Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

the guys, I figured they were the owners of this newest establishment of high culture.

I let Chrissy go do her thing and wandered off on my own. Foam poured into a nearby pit, and several naked revelers dived in and disappeared. A few yards away, a guy/gal in camouflage pants, combat boots, and a pink halter top (which covered his/her small breasts) was pouring pills from a Baggie into the hands of two identically dressed girls who were too young to vote. I took a second look. They seemed familiar. Sure, I'd seen them at SoBeMo auditioning, their mother leading the charge. Somehow they'd gotten into the party scene, if not the modeling scene. One of the girls handed several bills to the transgender Rambo, who kissed them both on each cheek and put the Baggie back into a pocket of his camouflage pants.

I don't know crack from smack, crank from coke, XTC from LSD. Sure, I smoked some weed in my younger days, but now I won't ingest anything stronger than caffeine. I walked over and yelled at the girls, "That stuff will kill you!"

In unison, they stuck out their tongues at me, so I decided to mind my own business. I walked around the perimeter of the dance floor. At the roped-off entrance to one of the VIP rooms, the tuxedoed guardian recognized me. He should have; I'd gotten him probation once on a bad-check charge. He waved me past the ropes, and once inside, I saw several local politicians, a Hispanic soap-opera star, and a few other familiar faces. Softer music played. A spotlight played on a small stage where a naked black woman covered with whipped cream was moving seductively toward a naked white woman covered with chocolate. Though I am inexperienced in South Beach revelry, I figured this was not a cooking class.

The women took each other's hands, then slid thigh against thigh, exchanging whipped cream for chocolate. Then they lay down on the stage, their heads facing in opposite directions, their legs intertwined. Two well-muscled young men appeared. Naked, Caribbean-brown. They placed maraschino cherries on the women's nipples, then lay down next to them, one to either side, the men bent at the waist, their bodies arching into parentheses. All four began moving to the music, and then a young woman stepped from the crowd onto the stage. Applause greeted her.

"There's the artist," someone said excitedly, next to me.

"I call this work Banana Split," she said proudly, and the crowd applauded heartily.

By now I had a headache and wanted to go home. I hoped Chrissy had done her networking and had picked up her check. Her name would be in Tara Solomon's "Queen of the Night" column in the paper, and the ponytailed Quicksand boys should be happy.

I left the VIP room and found a rest room that had three condom machines. I was bent over the sink, tossing cold water onto my face, when I heard his gravelly voice. "Lassiter, you're making a big mistake."

I lifted my head and saw Guy Bernhardt in the mirror. He still looked like a pig.

"Accusing Larry Schein like that. It makes good press, but it's just a sideshow. The jury won't buy it."

"I'm not done with him yet. Before I'm through, he'll sing a song with your name in it."

"Damn it, Lassiter. You've said the wrong thing."

Then I saw the two guys behind him. I remembered them from the ride through the mango fields. Short, burly Hispanic men owned by their master. Bernhardt took a step back and they came forward. I spun around, flexed my knees, and let my hands dangle at my side. Adrenaline awakened me. I caught the first one with a straight left jab that snapped his head back. I pivoted in time to see the flash of a blade, the second one waving a knife under my nose. I backed up until my ass hung over the sink.

The knife moved closer. It was a shiny switchblade with a black enamel handle. The point was just below my chin when he brought it up and pricked the skin. I felt a drop of blood fall. My head tried to arch backward until my neck hurt. I couldn't move. All I could do was listen to Guy Bernhardt.

"Rusty said you were hardheaded. . . ."

"He doesn't know the half of it."

"He said I couldn't reason with you, deal with you. Apparently he's right. But even a mule, a jackass, can be taught. And today's lesson is that a bigmouth lawyer who points his finger at me is likely to get it cut off. You think you're a tough guy, but you know what? You bleed just like anybody else."

He nodded, and the man dragged the knife across the underside of my chin. A line of blood formed, then began to spill in drops. The man backed off and cleaned the knife on my jacket. His pal stepped forward, and while I had one hand cupped under my chin, he caught me in the gut with a short right hook. I crumpled to the tile floor, coughing and bleeding.

I had two Band-Aids under my chin when Abe Socolow greeted me in the morning. "What happened to you?"

"Cut myself shaving."

"Nervous, huh?" he said, and made his way to the prosecution table.

I had told Chrissy what happened and had grounded both of us for the duration of the trial. Now, we were in the courtroom of the Honorable Myron Stanger, and I was trying to focus on my witness.

The clerk called out her name, and Dr. Milagros Santiago marched to the witness stand, nodded to the jurors, and sat down. She was dressed in a navy skirt and matching jacket, her eyeglasses perched on top her head. She was one of those women who proudly carry twenty extra pounds and to hell what anybody else thinks. Millie gave her credentials and background; then we got down to business.

"The old view of autobiographical memory stems from Freud,"