Lassiter 08 - Lassiter by Paul Levine Read Free Book Online Page B

Tallahassee have warned me, scolded me, and placed me on double-secret probation several times. “Didn’t you just get out of New Horizons?”
    “My old man put me in, but I didn’t need no rehab.”
    Maybe I shouldn’t have been upset. The little prick was grateful, and so many clients aren’t. If you win, they think, Hey, I’m innocent, why’d I need you? If you lose, they blame you.
    I jabbed a finger into the kid’s bony chest. “I’m gonna be watching you. And if I see you within fifty yards of a bottle, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
    Looking confused, Pepito tried to work up a cool retort, but his brain cells wouldn’t cooperate. Finally, he said, “I thought we could hang together, even though you’re, like, an old dude.”
    “Did you hear me? I represented you because I like your father. But I don’t like you. Why don’t you get a job and stop sponging off your parents?”
    “I wanted to talk to you about that, too.”
    “What?”
    “Dad said maybe you could hire me.”
    “Doing what?”
    “I’ve always thought it’d be cool to be a P.I.”
    “Forget it. Tell your dad nothing doing.”
    The kid’s old man, Pepe Dominguez, owned Blue Sky Bail Bonds. Pepesent me clients, and unlike most bail bondsmen, never demanded kickbacks.
    Now I turned to his punk-ass son. “You
want
to be a P.I. So you figure someone will just hand it to you? Ever think there might be some training involved? Some schooling? Some work? Your problem is, you have a great father but you’re a rotten kid.”
    “I’m gonna tell Dad you dissed me.” A sissy little whine.
    “Tell him there’s a limit to my friendship.”
    It was not the last lie I was to tell that day.

11      Digging Up Buried Bones
    State Attorney Alejandro Castiel was waiting in his office atop the Justice Building. Amy had dressed for the occasion, a white silk blouse with girly ruffles down the front and a form-fitting navy skirt that ended just above a pair of lovely knees. She looked both professional and demure.
    I introduced her to Castiel, who flashed his politician’s smile as he steered us to comfy chairs, then leaned against the edge of his desk like a helpful doctor in a TV commercial.
    He wore a dark Italian suit and was so deeply tanned he wouldn’t need makeup if Channel 4 wanted a quick quote on the latest battle for justice. His hair—flecks of gray at the temples—was swept straight back like a young Pat Riley of Miami Heat fame.
    My goal was straightforward enough. Convince Castiel to open an investigation into the disappearance of Krista Larkin eighteen years ago. He could start by questioning Charles Ziegler, his party guests, and a biker named Snake if he could be found.
    “You putting on weight, Jake?” It was Alex’s shoulder punch, a guy’s greeting.
    “Don’t start,” I said.
    “I’m gonna hang 30 on you this week.”
    I sucked in my gut and said, “I still own you in the paint.”
    He laughed and explained to Amy that we played against each other inLawyers’ League basketball. She replied that I’d already told her, and isn’t it nice that boys can still be boys as they crept toward middle age?
    Alex Castiel—“Alejandro” too long for a campaign poster—was a born politician. Miami knew his story well. The Castiels were Sephardic Jews who had emigrated from Spain to Cuba two centuries before Fidel Castro was born. So, Alejandro was a Jewbano. A crossover candidate, he spoke Spanish fluently and knew enough Yiddish jokes to make the yentas laugh. He won the election in a landslide of
pastelitos
and matzoh balls. Some people mentioned Castiel as a possible candidate for governor. I thought the guy could go even higher.
    I liked him. Sounds strange, I know, coming from a defense lawyer who’s chop-blocked a few prosecutors and been sucker-punched by many others. But most are hardworking and underpaid and believe in what they’re doing. Alex was one of them.
    “Ms. Larkin, Jake called me this