Last Chance Lassiter by Paul Levine

Author:Paul Levine [Levine, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nittany Valley Productions, Inc.
Published: 2014-04-04T22:00:00+00:00

-16-

Wrong-Way Lassiter

The iron gate outside Eddie Burns' bayside home was emblazoned with a treble clef. The place was on Treasure Drive just off the 79th Street Causeway, a North Bay Village mini-manse with floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Biscayne Bay. Eddie Burns wore a blue blazer with gold buttons, a paisley ascot, white linen pants, and white patent leather loafers with no socks. His ankles were lined with purple veins. He looked to be somewhere between 80 and purgatory.

At the moment, he was shaking some bitters into a cocktail glass. He'd already poured bourbon over ice, added a hint of water and sugar, and then plopped a maraschino cherry on top.

It had been a while since I'd had a maraschino cherry in a drink. But then, I don't usually sit around at 11 a.m. drinking Old-Fashioneds with Eddie Burns.

Twenty-four hours ago, I'd spoken to Eddie on the phone. He'd found the master tape of I'm Leaving You, Baby, as recorded by Cadillac Johnson in 1959. It was a crucial piece of evidence.

"So kid, you know how Cadillac got his name?" Eddie asked.

I shrugged in the direction of Frank Sinatra, or rather his autographed photo on the wall. "Ring a Ding Ding, Eddie," it said.

"I owned this red Eldo ragtop," Eddie continued. "Cadillac would run his hand over the upholstery like he was stroking a broad's ass."

A broad, I thought. I half expected Sinatra to be singing The Lady is a Tramp in the background.

"Cadillac liked the Eldo so much, I bought him one just like mine. That's the kind a guy I am, Lassiter."

Burns pulled a Torpedo, the huge Cuban cigar, from his blazer pocket, and lit up. He seemed damned satisfied with himself.

"The way I heard it, Mr. Burns, you bought the Caddy wholesale and deducted the retail price from Cadillac's royalties."

Burns waved his giant cigar as if the smoke could obscure all notions of his sleaziness. "Musicians been complaining about their managers since Dick Clark was in diapers. I never took the copyrights like Irv Mills did with Duke Ellington or Phil Spector with the Ronettes."

"You sound regretful about that."

"Hell, no, I love Cadillac too much for that." He blew some cigar smoke my way. "But had I taken the copyrights, you'd be representing me against M.C. Silky. Wouldn't that be something?"

Burns moved to a piano, sat down, played the first few bars of I'm Leaving You, Baby, and warbled the lyrics in a scratchy voice.

"I'm leaving you baby...

Don't ask why.

I'm leaving you baby...

Baby, baby, baby don't cry."

"So could I get the master tape from you?" I asked, when he had finished.

"Wish I could."

"What's that mean?"

"You're a day late. And mucho dinero short. I sold it yesterday."

"Sold it! What bullshit is that?"

"It's the emmis. Young guy in a dark suit. Said he was a collector. Paid fifty thousand cash."

"That's no collector! He's gotta be one of Krippendorf's dwarves."

"Who?"

"Some kid lawyer who's working for Silky's firm. Stealing the evidence so they can deep six it."

"He didn't steal anything. He bought it."

"From you, Eddie! You just helped the enemy!"

"That's life, kid.

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