Landmark Status

By Alan H. Rolnick

Its the battle of the Century Club in Landmark Status, as rivals vie for the right to bury a run-down Miami bar and raise a fabulous condo on its grave. Lawyer Benjy Bluestone couldnt care less, but cant resist beautiful broker Delia Torres, even though shes fronting for a crew thats trouble from the ground up. Soon, high rollers and lowlifes are tangling in Miamis courtrooms and backrooms, careening around in a subtropical nuthouse where all roads lead to Opa-locka and an explosive secret threatens to blow the deal sky high.

"Move over, Carl Hiaasen! This brilliantly funny romp through the 'real' Miami will have you howling with laughter and booking your trip to South Beach. You're gonna love it!" -Michael Levin, author of Soft Target

"Immensely entertaining . . . colorful characters . . . wacky courtroom scenes" (Front Street Reviews)

"Zany antics . . . engrossing plot . . . quick-witted dialog . . . fast-paced" (Reader Views)

"This comedic mystery was a hoot . . . hilarious scenes . . . memorable characters" (Heartland Reviews)

"A riotous book . . . deserves a spot on the best-seller list . . . a must-have" (Blogger News Network)

In the same way that many of Mark Twains stories forestall a simple recap, [Landmark Status] is packed with oblique references, literary play on words, and situational comedy that you really need to read to appreciate. . . . This is a great read and you will not be disappointed! (Roundtable Reviews)

Winner of the 2008 Sabrina Award for Best Mystery

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 30, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595870462

Alan H. Rolnick

Alan H. Rolnick grew up in a sleepy river town playing baseball and Beatles songs, wishing he lived someplace different. Twenty years of law practice in Miami, whose heart-stopping beauty and self-absorbed chaos challenged him daily to figure out where on earth he was, left no doubt he'd gotten his wish.

Book preview

-ONE-

Benjy opened the front door to a South Grove morning thick with the sweet smell of exotic fruit fallen from trees in every yard for miles around. He stepped out into rampant sunlight impossibly drilling through the canopy of banyan leaves overhead. Stopping for a second to check the knot in his tie, he lifted his chin just enough to blind himself. Paradise it surely is, he said, blinking and reaching for his sunglasses. And it was, albeit a little murky.

Shaking his shirt loose against the dampness, Benjy walked past the BMW in the driveway and zigzagged through the banyan tree droppings toward a red 65 Mustang convertible parked at the curb. The guys from the shop had dropped it off last night after a tuneup, some minor repairs and detailing, including cleaning the white top. It was looking good, and he hadn’t driven it in a while. He unlocked the driver side door and pulled on the door handle.

But it wouldn’t open. Still not fixed, he thought. Undaunted, Benjy went around to the other side, unlocked the passenger door, twisted and slid across to the driver’s seat. He threw his suit jacket behind him in the direction of the back seat and turned the key in the ignition. The vintage V-8 kicked over and roared to life. That’s better, he said, listening to the dual exhaust’s rumble and growl as he drove away.

But his dress shirt started sticking to him like a piece of plastic wrap as he drove up Douglas Road in the late-summer heat. Can we cool off, old horse? he asked, reaching for the air conditioner. The answer was no. Pulling into the E-Z Stop, Benjy twiddled the controls, but nothing happened.

He parked and pondered going home to get the BMW. For all it cost to keep it right, the old Mustang never seemed to deliver as much as it promised. But Benjy was an optimistic sort, and slow to admit that nostalgia isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He was also stubborn when his mind was made up, like it was now. Nature’s way it is, then, he said, reaching up to release the left latch on the convertible top.

But it didn’t want to be released. Benjy pulled harder, then harder still, then banged on it a couple of times. Calm down and try it again, he thought, looking through the windshield at a sweating crowd gathered across the street. Men in hard hats, some in short sleeves, some in suits. Women in pastels with dark glasses. They were standing next to a mobile crane with a wrecking ball aimed at a three-story frame house, listening to a man speaking from the front porch.

So today’s the day, Benjy said. The imminent demise of the grand old Patterson house had been a minor news item last week. The two acres it stood on were the site of eight new mini-mansions developer Chuck Steinberg was putting up, and the old house was going down. Its Dade County Pine skeleton and skin had withstood everything from termites to hurricanes for seventy years, but it stood no chance against developer’s fever.

Benjy shook his head and reached up again. Inexplicably, the left latch opened easily this time. Then the right one. He pushed up on the frame to give the old motor a little help, and the top slowly cranked open and started lifting straight up. Benjy watched, in case he had to push some more.

Across the street, the crowd was applauding the end of Chuck Steinberg’s remarks. The developer jumped off the porch and the crane operator drew back the wrecking ball for the first ceremonial blow. But the ball broke loose at the top of the backswing and kept going. Suddenly, the applause turned into shouting and screaming.

Benjy heard the noise and looked down to see the crowd pointing his way.

Oh, no! he yelped, throwing himself flat across the front seat, as the wrecking ball roared through his now-vertical convertible top like a cannonball through a sail. It crashed through the back window of a new Porsche SUV parked behind him, pushing it squealing and groaning into a tree, while it crushed the seats and drove the dashboard right through the firewall.

When the noise stopped, Benjy popped his head up like a gopher out of a hole. He turned around and saw his mangled convertible top, ripped off its hinges and laying on the ground. He turned back and saw a tall man in a beige suit running toward him. Benjy waved to show he was okay. The man ran right by. A couple of seconds later, a man in short sleeves came running up to the Mustang. You alright? he asked.

Think so, said Benjy. But my car isn’t.

I can see, said the short-sleeved man.

Get over here, Joe, shouted the man in the suit, weeping over the pile of scrap that used to be his SUV.

Just making sure this guy’s okay, the short-sleeved man said.

Screw him, shouted the other man, turning and waving his arms. Look what you did to my car.

It was a freak accident, Chuck, said the man named Joe. He walked away from Benjy. Don’t worry, he said. The insurance will cover it.

I knew I shouldn’t have hired you people, Chuck Steinberg said, holding his head in his hands. Crooks and clowns all of you. Joe Diaz, the demolition crew foreman, put a short-sleeved, sweaty arm around Chuck’s expensively suited shoulder. Chuck pushed him to the ground.

It’s just a car, Chuck, said Joe Diaz, getting up and brushing himself off. The good thing is nobody got hurt.

Wrong! Chuck roared. "The good thing is somebody is gonna get hurt! You!" He picked up a piece of pipe from the tire rack shorn off the back of the SUV and started chasing the short-sleeved man around the parking lot. The rest of the crowd came running from across the street, including two cops who’d been dozing in their squad cars monitoring the ceremony. They caught up with Chuck after his second lap, next to the Mustang, where Benjy stood inspecting the damage. One cop got Chuck in a hammerlock and the other disarmed him. Benjy turned to watch.

You idiots can’t do this to me, Chuck yelled, red-faced and clawing at a panting Joe Diaz with his free hand. I’m calling my lawyer. That bloodsucker’ll have all your jobs.

Benjy wasn’t near as big as Chuck or the cops, but he moved with an athlete’s confidence as he stepped in to play peacemaker. Calling the lawyer doesn’t always help, he said.

How would you know? Chuck snarled as he wriggled free.

I am one, said Benjy.

Oh yeah? Well this is for you, asshole, Chuck said, nailing Benjy with a headbutt. Benjy went down in a heap as the cop grabbed Chuck and pulled him away. The other cop called for backup.

A minute or so later, Benjy was leaning on his car, rubbing his forehead. He’d declined pressing charges and taking the ride to Jackson Memorial. A cop on a bullhorn was saying, Okay, show’s over, folks. Everybody move along. Benjy dusted himself off and dragged his dead convertible top over to the steaming wreckage of the world’s most exclusive truck. Flexing his knees a little, he spun like a hammer thrower and heaved the top onto the heap of newly minted junk. He walked back to the Mustang and reached into the glove box for something to wipe off his hands. Along with a clean rag, a must in a classic car, he found a couple of Partagas Perfectos.

Now, there’s a good idea, Benjy said. It was early in the day, but smoking a cigar with the top down was one of life’s little pleasures, to be enjoyed whenever possible. Especially after almost getting killed. Benjy got back in the car and clipped one of the perfectos with his cutter. He was lighting up and pulling out of the parking lot when his cell phone rang. It was Linda, his assistant.

Hey there. What’s happening this morning? asked Benjy, watching the smoke curling up over the windshield. It was a week after Labor Day, and his clients, adversaries and judges were paying attention again to work, a lot like their children returning to school.

Well, you’ve got the Arango deposition at two, Linda said. You need to get started on the amended complaint in Cornerstone Bank. That’s due Thursday. And don’t forget the telephonic hearing in Crimmins at eleven.

Got the Cruz funeral first, Benjy said.

You know you don’t really have time, right? asked Linda. You said we wouldn’t be finishing pleadings at midnight anymore, remember?

No, no, this will be easy, Benjy said. I can do the Crimmins hearing from the car. And you’ve got my bet Arango cancels again?

Going for four? That’s bold, said Linda.

And we can get more time on Cornerstone if we need it, he said. Just pull my Ponzi scheme cases. I’ll work on the complaint when I get back from the service. Promise.

But Linda heard only the promise of cold pizza and fatigue, in days too short to get everything done. Why do you go to these things, Benjy? she asked. You don’t have time. You don’t work with these people. You don’t even like them all that much.

Hey, I grew up with a lot of them, Benjy said. And they’re not all bad. Anyway, sometimes you’ve got to pay your respects. Call me with anything that matters. Oh, and see if you can get hold of Jimmy at the Mustang Corral down in Cutler Ridge. Ask him why the a/c and the door aren’t fixed. And tell him I need a new top—frame, hinges and all.

What happened this time? asked Linda.

You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Benjy said.

*    *    *

Steven Benjamin Bluestone—son of Bernard, founder of Bluestone, Pinter & Katz, P.A.—was running late. There was no time left to go home and switch cars. So he threw his briefcase in the back seat to keep his jacket from blowing out, chomped down on his cigar and wheeled up South Dixie in the roofless Mustang. Cutting in and out of fractious northbound traffic as deftly as the old suspension allowed, Benjy soon reached the place where the highway ends, where I-95 spits out its last southbound refugees onto local roads. He climbed the ramp into the sky and cruised past downtown Miami, a jumble of towers and cranes raising new towers.

Benjy was headed for State Road 836, bound for the funeral of County Commissioner Eusebio Cruz at the Vilar-Severidge Funeral Home out in the far western reaches of Dade County. Relaxing a little now, he had one hand on the wheel and the other holding the cigar. Benjy was a skillful driver, but he was driving the old Mustang a little too fast. It objected, groaning around the big left-hand sweeper onto 836, where its front wheels caught deep ruts in the pavement, sending it porpoising up and down. As he shoved the cigar back in his mouth and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands to keep it from kicking the car sideways, Benjy wished he’d gone back for the BMW when he had the chance.

Doggone road. Never been fixed yet, Benjy said, teeth clenched on his cigar as he bounced past the fond pile of rust called the Orange Bowl, home of his beloved Miami Hurricanes, lit up with the relentless morning light. It was an arresting sight, as always. Nice coincidence that rust and oranges were the same color, he thought.

Benjy appreciated a classic, the way things were. That’s why he was listening to Proud Mary on the radio, and why he didn’t mind the classic rock station playing it every day. It was also why he owned the old Stang, and didn’t mind fighting his way to the Orange Bowl on big game days through choking traffic, past parking lots that had never been built, in search of a forty dollar no block in somebody’s front yard.

Bad roads and no parking lots were no surprise in this sun-stroked dreamland with no income tax and no money for public works. Miami developers and politicians never wasted land on roads or parking lots unless somebody made them. Land was way too valuable, whether you were selling it or taxing it. They were always busy putting land to a higher use, cutting it up into ever-smaller slices to sell at ever-higher prices to the next wave of newcomers. And there were always more newcomers.

Often, putting land to a higher use required special permissions, variances or fixes, even an occasional display of courtroom prowess. When Benjy was a kid, that meant his father usually got the call. Bernard Bluestone was a legendary zoning lawyer, the best ever at getting developers what they needed. Benjy watched him do it, through the punishing grind of litigation, the late hours, the constant pressure to get the result, the shmoozing (that part he liked).

But working for developers brought something more, a parade of sleazy clients seeking an influence peddler and the often corrupt politicians they were trying to influence. Benjy the boy knew his father was a great man, one who shouldn’t have to work for hustlers who used him like a tool and acted like they owned him, just because they had the money to put up another concrete mountain and block out the sun. Early on, no matter what, Benjy promised himself he was not going to be a developer’s tool when he grew up. And sometimes after he grew up, when keeping that promise was easy because of a trust fund, but living up to his father’s reputation was hard, Benjy wished he hadn’t been born into lawyering at all, but he had been, and that’s what he did.

*    *    *

With the car back under control now, Benjy was enjoying his last puffs on the cigar when his head snapped left at an angry buzz out the window, like a flight of giant bumblebees. He put the perfecto in the ashtray. Four Japanese compacts with noisemaker mufflers and baldhead punks at the wheel swarmed around and past him. They were rolling buzzbombs, slammed so low they threw up sparks from scraping on the pavement. Like those gangsta movie computer games, Benjy thought. Or was it gangsta computer game movies? No matter, he decided. This is what happens when life imitates art after watching cartoons.

Up ahead, the buzzbombs swarmed a brown Buick with a Retired and Loving It bumper sticker. The noise sent the Buick’s driver into a wartime flashback of diving into a slit trench as Mitsubishi Zeroes strafed his position. He stomped on the brakes to let the attackers go by, sending Benjy swerving into the breakdown lane to avoid smashing into him. Benjy looked up, and he started hallucinating, too. An angel was standing there. Straight ahead. A long-legged beauty in dark glasses, her shimmering hair and designer silk dress lifted by a steamy breeze stirred up by passing cars.

I can’t be dead already, can I? wondered Benjy. Going on instinct, mashing and feathering the brakes at the same time to keep from locking them up, he saw the angel looking at a broken Jaguar with one wheel down at a crazy angle. Now she was waving one hand, with the other held up to her ear. Wait a second, he thought. Angels don’t wear shades or talk on the phone, do they? Now she was turning to face him, arms outstretched, beckoning. Or not. Slowing fast but running out of room, Benjy could see the angel’s lips moving and her hands held up in front of her. She was shouting Stop! Benjy cranked the wheel to the left, yelling, I’m trying! as the Mustang almost swapped ends and shuddered to a stop, sideways, in a dirty cloud of tire smoke.

Benjy gathered himself, took a deep breath, stretched and prepared to jump out and help the stranded angel. But the near-collision and stomping on the brakes to avoid it had turned his legs to rubber. They buckled when he stood up and he fairly fell over the driver side door. He held on to it. The angel was screaming at him.

Are you crazy? she shrieked. You almost killed me, you maniac!

Benjy couldn’t speak. He burbled something unintelligible, let go of the door to point at the highway and his legs buckled again, sending him down in a heap for the second time this morning. When he came to, he sensed the angel standing over him, her beautiful face inches away, her fresh scent washing over him, her summer silk dress rustling with a fragrance of jasmine and baby powder on soft skin. So I am dead, and this is heaven, he thought.

Wake up, dimwit, the angel said. Seeing Benjy stir, Delia Torres stretched to her full height, arms folded, sunglasses dangling from her hand. She was runway-model tall, with sculpted legs pulled tight in high heels and curves a man could get lost in. Most wanted to. Delia shook out her auburn hair, narrowed her hazel eyes a little and pursed her lips into a skeptical pout. She patted her side pocket where she kept the pepper spray, then reached out a stylishly shod toe and prodded Benjy with it.

Hey, take it easy, he said. I just had a near-death experience.

Not as near as the one I had, Delia said.

But you’re alright, aren’t you? asked Benjy, vision clearing, seeing the answer was yes, indeed, much more than alright.

No thanks to you. Don’t any of you down here know how to drive?

Well, yes. Some of us. Didn’t you see? I was avoiding the guy in the Buick.

Can’t prove it by me, she huffed.

Anyway, my name’s Benjy Bluestone, and I’m really sorry, he said, reaching up a hand and smiling a boyish smile that usually worked wonders with women he’d just met. Do you need any help?

No, thanks, Delia said. She’d never been hit on by a man lying in the street before. But this one didn’t look dangerous, and his name did sound familiar. He was kind of cute, actually. And, she was standing alone on the highway waiting for a tow truck. Are you with Bluestone, Pinter and Katz? she asked, reminding herself not to judge a book by its cover, even here in Miami, where there often is no book, just a cover.

You’ve got me confused with somebody else, said Benjy, still reaching up and smiling his winningest smile.

My mistake, Delia said, moved by his smile to help him up anyway. He was shorter than her, but well-built, with dark hair and dark eyes that had a roguish sparkle to them. She could see he’d started the day well dressed. But now his shirt was hanging out, streaked and spotted with bits of gravel and tar that also adorned his tie. He looked like a wrestler who’d just lost a match with the pavement.

Thanks, Benjy said as he pulled himself upright, still smiling and looking at Delia. He went a little glassy-eyed as he held on to her hand for a few extra, awkward seconds. One pants leg, hiked up to the knee, fell down as he let go.

Delia dropped her freed hand to her side, feeling for the pepper spray. In this town, something bad could always happen.

Hey, I’m colorful, not dangerous, Benjy said, putting up his hands and laughing.

Delia wasn’t totally sold. She gave him her first smile since they’d met, a slightly fake one. So who are you? she asked. Bluestone’s an unusual name, and this isn’t that big a place.

Well, I am a lawyer, Benjy said, his smile turning impish as he brushed himself off. I’m not with B, P and K, but I will admit I’m related to the guy who started it. My father. He’s retired now. That should cover it, Benjy figured. Whatever B, P & K was up to these days, it wasn’t the Bluestones’ fault.

You must be very proud of him, said Delia, her features softening a little. Most lawyers she knew were as safe as they were boring. I’m Delia Torres, she said.

Encantada, said Benjy, holding out his hand again.

Delia accepted it and gave him a firm, brief, businesslike handshake. She concluded she’d just met another loopy son of a famous father. Miami was full of them. Most were harmless eccentrics who led lives of quiet dissipation. He could wait with her.

You know, B, P and K has quite a reputation, Delia said, staying safe and boring as she folded her arms again and looked out to the highway. I’m working with my uncle on a project they’re involved in.

Who’s your uncle? asked Benjy.

Oscar Torres, she said airily, leaning back on her left hip and sticking out her right toe, tapping it to some private music. He’s the Mayor of Bayview. Do you know him?

A little bit, said Benjy, admitting less than he knew. So why haven’t we met before?

I just moved here, for one thing, Delia said, implying others.

Lucky me, said an unfazed Benjy.

Not just a smooth driver, Delia deadpanned, but a smooth talker as well.

Benjy rewound and started over. Are you sure you don’t need any help? he asked.

I called the dealer before you exploded on the scene, and they said they were sending a tow truck. Delia was checking her watch and starting to sound impatient. But it’s been almost an hour and I’m late. She glanced from the watch up the back of a graceful hand, inspecting a nail she’d broken grappling with the jack in the Jag’s trunk.

Don’t worry, Benjy said. Nothing starts on time here, not even a burial. He assumed Delia was on her way to the Cruz funeral. If she was working with her uncle, he’d want her mingling with the county’s power elite. And they’d all be there. Come on, you can go with me, he said.

What burial? Go where with you? Delia asked warily, wondering if he was a psycho after all.

The funeral? Eusebio Cruz?

Oh, that’s right, Delia said with relief. Benjy mistook it for enthusiasm. No thanks, I’m not going to the funeral, she said. I’ve got prior commitments.

That’s odd, Benjy thought. On the other hand, one good look at Delia and old Eusebio would have understood if he didn’t make it either. Can I drive you somewhere else, then? he asked.

In that thing? Delia was looking at the Mustang like it was a garbage truck.

Hey now. This is a classic.

What happened to the top? Delia asked, pointing at the twisted spikes of metal sticking up from behind the back seat where the hinges used to be.

It’s a long story.

Give me the short version.

A wrecking ball ripped it off a little while ago.

Delia stared at him for a second. Taxi, she called out, raising her right hand and looking away.

You should’ve seen the car behind me, Benjy said.

Delia scanned the highway, still hopeful there might be a tow truck about to pull up. There wasn’t. Well, I do have to pick up a loaner, she said. I’ve got to meet a client.

What do you do? asked Benjy.

I’m in real estate, commercial real estate. I’m working on a development deal.

Isn’t everybody?

*    *    *

Delia wouldn’t say more about where she was going, but agreed to let Benjy drop her off at the nearest Jaguar dealer. He opened the Mustang’s passenger door. A gentleman, Delia thought, until Benjy bumped into her, trying to get around and get in first.

Sorry, he said with a sheepish smile. The other door is stuck.

Delia had second thoughts, but felt confident she could seriously damage this guy if he tried anything funny. After all, she’d gotten plenty tough growing up in New Jersey, where she was a picked-on outsider, the little Cuban girl. That was long before she blossomed into a whip smart, Princeton-educated beauty with a sharp tongue honed on putting fresh boys in their place. And anyway, Benjy seemed harmless enough.

The silence was awkward as they pulled away. Benjy was trying to keep his eyes on the road. It wasn’t easy. As their speed and the breeze picked up, he caught the merest silken hint of Delia’s breasts rising and falling as she raised her hands behind her, tied back her hair in a makeshift ponytail and put on her sunglasses. Then the classic rock station started playing Love Me Two Times, one of the required Doors songs on its limited playlist. Benjy pondered how he could get Delia to love him one time, and wondered how Oscar Torres could have a niece who looked like this, who dressed and talked like this.

After all, Oscar wasn’t some sophisticated, dazzling urbanite like his niece. He was a pretty typical modern Miami politician, of the Cubanaso padron variety. Oscar was the Mayor of Bayview, a tiny city-slice of Dade County incorporated in 1992 after a rigged secession vote allowed him and his cronies to line their pockets with dollars for Hurricane Andrew reconstruction. His real job was toll taker, collecting a piece of the action from developers who needed help with the latest land grab.

So what do you do when you’re not cracking up old cars? Delia finally asked, breaking the ice. Real estate? She figured this was a safe bet. One way or another, most everyone she met here was in real estate.

Nope, not me, kiddo, said Benjy. I prefer not to work for developers. I’m an elder care lawyer.

A what?

I represent senior citizens. They’re always getting screwed, often by developers. He reached for the radio. He’d had enough of the Doors. That guy always bugged me, he said.

The girls liked him, said Delia, chuckling. He was sexy.

Well, his songs were weak and his band couldn’t even play in tune, Benjy said, punching in the smooth jazz station. It also had a predictable playlist, including Feel So Good, one of today’s mandatory Chuck Mangione tunes. That’s more like it, Benjy said. His father had always liked trumpet players, and that was a legacy he’d gladly accepted.

So, why don’t you work for developers? Delia asked.

I’m allergic to Ponzi schemes, Benjy said, chuckling.

Delia’s education had included the story of Charles Ponzi, the swindler who sold phony investments by paying early investors bogus returns using money he collected from later investors. But she didn’t understand what that had to do with real estate development. How’s that again? she asked.

It’s like this, Benjy said. The only real industry here is selling and reselling little pieces of tropical paradise to people who visit, get sand in their shoes and decide to stay. They come from all over, running from tyrants, or creditors, or the snow. And once they get here, pretty much all of them make a living from the great Florida Ponzi scheme.

I still don’t get it, said Delia.

There’s only so much dirt, Benjy said. The earlier immigrants buy and resell ever-smaller slices of it to later immigrants, who pay more for less. Where they run out of dirt to spread em out horizontally, they stack em up vertically until they run out of sky.

So? What’s wrong with that?

Hey, Miami used to be beautiful. Now it’s a pile of concrete, with everybody falling over each other, Benjy said. You can’t stop people from coming, and nobody’s about to stop selling them condos. It’s our local racket, and it’s been putting the clothes on peoples’ backs for a long time. I just try not to encourage it.

Benjy turned slightly to see Delia’s reaction. He knew this attitude made some people wonder about him. Delia’s arched eyebrow told him she wondered, too. So, she said, if property development is the only real local industry, and it puts the clothes on peoples’ backs, doesn’t it put the clothes on your back, too, just a little less directly?

Oh, this old thing? Benjy waved a limp wrist and pointed at his dress shirt. It’s nothing. Picked it up at an outlet store.

With a monogram? Delia asked, noting the letters on his cuff.

I guess I’m just a collector of ironies, Benjy said.

Delia was a bit puzzled, yet intrigued. Most men she’d met down here were collectors of five irons, not ironies. Compared to them, Benjy was an original, and that was interesting in itself. Plus, he was kind of cute, and connected as well. She waved a polite thank-you after he dropped her off at Exclusive Motorcars on an elegant, leafy boulevard in Coral Gables.

-TWO-

When Benjy got to the Vilar-Severidge Funeral Home, the parking lot was only just starting to fill up. He’d been right about the late-arriving crowd. Still, the Mustang looked like a mistake parked next to nothing but fancy foreign iron, as he got out and walked around to the back of the car. He opened the trunk and took out a clean emergency shirt and tie. Two female mourners on the way in giggled and winked at him as he changed. He winked back. After his high school basketball career was cut short by his height, Benjy became known as the Jew who knew Judo. He was still in pretty good shape.

As he walked through the parking lot, Benjy passed a line of television trucks and limos. There were stretches, double stretches, even triple and quadruple stretches made out of SUVs, chopped and welded up in the latest homage to wretched excess.

Two men were arguing over a prime parking space. Benjy recognized the one who’d parked in it as Tim Morris, a reporter for Miami Now, a weekly handout of developer, politician and chamber of commerce press releases, thinly disguised as a newspaper. The other guy he didn’t know. Looked like a strip club bouncer leaning out the driver side window of a black Lincoln Town Car, his slick hair shining in the sun. As Benjy got closer, he could hear the bouncer yelling.

I don’t care who you work for, bro. You got ten seconds to get outta my face and get that shitcan outta my space.

I’m lawfully parked here, protested Tim Morris.

You’ll be parked under my wheels if you don’t get outta here.

I’ve got credentials and I’m on assignment, Morris said, holding out the plastic ID card on the lanyard around his neck.

Let me see, said the bouncer, as he grabbed the ID card and pulled. When Morris banged into the car door, the bouncer pushed him in the chest. He hit the pavement, hard.

The bouncer got out and started flexing in his black guayabera, finally crossing his big arms in front of him. He had a tattoo on his left arm that said Suave. He looked down on the fallen reporter. Okay, Jimmy Olsen, you gonna move it now?

The rear door of the Town Car opened and a smallish man, sharply dressed in a black Italian suit, stepped out, phone up to his ear. It was Oscar Torres, the Mayor of Bayview.

What are you doing, Rico? he snapped at the bouncer. Don’t you know who this is? I’m so sorry, Tim, Oscar said, reaching down a manicured hand to help him up.

Thank you, Mr. Mayor, said Tim Morris, dusting himself off as he got to his feet.

Oscar turned to the bouncer. Find another place to park, Rico, he said. Keep it running. Rico Figueroa, his driver, bodyguard and all-purpose do boy, glared and said nothing. Get going, Oscar said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Rico drove away.

Putting an arm around the reporter, the Mayor of Bayview said, He’s an excitable boy, Rico. Sometimes he gets carried away. Did you get your invitation to our golf tournament next weekend?

I don’t play golf, said Tim Morris, straightening his tie.

Damn shame about Eusebio, Oscar said, getting back on message. He was a fine man and a dedicated public servant. The two of them walked together into the funeral home.

*    *    *

Inside, the lobby was buzzing with a hundred conversations. Most were about the downtown Convention Center project, hot off the drawing board. A few conversations were about the deceased, one Eusebio Cruz, the county commissioner who sponsored last year’s hands-free car phone ordinance, which mysteriously never went into effect after its adoption by a unanimous vote. Cruz had died in a multi-car pile up on I-95, absent-mindedly driving home from a tryst at the Starlight Inn, one of the romance hotels on Calle Ocho. Four dead, all on the phone.

A tall, regal-looking black man in an elegant black suit was greeting the mourners. Benjy stepped inside, blinked the sun out of his eyes and shook hands with Roscoe Severidge.

Benjy, we’re so glad to see you again, Roscoe said. Until Benjy got next to him, he couldn’t have noticed that Roscoe’s elegant black suit had elegant short pants.

Now I know it must still be summer, Benjy said, smiling. Roscoe was Bahamian-American, and suits with short pants were traditional summertime business attire in the islands. Here, however, Roscoe was generally the only man in shorts, except at the beach, a barbecue or a ballgame. It had become a signature of sorts, and mainland fashion cues notwithstanding, Labor Day didn’t require his return to long pants. The heat said it was still summer here, and would be for another couple of months.

We need to carry on some of the old ways, said Roscoe. He was a proud descendant of Miami’s first black settlers, outsiders for its entire first century of development. Ambitious and well educated, he’d finally parlayed the family funeral home into a county commission seat, not coincidentally after he took in the son of a prominent local developer as his partner. He’d been appointed six months ago to finish the term of a commissioner who’d skipped bail and fled to Pago Pago after a felony bribery indictment.

So how does it feel to be a player? Benjy asked, knowing Roscoe’s appointment was a no-risk move by a white