Lansky’s Riviera casino. His most important task was delivering bundles of cash to President Fulgencio Batista. More mundane chores involved chopping offthe hands of casino employees caught skimming. Or so Alex once told me with notes of contentment.
Castiel held up his cigarette lighter. “This belonged to my father. Solid gold.”
He tossed it to me. Heavy as a hand grenade. I ran a finger around a raised ridge of gold in the shape of a crocodile with a diamond for an eye. The ridge was the outline of the island of Cuba. The diamond was Havana.
“Lansky must have been paying well,” I said, tossing the lighter back.
“Bernard didn’t buy it. President Batista gave it to him as a fortieth birthday present. Can you imagine its value to me?”
As much as a John Dillinger’s Tommy gun to his heirs, I thought. But what I said was, “A lot, Alex. I know your family lost everything to Castro. And I know how your father lost his life.”
The story was part of the Castiel mythology, and it helped propel Alex into public office. In January 1959, Castro’s ragtag army was running amok through Havana. Looting, burning, killing. Bernard Castiel came across three rebels dragging a woman from a home in the ritzy Miramar section, beating her and stripping off her clothes. Castiel knocked one man unconscious and was pulling a second rebel off the woman when he was bayoneted in the back. He bled to death in the gutter, an early victim of Castro’s butchery. Rosa was pregnant with Alex. Within two years, she would die of breast cancer, and Alex became an orphan.
“So, tell me, Jake. How do the scales tip? Does
mi padre
’s work for Lansky make him evil? What was he, hero or gangster?”
“He died heroically. That’s good enough for me.”
“But a hero can’t be all good,” Castiel prodded me. “And a gangster can’t be all bad.”
“I get it. Ziegler is okay because he gives money to good causes, not the least of which is the re-election of Alejandro Castiel.”
He ground his teeth and his jaw muscles danced. “We’re done here, Jake. Just do your client a favor and tell her to go back home to Indiana.”
“Ohio.”
“Marry the clerk at the John Deere store. Have a couple kids. Overcook burgers in the backyard.”
“Don’t be a patronizing jerk.”
He shook his head sadly and pointed his cigar toward the door. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah, see you.”
I walked out without another word, feeling cruddy. Guys can argue, maybe even take a swing at each other, and get over it. But this felt different. Like I was losing a friend.
Outside the door was the desk of his executive assistant, an efficient, older woman who began stuffing envelopes in her boss’s first campaign and now held the keys to the palace gate.
“Charlene, which way to the rest room?”
“You know very well where it is, Mr. Lassiter. Down the hall to the left.”
“I’ll be quick.”
She gave me a look that said,
“Like I give a hoot?”
“We’re doing a conference call in a minute,” I said, matter-of-factly. Lies are best told with no gestures, little expression, and few effects. “With Charlie Ziegler.”
Charlene wrinkled her forehead, punched a button, and an LCD display lit up. “You might want to hurry up,” she said. “Mr. Castiel is already on with Mr. Ziegler.”
Which is just what I feared. The door had barely closed behind me, and my old buddy was giving aid and comfort—and information—to the enemy. Now my job was to figure out why.
13 The Prince of Porn No More
Charles W. Ziegler, proud owner of the third largest house on Casuarina Concourse in Gables Estates, was pissed off. Ten minutes ago, his wife, Lola, had told him he might think about cutting back on the cheesecake. Not in those words.
“Charlie, you’re looking positively porcine.”
Porcine?
Where’d she get that? The woman barely had a GED.
Yeah, okay. He was blubbery and mostly bald, and at fifty-eight needed a
Castiel held up his cigarette lighter. “This belonged to my father. Solid gold.”
He tossed it to me. Heavy as a hand grenade. I ran a finger around a raised ridge of gold in the shape of a crocodile with a diamond for an eye. The ridge was the outline of the island of Cuba. The diamond was Havana.
“Lansky must have been paying well,” I said, tossing the lighter back.
“Bernard didn’t buy it. President Batista gave it to him as a fortieth birthday present. Can you imagine its value to me?”
As much as a John Dillinger’s Tommy gun to his heirs, I thought. But what I said was, “A lot, Alex. I know your family lost everything to Castro. And I know how your father lost his life.”
The story was part of the Castiel mythology, and it helped propel Alex into public office. In January 1959, Castro’s ragtag army was running amok through Havana. Looting, burning, killing. Bernard Castiel came across three rebels dragging a woman from a home in the ritzy Miramar section, beating her and stripping off her clothes. Castiel knocked one man unconscious and was pulling a second rebel off the woman when he was bayoneted in the back. He bled to death in the gutter, an early victim of Castro’s butchery. Rosa was pregnant with Alex. Within two years, she would die of breast cancer, and Alex became an orphan.
“So, tell me, Jake. How do the scales tip? Does
mi padre
’s work for Lansky make him evil? What was he, hero or gangster?”
“He died heroically. That’s good enough for me.”
“But a hero can’t be all good,” Castiel prodded me. “And a gangster can’t be all bad.”
“I get it. Ziegler is okay because he gives money to good causes, not the least of which is the re-election of Alejandro Castiel.”
He ground his teeth and his jaw muscles danced. “We’re done here, Jake. Just do your client a favor and tell her to go back home to Indiana.”
“Ohio.”
“Marry the clerk at the John Deere store. Have a couple kids. Overcook burgers in the backyard.”
“Don’t be a patronizing jerk.”
He shook his head sadly and pointed his cigar toward the door. “I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah, see you.”
I walked out without another word, feeling cruddy. Guys can argue, maybe even take a swing at each other, and get over it. But this felt different. Like I was losing a friend.
Outside the door was the desk of his executive assistant, an efficient, older woman who began stuffing envelopes in her boss’s first campaign and now held the keys to the palace gate.
“Charlene, which way to the rest room?”
“You know very well where it is, Mr. Lassiter. Down the hall to the left.”
“I’ll be quick.”
She gave me a look that said,
“Like I give a hoot?”
“We’re doing a conference call in a minute,” I said, matter-of-factly. Lies are best told with no gestures, little expression, and few effects. “With Charlie Ziegler.”
Charlene wrinkled her forehead, punched a button, and an LCD display lit up. “You might want to hurry up,” she said. “Mr. Castiel is already on with Mr. Ziegler.”
Which is just what I feared. The door had barely closed behind me, and my old buddy was giving aid and comfort—and information—to the enemy. Now my job was to figure out why.
13 The Prince of Porn No More
Charles W. Ziegler, proud owner of the third largest house on Casuarina Concourse in Gables Estates, was pissed off. Ten minutes ago, his wife, Lola, had told him he might think about cutting back on the cheesecake. Not in those words.
“Charlie, you’re looking positively porcine.”
Porcine?
Where’d she get that? The woman barely had a GED.
Yeah, okay. He was blubbery and mostly bald, and at fifty-eight needed a
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