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Authors: Paul Levine
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recalled the day he met the girl. He’d walked over to the 10th Street beach from the little office he rented next to a kosher bakery. Two cameras dangled from his neck, that professional photographer look. Still had most of his hair and an almost flat stomach. Krista Larkin had been in town two days. Sleeping on the beach under an umbrella. Tall girl with a peachy complexion. Said she’d come to Miami to model, and when she had saved enough money, she planned to enroll in the fashion design college she’d read about in
Parade
. From the moment he first saw her, Ziegler had other ideas for her. To fuck her, sure. But to make money off her, even better.
He talked her into coming back to his studio, so she could pose. Telling her he was locked into the top modeling agencies, and she’d be on the cover of
Vogue
, no doubt about it. Maybe get her into the movies, too. Of course, she took the bait. Innocent as a spring day, fresh as milk from a cow. In his experience, some of these sweet Midwestern girls couldn’t wait to take their clothes off.
He even remembered what she was wearing. Flip-flops, khaki shorts, a white cotton blouse. Carrying a backpack with everything she owned. He told her about all the money she could make. That, at least, was no lie.
Lolita in Lauderdale
made a ton of dough, and she shot a sequel every week for two months. But that first day, he planned to keep PG-rated. Or at least start that way.
In the studio, she squinted into the quartz light and fidgeted as he clicked off the first few shots. Awkward, embarrassed, amateurish.
“You’re tense,” he told her. “Self-conscious. Your body’s locked. Let’s try something.”
As if the idea had just come to him
.
“Leave your blouse on, but take off your bra.”
A girlish giggle
.
“Don’t be a kid now. Think
Cosmo.”
He punched up a C.D., Wreckx-n-Effect hip-hopping to
Rump Shaker.
The music thumped with hot and sweaty sex. “All I wanna do is zoom-a-zoom-zoom and a boom-boom.”
“Loosen your hips, Krista. Let the music flow through you.”
She came alive, all fluid movements and breathy sighs
.
“Now, unleash your sexuality. Feel the fabric on your nipples.”
She was a natural. The sexiest girls, he knew, were the ones who didn’t try. He might get a year or two out of her before she got used up or beat up or knocked up
.
“Let’s go for another effect. Now, this is going to be cold.”
He tossed a glass of water on her blouse
.
She writhed with the music. Peeled herself out of the blouse without being asked
.
He did her that night, bent over his cluttered desk. And the next day and the day after that
.
Who knew, Ziegler wondered now, that the kid would end up holding the keys to his fortune and his life?
He glanced toward the construction site, shielding his eyes from the setting sun. Whoever had been there moments before had disappeared into the gloaming like a distant dream.
14 Pimpmobiles on Parade
It was suppertime, as my granny called it, when I headed home. Canvas top down, I aimed the Lassiter chariot south on I-95, passing the darkened skyscrapers, many as empty as a loan shark’s heart. Bankruptcy and foreclosure had hit the downtown corridor hard.
The expressway ended at South Dixie Highway. On maps, that’s U.S. 1, better described as Useless 1. In my rearview, I caught sight of a candy-apple red Cadillac Escalade two cars behind me and one lane over. I’m not sure why I noticed it. The spinning wheel covers and rumbling lake pipes, maybe? Or because I’d seen the same car earlier today.
The Escalade—or its twin brother—had been double-parked on 12th Street when I pulled out of the Justice Building parking lot after my meeting with Alex Castiel. I hadn’t thought anything of it. Now I wondered if someone was tailing me. But what a strange choice of vehicles. As inconspicuous as a stone crab in your Wheaties.
Besides, who would it be? A plainclothes cop or a private eye? Not in that
Parade
. From the moment he first saw her, Ziegler had other ideas for her. To fuck her, sure. But to make money off her, even better.
He talked her into coming back to his studio, so she could pose. Telling her he was locked into the top modeling agencies, and she’d be on the cover of
Vogue
, no doubt about it. Maybe get her into the movies, too. Of course, she took the bait. Innocent as a spring day, fresh as milk from a cow. In his experience, some of these sweet Midwestern girls couldn’t wait to take their clothes off.
He even remembered what she was wearing. Flip-flops, khaki shorts, a white cotton blouse. Carrying a backpack with everything she owned. He told her about all the money she could make. That, at least, was no lie.
Lolita in Lauderdale
made a ton of dough, and she shot a sequel every week for two months. But that first day, he planned to keep PG-rated. Or at least start that way.
In the studio, she squinted into the quartz light and fidgeted as he clicked off the first few shots. Awkward, embarrassed, amateurish.
“You’re tense,” he told her. “Self-conscious. Your body’s locked. Let’s try something.”
As if the idea had just come to him
.
“Leave your blouse on, but take off your bra.”
A girlish giggle
.
“Don’t be a kid now. Think
Cosmo.”
He punched up a C.D., Wreckx-n-Effect hip-hopping to
Rump Shaker.
The music thumped with hot and sweaty sex. “All I wanna do is zoom-a-zoom-zoom and a boom-boom.”
“Loosen your hips, Krista. Let the music flow through you.”
She came alive, all fluid movements and breathy sighs
.
“Now, unleash your sexuality. Feel the fabric on your nipples.”
She was a natural. The sexiest girls, he knew, were the ones who didn’t try. He might get a year or two out of her before she got used up or beat up or knocked up
.
“Let’s go for another effect. Now, this is going to be cold.”
He tossed a glass of water on her blouse
.
She writhed with the music. Peeled herself out of the blouse without being asked
.
He did her that night, bent over his cluttered desk. And the next day and the day after that
.
Who knew, Ziegler wondered now, that the kid would end up holding the keys to his fortune and his life?
He glanced toward the construction site, shielding his eyes from the setting sun. Whoever had been there moments before had disappeared into the gloaming like a distant dream.
14 Pimpmobiles on Parade
It was suppertime, as my granny called it, when I headed home. Canvas top down, I aimed the Lassiter chariot south on I-95, passing the darkened skyscrapers, many as empty as a loan shark’s heart. Bankruptcy and foreclosure had hit the downtown corridor hard.
The expressway ended at South Dixie Highway. On maps, that’s U.S. 1, better described as Useless 1. In my rearview, I caught sight of a candy-apple red Cadillac Escalade two cars behind me and one lane over. I’m not sure why I noticed it. The spinning wheel covers and rumbling lake pipes, maybe? Or because I’d seen the same car earlier today.
The Escalade—or its twin brother—had been double-parked on 12th Street when I pulled out of the Justice Building parking lot after my meeting with Alex Castiel. I hadn’t thought anything of it. Now I wondered if someone was tailing me. But what a strange choice of vehicles. As inconspicuous as a stone crab in your Wheaties.
Besides, who would it be? A plainclothes cop or a private eye? Not in that
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