns shoulder-holstered. And a guy in a muffler shop T-shirt, a Western six-shooter strapped to his thigh, gunfighter style.

“I want you two jerks out of here!” the range master ordered. “No violence allowed at the shooting range.”