"That's what I remember, that and your leaving me."

"I still care for you," I told her, the words surprising me as much as her.

Her eyes measured me for just a moment. "Nostalgia, Jake. Don't get carried away. Right now, you're fantasizing about rekindling something that's been burnt out a long time. It's a way of reliving your youth."

"I wasn't that young."

"You were playing ball and having fun, and your future seemed infinite. Whatever you think you're feeling right now isn't real."

I tried to examine what I felt, real or not. It wasn't easy. "What I'm feeling, what I'm wondering really, is if I stuck with your brother all these years just to maintain some connection with you."

"And now?"

"I'm wondering if you want to give it another go."

For a moment, her eyes softened. Thoughts seemed to race around in her head, but I couldn't catch them. Her brow furrowed. She didn't smile and she didn't frown. She was processing information, computing what she needed and what she didn't. And then the moment was gone. The thoughtful expression changed. It was almost as if she willed herself not to yield, not to show weakness, which to her, was any hint of emotion, other than one: anger. Her eyes shone with determination, and her voice was fire and steel.

"Never, never, never. As far as I'm concerned, Jacob Lassiter, Esquire, you're just the mouthpiece for that trashy brother of mine. You're no better than he is. You're the enemy, get it?"

Whew! From sunshine to squall in the blink of an eye. The suddenness and the fury shocked me.

"I don't get it," I said.

She blew a puff of smoke in my face, which is a good trick against the wind. "You're hopeless. Why don't you do something useful like find my brother and bring him in?"

Before I could answer, I heard Abe Socolow calling from inside the living room. "Hey, Jake, c'mere."

I think Socolow liked bossing me around. Maybe it compensated for the few times I beat him in court. I went back inside to let him insult me some more. Jo Jo followed a step behind, and I made a mental note to check for knife wounds later.

The file drawers from Blinky's bedroom/office were stacked in the living room. Every drawer was open, and the contents were being searched by patient, if bored, cops. In the foyer, an antique milk can, lacquered bright orange, was turned upside down. A dozen carved wooden canes and shillelaghs along with a couple of umbrellas were spilled onto the floor. The canes weren't just for show. Blinky used them after tearing up his knee crawling out of a Dumpster filled with credit card receipts.

Now Socolow marched around the living room, holding a handsome cherry cane with a large polished knob for a handle. The whole thing was fairly phallic, but I didn't bother to share my thoughts with Socolow, who was gesturing at me with the damn thing.

"You know what's in those papers?" he said, pointing in the general direction of the cocktail table where he had spread out several thick, typewritten documents.

"No, Abe. You tell me."

He hunched over the table, leaning on the cane like a pettifogger out of Dickens. He ran a finger along the lines of a page, furrowing his brow.

"You could read faster if you didn't move your lips," I told him, helpfully.

"What the hell is Rocky Mountain Treasures, Inc.?"

"A company Blinky formed," I answered.

"I can see that. What's it do?"

"Hunts for treasure."

Socolow scowled. "Didn't Baroso get indicted for something like that, selling stock in a deep-sea salvage company down in the Keys?"

"Only civil suits, and that involved sunken Spanish galleons," I corrected him. "This is all about gold and silver in the Colorado mountains."

"Yeah, that's what it says here under 'corporate mission.' Socolow began turning pages, again, reading aloud now. "'The company will use its best efforts and employ the latest sophisticated technology to locate and reclaim one or more of the following: the Arapaho Princess Treasure, the Golden Mummy, the Treasure of Apache Gulch, La Caverna de Oro, the Lost Dutchman mine, the Purgatory Canyon Treasure, Moccasin Bill's Lost Mine, the Lost Gulch mine, the Devil's Head Treasure.' "Socolow closed the folder and looked up at me. "Hey, Jake, what are you doing involved in this wild West shit?"

"What do you mean?"

Now he was looking at the corporate minute book. "Says here you're a ten percent shareholder..."

"That's right."

"And secretary treasurer of the company."

"What?"

"Plus general counsel."

"What?" I said again.

"You heard me. Your bio is in the prospectus that goes to potential investors. You're described as one of the leading trial lawyers in Florida. Who wrote that, your granny?"

"I don't know anything about it," I said, honestly. "Blinky gave me the stock in lieu of a fee, but I never agreed to be a corporate officer or to let my name be used. You know I'd never subject myself to liability like that."

Socolow was back in the file again, still leaning on his cane. "Blinky's bio says nothing about his criminal record or the lawsuits against him. What do they call that in securities law, Jake?"

"A material omission of fact," I said.

"Right. The feds would be real interested in that, wouldn't they? Maybe a 10 (b) (S) violation. What else do we have here?" He turned over a few more pages. "The corporation issued one hundred shares of stock, twenty to Louis Baroso, ten to Jacob Lassiter, and seventy to Kit Carson Cimarron."

"Who?"

"Just what I was going to ask you, Jake."

"Damned if I know. Sounds like a cowboy."

Socolow closed the folders, looked at the detective, at Jo Jo Baroso, and back at me. He didn't say anything. He was into his genius-at-work mode. He started pacing, the cane clacking against the tile. At the moment, he was probably the most irritating person on the planet. He stopped at the sliding glass door to the balcony and seemed to study the smooth waters of Government Cut. To the south, cars were streaming across the newly renovated MacArthur Causeway, and below us, the fronds of the palm trees swayed gently in the breeze. Finally, he turned and faced me. "Jake, I'll bet you all the gold in Apache Gulch that Kyle Hornback was going to sing about Rocky Mountain Treasures, Inc. Maybe it's a little farther from home, but it's just another of Blinky's scams. Now, as for you, I know you step over the line once in a while, but I gotta tell you, I'm real disappointed."

"Abe, listen to me, I-"

"Lemme finish. The way I see it, Blinky figured he'd worn out his welcome down here. Kyle was doing his selling up there, and this Carson probably put up the money and added some local credibility. That left you to handle legal problems."

"Abe, you're not listening. I never agreed to represent the company or be an officer. I didn't ask for the stock, and I didn't write the prospectus. As far as I know, the company's legitimate, but even if it's not, where's the proof Blinky killed Kyle. "

"Who's talking about Blinky? I'm starting to agree with you. Baroso's not a tough guy, at least not without someone to back him up."

"Like who, or is it whom?"

"How about the guy who owned the house where the decedent was killed, the guy whose tie was the murder weapon, whose prints are on the body, and who just happened to discover the body and call the cops?"

"Are you nuts? Why would I kill Kyle Hornback?"

"Ah, motive," Socolow said in that infuriating tone intended to indicate his intellectual prowess. "The missing ingredient. If I nailed down the motive, Jakie my boy, I'd be in front of the grand jury quicker than you can say life without parole. But I'm getting warm, aren't I? It's got to do with Rocky Mountain Treasures, doesn't it, Jakie?"

"It's your case, Abe. You figure it out."

"Let's see now. If Kyle had flipped, it wasn't just Blinky who was at risk, was it? What about the company lawyer? Come on, Mr. Secretary-Treasurer and General Counsel. Want to bet that the motive is buried with all that fool's gold in cowboy country?"

He aimed the damn cane at me.

"Abe, I hope you're prepared to use that thing. If not, I may just ram it up your tight ass."

Socolow glared at me, but the detective growled and shifted in his chair. "There's no need for that kind of talk. The state attorney doesn't have to stand for it."

"It's all right, Major," Socolow said, pleased he'd gotten to me. "Jakie seldom hits anyone. Hell, he seldom hit anyone when he played ball."

Still Socolow kept the cane leveled at my chest. He was enjoying this too much. I strained to keep my temper under control, my mind's eye playing a little fantasy involving Socolow's head and a heavy piece of polished wood.

"You see, Major," Socolow said, "I've come face-to-face with every category of miscreant known to the law, but essentially there are only two types, wicked scoundrels and foolish scoundrels. I fear that what you see at the end of my cane is nothing but a foolish scoundrel."

I kept my voice low and didn't raise an eyebrow. "At which end, Abe?"

CHAPTER 9.

EL AMOR ES CIEGO.

Sylvester Houston Conklin fell asleep in front of the television, watching Clint Eastwood blast five bad guys in a San Francisco diner. Earlier, Kip had put away a double portion of spaghetti and meatballs and a protein shake. Carbs and protein, I was bulking him up. Yesterday, it was brown rice, broiled fish, and raw vegetables for the fiber. I did the cooking, and he ate it all. As a reward, we split a sixteen-ounce Grolsch.

Now he was sacked out on the sofa, so I carried him upstairs to the second bedroom, his body warm in my arms. I tucked him in, pulling the sheet up under his chin, and pushed the blond bangs out of his eyes. I was starting to feel avuncular, if not downright fatherly.

Kip stirred, half opened his eyes, and said, "Did you really threaten to jam a cane up the state attorney's ass?"

"Guilty."

"He's such a dweeb."

"A major dweeb," I agreed. "You should have seen him prancing around with that cane, putting on a show."

"Like Raymond Burr in A Place in the Sun or Everett Sloane in The Lady from Shanghai." He reached out from under the sheets and gave my arm a squeeze. "I really like your bedtime stories, Uncle Jake."

"And I really like having you here. Now it's lights out."

His eyes were closing again, and as they did, he pointed his index finger at me, as if holding a gun.

"Go ahead," he said, "make my day."

"Good night, Kip."

He nodded off, and I puttered around in his room, gathering a pile of his shorts, socks, and T-shirts that had been balled up in a corner. Then I padded out, closing the door without a sound. I tossed the clothes into the washer and poured in a double dose of the detergent that is supposed to nuke grass stains into bright, sanitary molecules. Apparently, Kip had accomplished what none of a series of bright and attractive young women could manage: He had civilized me.

Even with the ceiling fan on high and a gentle breeze filtering through the open windows, it was sweltering in my subtropical bedroom. Most nights, I fall asleep to the muted slap of palm fronds against masonry and the occasional blare of a police siren just up Douglas Road in Coconut Grove. I am darn near the last Miamian without central air-conditioning, and I like it that way. The old coral rock house just off Kumquat sits in a neighborhood of delectable street names. Loquat, Avocado, and Cocoanut are just around the corner. My house is positioned on the tiny lot to take advantage of southeasterly winds and is shaded by live oak, chinaberry, and poinciana trees, but still, summer nights are hot and sticky.

I lay on my back, naked, listening to the whompeta-whompeta of the fan harmonizing with the chugita-chugita of the washing machine, feeling the sweat trickle down my chest. I dozed, dreaming a pastiche of unrelated scenes. An unshaven cowboy in a poncho silently rode a black horse across the high plains. Jo Jo Baroso sat on the black divan in her mother's den, laughing gaily, but the laugh turned sinister and suddenly it was Abe Socolow laughing with all the charm of the Doberman pinscher he resembled.

Somebody said something, but who was it? Somebody complaining. You gotta do something about jour door, Jake. Sure, sure. I rolled onto my side and tried to chase the dreams. Somebody was smoking a cigarette. Dreaming now in smell-a-rama.

Suddenly, it was daytime, or was it? No, dawn doesn't break with a hundred-fifty-watt blast in the face. I squinted into the glare.

"You gotta start locking your door,'' the voice said. The light clicked off. "Sorry to wake you, but I'm only out at night.''

"Blinky? Is that you?''

Through a haze of cigarette smoke, a rotund form was backlit by the sodium vapor lights from outside my open window. "It ain't Dracula," Blinky Baroso said.

"You son of a bitch," I said. "You ungrateful, selfish son of a bitch. After all I've done for you ..."

"Hey, I said I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."

"I don't care about your waking me up. What the hell were you doing using my name for that treasure company?"

"Jeez, Jake, you're pissed about that?" he whined, sounding hurt. Like a lot of manipulators, Blinky had the ability to make his victim contrite for hurting his feelings. "Are you going to hold that against me now? I kind of thought you'd be flattered."

"Next time, flatter someone else."

"I meant to tell you, Jake, I really did. We needed to dress up the paperwork a little. I borrowed your good name, that's all."

"Yeah, I want it back."

"C'mon, Jake, we'll amend the papers, it's no big deal."

"Maybe not to you, but the SEC and the Florida Bar might see it differently. To say nothing of Abe Socolow."

He crushed out the cigarette in a commemorative Super Bowl VIII ashtray and sat on the edge of my bed, moving close to me. "Jake, I need help."

"Yeah, me too. Socolow thinks you had me kill Kyle Hornback, or maybe it was my own idea. I can't even follow his reasoning."

"You're joking."

"I'm not, and Abe never does."

"Jeez, you mean I'm a suspect."