In protecting David Dilbeck’s career, Moldowsky had breached a realm far beyond the mere peddling of influence. Committing illegal acts was nothing new. It was the nature of the recent felonies that concerned Moldy: a superb white-collar criminal, he’d been forced out of his element. Diverting election funds was a breeze. Unlawfully compensating an elected official was child’s play. Falsifying campaign finance reports was a routine chore.
But this! Goddamn that Dilbeck.
For the first time in many years, Moldowsky was second-guessing himself. He hated the feeling because he hated all forms of introspection. In Moldy’s line of work, a man’s worst enemy was a functioning conscience. He poured another cognac and resumed his idle pacing through the apartment. Passing a mirror, Moldowsky saw that he’d skipped a belt loop in the back of his pants. Also, he had misbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve. God, was he rattled!
It was the sudden death of the divorce judge that did it. The judge who couldn’t be persuaded to help a congressman and fix a lousy custody case. The judge who didn’t need a favor because he was already coasting on his merry way to the federal bench.
Jerry Killian was killed because the judge wouldn’t budge. Moldowsky had seen no other solution; eliminating the blackmailer removed the threat to David Dilbeck. It was simple, logical, expedient—but had it really been necessary? Moldowsky was annoyed at himself for fretting about it. The Killian decision made perfect sense at the time. Who could’ve predicted that the judge would obligingly croak?
Moldy was a man who appreciated cruel irony. Normally he would’ve been amused by the seedy circumstances under which the pious little shit had expired—his brain detonating in a sea of bare breasts. The TV crews swarming the Flesh Farm had left little to the imagination.
Yet the only thing that had entered Moldowsky’s mind was an unfamiliar stab of doubt: Maybe I acted too precipitously. If I’d stalled Killian, jerked him around for a couple weeks, then the judge would’ve solved both our problems by dying. Grant v. Grant automatically would’ve been reassigned, and Killian would’ve backed away from David Dilbeck.
Oh well, Moldy thought. What’s done is done. The three Jamaican cane cutters have gone home. Next month there would be a terrible truck accident near Montego Bay; no survivors. And the flight logs for the Rojos’ Gulfstream II would show a trip to Aspen, not Missoula. Push came to shove, the FAA would back him up with tower tapes. The daughter of a deputy assistant administrator owed her job to Malcolm J. Moldowsky …
The phone beeped twice and Moldy picked it up. He stood at the broad window and gazed across the Atlantic. Under cloudy skies, the water was foamy-gray and unalluring. Just over the horizon, in Nassau, was the man on the other end of the phone call. He was a banker who’d been educated in London, but whose speech had retained its soothing island cadence. He told Moldowsky that the wire transfer had been completed.
“What shall we do with the balance?”
“It’s entirely up to you,” Moldowsky said.
“We can put it in trust,” the banker suggested.
“Hell, you can keep it, for all I care. Buy yourself a new Hatteras.”
The banker chuckled nervously. “Certainly Mr. Mordecai left some instructions.”
“As a matter of fact, he didn’t.”
“But, sir, the account is in excess of eighty thousand dollars. I’m sure he expects the money to be properly invested.” The banker passed. “Is there a problem I should know about?”
“Not that you should know about, no. A trust is fine, Mr. Cartwright.”
“Unless he needs frequent access.”
“No,” Moldy said. “That’s one thing he definitely won’t need.”
He thanked Cartwright and hung up. Immediately the phone rang again. It was the lobby—Erb Crandall was coming up for a visit. Moldowsky took out another glass, just in case the bagman was in a mood to unwind. He wasn’t. He said he was ready to quit David Dilbeck’s campaign.
Moldy said, “Now slow down, Erb.”
Crandall stood rigid, arms folded. “I’ve been telling you he’s a time bomb. Well, the fuse is finally lit.”
Moldowsky was glad he’d had the foresight to start drinking early. “What’s he done?” he asked.
Crandall told him about the clandestine lint mission to the laundromat.
“Lord,” Moldy said. “That is bad.”
“It’s only the beginning, Malcolm. He wants more.”
“More what?”
“He’s crazy for this stripper. The one in the picture.”
Moldowsky squinted. “So he wants more lint?”
“Not just lint.”
He described the congressman’s current fantasy. Malcolm Moldowsky rocked on his heels, the brandy boiling up in his throat.
“He’s off the deep end,” Moldy said hoarsely. “Completely insane.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud.” Erb Crandall went to the bar and got an ice-cold can of ginger ale, which he rolled back and forth across his throbbing forehead. He slumped in an armchair, his back to the ocean. “What now, Malcolm?”
“The girl,” Moldowsky said. “Obviously.”
Urbana Sprawl was right about the money. Erin made an extra ninety bucks on her first night of table dancing. Shad stayed close, and nobody touched her. Still, she hated it. The tables at the club were so small that the dancers couldn’t move their feet without kicking the customer’s drink in his lap. The performance itself wasn’t dancing so much as wiggling in place, which was fine for the girls with large breasts—gravity did all the work. But Erin’s strong suit was choreography, and there simply was no room to show off. On the tables she was just another stripper, bouncing up and down for tips.
Another drawback was the music. The dancer on the main stage got to pick the songs, which was only fair, but it meant that the table dancers never knew what was coming next. Most of Kevin’s play list was disco, techno, fusion, dance-club, hip-hop and rap, all of which Erin detested. There was no heart to any of it, and pretending otherwise was an ordeal. She smiled so intractably that her facial muscles soon became numb; toward the end of the shift, she looked in the mirrored walls and saw a rictus grin, earnest but unsexy. The tabletop customers never noticed, since their eyes were riveted on her crotch.
On the second night, Erin made two hundred and ten dollars on the tables; the third night, one-eighty-five. On the fourth night, the homicide detective showed up. He and Shad sat down and began to talk. Erin watched curiously from table five, where she was dancing against her better judgment to an extremely long number by Paula Abdul—or, as Mr. Orly called her, Kareem Abdul Paula. Erin was eager to finish the dance so she could find out why Al García had come to the club. As the song thumped to an end, the customer reached up and folded a bill into Erin’s garter. She thanked him as he helped her step off the table. While reattaching her G-string, Erin saw that the man had given her a hundred-dollar bill. She thanked him again, this time with the standard hug and peck reserved for overly generous customers.
“How about another one?” the man said. He was a handsome young Latin, doing his smoothest Jimmy Smits. His clothes were expensive and his hair was raked back and there were knobs of gold on both hands. He wasn’t yet drunk enough to present a problem, so Erin said sure and got back on the table. Shad and García were still hunched in conversation at the bar—she hoped they’d be there for a while. A smart dancer didn’t walk away from a heavy tipper, not when she still owed her lawyer nine grand.
Erin did five table dances for the young Latin, and he gave her a hundred each time. She was excited about the money, but also suspicious. The guy wanted something else. Had to.
Eventually it came her turn to dance on the main stage. Kevin put on a cut by the Black Crowes, which woke up the whole joint. The song was fast and nasty, and Erin loved it—she kicked and whirled and double-clutched, working out lots of unspent energy. At the bar, Shad sat alone; Al García was on the pay phone near the front door, with his back to th
e stage. Oblivious, Erin thought, thoroughly unmoved by my spirited performance. It was funny.
The young Latin customer came to the footlights and waved Erin over. He slipped two hundred dollars in her garter. When Erin leaned down to thank him, he put a hand on her shoulder and whispered something.
Shad tensed, watching Erin’s expression. He was ready to move fast, if the creep made a grab. Erin seemed puzzled, but not upset, by the young man’s words. When she moved back to the middle of the stage, her smile looked solid and her eyes were calm. She even took a languid, Stevie Nicks-style twirl in front of the wind machine. Shad held steady.
After the set, Erin returned to the young Latin’s table. Shad didn’t see her stand up for another dance. Before long, the Latin man rose and left the club. Erin appeared at the bar and said: “I would like a martini.”
Shad asked what was wrong.
“Nothing,” Erin replied. “Show business.”
“Quite a fan there.” It was Al García. He sat down on the other side of Erin. “You know who that was?”
“Said his name was Chris.”
“Christopher Rojo,” the detective said. “Of the sugar Rojos.”
Erin said, “That would explain all the money. But it doesn’t explain this.” She spun on the stool, and swung her right leg across Shad’s lap.
“Where’s your shoe?” he asked.
“Young Christopher just purchased it,” Erin said, “for one thousand dollars.”
The bouncer’s vast brow crinkled in astonishment. Erin herself was in a mild daze. The money was a godsend, but it wasn’t the career of her dreams—selling used footwear to wealthy perverts.
“A fucking shoe,” Shad muttered. “What for?”
Erin covered her face. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“Love,” said Al García. “Ain’t it grand?”
20
Merkin cupped the receiver and asked Picatta if they should accept a collect call from Darrell Grant.
Picatta said, loudly, “I don’t know a Darrell Grant. How about you?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Where’s he calling from?”
“The Martin County jail,” Merkin said. He grinned and held the phone away from his ear. Darrell could be heard, pleading with the long-distance operator to put him through.
Picatta leaned close to the receiver and boomed: “The only Darrell Grant I know is a lying cocksucker who’s getting his probation yanked the second he’s back in Broward County!”
Merkin said, “Is that the same misfortunate Darrell Grant that’s about to lose custody of his kid, due to his felony records suddenly showing up on the courthouse computer after being lost all those years?”
“The damnedest thing,” said Picatta, “after all those years. That new judge was real surprised, is what I heard.”
On the other end, Darrell Grant fell silent. The long-distance operator, an angel of patience, again asked if Detective Merkin would accept the call.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “You tell Mr. Grant if he needs to chat, he should phone up Mr. Thomas Tinker, that so-called big-time heroin dealer he told us about. The switchboard at the graveyard will patch you right through. Goodbye now.”
Merkin hung up. The operator clicked off. Darrell Grant glumly handed the telephone to the patrolman, who put it back on the jailhouse wall.
“They’re playin’ a joke,” Darrell Grant said.
“Didn’t sound like a joke.” The patrolman pulled Darrell’s arms behind him and snapped on the handcuffs.
“You’re makin’ a big-time mistake. I work for those boys.”
“Really? They told you to come all the way up here and steal Miss Brillsteins wheelchair?”
The cop marched Darrell Grant to the holding cell. He said someone from the Public Defender’s Office would stop by later to discuss a plea.
Darrell Grant found an empty place on a steel cot, between two sleeping drunks. “You let me know when Merkin calls back,” he told the patrolman.
“In your dreams.”
“I work for the goddamn Broward County Sheriff!”
“Maybe once upon a time,” the cop said, disappearing. Darrell Grant rocked miserably on the cot, grinding his molars, picking his cuticles, tapping his feet. Was Merkin bluffing, or had they really cut him loose? Worse, had they given his rap sheet to Erin’s lawyer? Darrell couldn’t believe the detectives could be such bastards. He had to get back to Lauderdale and see what’s what. Meanwhile, he needed something to clear the brain and settle the nerves. He asked the other prisoners where he could score some crank. They were not particularly helpful.
A burly redhead with twin cobra tattoos stepped forward. “Hey, beach boy. True you stole a wheelchair off a cripple?”
“I didn’t know she was a cripple,” Darrell said. “I thought she was just old.”
The Palm Lake Rest Home—he’d cased it pretty carefully, considering he was still foggy from when the hooker had clobbered him …
Noon sharp. There’s the cute Filipino nurse wheeling Miss Elaine Brillstein down the driveway toward the van. Nurse chatting as she pushes Miss Brillstein, who squints into the sunlight and clutches a fuzzy white sweater across her lap. ’Scuze me, ladies. Who’s that? says Miss Brillstein, squinting harder. Excuse me, y’all need a hand? Well, all right, says Miss Brillstein, thank you very much. I’ll get the door. Hold my sweater, please. Here, let me help with that. My, what a nice young man …
Soon as Miss Brillstein’s up in the van—the nurse half in, half out, wrestling with the old lady’s seat belt—Darrell Grant hijacks the wheelchair and off he runs. Two blocks later, the brake switch drops a bolt and Darrell goes ass-over-teakettle in the middle of a school zone. There’s a black-and-white parked on the median, clocking speeders. Darrell Grant can’t fucking believe his lousy luck.
From the redheaded prisoner with the snakes on his arms: “The cop said the old lady had polio.”
Darrell Grant’s eyes felt raw and swollen. He experienced an urge to sleep. “I thought polio was extinct,” he said.
The redhead moved closer. “My aunt’s got polio.”
“Yeah?” said Darrell. “Is her name Brillstein?”
“No, it ain’t.”
“Then mind your own goddamn business.” Without his drugs, Darrell often got pissed at the whole universe.
The redhead said, “I bet you’d look good in a wheelchair.”
“Not as good as you,” said Darrell Grant, “with a two-foot donkey schlong up your ass.”
Later, when he awoke in the county hospital and saw that they hadn’t bothered to cuff him to the gurney, Darrell Grant congratulated himself for such a bold and brilliant plan.
In South Florida, the disappearance of a lawyer was seldom front-page news. It happened often enough, usually coinciding with the theft of a client’s money. The man from the Florida Bar used the term “misappropriation” when he described the scenario to Beverly.
“How much?” the secretary asked.
“Approximately eighty-five thousand dollars.”
“No way,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Then what do you think happened? Where is he?”
“Maybe he was kidnapped.” Beverly told him that burglars had gone through Mordecai’s office one night—even the Rolodex had been stolen! The man from the Florida Bar asked if she’d called the police. Beverly admitted that she hadn’t.
“Because you were afraid,” the man said, “that the clues would point toward Mordecai himself.”
“I kept hoping he’d show up.”
The man from the Florida Bar was sympathetic, but firm. “The trust account was emptied on his direct instructions. The assets were transferred out of the country three days ago.”
“Yes,” she said glumly. “The bank called.”
The man from the Florida Bar sat before an open briefcase at Mordecai’s desk. The law office was closed—temporarily, according to a note on the front
door. Beverly wasn’t optimistic. She let the answering service take all the angry calls.
The man from the Bar asked, “Do you know the number-one cause of disbarment in Florida?”
“Moral turpitude?”
“Good guess, but no. Misuse of client trust funds. Some lawyers simply cannot resist.”
Beverly was in the high-backed chair where Mordecai’s clients normally sat. She tolerated the arrangement only because she was curious about what the Bar might know of her boss’s whereabouts.
The man said, “Did he have many elderly clients?”
“Not enough,” Beverly said. “Why?”
“It’s part of the pattern. Older clients tend to be conservative with their money. They put it somewhere and let it sit. Years and years might go by.”
Beverly said, “Like in their lawyer’s trust account.”
The man from the Florida Bar nodded. “Meanwhile the balance keeps growing. Some lawyers dip in, call it borrowing. Some even go through the motions of trying to pay it back. Others just flat out grab it all.”
Beverly didn’t particularly like Mordecai, and had no illusions about his sterling character. But she’d never pegged him as the sort to skip town with clients’ money. He seemed more of a small-time chiseler aud cutter of corners. Embezzlement seemed too ambitious for Mordecai.
The man from the Florida Bar said, “Who knows what triggers the impulse. A financial setback, gambling problems, a secret love affair. Which brings us to the obvious question—”
“We were not involved,” Beverly cut in. “Give me a little credit, please.”
“Looks aren’t everything. Even a physically …”—the man groped for the right word—“daunting fellow can have his charms.”
“Not Mordecai,” Beverly said. “Believe me.”
“Tell me: How did he feel about his cousin?”
The secretary acted confused. “Which cousin—Joyce?”
“Yes. We believe they’re together. Did he ever discuss an attachment?”