High Lie Read online

“Nothing.”

  Julio looked to his colleagues and got a group nod. “So señor, you will take the case?”

  Each of the men started standing or wriggling in their seats, pulling cash out of their wallets or pockets. They began passing wads of cash to Julio.

  “We can pay,” said Julio.

  I put my palms up. “Whoa boys, hold on. I can see you’re good for it. Just hold your money. I’ll take the case. I’ll look into it for you.”

  Julio smiled and Roto translated, then the rest of the men smiled. They held their cash toward me.

  “Roto, tell them I’ll invoice you, okay?” I turned to Julio. “So who do you think is behind it. Who wants your jai alai promotion to fail so badly?”

  “We don’t know, señor. We think maybe there is another casino who wants us out of business.”

  “Another fronton?”

  Julio shook his head. “I think not, Señor Miami. We have many friends at other frontons, and we often play each other. Our success would be their success.”

  “So who, then?” I said.

  “Well, I don’t like to say it.”

  “This is just between you and me, Julio.”

  “The big casinos. The Indians.”

  Chapter Six

  WHEN I GOT back from meeting the pelotari, I was tired and needed to switch off for a while. It was one of those times I wished I had a television. I opened the door and found Danielle sitting at the kitchen counter. She was in plain clothes; jeans and a T-shirt. I always looked forward to walking in the front door and seeing her smile. It was one of those smiles, a real traffic stopper. But there was no traffic hitting the brakes tonight. There was no smile. She spun on her stool with a frown.

  “Did you find him?”

  “Yes,” I smiled, hero of the hour.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “What? I just found him, like an hour ago.”

  “An hour? You don’t have a cell phone? I’ve been sitting here, worried.”

  I threw my keys in the bowl and put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t think a few minutes was going to make a difference.”

  She pushed my hand away and stood. “You’re such an idiot. You don’t think a few minutes make a difference? You don’t think. How about this morning? Were you thinking when you left a small boy alone?”

  “He’s not that small, he’s eleven. Besides, we went to find who threw him in the ocean. I didn’t know he’d run away.”

  She shook her head as she walked away. “I’ve been at work since 3 a.m. I’m going to bed.”

  I watched Danielle stride into the bedroom and close the door, my jaw open to somewhere around my navel. I waited for a moment to gather my thoughts. Sure, I didn’t feel great that Desi had run away, but he wasn’t under house arrest, and we were trying to find the guys who had attempted to murder him. It wasn’t like we’d ducked out to Longboard’s for a couple beers. And we’d spent the rest of the day hunting him down, which we had succeeded in doing. So no autopsy, no foul.

  I cracked the door open and stepped into the dark bedroom. I could hear Danielle breathing—rapid not relaxed—a long way from sleep. I sat on the bed and put my hand on her arm.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, although I wasn’t completely sure what I was apologizing for. “I should have taken more care, but we found him. He’s okay. And we got his money back.”

  Danielle let out a big sigh. “I’m just really tired. Let’s talk in the morning.”

  I kissed her cheek and left her to sleep, returning to the kitchen. I was hungry but my hunger was only matched by my apathy. I couldn’t be bothered opening a pickle jar, let alone making dinner. Instead, I poured a scotch and wandered out onto the patio. The night was cool, and as I sat on my lounger I wondered what had happened to the sweatshirt I had put on Desi. But Florida in winter is no great hardship, so I sat in shirtsleeves and warmed myself from the inside, with hints of tobacco and peat. Watching the water was where I did my best thinking. It was why I had bought the house—the only original rancher left, right on the Intracoastal side of the island. After I picked it up for a song at a tax lien auction, I had surprised all the other residents by doing absolutely no renovations whatsoever. It was a seventies original, just like me, and just like me, it was aging naturally and with a distinct lack of grace. But this evening the water and tinkling of masts didn’t weave their magic. My brain wouldn’t relax, and I felt the energy bubbling inside of me. I couldn’t shake the bad feeling inside, as if the thing with the bad guys who had hurt Desi was going to get bad before it got good, and that maybe the same could be said for things with Danielle. The look on her face was as if the Desi thing had revealed something in my character, something she hadn’t seen before, something she really didn’t like. It wasn’t the first time I had messed up, and it wasn’t the first time I had cleaned up my own mess. But her look said something had changed. I sipped my Scotch to drown that thought, and eventually fell asleep.

  I must have woken at some point in the night, because when the morning light hit I was in bed. I rolled over to put a hand on Danielle but came up with nothing but sheet. I padded out into the kitchen to make a smoothie. Winter in Florida is a good time for kale, and the best way to eat kale is in a smoothie. It really does taste rotten, but everyone assured me it was the healthiest food on the entire planet, so I blended it up with some peeled Florida oranges and some hempseed. I was just pouring when Danielle came bursting through the sliding door, breathing heavily and covered in a sheen of perspiration. Her hair was tied back, and her running tank top and tight shorts left just the right amount to the imagination.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” I replied, the epitome of linguistic sophistication.

  “You went for a run?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t wake me.”

  “I thought you’d want the sleep.”

  She’d never left me to sleep in lieu of a run before, short of having busted ribs, and I hadn’t hit the beach for a jog in ages, despite it having been a daily habit not so long ago.

  “Okay. You want some smoothie?”

  “Sure, thanks. I’m just going to jump in the shower.”

  I delivered the smoothie to the steam-filled bathroom and considered getting in with her, but the internal radar said go easy, and although I didn’t understand the source of the signal, I still knew what a flashing red light meant. When Danielle came out, she was in uniform and drying her hair with a towel. She dropped the finished glass in the sink.

  “Thanks for the smoothie.”

  “Sure, anytime. Kitchen’s always open.”

  Danielle kept rubbing at her hair as she wandered back into the bedroom. When she came out again she was buttoned up, her dry hair tied back. She came over to the counter where I was washing out the blender.

  “Listen, MJ, I’m sorry about last night. I was just tired, is all. And worried about Desi.”

  The worry had been plain for all to see. It was the rest of the look that concerned me, but I didn’t have a clue how to verbalize it, so I left it alone until I could figure it out.

  “It’s okay. I get it. I was pretty worried myself. I just don’t deal with kids all that much, you know? It didn’t occur that he’d run off. But lesson learned.”

  “Yeah. And he’s okay?”

  “Sheepish, but fine. He’s got some family here, so they’ll look after him.”

  “I didn’t find much out yesterday, but I did hear from a friend at the ER.”

  “That right?”

  “Aha. She said they had a couple known crime figures, low-grade thugs, come into the hospital, beat up pretty bad.”

  “I suppose it’s an occupational hazard.”

  “Doesn’t usually happen at lunchtime.”

  I made a face that resembled a guppy, and Danielle came around and laid a kiss on me. “I have to get to work,” she said. “You got a good day planned?”

  “Pe
achy. I’m gonna go see your ex-husband.”

  Danielle shook her head as she grabbed her keys.

  “Play nice.”

  Chapter Seven

  ERIC EDWARDS, STATE attorney for the fifteenth Judicial Circuit, was a man with a plan. I couldn’t fathom why else he would be guest of honor at the opening of a new therapy pool at a senior citizens center in Palm Beach. Sure, state attorneys were elected, but this was above and beyond. This smelled of higher ambitions. He was a smooth operator, I had to give him that. He looked sharp in his tailored suit and silk tie, the double-breasted jacket padding out his stick-figure frame to regular man size. He spoke well and charmed the diapers off the old girls in the center. I stood at the back of the room while he had coffee and cake, and noted that despite being handed several plates, none of the cake actually passed his lips.

  He bounded out of the center in full confab mode with his assistant, a petite, blond, pocket rocket called Anastasia. Eric certainly had a type, and it hadn’t changed despite an affair that led to the collapse of his marriage to Danielle. The fact she ended up with a scruffy piece of work like me must have rubbed him the wrong way in a major fashion, but seeing me didn’t break Eric’s stride.

  “Well if it isn’t Magnum, P.I. You’re on the wrong island, aren’t you, Jones?”

  “Not at all, Eric. These are my people.”

  “I doubt that. Your right-hand man might be dating one of Palm Beach’s society ladies, but that isn’t you.”

  It was true; it wasn’t me. My right-hand man, Ron, had met Cassandra, a well-heeled widow on the island, during a previous case, and they had become a bit of an item. But Eric didn’t care. He strode by me toward his car.

  “Palm Beach society lady? I’d call Lady Cassandra more a donor-in-waiting.”

  Eric stopped dead and turned to me. “Waiting for what?”

  “The right candidate to support,” I smiled.

  Eric ran his hand down his tie, smoothing it out, like his fingers were little steam presses.

  “What do you want, Jones?”

  “I thought to myself this morning, you know, I haven’t had lunch with old Eric in a while.”

  “You’re a card, Jones.”

  “That’s what they tell me. No, I just know that the incumbent local member of the Florida Legislature is a big supporter of the Seminole tribe, and there might be benefit in your knowing that they may be up to no good.”

  Eric’s assistant drove us to The Breakers, and Eric, as a local celeb of sorts, was able to get us a table in the seafood bar. The Breakers was a palatial resort on the beach, an institution on the island. It was full of old, expensive things for a mostly old, expensive clientele. Although I had more of a McDonald’s budget, I figured Eric was good for the intel.

  “The Seminole are a hot potato,” he said, sipping his ice water.

  “Interesting metaphor. But they are also happy to back every horse in the race just to ensure they’re on the winner.”

  “As SA, I can’t get support from them if they are up to any criminal activity.”

  “So let me make sure they’re not. And if they are, you have something on your opponent.”

  “I don’t have an opponent, Jones. I’m not running for anything.”

  “Of course not. So what can you tell me about the Seminole?”

  “What do you want to know?” said Eric.

  A platter of stone crab arrived at our table, and as the server left I continued. “Help me understand the Compact,” I said.

  Eric cracked open a claw but didn’t go for the mustard sauce. “The Compact is an agreement, a contract between the Seminole Nation and the state of Florida, that gives the tribe exclusive rights to certain card games and all slots in the state, outside of Broward and Miami-Dade counties.”

  “I thought the casinos were on tribal land. How does the state have any say?”

  “They don’t have a say over the casinos. The tribe is considered a sovereign nation. As a sovereign nation, they pay no federal income tax, and the state cannot tax or levy them without offering something in return.”

  “And that something is exclusive rights.”

  “Exactly,” he said, going in for more crab. He sure loved to eat on someone else’s dime. “And it’s not a tax, it’s actually a revenue-share arrangement. The state agrees there will be no competition, and in return gets a cut—currently somewhere around two hundred-plus million dollars a year.”

  “That’s a lot of change.”

  “It is, which is why it’s a political hot potato. Other groups want to bring destination casinos to Florida, and then there are the racinos—they’d like to grow. But if the state allows that, the Seminole are within their rights to give the State absolutely nothing. It’s a balancing act. If the State allows other casinos to have slots, will they make more in tax revenue than they will lose from the Seminole revenue share? And if so, at what cost? There’s a social agenda to consider here. Lots of people are against more casinos, mainly because of the negative effects of gambling.”

  I pulled some meat from a crab claw and sucked it down. It was sweet, and the claws themselves were beautiful to look at. I’m sure the crabs they came from would argue they looked better in situ.

  “So how does jai alai fit into all this?” I said.

  Eric frowned as he sipped water. “Jai alai? They’re the pari-mutuels.”

  “Yeah, right. How does that work?”

  Eric ate a bite and took a moment. He liked the spotlight, even if it was just me with a flashlight. “You have to understand that gaming legislation in Florida is piecemeal,” he said. “Things were just made up on the fly as they came up, with no real strategy in place. That makes some of these laws look strange now. Pari-mutuels are like that. They are essentially sports establishments that have been given limited gambling rights to supplement the sport. I’m talking jai alai, horse racing, and greyhounds. The latter two are known as racinos, combination racing and casino.”

  Eric took a sip of water and continued. “Jai Alai was essentially introduced to the US for betting, and this was way back when it was as big as football in South Florida. In Broward and Miami-Dade some of these places have slots and cards, others just cards. But the law says the pari-mutuels have to keep their racing or jai alai to keep their gaming license, even though the sports stuff now loses money and the casino operations subsidize them.”

  The server came and took our platter and offered us desert, which we declined in favor of coffee.

  “So why keep that law? Why not just allow them to gamble and drop the racing or jai alai?”

  “Tallahassee works in mysterious ways,” he said. It was true; they did. The politicians in the Florida state capital were like politicians everywhere; they could be guaranteed to do only one thing consistently, and that was to act in their own self-interest.

  “The fact is,” Eric continued, “the politicians like the imagery of the racing and jai alai. It’s very Florida. Plus, there are a lot of jobs associated with those activities, non-tribal, voting jobs. And then there’s the Compact to consider.”

  “So can the Compact change?”

  “Sure, theoretically. It’s actually coming up for renewal.”

  “And will it change?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t see it. Here’s the thing, and if you repeat this I’ll deny it to the point of suing you for slander,” said Eric.

  “Because my day isn’t complete without shooting off a few quotes from the great Eric Edwards.”

  He gave a look that I assumed was his I’m serious look, which might have had his interns quivering in their undies but didn’t do too much for me. “There’s no incentive to change, not for the politicians,” he said. “The Seminole give both sides of the legislature millions in campaign money, as do lobby groups for the Vegas interests who would love a piece of the Florida action. Even the pari-mutuels give campaign money. So the longer Tallahassee kicks that can down the road, the longer that money continues.
The lobby groups involved can’t afford to just stop giving.”

  “Explains why our federal government gets nothing done, regardless of who’s in the big chair,” I said.

  “Don’t kid yourself, that’s exactly why.”

  Our coffee arrived, and we sipped in silence for a while.

  “So I’ve got a client who claims someone wants to shut down the jai alai game in West Palm. Any ideas who that might be?”

  Eric shrugged. “Could be anyone. The Seminoles, who want it all, but I’d have thought they’d see the pari-mutuels as chump change. Then there’s Vegas. If the pari-mutuels were all to fail, those jobs and taxes would disappear, and Vegas destination casinos might claim they could pick up the slack. Then there are the other pari-mutuels. They’re all losing patronage, but have to keep doing the races or jai alai and continue bearing all the costs that entails. So they might think they can get a few more folks in if there’s less competition.”

  We finished our lunch and walked out to the lobby where Anastasia sat waiting with a tall iced tea.

  “So what about my donor-in-waiting?” asked Eric.

  “Lady Cassandra? I’ll have a word with Ron, make an introduction.”

  “Good. You can get back to your car, right?”

  Eric’s generosity had reached its bounds, but I was okay with that, because I didn’t find his company all that engaging, nor he mine. I almost never wore a skirt. He took off with his lovely assistant, and I wandered back out onto the promenade and down onto the sand. The day was mild but sunny and the snowbirds were out in force, under umbrellas and cabanas, sipping fruity drinks. I pulled out my cell phone and called my right-hand man.

  “Ron Bennett,” he said.

  “You don’t have caller ID?”

  “Miami. I didn’t look. I’m walking. At my age you have to keep your eyes on the road.”

  “Where are you, old man?”

  “Worth Avenue. Just finished with the German banker.”

  “The one who thinks his gardener is breaking into his secure computer system and stealing his ones and zeros?” I asked.