Tender Is LeVine: A Jack LeVine Mystery (19 page)

I stared at LaMarca. The story he was telling me was entirely plausible, but I didn’t believe any of it.

“You’re not buying it, I can tell,” he said.

“I’m no genius, Joey, but I’m totally lost right now. I feel like I’m watching a ball game, except there’s three teams on the field. It’s like I don’t even know what the rules are here, except I’m pretty sure nobody’s been straight with me so far, with the probable exception of Toscanini, who thinks he’s under the FBI’s care. Let me ask you two questions. You can answer them or not.”

“Go ahead, Jack. I got no reason to bullshit you.”

“You probably have two dozen reasons to bullshit me. No matter. Question one: This bogus Toscanini, that’s a major undertaking—train a guy to swing and sway like Sammy Kaye, the plastic surgery …”

“Took over a year.”

“I would think at least that.”

LaMarca nodded his head gravely.

“So the FBI telling the old man it’s the fascists suddenly on his tail has to be a load of crap if you consider that this bogus Maestro’s been in the works for over a year.”

LaMarca permitted himself a small smile. “That’s a good point, Jack. Except the fascists been after the old man since the late 1920s. Maybe certain individuals planned this other Toscanini long ago out of their love and respect for the old man.”

“A backup Maestro?”

“Exactly.”

“Guy in the bullpen, for times of crisis.”

“Think about it, Jack: The old man’s worth a bunch of money to a bunch of people, plus he’s a political target practically his whole fuckin’ life. Wouldn’t it pay to have a double for emergencies?”

“This is science fiction, Joe. You’re telling me that Lucky and Meyer had this ersatz Toscanini in the works for years?”

“What’s ersatz?”

“A phony, a stand-in.”

“I don’t know about that, how many years. There was planning involved, leave it at that, Jack. What’s your other question?”

“Question two is more mundane: Where are we going?”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“We’re on our way to Miami, Jack. Should get there by about four o’clock.”

“And then?”

“Then we get in a couple of limos and drive to the airport.”

“The airport. Great. I don’t suppose we’re all going back to New York, are we? ’Cause there’s twelve grand in it for me if I bring the old man back alive.”

LaMarca shook his head. “Wish I could say we were, Jack. But you be a good citizen with us and you could walk home with a lot more than twelve grand.”

“I could.”

“Definitely.” The clouds were breaking up and, predictably, the temperature was beginning to soar. The back of my shirt was rapidly getting soaked. “You play straight with us, you could walk home with some very serious money.” LaMarca blew a few smoke rings in the general direction of the equator. “You ever been to Las Vegas, Jack?”

“Never.”

LaMarca squinted into the horizon. “Well, you’re in for a real treat.”

LaMarca patted me on the arm with his left hand, then tightened his grip and quickly brought his right arm around. I felt a stinging sensation in the area of my right biceps.

“Sorry, Jack,” he said. “Got no choice.” I saw him depress the plunger on the syringe he had stuck into my upper arm. “This’ll just make the trip go smoother for everyone concerned.”

TEN

This time it was dark
and as I arose into the beginnings of consciousness I felt myself perspiring like a guy in a
shvitz.
The pillow behind my head was drenched and sweat ran down my forehead and across my closed lids; it formed little streams on the back of my neck and dripped onto my shoulders. My eyes felt as though they’d been glued shut. When I tried to move my legs, I could feel water puddling behind the backs of my knees. Groggy and disoriented, I attempted to sit up and realized that this time I’d been restrained; my arms and legs were tied to a mattress or air cushion of some sort. I breathed as deeply as I could and concentrated on getting my bearings. The steady drone of airplane engines reminded me of my curious location, fifteen thousand feet in the air above the southern United States, flying toward a mysterious and synthetic city that I had only read about. The air currents were remarkably smooth and I had little sense of being airborne; if I hadn’t been drugged and roped down like a calf, I might have enjoyed the trip.

It took several minutes—maybe five, maybe twenty, I was still totally muddled—before I could muster the strength to open my eyes. When I did, everything was out of focus, so I shut them again, as tightly as I could. My nerve endings were like so many downed power lines, sparking and then bursting into low spastic flames. Evolving shapes illuminated my brain, swirling kidney-shaped blobs in hues so vivid they made my stomach turn and forced even more sweat through my wide-open pores. I sighed, maybe too loudly—I had lost all awareness of my own volume—and then I sensed a cloth on my forehead. Someone was patting me down, cleaning me off. When I opened my eyes, I thought I saw Toscanini before me, but he was wearing green fatigues and an army hat. I shut my eyes, certain that I was hallucinating and not liking it one little bit. I felt the cloth on my neck; it was strangely comforting and made me feel happily infantile. I was ready for a warm bottle of milk and for a can of talcum powder to be sprinkled across my ample behind. After another deep breath, I forced my eyes open; again I saw Toscanini, still wearing his military costume.

“You had quite the snooze,” the old man said, speaking with a pronounced Brooklyn accent.

“Excuse me?” I said. This was straight out of
Alice In Wonderland.
I had obviously been injected with enough high-octane opiates to scramble a hippo’s consciousness.

“You were out like a light,” said Toscanini. “We’re almost in Vegas. Another half hour.”

“Really,” I mumbled. I lifted my head, looked around the small plane. I could see nobody else. “Where’s everybody, Maestro? Where’s Signore LaMarca?”

“Joey?”

“Yeah. Joey.”

“He’s in the other plane,” Toscanini said.

“There’s two planes?”

“That’s correct.”

I shut my eyes again. When I opened them, Toscanini was still in the green fatigues and army hat. No matter how many times I opened and closed my orbs, this bizarre fact remained the same. Maybe I had just snapped, or maybe … It finally dawned on me.

“You’re the other one,” I said. “Jesus Christ, how dumb can a guy be? You’re the double.”

What I could only presume was the ersatz Toscanini leaned back in his chair. He was seated directly across the aisle and I realized that I was lying not on a mattress or cushion, but on an airplane seat that had been forced all the way back, so that I was virtually prone. Leather straps bound my arms to the rests and my legs were strapped tightly to the seat.

“Double?” Toscanini said with a smile.
“Che fantasia!
”

“Too late to
parle Italiano,
Charlie; I already met the genuine article,” I told him, then began coughing. And coughing. My saliva tasted like lighter fluid. The faux-Toscanini thoughtfully produced a spittoon, which I immediately utilized.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “What did they give me?”

“Drug cocktail. A highball.”

“I can’t stop sweating.”

“Wait till you get to Vegas, you want to know from sweating. Hits about a hundred ten, hundred fifteen at midday. But it’s a dry heat, that’s what the locals like to say. Hundred and ten and dry. You leave a wet bathing suit outside for over an hour, you can fuckin’ break it in two.”

“I assume you’ve been there.”

“Lots of times. Tremendous place.”

“Really. Never read about it in the papers. Toscanini in Vegas. Must’ve been a sensation.”

“Papers don’t print everything.” He smiled shamelessly and took off his cap. Beneath, he had the same pink dome as the old man.

“They did some job on you, unbelievable,” I told him. “What was it, some clinic up in the Swiss Alps? Or was it in Sweden, some joint hidden away in the fjords? Blond physical therapists catering to your every need?”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he said, and put the cap back on.

I closed my eyes again. My head was slowly beginning to clear.

“Why play this half-assed game?” I said, my eyes shut as if speaking to a silent psychiatrist. “Just say who you are. Who am I going to tell, ten thousand feet up in the air and tied down like a magician’s stooge?”

“As far as you’re concerned, I’m Toscanini, okay? That’s all you need to know.”

I opened my eyes. The man in the army fatigues smiled.

“Everything’s going to be fine. Just keep the questions to a minimum.” With that he arose and walked to the front of the plane. I lay back and stared out the window at the night landscape. There was nearly a full moon out, casting a spectral light across the vast cratered desert. A lone highway unspooled below, looking largely unoccupied; as I gazed out the oval pane of glass I observed a car, then a truck, slowly moving west. That was it. There was no other sign of what we like to call civilization. I could have just as well been flying over Saturn.

As I studied this moonlit void with a child’s fascination, I felt a tap on my knee. When I turned around, Lansky was leaning against a seat across the aisle.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked.

“Not in the slightest,” I told him. “Why the hell do you keep drugging me? Is this some goddamn medical experiment?”

Lansky nodded. “We’re studying the effects of certain pharmaceuticals on circumcised detectives. Sending the results up to Yeshiva.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Jack. I didn’t think it was really necessary. But others disagreed.”

“‘Others’? Come on, Meyer, let’s stop playing footsie. You’re calling the shots here; it sure isn’t LaMarca or this department-store Santa you got pretending to be Toscanini.”

“Me?” Lansky shook his head in exaggerated innocence. “I never give the orders. That’s why I’ve survived this long.”

“Please …”

“I’m serious, Jack. Don’t overestimate me.” Lansky sat down in the seat the surrogate Maestro had just vacated. “People always try to give me credit, like I’m some fucking mastermind arch-criminal. I don’t need that kind of credit.” He smiled. “It’s bad for the health.”

I just sighed and shifted in my seat. Lansky leaned over and untied my legs.

“We didn’t want you to hurt yourself while you were knocked out.”

“You could have avoided the trouble by not knocking me out.”

“Well, that’s a moot point, isn’t it? Fact is”—and now he undid my arms with sure and quick hands—“it probably was overcautious, but it’s over and done with and that’ll be the last time.”

“Until the next time.”

Lansky rubbed his substantial nose and smiled. “Yeah.”

“Where’s LaMarca?”

“On the other plane.”

“With the old man?”

Lansky nodded. “With the old man and the old man’s nurse.”

“Nurse?”

“Just in case. He’s eighty-three, Jack.” Lansky smiled. “Nurse is about thirty-five and the old man handpicked her. From what I hear about him, he’s probably slipping it to her. Horny old guinea, loves the ladies. Lot of stories about him and they’re probably all true. He’s still got the pizzazz, am I right?”

“Certainly does. Magnetic old bastard.”

“Yeah.” Lansky stared evenly at me. His lips pursed, as if he were sucking on a sourball. “Speaking of ladies, I understand that you and Barbara started to develop something of a relationship.”

I couldn’t think of anything very cogent to say, so I stayed mum.

“Who’s gonna fault you, Jack?” Lansky sat back down. “You’re a single man, she’s one of the great pieces of ass of the twentieth century. You’re only human. Smoke?” He offered me a Lucky and I took it. “I’m sure you’re aware of the fact that we were together at one time, but that’s strictly in the past. I’m happily married now, which I’m sure you’re very glad to hear.”

“I’m delighted, Meyer.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.” He lit both our cigarettes. “Barbara only came back to me because she was in need of assistance.”