Authors: Myles (Mickey) Golde
“And about the name, I’ve got my sources, the same as you.”
“Well, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time, especially my own, but I liked the way you sounded when you called. All businesslike, but there was something about your voice and you really did a good selling job on me. I like that.”
“Charley you aren’t wasting time. I’m going to sell this place and we’re gonna make a lot of money,” she said turning, but not coming closer.
“Look honey, I like you and you’re taking advantage of me, coming around here in that tight skirt and five inch heels. Why don’t you move over here so we can discuss this deal a little more.” He said, sitting on the couch and patting the cushion next to him.
Holding the cabernet and thinking of the large commission involved, she tilted her head, looking at him over the glass as she sipped the drink. With a grin, he returned her look.
“Look Charley,” she said moving toward the couch, “you saw the list of all the properties I’ve sold recently and you know I couldn’t be working for Judy Fine if I wasn’t a good producer, so let’s cut the bullshit. You know I’ll make you happy.”
Pausing, she took his hand in hers, leaned over and placed his middle finger in her mouth, slowly sucking up and down, stopping to say with a coy smile, “I’ll make you happy in lots of ways. Now take this pen and sign the goddamn contract. I’ll shut the drapes while you get comfortable.”
“Man, you are good. Gimme the pen, baby, and get over here.”
She sold Charley’s hotel six weeks later for the asking price. In addition to the commission, he presented her with a pair of gold earrings and offered to take her to Las Vegas to celebrate. She loved the jewelry, but turned down Las Vegas, asking instead for more business and introductions to his friends. Considering Charley’s wealth and the fact that he had no close relatives, she thought that he might merit a serious relationship and maybe even marriage. But as she got to know him better while they worked on their second deal for a tract of vacant property near the ocean in Boca Raton, she decided she wasn’t ready to abandon one marriage for another. There was a certain freedom she had being married to Howie that suited her. She realized she’d made the right decision after Charley dumped her for a long-legged blonde from another office shortly after the conclusion of the land deal.
As the years went by with David at college, and then continuing at Emory’s Medical School, Howie had become even more distant, staying away for several days at a time and rarely sleeping in the same room with her when he was home. Other than an occasional dinner and even less frequent sex, they were living separately. She was becoming increasingly independent. If it weren’t for the times that David was home or they received an invitation to a wedding or other occasion with Howie’s business associates, the two of them rarely spent time together. The few times they were invited to something in Chicago, he refused to go and she went alone.
The phone call from Howie late one night in December 1972 frightened Shirley but didn’t surprise her. He had been arrested and was locked up in Miami. He instructed her to contact Sam Petrillo, the lawyer who’d represented him in the scrape with the law over the prostitution charge a few years before. He also told her to call Sal Farina and tell him what had happened; assuring her that the cops had made a mistake and that he would be home in a few days. Before hanging up, he cautioned her not to talk to anyone else about his arrest; he would handle everything.
Sal met her in a tiny office behind the reception desk of a small motel two blocks west of Federal Highway in Deerfield Beach. When Shirley walked in, she saw a large stocky unshaven man, she didn’t recognize, in a white knit short-sleeved golf shirt sitting in a scuffed molded plastic chair in front of a wooden desk piled with magazines. Behind the desk was Sal, wearing a narrow brimmed straw hat. Leaning back with his feet propped on an open drawer, he
greeted her
.
“How ya doin’ Shirley? Hear anything more from Howie?”
“Not since last night,” she replied softly, lowering herself into the matching plastic chair beside the large man. “Sal, I’m here because Howie said you would tell me what to do.”
“Yeah sure, I understand.” He swiveled, lowering his feet and leaning forward, a grin spreading under his heavy black moustache as he locked eyes with her.
A short grunt of a laugh came from the other man. She glared at him and then turned back to Sal.
“You’re lookin’ good since I seen you,” Sal smirked, “I like those high heels you always wear.”
She smiled, compressing her lips and nodding her head. “What can I say, Sal, a girl’s gotta try to look good or the guys won’t
notice her
.”
“I can see that’s not your problem, sweetheart.”
She sat upright. “Cut the crap, Sal. Tell me what’s going on. “
“Okay, don’t get excited! Howie’s in a shitload of trouble and it don’t look good.”
He waited for her reaction, which didn’t come, other than her eyes closing to small slits and her chin jutting out.
“You know, I gotta keep his business runnin’,” he went on, “and normally I’d try to send you some dough, but it don’t look good.”
“Look, Howie’s been doing good for a long time, so don’t
bullshit me
.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know about the ninety-thousand he owes me from all his gambling.” Standing, he leaned over the desk, glaring at her. “Your fuckin’ hotshot hubby is in deep shit, unless I get paid.”
Shirley gasped, closing her eyes and leaning forward in her chair.
Sal chuckled as if he’d said something clever. Raising her head slowly, Shirley asked, “What do you mean?”
“Look, sweetheart, he’s goin’ away. Jack Brown don’t allow no drug deals, so you’re fucked,” he snarled. “I got orders not to help you or anybody that screws with that shit. And I want my dough too, so you and Howie better take care of me or your asshole husband is up shits creek and your ass is mine.”
Shirley covered her mouth and swayed in her chair. The stocky man grunted, laying a heavy hand on her arm to steady her. She pulled away from him, dropping her purse.
“Keep your filthy hands off me you creep,” she hissed as she bent to retrieve the handbag from the floor.
Grinning, Sal sat back, making a small motion with his hand for the bruiser to leave Shirley alone. “What about you? I understand you’re makin’ a bundle in real estate. And what about all the money you spend on that college kid of yours?”
“Fuck you, Sal,” she shot back grabbing the sides of the chair.
“Maybe you can get your rich relatives from Chicago to bail
you out
.”
“Sal,” she said, “I can’t get that kind of money.” She stood slowly, eyes narrowed as she took long deep breaths.
He also stood, his tattooed arms swinging as he moved around the desk to confront her.
“You know Shirley, I like you,” he said. “A good lookin’ broad like you could make a lotta money workin’ for me.” He cupped her behind and squeezed, pulling her to him.
Slapping his hand away she kicked him in the shin. The big man in the chair jumped up but Sal stopped him, laughing as he rubbed his leg.
“Leave the bitch alone; she’ll be back and I’ll get my dough if she knows what’s good for her.”
“Shove it, you scumbag,” she hissed, turning and storming out.
Outside, she jumped in her Cadillac and floored it to Miami, squeezing the steering wheel to keep her hands from shaking.
The lock-up was in a rundown dark gray building on a street lined with small open air shops and factories surrounded and separated by chain link fences in an old part of the city. Directly across from the jail was a lot filled with police vehicles and a small gated area for visitor parking. Finding the lot filled, she parked on the street two blocks away. Before getting out of the car she stuffed her driver’s license and a few business cards in her pocket and hid her purse under the front seat. Foot traffic on the street was not heavy except for many cops walking toward the jail. A few men in suits and briefcases were going that way as well, and one driving a Cadillac newer than hers had just parked across from her. Slowly she exited and tried to keep up with two policemen going in her direction. She was glad she was dressed in a pair of plain gray slacks and a lightweight white long sleeved blouse and didn’t seem so out of place.
As she walked she could see and hear men and women working behind the fences on either side of the street. Pallets of merchandise were piled high at some of the locations. She was startled, quickly glancing right, as a lift truck screeched to a stop; then efficiently speared a load and moved away from the fence as she passed. She walked carefully, frightened as trucks and cars of all sizes moved in and out of gates opening into the street.
At the entrance to the police station a burly policeman opened the door for her and she walked up a few steps into the dark building. At the top of the steps she saw cops milling about and talking. On either side of the corridor were short dark wooden partitions. Behind them people were working at desks. Many wore uniforms. Overhead large fans moved silently. A short distance into the dark grey and black tile corridor was a large desk set about two feet higher than the floor. There was a glass enclosure shielding the desk..
A thin bald man with a florid face was talking on the phone at the desk and nodding to cops as they passed on either side of him. Further down the corridor people were seated on dark wooden benches. Voices of people talking, many of them loudly, reverberated like a dull roar off the high walls.
“Who you lookin’ for lady,” came a voice from behind.
Turning she saw a heavyset policewoman.
“My husband was arrested last night and…”
The woman pointed to the raised desk, “go there, the sergeant will help you.”
Before she could murmur thanks, the woman was on her way.
Advancing to a worn spot on the tile where the concrete showed though, in front of the desk, she waited as the sergeant spoke into the phone. She couldn’t make out what he was saying but his voice was gruff and he appeared agitated.
Putting down the phone he flipped a small glass panel at the bottom of the enclosure and leaned forward. “Yes ma’am, what can I do for you?” he said eyeing her suspiciously.
Pausing Shirley licked her upper lip. “I’m looking for my husband…I think you’re holding him here and I would like to see him.”
The sergeant pulled back, his eyes rolling slightly and sighed. “Sorry lady, unless you’re here on official business or his lawyer, you can’t see him,” he said with a shrug. …”Are you sure you’re in the right place? What’s his name?”
With her hands on the ledge near the opening in the glass she leaned closer. “His name is Howard Rabin and he called me from here last night.”
The phone rang and he reached for it, at the same time he held up a clipboard and scanned it. Replacing it on the desk, he nodded and closed the small glass opening.
Finishing the call he re-opened the glass and said, “Yeah, he’s here but you can’t see him.”
“C’mon sergeant,” she pleaded, reaching into the opening hoping to touch his hand and smiling. “You know I’m his wife and do I look dangerous to you?”
“Look, lady, I got orders, only lawyers can talk to him. I’d like to help you, but I can’t.”
“Please sergeant, I came all the way from Fort Lauderdale and Jack Brown said I would be able to see him.”
Looking around, the old cop laughed, “You don’t know Jack, who you kidding?”
“C’mon, it’s quiet here now. Nobody will know if you let me see him. My husband works for Jack and I know he’ll be grateful if you do me this favor. Just tell everybody I’m Howie’s lawyer. “
The thin policeman smiled, rubbing a big paw over his bald head and crossing his arms in front of him.
“Please,” Shirley purred. “Look, here’s my business card and driver’s license. You can see I’m his wife,” she said stuffing the card in his hand with a twenty-dollar bill hidden between the card and license. “Please, ten minutes, that’s all I want.”
He looked over his shoulder and then back at Shirley. “Okay, okay, but remember, I’m doin’ this for Mr.Brown,” he said. “Now just go over there and sit on the bench until I call you. And you’ll have to leave your purse out here at the desk; you can’t take it in
with you
.”
“Thanks officer, I left my purse in my car and don’t worry, I’ll let Jack know,”
As Shirley sat down on the bench, the sergeant grabbed the phone and barked an order to someone.
A handcuffed, older black man was deposited on the other end of the bench by a young policeman who eyed Shirley slowly as he checked in with the sergeant. Ten minutes later, the young cop escorted the old man down a corridor and the sergeant stepped down from his desk with a wave to her. She followed him down the corridor getting curious looks from the cops and others hunched over desks or moving around the crowded office. They turned into another hallway with private offices and then stopped at a locked door. At the sound of a buzzer the Sergeant opened the door and she followed him to the rear, stopping at a small room with a large window. Inside was a rectangular steel table bolted to the floor. A straight backed steel chair was on either side of the table.
“Go in there and sit down. Your husband will be in shortly. A cop will be right outside the window here, so don’t do anything funny and whatever you do, you’re not allowed to touch him. If you do, the visit is over and the cop will take him away. Ten minutes, Shirley; I’ll be back to get you.” He watched her sit down and nodded to her through the window before walking away.