High Lie Read online

  Jackie Bass wore a disarming smile and a suit that was halfway between Saville Row and Osceola, a gray suit jacket with white shirt, and a neckpiece of beads and feathers. His hair was jet black, tied back, and his face was well weathered in the way of his people.

  “Mr. Jones,” he said, shaking my hand. “How do you like our little establishment?”

  “I’m not much of a gambler, I’m afraid.”

  Bass smiled and winked. “Me neither.”

  The woman who had shown me in placed a glass of water on a coffee table for me. It seemed everyone had both a desk and a meeting table in their office these days, and I wondered if there was some kind of logic between which one a person chose to meet you at. I stood by the huge tinted window, looking over the pool.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. It was. So much chlorinated water and fake rockwork, only a few miles from one of the most beautiful beaches on the planet.

  “Do you swim, Mr. Bass?”

  He gave a chuckle and moved away from the window toward the coffee table. “Not in that pool. You know how many people urinate in that thing? I’d rather swim in a toilet.”

  He smiled again and gestured for me to take a seat.

  “So you mentioned to my assistant something about a PR disaster in the making?”

  “With the Compact being negotiated again, I thought you’d want to know.”

  “And I appreciate that.” He leaned back in his chair and brushed his lapels.

  “Do you know the Jai Alai and Casino in West Palm?” I said.

  Bass nodded. “Never been in it, but I know it.”

  “The jai alai players are getting death threats.”

  Bass frowned and considered this. “That’s not good. I hope the police find whoever is doing it. But I don’t see the connection with us.”

  I sipped some water before replying. “Well, some people think that the competition might be trying to squeeze the casino. And some people might see that competition as you.”

  Bass smiled again. I was either funny as hell, or way off-base, at least in his mind. “Competition? Mr. Jones, we are one of the elite casinos of the world. Our competition is in Las Vegas or Macau or Monaco.”

  I raised a mental eyebrow at Monaco but let him continue.

  “No offense to them, but the pari-mutuels are small fry, little establishments for a class of guest that the tribe is not really interested in catering to.”

  “Word is that the legislature are considering killing the Compact, offering expansion to the pari-mutuels. That would make them competitors, would it not?”

  “If that were to happen, maybe. But our people in Tallahassee tell us there is no mood there to change the Compact. The politicians know, as we do, that if they remove our exclusive rights to slots and other conditions, then we owe the state of Florida nothing. Nothing, Mr. Jones. Our current agreement offers a minimum of one billion dollars over five years. It would be a brave legislature that tosses that income out the window in favor of the greyhounds and jai alai.”

  He smiled again. He was pretty confident in his theory, and I suspected there were some well connected and highly paid folks giving him his intel. But I also knew that as a bloc, the pari-mutuels also had support in Tallahassee and, Compact or not, could make the fight harder than the Seminole might want it to be.

  “Mr. Jones, I appreciate your concern, but I see no PR issue. This problem is a great distance from us. We put hundreds of millions into the state, we create thousands of Florida jobs, and we bring many millions more into the economy simply by being here. We are no threat to these mom-and-pop operations, and they are none to us.”

  I nodded but stayed silent. It all made sense. Maybe too much sense. I stood.

  “Mr. Bass, I thank you for you time.”

  “Mr. Jones, I’m glad you stopped by. Lily will give you a gaming credit on your way out, if you like. Try some of the new slots.”

  “Like I said, Mr. Bass, I don’t gamble.”

  Bass smiled again.

  “You’d be playing with my money, Mr. Jones. That’s not gambling. That’s a sure thing.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I LEFT THE Seminole casino and drove a short distance west under the turnpike flyover. The apartment building was in a cluster of similar buildings built west of Hollywood, by a property investment company headed by Seminole Chief James Kowechobe. Jackie Bass sat on the board of directors. Although the property sat outside tribal lands, most of the tenants were Seminole. Because of their national sovereignty, Native Americans who lived on tribal lands were not subject to state tax, so in many states the tribal members kept close to home. But because there was no state tax in Florida, the incentive to live on tribal land was effectively zero, save the subsidized housing. The tribal elders building low-cost housing on state land was seen by many as another gesture of support for the tribe. Others saw it as the tribe keeping its manipulative claws around its people. I wasn’t sure which was true.

  I pulled the Escape into the shade of a royal palm and took the steps up, two at a time. On the second level was the apartment I sought.

  Jimmy Tigerfoot smiled broadly when he saw me and leaped into a bear hug that rendered my arms useless. He was dark and muscular and had no need of a shirt.

  “Miami, come in. It’s been too long.”

  I stepped into the cool apartment. It was a three bedroom, with a small living–dining area, and a decent enough kitchen, from which Jimmy’s wife, Petal, came in and hugged me. I knew Petal wasn’t her real Seminole name, but I also knew something about losing your birth name somewhere along life’s journey.

  “How are you, Miami?” she said, joy lifting the corner of her eyes.

  “I’m well. Very well. And you guys? How are the boys?”

  “School,” said Jimmy. “Doing well. Thanks to you.”

  I shook my head. “Will you forget that? It’s done. Their success is because you guys are great parents, not anything I did.”

  The two of them glanced at each other like I was a lunatic, then let it drop.

  “You want an iced tea, Miami?” said Petal.

  “Love one,” I said, settling on the sofa with Jimmy. “How’s work?”

  “Good, good,” said Jimmy. “There’s lots of tourists want to learn to surf, so we’re pretty busy, especially this time of year.”

  “Many still think you’re Hawaiian?” I smiled.

  Jimmy laughed. “At least one a day. But the Hard Rock doesn’t say Indian Casino on the door, so why should they know? What about you?”

  “Busy too. Just been to see Jackie Bass, actually.”

  “Ooh, the boss man. What are you doing with the tribe?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got a client from one of those small casinos in West Palm. You know the jai alai?”

  “They still play that?”

  “They do, some. Anyway, he’s getting threats, so I’m checking it out.”

  “You think the Seminole are involved?”

  “I don’t know, Jimmy. Just turning over rocks right now. What do you think? Jackie Bass says he pays no attention to the pari-mutuels. Says they’re small-time.”

  Petal brought iced tea in and sat with us. “They’re no Hard Rock, but as a group they are getting some attention,” she said.

  “Yeah, I don’t think Jackie is being one hundred percent upfront with you there,” said Jimmy. “He’s a sharp operator. He watches everyone.”

  “That’s what I thought. So tell me this. He says the Compact is too good a deal for the state for them to walk away. But what about the tribe? Is it good for the tribe?”

  “I’ll tell you who it’s good for. It’s good for Jackie Bass. The Chief, too,” said Jimmy.

  “Yeah I saw the chief’s new waterfront chickee,” I said. “Nice boat there.”

  “Jimmy’s right,” said Petal. “The leaders have made a lot of money since the tribe started the casinos. But the tribal members have benefited, too. Every member of the tr
ibe gets a monthly stipend from the casino profits. Before the casinos, most Seminole lived in poverty. Now we have real homes, money for education. And since the Compact came in, the stipend has gone up. We are a family of four, and we all get the stipend, even the boys. Really, we don’t have to work if we don’t want to. But we want our boys to grow up independent, to not rely on handouts that might end. So the stipend has been good but also bad. Many Seminole have alcohol problems, and there are drugs. Sitting around all day doing nothing is not how we are supposed to operate.”

  I nodded and sipped some tea. “Bass said they create a lot of jobs. Don’t those go to tribe members?”

  “Mostly,” said Jimmy. “If you want to work, you can. But not every Seminole wants to work in a casino, right? Even me, I get most of my business through the casino hotel, and they don’t ask for a cut, because I am a tribe member. I don’t want to work in the casino, but I do want to work.”

  “Yeah, surfing all day, that’s a real chore.”

  He smiled. “Life is what you make it, brother.”

  “What’s your gut, then? Would the elders be involved in threats to my client?”

  “My gut says at the top, no,” said Jimmy. “Those guys move in the big circle, right? They deal with the governor and all that. But there are guys—the ones at the bottom—maybe want to make a name for themselves. It has happened before, guys doing dumb things to get noticed by the casino board or the tribal council.”

  “There are always rogue elements in any community, aren’t there?” added Petal. “But the council, I don’t think they’re into that. Like Jimmy says, this is a big-stakes game now. It’s won or lost in the corridors of power in Tallahassee, not in the back streets of Fort Lauderdale, or even West Palm.”

  “Thanks, guys. You’ve been a big help.”

  “We owe you, brother,” said Jimmy.

  I shook my head. “You’re never gonna quit on that, are you.”

  “Nope,” he said, smiling.

  “Then there’s something I want from you.”

  “Name it,” he said.

  I looked at Petal. “Last time I saw you, you made these little taco things.”

  “Indian tacos,” smiled Jimmy. “No curry required,” he laughed and slapped his thighs.

  Petal smiled, too.

  “And I was just about to make some lunch,” she said. “You sit tight.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I ENJOYED LUNCH with Jimmy and Petal, then headed back home to collect Danielle. We drove in silence to Palm Beach International for her flight to Atlanta. PBI was one of those airports that was certainly bigger than an airfield, but didn’t carry the stress of the huge airports like LAX or MIA or JFK. I stopped by the curb and got Danielle’s case out of the trunk. I gave her a hug like she was heading off for a tour of duty, and she kissed me hard. An airport police officer came near, but instead of telling us to move on, he just smiled.

  “I’ll call when I get there,” Danielle said.

  I nodded and watched her saunter into the terminal, doing for jeans and a plain white shirt exactly what the designer intended. When she was gone I slipped back into the Escape and headed for Longboard Kelly’s. Before I met Danielle it had been more my home than my home, and even now it was a refuge. As I walked in the rear entrance to the courtyard, a sense of calm came over me. The tables with their beer-labeled umbrellas, the palapa-style roof over the outdoor bar, even the surfboard with the bite out of it hanging on the back fence. They were to me like Florida in general was for the tourists. I saw their faces and watched their expressions, as they deplaned or stretched their weary legs beside Winnebagos. I saw the stress of whatever their real life involved evaporate as the sun and the sea and the thought of a cool drink with a lime wedge stole them away. That’s how I felt walking into Longboard Kelly’s.

  Even better when Ron waited for me on his stool at the palapa bar. Muriel stood behind the bar, in her usual tank top despite the cooler weather, indifferent to the goose bumps on her arms. She poured me a beer before I reached my stool, then leaned back against the bar on the other side, the side that served those customers who preferred to sit indoors.

  She thrust her more than ample bosom at me. “If it ain’t Miami Jones. Where have you been, stranger?”

  I took the beer and threw half of it back in one go. “Out earning a living, sadly,” I said. “But I am all the better for seeing you.”

  She looked at Ron. “They all love me, because I serve beer.”

  “There is no truer love,” smiled Ron.

  I took a load off and surveyed the courtyard. The light was just failing, and the party lights flicked on. I looked over my shoulder to see Mick, the owner of Longboard’s, standing by the light box, looking over the same scene as me. He was a short, powerfully built man of few words, but I could see the romantic in him as he gazed out at the pretty lights.

  “You take care of that item for me?” I said. I had given Mick the gun I had taken from Brandon the Shark for efficient disposal. I don’t like guns, and I especially don’t like holding onto guns that might be linked to bad stuff—the kind that might cause a cop to come calling.

  Mick grunted. “Yup.”

  “Never to be seen again?”

  “Nup.” He threw a tea towel over his shoulder and wandered away toward the kitchen without a further word. I sipped my beer and looked at Ron.

  “Good day, Mr. Bennett?”

  “Better than most. Breakfast on Lady Cassandra’s balcony is always a fine start to any day.”

  “Indeed.” I’d seen the balcony in question. It had the square footage of most two-bedroom apartments and happened to overlook the ocean on Palm Beach.

  “And then I met with a prospective client at The Breakers.”

  “Good client?”

  “Cashed up. The best kind. They paid for lunch, too. And you?”

  “Spent the day with the Seminole.”

  I told Ron about my meeting with Jackie Bass, and Jimmy and Petal’s view on things.

  “I don’t know, Ron. That casino is such a huge business. I find it hard to believe they’re that concerned about jai alai.”

  “Well that reminds me,” said Ron, nodding as Muriel placed another beer in front of him. “Guess what I heard at The Breakers?”

  “Jackie Gleason’s back and he’s appearing there tonight?”

  “That would draw a good crowd in Palm Beach, you’re right. But, no. There’s a private party this week being thrown by Elroy Hoskin.”

  “The Vegas guy?”

  “That’s the one. He owns half the strip, and now he’s apparently rented a mansion on the island. The locals are calling it home base. Word is he’s going to unveil a plan for a new Florida destination casino.”

  “In Palm Beach?” I said.

  Ron shrugged. “No one knows.”

  “Man, I’d love to get into that party.”

  Ron sipped his beer and smiled. “Say the magic words.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “The magic words?”

  I shook my head. “Okay, the magic words: free beer.”

  “Ah, there you go. I spoke with the Lady Cassandra. She has procured invitations.”

  “She is worth her weight in—” I glanced at Muriel. She was shaking her head. Note to self: using weight as a means of comparing a woman to anything was bad. “She is one wonderful lady.”

  “Yes, she is,” said Ron. “So dust off your tuxedo.”

  “Mine’s always ready to go. Lenny would roll over in his grave if it were any other way.”

  We sipped on our beers, and Ron explained that Cassandra was at some charity committee meeting, so we ordered crunchy grouper sandwiches and shared a plate of smoked fish dip that Mick made himself from whatever fish came in on the boats. Today it was swordfish, and it was smoky awesomeness, paired with a nice cold beer. The bar started to fill up under the cover of darkness, and we were kicking back, watching absolutely nothing happen, when my cell phone buzz
ed in my pocket. I thought it might be Danielle, so I pulled it out.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hola? Señor Miami?”

  “This is he. Julio?”

  Yes, señor, is Julio. I hope I do not disturb your evening.”

  “Not at all, Julio. What can I do for you?”

  “I am sorry to call, but you remember Perez, one of the pelotari you met?”

  I remembered meeting twelve handsome, athletic, roughly Spanish-looking guys. I remembered Perez was one of them. That was as good as it got.

  “I remember. Why?”

  “Señor Miami, somebody just tried to kill him.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE PEREZ HOME was a nice two-story townhouse in Palm Beach Gardens. Well-tended lawns and clean, late-model cars. We parked short of the townhouse and walked in the sunshine to the front door. I stopped short to look at the front window. It had been boarded up with ply, and I stepped around the lawn in front to look at the footprints. There were about a hundred of them, so they told me nothing. I’d had a few beers in me when Julio called the previous night, and upon learning that the someone trying to kill Perez had actually been a brick thrown through his window, I told them to call the cops and that I’d be over first thing in the morning. I wished I had mentioned not trampling the lawn in fixing the window, but that was done.

  The front door flew open, and I looked up to see Julio.

  “Señor Miami,” he said.

  I nodded. “Hey, Julio.” I looked around the small front yard, then wandered to the door.

  “This is my colleague, Ron Bennett.”

  They shook hands, and Julio looked back to me.

  “We did as you say last night, Señor Miami. The police came and took statements, and then we fix the window.”