Tricky Business (6 page)

“Tell him to make an appointment,” said Kemp, turning back to his phone call.

“Mr. Kemp says you . . .” said Dee Dee, but the man had already pushed past her, into Kemp's office. He was a wide, bald man in slacks and a golf shirt. His name was Lou Tarant, and he had, in his career, killed nine people, although none in recent years, since he'd been promoted to management. He walked up to Kemp's desk and put both hands on it. He had very big, very hairy forearms.

“Mr. Kemp,” he said. “My name is Lou Tarant.”

Kemp looked up from the phone.

“You want to see me,” he said, “you make an appointment. I'm on the phone here.”

“I just need a few minutes of your time,” said Tarant. “I'm with a group of businessmen, we do bus . . .”

“Are you
deaf
?” said Kemp. “I'm on the
phone
here.”

“I think you want to hear what I got to say,” said Tarant, reaching over and pressing the hang-up button.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” said Kemp, standing.

“I'm trying to meet with you,” said Tarant. “In a businesslike manner.”

“Dee Dee,” said Kemp, “call building security.”

“Do you know what number that is?” said Dee Dee. “Because sometimes you hafta dial nine, but some other times you . . .”

“Jesus,” said Kemp. “Just go downstairs and get a guard, OK?”

“OK,” said Dee Dee, hurt, leaving. Tarant turned to inspect her ass as she left, then walked over to the window, which overlooked Biscayne Bay.

“I gotta tell you, Bobby,” he said, “this view and that secretary, I wouldn't get nothing done.”

Kemp slid open his right-hand desk drawer, where he kept his gun.

“Say you shoot me,” said Tarant, still looking out the window. “First, you got to explain it to the cops, why you shot an unarmed guy just wanted to talk to you. Second, you mess up this carpet, which looks to me like wool, has to be, what, fifty bucks a yard?”

“What do you want?” asked Kemp, closing the drawer.

“Like I said, I'm with a group, businessmen, we do business with the
Extravaganza,
which, by the way, congratulations on the purchase.”

“What kind of business?”

“This and that. Food and beverage, some personnel, some financial. We had a relationship, very beneficial. Win-win. We want to have the same relationship with you.”

“I got my suppliers,” said Kemp. “I got my own people. I got a bank.”

Tarant turned to face Kemp. “I know that. But I'm telling you, you definitely are better off with us.”

Kemp sighed. “Listen, Guido,” he said.

“It's Lou,” said Tarant. “Lou Tarant.”

“I know who you are, Guido,” said Kemp. “I seen
The Godfather.
”

“Never heard of it,” said Tarant.

“Funny,” said Kemp. “Ha-ha. Now you listen to me, Guido. You don't come here, you don't come into
my office
and break my balls. I'm not some little shitball just got into town and opened up a hot-dog stand. I got a very successful operation. I know people in this town, people wouldn't let you take out their garbage. I tell a city commissioner I want a blow job, five minutes later he's in here on his knees. And I got friends in your line. Food and beverage, let's call it. I tell my friends you came in here, my office, tried to lean on
me,
they are
not
gonna be happy. And if they're not happy, believe me,
you're
not gonna be happy.
Capeesh,
Guido?”

“Lemme guess,” said Tarant. “You're talking about Jimmy Avocado and Sammy Three Nostrils, am I right?”

Kemp said nothing, but those were, in fact, the people he'd been talking about.

“We work with them guys all the time,” said Tarant. “We can have a nice smooth transit.”

“Get the fuck out of my office,” said Kemp.

“Sure,” said Tarant. “I got a two P.M. tee time at Doral anyways. You play golf? I can get you on the Blue Monster, name a day.”

“Fuck you, Guido.”

“OK, then,” said Tarant. “How about we get together again tomorrow, hammer out the details? I'll just drop by.”

“You know what's good for you, you won't even . . .”

Kemp was interrupted by the entrance of Dee Dee, with a security guard.

“I found one!” she said.

“I want you to escort this man out of the building immediately,” Kemp told the guard. “And don't let him back in,
ever.
You understand?”

The guard tore his gaze away from Dee Dee's chest and looked at Kemp, then at Tarant.

“Oh, hi, Mr. T,” he said.

“Hi, Vinny,” said Tarant.

“Wait a fucking
minute
here,” said Kemp. “I'm the goddamn tenant, and I'm telling you to escort this man out.”

The guard, speaking to Tarant, said: “Is there a problem, Mr. T?”

“No problem at all, Vinny,” said Tarant. “I was just leaving. Thanks for stopping by.”

“No problem, Mr. T,” said the guard, leaving.

“OK, then, Bobby,” said Tarant. “See you tomorrow. You mind if I call you Bobby?”

Kemp said nothing.

“Feel free to call me Lou, Bobby,” said Tarant. He left.

Dee Dee said, “The guard told me next time, I could just dial extension one-two-seven.”

“Get my lawyer on the phone,” said Kemp.

“Which one is that?” said Dee Dee.

“Jesus, never mind,” said Kemp, picking up the phone.

“You don't hafta get snippy,” said Dee Dee, leaving.

Kemp's lawyer advised him to ignore Tarant.

“He can't
make
you do business with him,” said the lawyer, a Harvard Law School graduate who knew his torts. “He's just upset about losing a customer. If he comes back, we'll threaten to file a complaint, and believe me, that's the last you'll ever hear from him.”

That reassuring advice, plus five ounces of Belvedere, eased Kemp's worries. He fell asleep that night convinced that he had nothing to worry about, that Tarant was just a big-armed hustler, trying to scare him. Well, fuck
that.
Bobby Kemp didn't scare.

The next morning, every Happy Conch restaurant—every single one—was shut down by county health inspectors. A health department spokeswoman told the news media, which had somehow been alerted, that this was a standard random mass inspection, and that the inspectors had found dozens of violations. These were the very same inspectors who, until then, would not have cared if they had seen human thumbs in the fritter batter, as long as they got their little envelopes of cash.

While a hungover Bobby Kemp was sitting in his office, trying to absorb this news, he got a call from the manager of his largest and busiest Professional Medical Doctors Discount Laser Eye and Cosmetic Surgery Clinic, who informed him that the clinic was being picketed by about a dozen ex-clients, who claimed they were the victims of botched surgical procedures.

“There's a woman out there, she's screaming, she's pulling her goddamn pants down right in front of the TV cameras,” said the manager. “Claims we messed up a lipo on her buttocks. I gotta say, between you and me, her ass looks like one of those science-fair projects where some kid lets cottage cheese sit around for two weeks.”

Kemp's conversation with the clinic manager was interrupted by another phone call, which turned out to be a supervisor on the
Extravaganza of the Seas,
reporting that there had been a freak accident involving the big supply truck.

“The driver got out,” said the supervisor. “He's OK.”

“Fuck the driver,” said Kemp. “What about the truck?”

“I'm guessing the truck is not in great condition,” said the supervisor.

“What do you mean, you're guessing?” said Kemp.

“I mean the truck is on the bottom of the bay.”

“Jesus.”

“Also, the workers are calling in sick.”

“Which workers?”

“Everybody. Dealers, bartenders, waitresses, crew, everybody.”

Kemp hung up. He put his face into his hands for a moment, then picked up the phone and punched, from memory, the cell-phone number of a high-ranking elected Miami-Dade County official who had received significant political support from Kemp in the form of paper sacks filled with cash.

“Hello?” said a voice.

“Benny, this is me, Bobby Kemp.”

A pause, then: “Benny's not here.”

“Benny, goddammit, I know that's you. This is
me,
Bobby Kemp. I got a . . .”

“Whoever this is, I don't hear you. It's a bad reception here.”

“Benny, wait, I need to . . . Benny? Hello? Benny?”

Nothing.

“Fuck,”
said Kemp, slamming down the phone. He thought for a moment, looked up a number, called his lawyer's office.

When the lawyer got on the line, he said, “Listen, you got to get over here right now, because this Tarant asshole is fucking up my entire . . .”

“I, ah, Bobby, I don't think we can do that,” said the lawyer.

“What?” said Kemp.

“I just feel . . . that is,
we
feel, here at the firm, that, ah, in the interest of insuring that you get the best possible legal representation, to which you are absolutely entitled, no question, it's, ah, our feeling that—and this is, believe me, strictly for your benefit—to avoid any suggestion of conflict, it would be for the best if there was, ah, a
discontinuance,
insofar as . . .”

“They got to you, you little needle-dick weasel,” said Kemp.

“Now, Bobby, there's no call for . . .”

“Three hundred fifty fucking dollars an
hour
I been paying you to read leases I can already read myself, and now the one fucking time I need you to actually
do
something, you
bail
on me?”

Dee Dee stuck her head in the door.

“Mr. Kemp? That guy? With the arms? From yesterday? He's here. You want me to . . .”

“Hey, Bobby,” said Tarant, coming around Dee Dee. “How's things?”

“You know how things are,” said Kemp, hanging up on the lawyer.

“Things look good to me,” said Tarant, examining the front of Dee Dee's dress.

“You want me to get the guard again?” asked Dee Dee.

“No,” said Kemp. “Just get out, OK?”

“You don't hafta get snippy,” said Dee Dee, leaving.

“Should've come out to Doral with me yesterday,” said Tarant. “Beautiful day, no wind. I'm hitting the ball like Tiger Friggin' Woods, swear to God. I'll take you out one of these days.”

“What if I go to the feds?” said Kemp. “You ever think of that, Guido?”

“It's Lou, Bobby. Lou Tarant. Out of curiosity, why would you want to go to the feds?”

“To tell them I got organized wop greaseballs leaning on me, my business. I bet they'd love to hear about that.”

“Could be, Bobby. Could be. But, sake of argument, say you call them in. First of all, you want to wind up in the Witness Protection Program? You familiar with that? Instead of Bobby Kemp, big-time Miami businessman with a big office, friends with the mayor, has a secretary with a major pair of garbanzos, all of a sudden you're a guy named Hiram Schmutz, living in a trailer in Albuquerque, checking your bedroom slippers for scorpions. And suppose the feds start poking around. You know how they are, always poking around. Maybe they start checking into, I dunno, serial numbers on air bags. Offshore accounts. Immigration violations. Taxes, Christ, just think about the taxes. You know, all that federal shit.”

Kemp stared at him.

“Did you know,” said Tarant, “you mess with air bags, that's a federal offense? You believe that? Doing time, federal prison, for an
air bag
?”

Dee Dee stuck her head in the door.

“There's some people out here?” she said. “From TV? With cameras? They want to talk to you about some lady, her butt or something.”

“Tell them I'm not here,” Kemp told Dee Dee.

Dee Dee turned and announced to the reception area: “He says he's not here.”

“Jesus,” said Kemp. “Just close the fucking door, OK?”

“How come everything around here is always
my
fault?” said Dee Dee, slamming the door.

Kemp sat at his desk, turned the chair, looked out the window.

“OK,” he said. “What do you want?”

“Just like I told you yesterday, Bobby,” said Tarant. “The group I represent, we want to do business with you. You're gonna find we're very businesslike. You work with us, you got nothing to worry about. For example, looks to me like you got some problems right here today. We can help you with things like that.”

Kemp was quiet for almost a minute, then: “OK.”

“Good,” said Tarant. “Real good.” He came around to Kemp's side of the desk, stuck out his hand. Reluctantly, Kemp reached out. Tarant took Kemp's hand and, seemingly without effort, pulled Kemp to his feet. He squeezed Kemp's hand.

“You made the right decision, Bobby.” He did not let go of Kemp's hand. His grip tightened. Kemp felt his hand bones grinding.

“Now that we're working together,” he said, “couple of minor things.” The pain was getting unbearable, but there was no hint of strain in Tarant's voice. “Number one, you never call me Guido again, OK, Bobby? Or greaseball. Or especially wop.” When he said
wop,
Kemp felt an agonizing stab of pain in his hand, like something had snapped in there. He whimpered, tried to pull his hand away, but could not move it.