Drowned Hopes

by Allan Cole

  Then he decided to pretend he didn’t notice her and really give Ellen a hip-swingin’ rock ‘n roll show. He leaned over to turn up the music but to his disappointment, a cab pulled up in front – horn beeping - and Ellen ran across the lawn to it… feminine as could be with a gracefully arced wrist… fabulous legs set off in high heels… and that the frothy summer frock that floated around her sweet figure.

  Ellen spotted Sam, waved to him and jumped in. She was so gorgeous – so innocent and ready to be fleeced by a man like him, that Sam almost groaned aloud.

  He made up his mind on the spot. As the cab pulled away, making a U turn to get out of the cul-de-sac, he slammed the hood shut, jumped in the Mustang and fired it up. The engine boomed deep and rich. Damn, you had to love Old Shelby.

  Sam waited until the cab reached the turn, saw it go left, then followed.

  *****

  Ellen looked out the window as the cab cruised north along A1A. The coastal road went past some of the most exclusive seashore developments in the world, including gated mansions owned by corporate chieftains presently defending themselves before the U.S. Congress and many, many Federal courts.

  There were also fabulous glimpses of the Atlantic sparkling under the noonday sun, with surfers playing on the waves, and surfer girls in skimpy bikinis prancing along the shoreline.

  It gratified Ellen to see that a good many of those tiny bikinis were now being presented on surfboards, instead of solely in the cheer-leading sand zone. She envied the new generation. But then again – when she thought about it – she would have hated to go through the whole young adult routine again just to join the current, "grrls must have fun" craze.

  Then the taxi turned off the highway onto a broad, private road that led up to the Boca Raton Country Club. There were two clubs, actually. One on the beach that looked like it was out of the pages of the Arabian Nights, and this one – a tower peering out over the Intercoastal waterway, which meandered from the Keys to the Carolinas.

  Ellen had been here before – but it was long ago, and with her parents – so she looked to see if anything had changed. The guard shack, standing under the flowered trees was the same. Only the guards had changed – handsome-looking black men, smart in their tailored uniforms. Ellen thought they looked like islanders – to her the men and women from the islands always seemed to have a wistful, look on their faces when they were away from home.

  The long, winding drive to the club was the same as before. As was the shocking first view of the Boca Club: The tower was, pink! pink! pink! The most glorious example of bad taste in architecture that Ellen had ever seen.

  The alleged architect – one Addison Mizner – had been one of those early Twentieth Century rogues who had a talent for charming respectable people out of their money for the most appalling mounds of construction. Although Mizner had no professional standing as an architect he’d managed to bribe a license from the State of Florida – a special bill was passed by the Legislature making allowances that only applied to Mizner – and he’d parlayed this, plus the friendship of a Singer sewing machine heir, to a fortune of his own in real estate.

  At that time Boca was only accessible by sea and the land was virtually worthless – but Mizner was such a salesmen that the town soon became a Mecca for rich Easterners. Ellen recalled that Mizner had excused his choice of a perfidious life to a comely magazine reporter as follows: "You don’t necessarily have to work hard at making money legitimately… but you do have to work continuously. And I despise working hard, much less harder than my fellow."

  Whenever she thought of Mizner – which wasn’t that often, to be sure – she had to admire him for his cunning. For example: Boca Raton sounded like such a romantic name for a city. A name created for the tourist trade. But in fact, it was Spanish for "Rat’s Mouth," because that was what the rough-edged bay had looked like to the Spanish pirates who had plagued the area for years.

  That’s your trouble, Ellen, she thought as the cab pulled up to the entrance, and a doorman rushed over to help her out – always stuck in the middle; afraid to get off the fence.

  With a little guts and very few scruples, you too could transform a disgusting name into a glamorous retreat for rich tourists.

  *****

  When Sam saw Ellen’s cab turn off to the Boca Club he felt well-rewarded for his spur of the moment decision to follow her.

  He pulled up to the curb some distance from the guard shack that watched over the entrance and observed the security man check his list for Ellen’s name, then wave the cab through.

  "Getting better and better," Sam muttered, shutting off his engine.

  Sexy though this lady may be, he had to remember that she most assuredly represented a business opportunity – an opportunity he was still examining. Sam popped a handful of amino tabs and washed them down with a jug of orange juice from the little cooler sitting next to him on the seat.

  He double-checked the cooler and smiled. There was plenty of OJ.

  Sam hit the MP3 player button and punched up another car song, Sir Mack Rice’s "Mustang Sally."

  He sang along with the music: "All you wanna do is ride around, Sally - Ride Sally ride… "

  *****

  The maitre-de escorted Ellen across a luxurious dining room, with ice sculpted swans decorating the long buffet tables and chefs with tall hats helping people to their food.

  The room looked out over the Intercoastal and through the big windows, Ellen could see yachts and sailboats cruising the sparkling waters, all with beautiful people aboard.

  But the fabulous view was lost on Ellen and her mood took a sharp, nasty turn as the maitre-de came to a stop. The table she’d been escorted to held only a single person – one Rachel Berman.

  Rachel was posed like she was waiting for a movie close-up. About Ellen’s age, she had trophy wife written all over her. Rachel was expensively – and tastefully – dressed, coifed and jeweled. Her face and body were tight as tight could be, from hard exercise and the skills of Brazilian surgeons. But she had the slightly desperate look of a woman who knows she once replaced a younger wife and may already be past that same replacement age herself.

  Rachel spotted Ellen, gave her a supercilious smile and raised a glass of white wine in a welcoming toast. "What a treat to see you again, Ellen," she said.

  Ellen came unstuck from any pretense of politeness and stalked over. She looked down at the table, noting the place settings. "It’s only set for two, Rachel," she said. "I guess that means Harry isn’t in the men’s room, powdering his whatsit. Instead, he’s decided to take a powder of his own."

  Rachel sipped her wine and nodded. "Yes… Well, unfortunately Harry’s on his way to Hawaii, Ellen," she said. "Important business, you know. Quite sudden. But he does send his regrets."

  Ellen was stunned. "Hawaii?" she said. "But… but… I just spoke to him on the telephone."

  Rachel gave a embarrassed shrug. "He called from the airport," she said.

  Ellen was furious. "This is just so much bullshit. Harry can’t even be bothered to have it out with his own sister. Instead he sends his wife. What a coward. I’m out of here, Rachel. Tell Harry – the man you married - that Ellen said to go screw himself."

  Before she could storm away, Rachel held up an envelope. "Please, Ellen," she said. "I know this is awkward. But Harry did give me a check for you."

  Ellen looked at the envelope, then at Rachel, whose façade of superiority had cracked. She could see that the woman really felt bad about the situation.

  "This is so humiliating, Rachel," Ellen said.

  "I know, I know," Rachel replied, squirming in her seat. "Harry can be infuriating." She absently rearranged cutlery that was already perfectly placed. "Come on, Ellen. Sit with me. There’s important things to discuss."

  Ellen, warily: "What important things?"

  "Well, your mother to start with," Rachel said.

  Ellen’s eyes widened. "My mother," she said. "Is there something wr
ong-"

  Rachael broke in. "Nothing urgent," she said. "But we have to talk. Please, Ellen. Sit."

  Ellen sat.

  Rachel motioned to a passing waiter, who paused and then hoisted the wine from the ice bucket to pour a trickle into Ruth’s glass, then Ellen’s.

  Ellen gestured impatiently at him. "More," she said.

  He filled it to the top. Ellen drank it down and gestured for more.

  "Very well, Ruth," she said. "What is it exactly that my dear brother is up to? Hmm?"

  *****

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHEN HE REALIZED it might be a bit of a wait, Sam moved the Mustang’s new paint job into the shade of an old oak tree. Shame to see blisters mess with such a perfect finish.

  He was chilling out now, playing his tunes and perusing a restoration manual while he waited for Ellen to emerge.

  Sam could see everything that was happening on both sides of the street, with an especially good view of the entry road to the hotel.

  A loud backfire caught his attention and he looked up to catch a city bus pulling into the curb. The door opened and men and women poured out. They were mostly black and Hispanic and from the look of them, Sam figured they were hotel employees.

  He was about to go back to his manual, when he saw a huge white man emerge from a clump of bushes. He wore a ratty Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts, a Panama hat and a generally mean attitude.

  Sam figured him for a redneck of the lowest, Florida cracker order. Definite trailer trash. He saw the man approach the emerging passengers.

  "What’s this?" he said, putting the manual aside and clicking off the player.

  The answer was soon apparent, because as each worker got off the bus, they reached into pockets or purses, handed the Cracker some money, then hurried off to their jobs.

  "Smart," Sam said, admiring the redneck’s enterprise.

  One worker in a waiter’s uniform tried to push past the Cracker. Shaking his head and telling him no deal. A quick flurry of thumps followed and the waiter was knocked on his ass.

  "Not so smart," Sam said.

  He got out of the Mustang and moseyed over to the Cracker just as the waiter got up, handed over some money and was sent on his way with a kick in the butt. The Cracker saw Sam and turned, glowering at him.

  Sam grinned. The guy had his Prison Exercise Yard glare down pretty damned good.

  "What the fuck you want, boy?" he growled.

  Sam chuckled. "Everything you got, pal," he said.

  He reached out a hand, snapping his fingers for the Cracker to give over. Instead of obeying, the redneck exploded into motion, hurling an enormous fist at Sam.

  Sam slipped gracefully to the side, grabbed the man’s hand and slammed down on the forearm with his own big fist.

  There was a loud snap! and the Cracker fell to his knees, screaming in agony.

  Sam shook his head at the sorry sight. "Jesus," he said. "What a baby."

  He ripped the collar right off the guy’s shirt – holding him by the hair with one hand while he did the deed. He stuffed the collar into the Cracker’s mouth, muffling the screams, while he patted the man down, pulling out wads of money and shoving the bills into his own pockets.

  When he was done, Sam turned and strolled away, whistling an old tune, leaving the Cracker kneeling there.

  A black security guard came running out of the shack. He saw the Cracker and stopped. A big grin spread across his face. He turned and gave Sam a questioning look.

  Sam shrugged. "Drunk, I guess," he said. "Some guys get weepy, you know?"

  He stick some bills into the guard’s pocket. The man’s grin got bigger still. "That’s my guess, too," the guard said.

  *****

  In the country club dining room, Ellen toyed with a shrimp salad, while Rachel attacked her blackened Mahi-Mahi with dainty gusto.

  "Everyone’s still talking about you in New York," Rachel said. "You’ve always been so much more adventurous than the rest of us. I simply don’t know how you managed the courage to run off with that handsome beach boy. All of us were dying with envy."

  "He wasn’t a beach boy, Rachel," Ellen said. "He was an attorney. A Jamaican attorney."

  "But…he was… well, black, wasn’t he?" Rachel asked.

  Ellen’s anger got the better of her. "As the ace of spades," she said. "Any other details you want to know? Shirt size? Penis size?"

  Rachel raised a hand in surrender. "Please, Ellen," she said. "I didn’t mean anything. It was just stupid nervous talk."

  Ellen relented. "I’m not in the greatest of shape, myself, Rachel," she said. "Sorry I blew up."

  She sipped wine, getting it together. Then: "To be honest, I’m damned embarrassed," she said. "My Jamaica adventure went to hell. Along with the man of my so called dreams. My gallery, my paintings, my commissions – poof… Up in smoke."

  "Harry mentioned there was some trouble with the authorities," Rachel said.

  "Authorities," Ellen exclaimed. "Please. Let’s call them what they truly are. Thieves. It’s as simple as that. I didn’t know that I was basically living – and working – there under the protection of Andre."

  "The man of your so called dreams?" Rachel asked.

  "Well, yes," Ellen replied, feeling very uncomfortable. "But I shouldn’t give you the idea it was Andre’s fault. We broke up. Compatibility problems… The sex was great – Oh, god, it was great. But he had certain ideas about a woman’s place… and I had others."

  Rachel smiled and took a deep drink of her own wine. "Sounds familiar," she said. Shakes her head. "God, men are such dogs."

  Ellen nodded agreement. "In my case," she said, "the dog dumped me and split for France. The moment he was gone, the wolves moved in… stealing all my paintings, my furniture… my money… In retrospect, I suppose Andre tried to warn me, but I was too broken up about our dissolved relationship to pay attention."

  She made a face. "Jesus, I hate that word," she said. "Relationship."

  Ellen started to say more on, then cut herself short. This was not a subject for lunch – especially for a proxy business lunch. Time to get on with it.

  She said, "Anyway, they – the wolves, I mean - devoured everything I owned, then barred me from the country on some trumped up excuse."

  "But now you’re back home, right?" Rachel said. "You can start over again. A new leaf, as they say."

  "As they say," Ellen replied.

  She looked pointedly at the envelope next to Rachel’s elbow. "Not to be crass, Rachel, old buddy," she said, "but new leaves are expensive, you know?"

  Rachel nodded, then picked up the envelope. She started to hand it over, but held onto one corner as Ellen tried to take it.

  "There are certain conditions, Ellen," she said ominously. "Harry’s conditions."

  She let the envelope go. Ellen snatched it up – she hated it that she was acting this way, but she was so angry at Harry that all politeness had deserted her.

  Ellen ripped the envelope open then, without preamble withdrew the check. When it was half out she became anxious and plucked it the from the envelope. She unfolded the check, letting her eyes run across the numbers, reacting in shocked disbelief when she came to the total.

  Her eyes snapped up to meet Rachel’s – on fire and totally pissed.

  "What the hell is this?" she demanded. "It’s not even half."

  "I know, I know," Rachel said, doing her damnedest to make peace. "I pleaded with Harry not to do this. At the very least not force me to be the bearer of such bad tidings." She sighed. "But you know how he is."

  "Cut to the chase, Rachel," Ellen said. "What’s Harry’s pound of flesh? What do I have to do to get what’s rightfully mine?"

  Rachel hesitated, clearly uncomfortable about her mission. Then she gathered her nerve and plunged into forward. "He wants you to assume more responsibility for your mother," she said.

  Ellen was appalled. "My mother?" she said. "He doesn’t have to pay me to help my mother
."

  She was so upset that she almost got up to leave, then sat back down. Caught her breath. Took a sip of wine. And tried again.

  "My mother is why I came back to Florida, instead of New York," she said. "So I could be near her."

  Ellen’s momentary calmness was just that. She suddenly lost it. She slammed her hand down on the table. Glasses toppled. Water and wine spilled. People reacted and stared. Waiters and restaurant personnel rushed this way and that.

  "What the hell is wrong with Harry?" she demanded in a loud voice. "She’s his mother too…" Ellen’s voice broke, she almost cried, but got her scattered thoughts together and she said, "And after all this, Harry still can’t talk to me – his sister – face-to-face? About his own mother?"

  Soothingly, Rachel said, "I know, Ellen. I know," trying not to glace around to confirm just how much of a spectacle they were making. She kept repeating soothing "I knows" until Ellen got her act together.

  Finally, Ellen railed, "No, you don’t know… Harry turned our father against me. And… and… and when our father died, Harry did everything he could to dominate me. To take control of my life. For God’s sake, he and dad even forbid me to divorce Jim."

  She slammed the table again and Rachel rescued her wine glass just in time. She drank from it, sucking up courage to face Ellen’s wrath.

  "Is that out of the Middle Ages, or what?" Ellen demanded. "A brother ordering his sister to remain in a marriage with an absolute bastard?"

  She deepened her voice, mimicking Harry: "Don’t be so hasty, Ellen. Jim’s an important client."

  Her voice returned to semi-normal. "Not only that," she continued, "he brainwashed our father and made him put anything that was to be mine into a trust.

  "A trust that Harry controls."

  The anger suddenly went out of Ellen. She sagged back in her seat. "Never mind, Rachel," she said. "I’m so tired I could cry. Just get it over with. What does Harry want?"