Lassiter

38 The Rendezvous

Driving north on I-95 on Saturday morning, Charlie Ziegler thought he was being followed by a bright red Cadillac Escalade with spinning wheel covers and chugging lake pipes. A rolling Miami cliche.

Ziegler’s own wheels were a modern classic. A brand-new Ferrari, the California model, practically the first one off the boat.

Ziegler checked the side mirror. The Escalade was two cars behind. He hit the gas, and his Ferrari leapt forward like a feral cat. He eased into the speed lane. Did the Escalade follow him? No, it was stuck in the middle lane.

Who the hell are you and what do you want?

Ziegler had first noticed the car when he took the flyover at Golden Glades Interchange. He’d been thinking about a recent dinner at Bourbon Steak, a fancy joint a couple miles east in Aventura. The Governor had been there, talking about saving the wetlands-boring! — and raising money for a run at the open U.S. Senate seat. Ziegler would not only feed the governor’s face but also his coffers. He’d solicit some downtown friends and bundle the contributions. In return, well, you didn’t just come out and say those things up front. No, the quid pro quo was always ex post facto.

Lola was at the dinner, putting on her usual show of eating three micrograms of the most expensive entree on the menu. Which turned out to be the Japanese Wagyu strip steak. One-hundred forty-five bucks!

“Try a bite, Charlie. It melts in your mouth.”

If she really wanted something to melt in her mouth, Charlie told her, she could put bearnaise on his nutsack.

Ordinarily on Saturdays, he’d lie to Lola and say he was off to play golf at Riviera. No need this morning. She was out of town, and he was happily on his way to Lighthouse Point to see Melody Sanders, as he’d been doing for several years now.

He’d bought Melody a two-bedroom condo near the marina and put her on the payroll at three grand a month. Talk about a frugal fuckmate, he’d once paid that for six hours with an escort in Buenos Aires. On the books, Melody was listed under “consulting services,” which was basically true, as she’d taught him the reverse Amazon, a position that let her do all the work and eased his aching back.

He loved giving Melody gifts. Inexpensive artsy and craftsy stuff he picked out himself. She was always grateful, not like the whiny Lola. He’d given his wife a kumquat-size diamond for their anniversary and still didn’t get a blow job. Her excuses for refusing sex ran from the old, reliable headache to the exotic yeast infection. Lately, she insisted that she couldn’t get turned on because of anxiety over global warming.

Melody was uncomplicated and undemanding and had pubic muscles that could squeeze the buttercream out of a pastry bag. Not long ago, he realized that Saturday mornings in Melody’s bed were the high point of the week. Only one downside. His golf game was going to shit.

The Ferrari was purring through North Lauderdale, a steady 75, only possible on weekend mornings. He checked the mirror. The Escalade was back again, three cars behind and one lane over.

His thoughts turned to Lassiter. Had Perlow scared him off? Lassiter didn’t seem like the kind of guy whose asshole puckered up when threatened. Was he really going to bring in the state Attorney General? And what’s this shit about the Justice Department? No way Ziegler wanted the feds pawing over his tax returns.

Won’t be long, he thought, imagining Melody’s naked body entwined with his. Wouldn’t those alter kockers at the country club be jealous? He could see the old farts now, taking a dip in the Jacuzzi. Pale and flabby, bobbing like matzoh balls in chicken soup.

With all the crap raining down on him, he needed Melody today more than ever.

Lassiter breathing down my neck.

Perlow picking my pocket.

And that cinema verite phony Rodney Gifford. Could he really know what happened the night of the party?

Just how much pressure could a man take?

Another check of the mirror. No Escalade. It must have taken an earlier exit. The only vehicle keeping up with him was a big gray Hummer directly behind his Ferrari.

Shit! Ziegler realized he was still in the speed lane, and the Copans Road exit was just ahead. He floored it and cut across the expressway. Horns honked behind him, and he saw the Hummer tear across four lanes and take the exit behind him.

Ziegler drove into the town of Lighthouse Point, feeling better the closer he got to Melody’s bed. He pulled up at the four-story, pink stucco building with balconies overlooking the harbor. Sweet anticipation, he was starting to feel better already. He emerged from the Ferrari tumescent, thanks to the Viagra he swallowed before leaving the house. He took the elevator to the fourth floor and hurried along the exterior walkway to her apartment.

As he rang the doorbell, he heard the rumble of an engine, looked down, and saw the gray Hummer pull into the parking lot, where it stopped next to a Dumpster and sat there, idling. But he didn’t take the time to think about it, once Melody opened the door wearing a black silk teddy and saying she was so horny, would he mind terribly if they screwed right away and had brunch later?

“I can live with that,” he said.