Naked In LA (Naked Series Book 2)

by Colin Falconer

  After a week I was going out of my mind. I started walking around the office, talking to the office girls who were my age, just trying to be friendly. They treated me like I was the President’s wife. They were polite to me, but so nervous one of them spilled her coffee all over her desk. I realised they were frightened of me. They knew who I was and they wanted to keep their jobs, so for them it was all about being nice to Angel’s new mistress.

  I soon realized there was no chance of any real friendship with any of them.

  Every day Angel would come back around twelve and take me out to lunch somewhere on Collins, places with men in double breasted suits and silk shirts smoking big cigars, their pinkie rings clinking on their daiquiri glasses. It took us five minutes to cross a room sometimes, everyone wanted to shake his hand and say hello. I didn’t think it was because of his personality.

  He was a regular at Capra's on Biscayne. Anyone who was anyone in Miami went there, from the mayor to movie stars.

  I noticed we never went to lunch at the same place twice in a row and never ever went out at the same time. “Basic security,” Angel said. It was hard trying to remember that this was the same beautiful boy I’d fallen in love with in Havana. Perhaps he never existed anywhere except outside my own mind.

  Sometimes we’d go to the Fontainebleau afterwards, other times he’d drop me back at the office if he had business. I guessed maybe he had a body to drop off in the river somewhere.

  It was a surreal life. At three in the afternoon I could be sitting naked in the Presidential suite of the Fontainebleau sipping champagne, having busboys tip their hat to me in the lift, and that night I’d be chasing roaches in the kitchen with a broom.

  But at the end of every week Angel gave me an envelope equivalent to the vice president’s salary plus a bonus. I was literally sitting on a fortune. I guess I was the only whore in Miami who had a street corner made out of Norwegian wood.

  Chapter 9

  Angel unbuttoned his shirt and hung it up in the closet. He did the same with his pants before he offered himself for inspection. His body was still lean and hard, as it was when we were teenagers. He was still very physically attractive.

  It was his personality that repelled me.

  “I have to leave by four,” he said, as if he wanted me to make a mental note. I guess I was his secretary now, I had to keep track of his appointments even while he was penetrating me.

  But today he wanted me to use my mouth. Well, okay, I could do that, if that was what he wanted.

  As soon as I touched him he gave a moan and grabbed my head. I untangled his fingers. “Be careful of my hair,” I said.

  He lay on his back on the bed. He liked to be on his back, he liked to be admired more for his presence than his performance. Perhaps it was a religious thing; he lacked the Protestant work ethic. He would provide the erection, and after that…well, that was not really his concern. When you have a lot of money and a chauffeur-driven Chrysler Imperial, you don’t need to be a great lover.

  I had never seen him lose control. He was perfectly still, hardly made any noise while I pleasured him. He kept his eyes closed like he was trying to concentrate. I guessed he was trying not to think about his meetings, who owed him money and how much. Perhaps that was why it always took so long to get him off. Whenever I think about Angel these days, my jaw starts to ache. I think they call it cellular memory.

  He finished at 3:23 by the digital clock next to the bed. I kissed him and stroked his curls and held him as his ragged breathing slowed. “That was amazing,” he said. “You are something else, baby.”

  I was so grateful now that I had not married him. I remembered that day in the San Cristobal cathedral, watching Esmeralda walk up the aisle. I thought she had stolen something from me. Now I just felt sorry for her, even though I was living in a tiny room with a bedridden father and performing sexual favours on my old boyfriend for money.

  I figured it would be far worse being his wife.

  I started to cry anyway. I didn’t know why. Angel held me, and when he asked me what was wrong I said it was because I was so happy and he believed me.

  Angel rang down for room service, and a waiter brought a little trolley in while he was in the shower. I told him to leave it by the window; there was a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and a lobster. As the busboy was uncorking the champagne he looked up at me. I was just wearing a robe. It was only a quick and rather furtive glance, but it made me feel so cheap.

  Angel walked out, wearing just his shorts, and handed the guy a twenty-dollar tip.

  “Am I worth it?” I asked him.

  “Are you worth what?”

  “You know, a hooker would be cheaper.”

  “You think that’s what this is?” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not going to let you starve.”

  I sipped the champagne and popped some lobster in my mouth. I was such a hypocrite.

  “Besides, yeah, you’re really something. I like that new thing you did. The Stanberg technique or whatever it is.” He lay back on the bed and grinned, like he knew something he wasn’t supposed to know. For a moment I was baffled.

  “The what?”

  “I saw that book you were reading. You left it on your desk.”

  “The Stanislavski method.”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “It’s a book about acting.”

  “Acting?”

  “I want to be an actress, Angel.”

  He laughed, then he realized I was serious.

  “You think I want to spend the rest of my life in an empty office staring at a telephone that doesn’t ring?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “I guess you didn’t.”

  He was quiet for a while, then he asked me how Papi was. I told him.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I got the name of a doctor for you.”

  “He’s got a doctor, he’s got dozens of them.”

  “No, this guy is the real deal--people wait months to see this guy. You tell him you’re a friend of mine he’ll fit you in straight away. He’s the best heart surgeon in the whole of the east coast, and his billing is very reasonable, too. Like, it would be free.”

  “You say this doctor...”

  “Freedman. Doctor Freedman.”

  “You say he’s a friend of yours?”

  “Not so much a friend. But he likes to gamble; he’s into us for a hundred large losing at some draw poker games I set up.”

  The telephone rang beside the bed and Angel snatched it up. “What?...Yeah, it’s me...She what?...Everything okay?...Good.” He put the phone down, went to the trolley and poured two glasses of champagne. He handed one to me. “Celebration,” he said.

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “I got a daughter.”

  I stared at him. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Esme's sister, Rae. I asked her to call me here if there was any news.”

  “This is a joke, right?”

  “Why would I joke about this?”

  I put down the champagne, went into the bathroom and locked the door. Angel spent the next half hour shouting at me to open up, asking me what was wrong. He finally tried to force it open. I sat on the edge of the bath staring at myself in the mirror, trying to make some sort of sense out of what he’d just told me.

  Finally he gave up shouting at me and punched the door a few times. I heard him walk out. I guessed I would have to get a taxi home.

  I unlocked the door.

  There was a piece of paper lying next to the bed--it had Doctor Freedman’s name on it and his telephone number. I slipped it in my purse. As I tucked it into the little pocket at the back, a newspaper cutting slipped out and fell on the carpet. I picked it up and unfolded it. It was a photograph some society photographer had taken at the Left Bank, just as Reyes and I were leaving the dance floor. It was turning yellow with age.

  I went back into the bathroom
and stood under the shower for maybe half an hour, but I still didn’t feel clean. Finally I got dressed and went home.

  Chapter 10

  Freedman stared at the X-rays on the wall behind him, then he sat down, picked up a file and flicked through the notes. He flipped it back onto the desk and looked up at me.

  “Your father needs a new heart valve.”

  “Hey, it’s my heart and my valve,” Papi said. “Talk to me.”

  Freedman looked irritated at being corrected. “Mister Fuentes, I would like to help you.” He glanced at me, and there was a wealth of meaning in the look. “But I don’t think I can.”

  “I’m not a medical man, Doctor,” Papi said, “but I already figured that.”

  “You have had two major infarctions, you have lost a lot of heart muscle and this has impacted on your quality of life. Can I be frank with you?”

  “I thought you already were.”

  “The heart has valves to stop blood flowing back into it. One of your atrial valves is not functioning as it should, it needs to be replaced.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I do it all the time, but I can’t do it for you. Another major operation right now would kill you.”

  I looked at Papi. He was nodding along, as if they were discussing baseball averages. “So what are my options?”

  Freedman shrugged, eloquently, and said nothing.

  “Does this mean I have to give up my second mistress?”

  Freedman did not have a sense of humour. “I’m sorry I could not have been more help to you, Mister Fuentes.”

  “Hell, that’s okay, as long as I can still drink and smoke.”

  I wheeled Papi outside and he waved cheerfully to the nurse behind the desk and asked her if she was still all right for their date that night. But once we were in the elevator he didn’t say anything. There was nothing left to say.

  Angel insisted on taking me out for my birthday.

  I could feel Papi watching me as I put on my lipstick. I had told him I was meeting girlfriends from work at a club on Collins Street, but I knew he didn’t believe me.

  “That dress looks expensive,” he said. I was wearing the Cardin suit that Angel had bought for me at Burdine's.

  “It is, but I can afford expensive dresses now.”

  “It’s good. You look beautiful, cariña.”

  I turned away from the mirror and tried to avoid his eyes.

  “I’m holding you back, cariña. It’s time I moved on.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “It’s true. You can’t spend every night at home looking after me. My life’s over, but you got all of yours ahead of you. Just don’t waste it on some guy who doesn’t deserve you.”

  “You can decide that yourself. You’re going to be at my wedding.”

  “Only if you’re going to get married tomorrow.”

  I knew he was right. He looked more frail and shrunken every day. It had been a mistake seeing Freedman, it had taken away his last hope. “Lena’s coming in to sit with you.”

  “You think she’ll be safe? I might try to sleep with her while you’re gone.”

  The cab was waiting outside. I kissed him on the cheek. “I won’t be home late.”

  “Are you going to bring him home so I can meet him?”

  “Who?”

  “This boy you’re seeing.”

  “There’s no boy, Papi,” I said, and ran out to the taxi before I told him any more lies.

  Frank Sinatra was playing at the Fontainebleau. The show was sold out, but when we arrived they pulled a table right in front of the stage for us.

  He introduced me around to his friends; there was an old guy called Mo, with glasses that made him look like an owl, and two other mob guys whose names I couldn’t remember, one had a shirt open to the third button and a gold chain thick enough to anchor a battleship - I think his name was Johnny - and a mousy-looking guy who just sat there not saying much, just undressing me with his eyes.

  “So what do you do, Magdalena?” Mo asked me.

  “She works for me at Resorts International,” Angel said, before I had the chance to reply and embarrass him by demonstrating I was capable of independent thought. “She’s my personal assistant.”

  A look passed between the men. They could all guess what I assisted him with.

  “Where you from?” Mo said.

  “She’s from Havana. Her father ran a club, the Left Bank.”

  What was I, a ventriloquist’s dummy? I glared at Angel, but he ignored me. It was clear he wanted to make a good impression and I was supposed to just sit there and look decorous.

  I waited for more questions but that was it, I guessed they weren’t that interested to begin with.

  “Do you fellas want to come party in Frank’s suite later?” Angel said.

  Mo shook his head. “I dunno. I had it up to here with these Hollywood fruitcakes. He told me him and Bobby Kennedy was in tight, I got more influence with the fuckin’ president of India than he has with the Kennedys. He shoots his mouth off everywhere and it don’t mean a fuckin” thing.”

  “We should teach him a lesson,” Angel said.

  “And do what, precious?” Johnny asked, and Angel flushed at the insult.

  “You mean hit Frankie boy?” Mo said. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. That two-dollar whore.”

  The conversation moved to politics, as it always did with those guys, the usual vitriol about Fidel and the Beards in Cuba, how they gave him arms and money and he promised them the casinos would keep operating once he took over the government. “But now he’s gone Commie and fuckin’ nationalized the casinos,” Angel said, making it sound as if it was his money he’d stolen.

  Then they all started bad mouthing the president and his brother as well.

  “This is just bullshit,” Mo said. “I won that motherfucker Chicago, wasn’t for him, he wouldn’t be in no White House. And what the fuck do I get in the way of appreciation?”

  “That clusterfuck in Cuba is down to him,” Johnny said. “He hadn’t cancelled the air strike, we would have been back in Cuba eighteen months ago.”

  “And don’t start me on that little fuck Bobby,” Mo said. “Fuckin’ vendetta is what it is. I got to get these Feds off my fuckin’ back. They don’t leave me alone, night or day. I go to take a piss, They’re hiding in the bowl. Why do I gotta put up with this bullshit?”

  “He won’t be around to bother you or anybody much longer,” Angel said, and the way Mo looked at him, you would have thought he just broke wind. Everyone looked at me and then they shut up. The house lights came down and the show started, and they all looked pretty relieved about it.

  Frank came out singing “Come Fly With Me,” then he came down off the stage, shook hands with Angel and kissed me on the cheek and wished me a happy birthday. Then he sang “There’ll Never Be Another You,” and dedicated it to me.

  Angel sat there beaming.

  After the show he asked me if I still wanted to be an actress. “It’s my dream,” I said.

  “Maybe I can help you with that.”

  I thought that perhaps he was going to take me backstage to meet Sinatra, but he said Frank had another show in Fort Lauderdale that night and he had to leave. “But I know a lot of people in the business,” he said. “Not just Sinatra.”

  “You think you can get me a screen test?”

  “Sure I can, just leave it to me.” He poured me another glass of champagne. It was the best night out I had had for three years; it was my only night out in three years.

  Okay, so maybe I was sleeping my way to the top. I wouldn’t be the first girl to do it.

  Angel told me the film producer’s name was Tony Marcellis. “He’s set up a reading for you,” he said, “at his hotel.”

  I took a cab over to the Algiers Hotel on Miami Beach. Angel told me Marcellis would meet me in the lobby. I was so nervous that I couldn’t think, I had been awake all night practising two monologues,
learning them by heart; Katherine Hepburn’s case for the defence from Adam’s Rib and Elizabeth Taylor’s Gloria Wandrous in Butterfield 8 “…Mama. We, we both know what kind of a girl I’ve been, we both know where I’ve been through. Mama, face it. I was the slut of all-time…”

  I gave the desk clerk my name, and while he called upstairs, I sat down to wait. A few minutes later the busboy came over, asked me if I was Miss Fuentes and told me that Mister Marcellis was expecting me upstairs.

  Room 603.

  I rode the elevator and went down the corridor, going over and over the speeches in my head. Mama, we both...Mama, we both...

  Now my big moment had come I could barely remember a single word.

  I stood outside the door to 603, trying to pull myself together, taking deep breaths. I was about to knock when I realized the door was ajar. There was music coming from inside, Sam Cooke, “You Send Me.”

  The door flew open. A girl stood there in her underwear.

  “I’m here to see Tony Marcellis,” I said.

  A middle aged guy with a mat of silver hair on his chest and chunky gold rings on his fingers came in from the balcony, wearing not much more than a towel, and smoking a cigar.

  “I’m here for the audition,” I said.

  He grinned. “Well you come to the right place,” he said and let the towel drop onto the carpet. “What do you think of that?”

  Then he stood there, like he was waiting for an answer.

  “I think it looks like a dick,” I said, “only smaller.”

  I didn’t wait for the elevator, I ran down the fire escape and out of the hotel. I was halfway home before I realized I’d lost one of my shoes on the stairs.

  That night I went to bed, feeling like a cheap whore. I opened my purse and took out the creased newspaper picture I’d found of Reyes and me at the Left Bank all those years ago. I wondered where Reyes Garcia was now. He belonged to another life, but whenever I thought of him I still wished that one day I would somehow find him again…