“Second string, Thad. Story of my life. A step too slow.”
“You’re telling me. Can you sue the wetback by Thursday?”
Jake Lassiter would have liked to put Thad Whitney in the middle of the nutcracker drill, a pair of linemen tattooing his flabby ass with their cleats.
“You there, Jake? How long will it take to draft a complaint, then set up a meeting with the U.S. Attorney so we can prosecute for fraud?”
“I could sue Berto tomorrow. But I’ve got a better idea. Let me take him to dinner tonight.”
“What the hell for? You hard up for black beans and rice?”
Jake Lassiter paused and held the phone away from his face, putting distance between Thad Whitney and himself. It wasn’t far enough. He thought about all the things he’d rather be doing than dealing with the repulsive bank lawyer who was good for forty grand a month in billings. He thought about telling Whitney to take the bad loans and shove them where the sun don’t shine. He thought about hanging up and heading for the beach. And he thought, too, how hard it would be to start a third career. After a moment, he simply said, “If we sue, we’ve got to join Vista Bank as a defendant. They’ll counterclaim and wipe you out with their first mortgage. This has to be finessed. Let me talk to Berto, and I might be able to help you both out.” Lassiter looked at his watch. “Yikes! I gotta get to court.”
“So, is this your biggest case, or what?” Sam Kazdoy asked in a whisper that could be heard throughout the courtroom.
Jake Lassiter leaned close to him at the defense table. “I had another false advertising case even bigger, defending Busty Storm when she was appearing at the Organ Grinder. The state claimed there was no way her bosom measured one hundred and twenty-seven. But I won.”
“How?” Kazdoy asked.
“Centimeters, Sam. Centimeters.”
Their discussion was halted by a stern look from the judge, and Lassiter returned his semi-attention to the witness stand t where Mrs. Sadie Pivnick was swearing to tell the truth, the I whole truth, and nothing but the truth, just like Abe, may his soul rest in peace, always told her.
The prosecutor, Chareen Bailey, a statuesque African-American woman a year out of law school, went through the preliminaries, eliciting name, address, and background, getting warmed up. Mrs. Pivnick sat there stiffly, eyeing the microphone suspiciously, her dyed hair the color of a copper penny. After establishing that her witness was a regular patron of Kazdoy’s All-Nite Deli, Chareen Bailey got down to business.
“Did there come a time, ma’am, when you had a conversation with Mr. Kazdoy about the food in his deli?”
“We talked, sure.”
“And when you talked, did Mr. Kazdoy characterize the food he served?”
“Objection!” Lassiter sang out. He stood, more to stretch his legs than to make a legal point. “No predicate laid as to time or place.”
Judge Morgan Lewis craned his neck to see over the bench and glanced at his watch. “Overruled. Let’s just move it along, Ms. Bailey.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, bowing slightly. They’re still polite when they’re green. She turned to the witness. “You may answer the question, Mrs. Pivnick.”
“Vad question? Who can remember a question when the three of you keep kibitzing?”
The prosecutor gave her a strained smile. “We’ll try it again. Did there come a time when you had a conversation with Mr. Kazdoy in which he characterized the food served in his delicatessen vis a vis the Jewish dietary laws?”
“Vad she say about Visa?” Sadie Pivnick asked, turning to the judge. “My late Abe always insisted I pay cash.”
The judge looked down from his perch and smiled tolerantly. “The food, Mrs. Pivnick. Did you ever discuss the food?”
“ Oy, the food! The stuffed derma gave me the heartburn. I wouldn’t feed it to a dog.”
At the defense table, Sam Kazdoy tugged at Lassiter’s sleeve. “She’s one to talk, that old kvetcherkeh. She put so much chicken fat in her chopped liver, Abe keeled over when he was still a boychik.”
“That’s a shame,” Lassiter whispered.
“He wasn’t a day over eighty,” Kazdoy said, shaking his head sadly.
Chareen Bailey cleared her throat and moved a step closer to the witness stand. “Mrs. Pivnick, what did Mr. Kazdoy say to you as to whether his food was kosher?”
“Ay, that’s what you want to know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So why beat around the bush?”
“Mrs. Pivnick, in the courtroom, the lawyer asks the questions, and the witness answers,” Chareen Bailey said. “Do you understand?”
“What’s not to understand?”
Judge Morgan Lewis sighed and rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Pivnick, just tell us what Mr. Kazdoy said to you.”
“All right, already. I asked him about the food, and he said, ‘Strictly kosher.’ Twice he said it. ‘Strictly kosher.’”
Mrs. Pivnick smiled triumphantly at having done her civic duty. Ms. Bailey sat down, and the judge politely asked whether Mr. Lassiter wished to inquire.
Lassiter stood and smiled at the witness, then turned his back. “How is your hearing, Mrs. Pivnick?”
“Vad you say?”
Lassiter wheeled around toward the bench. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
As soon as Lassiter was in his chair, Sam Kazdoy poked him in the ribs. “That’s it? Perry Mason wouldn’t sit down so quick unless it was time for a commercial.”
“Trust me, Sam.”
“But I never said such a thing. She’s meshugge.”
“She’s a sympathetic witness, and I don’t want to embarrass her. We’ll win or lose on your testimony.”
The old man looked at him skeptically.
“Sam, please trust me. You’re like family to me, and I’d do anything for you.”
“You mean that?” Sam Kazdoy said, his eyes going misty.
“Yeah, I do. And I haven’t said anything like that since I told Coach Shula I’d do whatever was best for the team.”
“He must have liked that.”
“Sure did,” Lassiter said. “He told me to retire.”
Isidor Pickelner scratched at his beard and waited for the next question.
“What is your official capacity, Mr. Pickelner?” Chareen Bailey asked.
“Officially, I’m the Kosher Food Inspector for the City of Miami Beach. Unofficially, I’m Izzy.”
Chareen Bailey leveled her gaze at the witness to tell him this was serious business. “Are you a rabbi?”
“No, ma’am. I’m a shochet. I slaughter animals according to the Jewish dietary laws as laid down in Leviticus and Deuteronomy. And I investigate all establishments in Miami Beach that hold themselves out to be kosher.”
“What do your duties entail?”
“Ascertaining the ingredients and the method of preparation of foods served in restaurants and delicatessens. Only those four-footed animals that chew their cud and have cloven hooves are kosher. So, a cow is kosher, a pig is not. Creatures that crawl such as lizards or snakes are forbidden. Fish must have both scales and fins, so shellfish is taboo.”
“No stone crabs?” Judge Lewis mused.
“Afraid not, Your Honor,” Pickelner replied.
“Did you have an occasion to investigate the food served at Kazdoy’s All-Nite Deli?” Ms. Bailey asked.
Did he ever. Pickelner claimed the sausage was made of pork!
“ Trayf, Your Honor. Unclean! Kielbasa sausage posing as kosher knockwurst. An abomination under the religious laws and false advertising under state laws.”
Ms. Bailey allowed as how she had no further questions, and the judge suggested it was a good time for lunch.
The courthouse wits could not restrain themselves as they stopped at Lassiter and Kazdoy’s table at the Quarterdeck Lounge.
“Hey, Jake, that Reuben’s not kosher,” announced Marvin the Maven. “No mixing meat and cheese.”
“How Trout the beer?” Lassiter asked.
“No problem.”