Read Online Lassiter 06 - Fool Me Twice by Paul Levine - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Levine
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a shotgun.
“ Hasta la vista, baby ,” Arnold was saying in a cartoon bubble of iridescent blue
paint.
It was an understandable
protest by a kid who had ridden the bus from Islamorada to
see Casablanca on
the big screen only to discover that the theater had, without
notice, substituted Revenge of the Nerds
III . I thought the theater manager
overreacted in reporting the incident as a terrorist act, and when
Kip asked, I assured him he wouldn’t get the chair like Jimmy
Cagney in Angels with Dirty
Faces .
I was thinking about the juvenile court
hearing when Kip came back down the stairs. He had changed into his
pajamas, I thought at first, but then I saw he was wearing an old
Dolphins jersey than hung down past his knees. “I found this in the
closet,” he said. “Okay if I wear it to sleep?”
He turned around, modeling it. Across his
back, the lettering said LASSITER. Below was the number,
fifty-eight. “Looks great on you,” I said. “It’s yours.”
He smiled, stifled a yawn with a dainty
fist, and came up to me. I didn’t know what he wanted, but I
figured it out after a second. I gave him a good-night hug, then on
impulse, scooped him into my arms. We went up the stairs that way,
his legs curled around me, and I dropped him into bed and pulled up
the sheet to his chin.
“ Good night,
Kip.”
“ Good night, Uncle Jake,”
he said, his eyes half closed, his face a tranquil reflection of
childlike innocence.
***
I took Douglas Road up to Grand Avenue, hung
a right and headed into downtown Coconut Grove. To avoid the teeny
boppers cruising Cocowalk on a Sunday night, I swung onto Oak and
then by Tigertail going north. I turned left on Seventeenth Avenue,
picked up I-95 to hook up with the MacArthur Causeway and drove
east across the bay to Miami Beach. I found a parking spot next to
a Dumpster behind a sushi bar and walked to the coral rock wall
that runs along the east side of Ocean Drive.
A three-quarter moon was hanging above the
ocean, spreading a creamy glow across the black water. A warm
breeze from the southeast swirled sand across the sidewalk and into
the street. Lovers of every persuasion strolled by the sidewalk
cafes across the street, and the usual collection of models,
photographers, would-be actors, wannabe trendies, and assorted
semi-hipsters crowded the sidewalk, pausing long enough to be ogled
by patrons sipping decaf cappuccino under Campari umbrellas. This
season’s color seemed to be black. Billowing black silk pants,
square-cut black jackets with shoulder pads over white T-shirts.
And those were the men. The women wore black minis and black
fishnet stockings.
As is my custom, I was on time. It is a
harmless obsession. I don’t like to be kept waiting, and it’s only
fair to return the favor. So I sat on the low wall, watching the
parade of characters go by on foot, in limos, on choppers, and
occasionally on Rollerblades. I thought about Jo Jo and Blinky, the
beauty and the bullshit artist. In my life, there had been women
before Jo Jo, and women after her, but she was unique. Always
pushing me. Reach high, be the best. She reminded me of a
recruiting pitch for the Army.
I had cared for her, but I went on without
looking back. I’m not proud of that, but it’s the way I am.
Introspection is not my strong suit. I am an ox, head down, plowing
ahead to newer, if not greener, pastures. So when I am forced to
revisit my past, I am confused. I do not see the present clearly
because the past is still misty. I have not resolved old issues.
Hell, I didn’t even know they were issues at the time.
Now I waited for Blinky. If I smoked, which
I don’t, I would have struck a match. If I drank, which I do, I
would have strolled across the street and sat at the News Cafe,
watching for Blinky at the wall. So I did, at an outdoor table,
ordering a Grolsch, the fine Dutch beer, in the sixteen-ounce
bottle with the porcelain top.
As it turned out, I had a three-Grolsch
wait, and still no
“ Hasta la vista, baby ,” Arnold was saying in a cartoon bubble of iridescent blue
paint.
It was an understandable
protest by a kid who had ridden the bus from Islamorada to
see Casablanca on
the big screen only to discover that the theater had, without
notice, substituted Revenge of the Nerds
III . I thought the theater manager
overreacted in reporting the incident as a terrorist act, and when
Kip asked, I assured him he wouldn’t get the chair like Jimmy
Cagney in Angels with Dirty
Faces .
I was thinking about the juvenile court
hearing when Kip came back down the stairs. He had changed into his
pajamas, I thought at first, but then I saw he was wearing an old
Dolphins jersey than hung down past his knees. “I found this in the
closet,” he said. “Okay if I wear it to sleep?”
He turned around, modeling it. Across his
back, the lettering said LASSITER. Below was the number,
fifty-eight. “Looks great on you,” I said. “It’s yours.”
He smiled, stifled a yawn with a dainty
fist, and came up to me. I didn’t know what he wanted, but I
figured it out after a second. I gave him a good-night hug, then on
impulse, scooped him into my arms. We went up the stairs that way,
his legs curled around me, and I dropped him into bed and pulled up
the sheet to his chin.
“ Good night,
Kip.”
“ Good night, Uncle Jake,”
he said, his eyes half closed, his face a tranquil reflection of
childlike innocence.
***
I took Douglas Road up to Grand Avenue, hung
a right and headed into downtown Coconut Grove. To avoid the teeny
boppers cruising Cocowalk on a Sunday night, I swung onto Oak and
then by Tigertail going north. I turned left on Seventeenth Avenue,
picked up I-95 to hook up with the MacArthur Causeway and drove
east across the bay to Miami Beach. I found a parking spot next to
a Dumpster behind a sushi bar and walked to the coral rock wall
that runs along the east side of Ocean Drive.
A three-quarter moon was hanging above the
ocean, spreading a creamy glow across the black water. A warm
breeze from the southeast swirled sand across the sidewalk and into
the street. Lovers of every persuasion strolled by the sidewalk
cafes across the street, and the usual collection of models,
photographers, would-be actors, wannabe trendies, and assorted
semi-hipsters crowded the sidewalk, pausing long enough to be ogled
by patrons sipping decaf cappuccino under Campari umbrellas. This
season’s color seemed to be black. Billowing black silk pants,
square-cut black jackets with shoulder pads over white T-shirts.
And those were the men. The women wore black minis and black
fishnet stockings.
As is my custom, I was on time. It is a
harmless obsession. I don’t like to be kept waiting, and it’s only
fair to return the favor. So I sat on the low wall, watching the
parade of characters go by on foot, in limos, on choppers, and
occasionally on Rollerblades. I thought about Jo Jo and Blinky, the
beauty and the bullshit artist. In my life, there had been women
before Jo Jo, and women after her, but she was unique. Always
pushing me. Reach high, be the best. She reminded me of a
recruiting pitch for the Army.
I had cared for her, but I went on without
looking back. I’m not proud of that, but it’s the way I am.
Introspection is not my strong suit. I am an ox, head down, plowing
ahead to newer, if not greener, pastures. So when I am forced to
revisit my past, I am confused. I do not see the present clearly
because the past is still misty. I have not resolved old issues.
Hell, I didn’t even know they were issues at the time.
Now I waited for Blinky. If I smoked, which
I don’t, I would have struck a match. If I drank, which I do, I
would have strolled across the street and sat at the News Cafe,
watching for Blinky at the wall. So I did, at an outdoor table,
ordering a Grolsch, the fine Dutch beer, in the sixteen-ounce
bottle with the porcelain top.
As it turned out, I had a three-Grolsch
wait, and still no
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