Lassiter

41 A New Deal

Sitting in his study, Ziegler was waiting for Max Perlow to rob him deaf, dumb, and blind. Fifteen percent forever. Guys who sell their souls to the devil get better deals.

What could he do, Ziegler wondered, to end the nut-busting arrangement? He’d prayed for divine intervention.

Please God. Smite the old bastard. A heart attack, a stroke, some kreplach stuck in his throat.

He had fantasized about pressing a gun against the back of the old man’s head and pulling the trigger. Splatter Perlow’s brains all over the Romero Britto painting of an Absolut Vodka bottle. Lola had picked it out, with the help of some pop art consultant who was banging her sideways in his SoBe studio.

The more Ziegler thought about Perlow, the more aggravated he became. Then he hatched a plan. He would draw a line in the Gables Estates sand.

“Max, it’s time for a new deal. I’ve repaid you ten times over. It’s done. Finished. Fartik. You wanna threaten me, go ahead. But we both know you got no juice.”

It sounded good to him. At least, in his mind. He’d have to deliver the lines without his hands shaking or a tremolo in his voice.

Ziegler heard a squeak from the corridor. Perlow’s Hush Puppies padding toward the study. He’d let himself in. The bastard had demanded a key to the house years ago, shortly after an old gangster pal had been assassinated while ringing a doorbell.

“Hello, Charlie.” Perlow toddled through the open doorway, his cane banging the marble tile, his pudgy cheeks squeezing his rodent eyes into slits. “Jeez, where’s Ray Decker? You got a crazy woman running around threatening you, and no security at the house.”

“I can take care myself, Max.” Intending a double meaning. He wasn’t scared of a crazy woman … or an old hoodlum.

Perlow sagged into a leather chair in front of Ziegler’s desk. “So, did we have a good month, Charlie?”

I had a good month, you fucking leech.

That’s what Ziegler wanted to say, but what he really said was, “Not so great, Max.”

Jesus, what am I afraid of?

“So work harder next month,” Perlow said. “You got a check for me?”

“Bookkeeping’s running a little late, Max.”

The old man hacked up a wet cough. “You momzer! You make me waste my time coming over here?”

“C’mon, Max. Couple days is all.”

“Screw that.” Perlow pulled out a handkerchief, spat into it, then folded the corners toward the center, as if covering the afikoman matzoh. “Write me a personal check, then reimburse yourself.”

“You gotta understand, Max. Revenue’s down but payroll keeps growing.”

Perlow nodded and Ziegler relaxed for a moment, thinking the old mobster had agreed. Instead, Perlow came back with, “Payroll. I meant to talk to you about that. Your chippy. What’s her name?”

“Who? Who you talking about, Max?”

Perlow reached into his pants pocket, drew out a crumpled piece of paper and read, “Melody Sanders.”

“What the hell? You snooping on me?”

“Nestor Tejada followed you to your little love nest. This Melody. She’s on the payroll.”

“What’s the big deal, Max? I’ve had women on the books before.” Not liking the sound of his own voice. Whiny. Pleading. Weak.

“I didn’t know about this maidel.”

“What, I need your permission to get laid?”

“You in love, Charlie?”

“What kind of question is that? I like the woman or I wouldn’t be spending Saturday mornings with her instead of working on my short irons.”

“When a guy falls for a dame, he starts opening up. Talking about his business and his friends. He lets his guard down, and says stuff he shouldn’t.”

“Only thing I say is, ‘Close your mouth, you’re letting air in.’ ”

“I know you, Charlie. You got this sentimental streak.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Max.”

“Sha! Ben said the same thing to Meyer.”

Here we go again, Ziegler thought. Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky. Maybe Scorsese thinks mobsters are entertaining, but if he’d ever met Max Perlow, he’d have made romantic comedies.

“Ben was schtupping every starlet in Hollywood. He changed girlfriends like he changed his boxer shorts. But he fell for Virginia Hill, and before long, they were opening Swiss bank accounts.”

“I know, Max. I know.”

“Then you also know someone out of Chicago aced Ben right in his living room. Cops found one of his eyeballs halfway across the room.”

“This is bullshit, Max!” Raising his voice to the old man for the first time in twenty years. “I don’t talk to Melody about business. I’m not stealing. She’s not stealing. And I’ve had about as much of you as I can take.”

Perlow sat there, hands resting on his watermelon belly, sausage fingers laced together. “What are you saying, Charlie? Spit it out.”

“My debt to you has been paid ten times over.”

“You haven’t been listening, Charlie. We’re partners for life.”

“Fuck that. My wife’s not even my partner for life.” Proud to be showing some guts after all these years of groveling.

“Weren’t for me, Charlie, you’d still be on the beach, hustling girls with your Nikon.”

“Fine. You gave me seed money, like a hundred years ago.”

“Seed money? You little pisher! You ungrateful shit.”

Perlow’s face reddened and his jowls quivered. With any luck, he’d stroke out.

“Fifteen percent for life! That’s the deal. You don’t want to pay me, Charlie?”

Ziegler didn’t answer. The courage he’d felt just seconds ago was slipping away. He was starting to hate himself all over again. “Maybe slice your piece down to ten percent.”

“Pay me, you miserable gonif!” Perlow exploded. “Every cent.” Perlow’s little ferret eyes were wide open now, dark and dangerous. “Or do you want to finish this conversation with Nestor?”

Ziegler put his hands in the air, as if surrendering. “Sorry, Max. My meds make me nuts. Depression. Anxiety. I say crazy things.”

Perlow still glaring at him

“Won’t happen again,” Ziegler promised.

Just as he was wondering if he should offer Perlow a conciliatory drink, Ziegler heard a jarring noise. A crash from the pool deck on the far side of the solarium. Sounded like one of the hundred-pound clay planters toppling onto the hand-cut tile.

“You got somebody out there?” Perlow demanded.

“No, Max. ’Course not.”

“Then what the hell was that?”

“Don’t know.”

“You been acting queer all night.” Keeping his eyes on Ziegler, Perlow yanked up a polyester pant leg and drew a small handgun from an ankle holster. “Let’s find out what the fuck’s going on, partner.”