Blood Relations Read online

  Klaus nodded in the direction of the man lifting weights. “You know what Franco says?” He moved closer to Fine and whispered, “Franco says we should put her in a bag and throw her into the ocean. We can use my boat.”

  “For the love of God.”

  “Why do you take so seriously everything, Jerry? I’m kidding!” He laughed. “Did you see the prosecutor, Samuel Hagen, at the bond hearing? More serious than you, even. Like a cowboy, so tough. Jerry, come to dinner with Tereza and me tonight. The Strand, okay? The art director of Vanity Fair will be there.” Klaus could make these abrupt turns in conversations.

  Jerry Fine said, “Let’s go inside. We need to talk.”

  Then Tereza came over, followed by the bald guy in black whining that he needed her signature. He made Jerry Fine’s skin crawl. Tereza looked down at Jerry through impenetrably dark sunglasses with rhinestones on the frames. She said, “Hello, baby,” then leaned over and kissed him on both cheeks. He could see straight down her shiny turquoise dress. It was one of her own creations, which she wore with white high heels and pink anklets. Now the stereo was pumping out “Shake Your Groove Thing.” Two girls by the pool were doing some disco moves in their swimsuits. Tereza screamed, “Stop it! Stop! Now!” The music went off. “I can’t stand that. It’s horrible.”

  As she signed her name to six different pieces of paper, Tereza glanced at Jerry Fine. “Tell my idiot husband to pay the puttana bugiarda who says he raped her.”

  “Jerry won’t let me.” Klaus slid his hand up his wife’s bare leg. “Jerry says it’s a crime to pay her.”

  “How much does she want?”

  “I don’t know, Tereza mia. I haven’t talked to her. I haven’t sent anyone to talk to her.”

  “Now it’s too late! Look what you have done!”

  “Will you miss me when I go to jail?”

  “No. You make me insane. I will be happy.”

  “But you love me. Insanely.” Klaus pinched her thigh.

  “They have taken your passport,” she pouted. “You can’t go to Paris with me. You can’t go anywhere. Non potrai andare da nessuna parte con me!”

  He was laughing. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I like it here. The tourists are leaving, the weather is perfect. At this moment Miami is heaven. I could stay forever.”

  Tereza turned her sparkly sunglasses toward Jerry Fine, “I tell you who is behind this. Claudia Otero. Feccia di una ragazza!” She spat out the words. “Claudia has her show the same night as me next week. I bet you she’s the arranger of this. Klaus, did the girl model for her? Maybe Claudia paid the girl to lie.”

  Klaus shook his head. “No. Claudia likes dark models. The girl was pale, and too much red hair.” Then he grinned. “Look at my wife, how excited she is.”

  “Sta’zitto, Klaus.” Tereza grabbed Jerry Fine’s arm. “You know who she is, the bitch? Her sister Amalia is married to the Dade district attorney. What’s his name?”

  Jerry Fine said, “Edward Mora? He’s the state attorney.”

  “Right, right. Amalia, his wife, is the sister of Claudia. I heard this from I forget where.”

  “I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

  “Of course you see it,” Tereza said. “Claudia told the district attorney, her brother-in-law, to arrest Klaus.”

  Jerry Fine smiled. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m hungry,” Klaus said. “Let’s go to Nick’s at the marina.”

  “You have a cook,” Fine said, annoyed. “If you’re hungry we can eat here.”

  Tereza knelt and put her forehead on Fine’s shoulder. “You have to do something about her, Jerry. Hire a private detective.”

  Fine said, “Let me see if I follow this. You’re suggesting that your business competitor told her sister to tell the sister’s husband, the state attorney, to file this case against your husband, in order to put you out of business.”

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “No, Tereza. Trust me. No.”

  “Who is saying these things against my husband? You know who? Claudia’s friend, Sullivan. And she is forty-two years old and he still sleeps with her. You know him, Klaus. The model for Armani in Uomo this month.”

  Klaus said, “I’m hungry.”

  “Jerry, find out about this.”

  To shut her up, he said, “Okay, Tereza.”

  With a gasp, she noticed her watch. “Dio! I have to meet the buyers from Macy’s ten minutes ago!” She kissed Klaus on the mouth. “Ciao, caro.”

  He reached up and squeezed her breasts. “Ciao, bella.”

  “Va bene. Andiamo. Let’s go.” She headed for the house, trailed by the blond woman and the fat homosexual in black.

  Jerry Fine said, “Klaus, we need to talk.”

  Klaus propped one bare foot on his knee. The toes were pedicured, but the sole was gray with dirt. “You know what? Miami was getting a little boring. Same, same, same. And now it’s very interesting.”

  “I hope you find prison interesting, Klaus.”

  “It won’t happen. Come on. Let’s go have lunch at Nick’s.”

  “What do you mean, ‘It won’t happen’?”

  “You worry so much.” Klaus began to rub Jerry Fine’s chest, a strong, side to side motion. Sweat broke out on Fine’s neck. He would have shifted away but this chair was shaped like a sack. Klaus said, “Tereza worries also. She is crazy. Claudia Otero this and that and so on. But you know what? When Tereza is crazy, she makes love like—oh, God, you should see.” Laughing, Klaus sprawled in his chair. “No, I won’t let you see that.”

  Fine said, “Have you done something you don’t want to tell me about?”

  “No, Jerry.” Klaus’s mouth twitched upward. “But I know something about a boutique soon to be in Havana, special to the tourists, next door to Benetton.”

  “Moda Ruffini? I didn’t know you and Tereza were in Cuba.”

  “Not us. Claudia. Don’t tell Tereza.”

  “What in hell are you doing?” Fine could hear his voice rising. “I’m your lawyer. You pay me to worry. And I’m telling you. If you don’t get serious about this, Sam Hagen is going to nail you to the fucking floor!”

  Klaus laughed. “This is for me like a movie, so exciting.”

  Jerry Fine tipped back his drink and finished it off.

  From the door a young man in bicycle shorts yelled to get Klaus’s attention. “Du, Klaus, diese Nervensäge von Vertreter ist wieder an der Tür! Was soll ich ihm sagen?”

  Klaus frowned but didn’t answer.

  “What is it?” Fine asked.

  “He wants to know if he should tell Marty Cass to go away.”

  “Who?”

  Klaus shouted back at the young man, then said, “For you, Jerry, I’ll let him in. Marty Cass put money, not so much, in the Grand Caribe, and he thinks now he’s my partner. After the red-haired girl made up those lies, Marty said he was a close friend of Hal Delucca, and nothing would happen.”

  “Holy Christ. You didn’t bribe the city manager.”

  Ruffini’s blue eyes widened in surprise. “No, never.” Then he said, “It’s funny, Jerry. People do things for me all the time, and they ask for nothing. Isn’t that strange?”

  It was the way the world worked at these heights, Fine thought. People of lesser status doing favors for those higher up, some kind of natural obeisance hard-wired into the human brain, perhaps. Or a hope that beauty, sex, and power could be vicariously obtained.

  Hal Delucca, along with a few other gushing sycophants in city hall, had supported Klaus’s pet project, the Grand Caribe. Delucca himself had cut the ribbon on phase one. So far only a twelve-story time-share apartment building had been constructed. The model under glass in Klaus’s office showed a Caribbean-theme village with shopping, restaurants, water slides, a lagoon, and a mega-hotel. The village would be as much fun as the real Caribbean, but cleaner, with no guilt-inducing Bahamians or Trinidadians gazing through the fence.

  Klaus Ruffini squeezed
Jerry’s knee. “I didn’t ask Marty Cass to talk to Hal Delucca. He did it because he thinks he’s my partner, to help me.”

  “You’re telling me Delucca went to the state attorney?”

  “He said no, he didn’t. But now I look bad to the city of Miami Beach because of Marty Cass, and I don’t get my zoning approved. Look. Here he is.” Klaus settled into his chair.

  Coming across the terrace was a man in his late thirties dressed in open-weave shoes, linen slacks, and a green silk shirt. He carried a small leather pouch and a portable telephone. His eyes were hidden behind expensive tortoise-shell sunglasses. He ducked under the edge of the canopy. “Klaus! How’s it going?”

  “Say hi to Jerry fine. Jerry’s my lawyer.”

  “Hi.” Marty Cass shook Fine’s hand.

  Klaus smiled up at him. “How is Uta, your fantastic and beautiful wife?”

  Cass hesitated, then said, “We split up. You didn’t know?”

  “Oh, That is so sad.” Klaus laid a hand on Jerry Fine’s arm. “Uta was sleeping with another man. A model, very young and blond and good-looking. Of course Marty would throw her out.”

  Marty Cass’s face twitched. “Klaus, have you got a minute? This is business.”

  “Sure. Talk. Jerry knows all my business. I hire Jewish lawyers, Marty. Very sharp.” Klaus waved toward a chair. “Sit.”

  Marty Cass pulled up a plastic pedestal chair upholstered in blue-and-white stripes. His ponytail curled under at his collar. He put his bag and telephone on the terrace floor, then dropped his sunglasses to his chest, dangling from their cord. His eyes looked as if he’d stayed out all night in a smoky bar.

  “A couple of things,” he said. “First, I’ve got people to take care of on the Grand Caribe brochure. The photographer’s been hounding me for days. Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

  “How much?” Klaus said.

  “With her, the printer, the production people … five grand.”

  “Okay. I get you a check before you leave.”

  “Great,” Marty said. “Now, the other thing—”

  Klaus smiled. “You know what? The city commission will vote next week on the zoning. They will tell me no because now I’ve been falsely accused of raping that red-haired model. A terrible thing! You said the city manager would help me. You promised.”

  “I know, I know. Hal tried, but the state attorney took it the wrong way. Hal says Mora filed the case for spite, the Cuban bastard. I did my best for you, Klaus. Look, they haven’t voted yet. I could talk to them for you.”

  “I’m thirsty. Dominique!” Klaus shouted. A woman at an umbrella table across the terrace put down her copy of Vogue and uncrossed her legs. She wore leopard print toreador pants and a gold bikini top. “Apporte-moi un coca, ma petite, et le même pour mon copain. Marty, you should see the Coke machine. It works on nickels. Why did you come, Marty? To tell me what I know already?”

  “It’s about the rental property you wanted. Let’s iron out the details, then I can do the contract and bring it back for you to sign.”

  “What rental property?”

  “The apartments, Klaus. The Englander.”

  “I don’t recall this.”

  Jerry Fine knew what property. So did Klaus. The tax department at Cohen Kaplan had said Klaus could buy it if he wanted, but it was overpriced.

  Marty Cass’s nervous smile reappeared. “The Englander. Sixteen-unit on Drexel Avenue, held at present in the name of Tolin Associates. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all week.”

  “Ahhh.” Then Klaus shrugged. “I don’t know. With my other problem, which you said you would fix, I’m not in the mood anymore.”

  “You wanted it, Klaus. It’s perfect. The location, everything.”

  Klaus’s bare foot bounced on his knee. “But the property belongs to someone else. You have only ten percent, so why do you care?”

  “I told you all about this.”

  “Tell me again so Jerry can hear.”

  He made a little shrug in Fine’s direction. “I have ten percent. My partner Frank Tolin has the rest. He owes me money. He says he can’t pay—which is a lie, by the way. So we’ll settle up when the apartments are sold. My own partner. We were supposed to be in fifty-fifty, and he screwed me down to ten percent.”

  Klaus looked at Jerry Fine. “I find out that four years ago the building caught on fire. Jerry, would you advise me to buy a building like that? It might collapse, don’t you think so?”

  Marty Cass protested. “It was rebuilt, Klaus. New roof, everything. It’s in great shape. Back to the original art deco design.”

  Dominique came clattering out in her black high heels and toreador pants with two green glass bottles of Coca-Cola. Marty said thank you, then set the bottle on the terrace.

  Klaus said, “Okay. Maybe I do want the building.”

  “It’s a good deal, Klaus.”

  “If I buy the building, what would you do for me?”

  “Do?”

  “Do you think I’m a nice guy?” He smiled.

  Perplexed, Marty Cass replied, “Sure. A very nice guy, Klaus.”

  “Do you like me?”

  Cass shrugged. “Yeah, sure. You’re funny. I have a good time at your parties.”

  Jerry Fine looked across the terrace, out toward Miami. He wondered what would happen if he got up and left. He could see his law firm’s building among the others downtown, shiny blue and white.

  Klaus said to Marty Cass, “Would you help Tereza with her show next week?”

  “Okay. What do you want me to do, some promotion? Call some people?”

  “No. She needs someone to help her set up the chairs.”

  Marty exhaled, glancing at Jerry Fine, who said nothing. “Why not? We’re all nice guys here.” He laughed.

  “And would you help clean up afterward? Please? For Tereza. You know. She’s so tired, planning for her big show. We can talk about the apartments if you promise to help Tereza.”

  “Jesus. Sure, okay.”

  “And would you kiss my ass if I asked you to? If I promised to buy the property, would you kiss my ass right now?”

  Marty made a high-pitched whinny and glanced around. The other half-dozen people on the terrace were watching. The naked girl, who had wrapped a towel around herself, hid a giggle behind her hand.

  “I’m not going to kiss your ass,” Marty said. “Kiss mine.”

  Gripping the curved metal frame of the chair on either side of his knees, Klaus pulled himself up. He took out his wallet and counted five hundred-dollar bills. “Okay, here’s a deposit, which I give to my attorney in escrow. Not enough. I need more cash. Dominique! Va, cherche-moi encore de I’argent!” Klaus pointed. “Jerry, write a contract. You have paper? Good. The Englander Apartments. Address, such and so. Seller–Tolin Associates. Right? Yes. Purchaser, Ruffini Properties. Price—” He looked at Marty Cass. “I forgot the price. How much?”

  “Six hundred.”

  “Six hundred thousand dollars, all cash, standard terms, and so on. Okay?”

  Marty stared up at him from his chair.

  “Okay or not?”

  “Jesus. You’re kidding.”

  “Does this look like kidding? Am I kidding you?” Klaus dropped his trousers and his blue jockey shorts, holding on with both hands to keep them from falling down entirely. The hem of his palm-tree shirt hung just below his groin. The pink tip of an uncircumcised penis bobbled as he turned his back toward Marty, who pressed himself against the chair.

  Klaus wiggled his fanny. “Marty, you want me to do something for you? Okay, do this for me. It’s clean. If you kiss it I’ll tell my attorney to write the contract. Jerry, did you hear what I said? Call your office, get the legal description. Do it!”

  Muttering darkly to himself, Fine flipped open his portable phone and punched in the number. Dominique came clopping out onto the terrace again, carrying several banded stacks of hundreds.

  With loathing, Marty Cass braced his hands on
his thighs, and took a breath. He gritted his teeth, then reached out to lift the hem of Klaus Ruffini’s shirt.

  Quickly Klaus whirled around, pulling up his pants, laughing. “My God! He would do it! Oh, no!”

  Cass stumbled out of the chair, nearly weeping with rage. His voice was choked. “You lousy fuck. May you rot in hell.”

  “Marty, I was making a little joke. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would do it.” Klaus was laughing and trying to zip his pants at the same time. “Go with us to Nick’s for lunch. Okay? Watch the boats, have a drink with us. Come on.” He put his arms around Marty Cass.

  “Go to hell, you dago bastard.” Marty Cass violently pushed him away, grabbed his bag and portable phone, and ran across the terrace. Laughter came from the onlookers. Klaus hid his face in his hands and sank to his knees, a parody of remorse.

  Jerry Fine closed his telephone. He felt dizzy, and the sun reflecting on the bay made shards of light that hurt his eyes.

  “Everybody!” Klaus rebuckled his belt. “Let’s go to Nick’s. I am starving.” He paused beside Jerry Fine and rubbed his shoulder. “We’ll get a separate table from the rest, okay? Then you can tell me how to save myself from Edward Mora.”

  At the door he called, “jerry! Come on.”

  After a moment, Jerry Fine struggled out of the butterfly chair and followed him across the terrace.

  chapter eleven

  The press conference in State vs. Ruffini, Lamont, and Fonseca was held just before noon, in time to be edited for the midday news and rebroadcast in the evening. Sam Hagen stood at a cluster of microphones in a blaze of light, the state and U.S. flags behind him. He swept his gaze around the room and denied that the sexual battery charges had been filed for political reasons. This was not part of a plan to stop development of the Grand Caribe Resort. A crime had been committed, and the defendants would be brought to trial. Sam was flanked by two other assistant state attorneys he had named as members of the prosecution team: a woman from the Sexual Battery Unit and Joe McGee, on temporary loan from the Felony Division.

  Insiders in the state attorney’s office knew what was going on here. Edward Mora might be leaving. Whoever he recommended as his interim replacement, Sam Hagen would be running for state attorney in the fall. The battle was starting now, in front of these cameras.