His voice was soothing, his arm protective. She said, “I can’t. I promised Franco.”
She was close enough to see his pupils contracting. He didn’t move, but she felt him recoil and instinctively set a placating hand on his wrist. “Franco called me today. He told me he had misplaced a piece of jewelry in Francine’s room. He asked me to get it for him.”
“What kind of jewelry?”
“At first, he didn’t say. He was vague, but I went in there this morning and found his bracelet. I assumed that’s what he wanted, and so I met him at the News Café and gave it to him, but he got … upset. He said that’s not what he was looking for and asked me to go back in and find it.”
“Did he tell you what it was?”
“Yes.” She nodded, feeling his arm more firmly about her. “Franco told me he had misplaced a diamond necklace, a very valuable and expensive necklace. He told me I would know it if I saw it. But I didn’t see it. He said …” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “He said it was dangerous for me to know about it and begged me to keep it in confidence. He especially didn’t want you or Victor to know about it.”
“But you told me. Why?”
Tara looked him square in the eye. “Because I trust you more than I trust Franco.”
“I should hope so, honey. You’re my girl now, not Franco’s.” He said it easily, stating a fact. “I think you should trust me, baby.” She was still clutching the key to Room 312 in her hand, and Louie reached over and loosened her fingers. “I’ll keep this. Is there another key?”
“Franco might have had a spare, but I doubt it. Nobody goes in there.”
“Until now.” He dropped the key into his pocket, patting it. “I’m going to have security post a guard up here. Nobody goes in or out of these two rooms until I get to the bottom of Franco’s mystery.”
He came to his feet, holding out a hand for her. Down the hall a door opened, and the voices of two women drifted to them. One of the ladies laughed. The door slammed. Louie steered her into the corridor, turning her toward the elevators. “A diamond necklace, huh?”
“That’s what Franco said.”
“Franco hiding a necklace,” he laughed softly. “How much would you like to bet that it’s stolen?”
Chapter Sixteen
Later, at the end of her shift, Louie said, “Did you bring something pretty to wear?”
Tara was crestfallen; she had not. Louie acted like it didn’t matter, telling her to freshen up while he and Victor ran an errand. They would pick her up in thirty minutes on the service drive. Tara ducked into Franco’s bathroom—or was it Louie’s bathroom now? She’d showered here before, and did so again, quickly, toweling herself off and putting on the Walker skirt and blouse, leaving the top three buttons undone. She wished she had thought to bring something nice to wear. She kept jeans and a T-shirt in the trunk of her car, along with a bathing suit and a pair of running shoes. But what she needed was a cocktail dress.
She did have her make-up, applying it generously, and smoothing her locks with an old curling iron. If only she had her black halter dress, something sexy for Louie. But it couldn’t be helped. She’d have to go to dinner in her uniform.
Saying goodnight to her staff, Tara went downstairs and exited the hotel, coming out into the parking garage. Usually bustling with employees sneaking cigarettes, the garage was strangely quiet, no disgruntled gossips hanging about. The structure was half filled with vehicles, stuffy and airless after the day’s heat. Tara spotted her silver Sebring but walked right passed it, heading toward the service drive.
The narrow road divided the Walker from the neighboring high-rise, its pitted concrete surface badly in need of repair. Walking rapidly down the garage’s center lane, Tara noticed Manny’s laundry truck parked at the opening. She didn’t think anything of it. Outside, three cars were parallel parked on the opposite side of the alley, two cars closer to the hotel, then the Town Car. Tara spotted Victor leaning against the rear passenger door with a cell-phone pressed to his ear. But the Lincoln was fifty yards away, half a football field, and the cube van was blocking Victor’s view.
The van was angled across the entrance, engine idling noisily, its headlights pointing to the street, as though preparing to exit. As Tara drew abreast of it, the driver’s door swung open and Manny hopped out. At first she assumed it was mere coincidence, bumping into Manny. She started to say hi, but his glowering countenance silenced her. He planted his feet squarely in front of her, arms crossed over his midsection, and a feeling of dread swept over her. Tara looked at him with a mixture of fear and confusion. “What are you doing here, Manny?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Now is not a good time.” She attempted to sidestep him, and he clamped a hand on her arm, fingers biting painfully into her wrist. “You’re not going anywhere, bitch. It’s time you and I had us a little talk.”
He jerked her toward the van, flinging her up against the side panel. She panicked, started to call out, and he smothered her mouth with his hand. “Be quiet and I’ll be nice,” he hissed.
She flailed, kicking, yanking her body sideways and dislodging his hand. She gulped air. “Let go of me.”
He pushed her toward the van’s open door, trying to lift her inside. She fought like a wildcat, hands clawing, and he said, “Stupid cunt,” smacking her on the side of the head. A shrill scream escaped her, and he clapped a rough hand over her mouth. “You dumb bitch. I know you took it.” His eyes were glazed, red-rimmed, and fanatical. Tara clawed at his hand, trying to get her breath. “You can feed your line to Franco, but don’t think you can fool me. I’m only going to tell you once. You get me Bo’s necklace or I’ll break your fucking neck.”
Tara sank her teeth into the fleshy pad on his palm, biting down. He wrenched back his hand and slapped her. Jerking away, her head collided with the van door. “Stop it,” she choked, gulping air. “Let me go. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Like hell you don’t.” Twisting her arm, Manny again tried to force her into the van. She swung her purse, hitting him in the face. He backed off, and then came at her again. From the corner of her eye she saw Victor coming at a clip. She scampered back, desperate to fend his next blow. Manny’s arm was raised, but Victor’s karate chop caught him midair, his wrist slackening as he howled. He released her so abruptly Tara would have collapsed if Victor had not caught her.
“I got you, doll.” Victor’s big arms swung her away from the van. He set her on her feet and turned to Manny, who was scuttling backward like a crab. Bending into the blow, Victor slammed his fist into Manny’s face.
Manny went airborne, his body crashing against the van. Blood gushed from his nose. Bending over, he spit out red phlegm and one shiny front tooth. He stayed still, breathing hard. Then he sank to his knees, his hands going out in front of him. Peering at Victor with undisguised rage, he said, “Fuck you, man.”
A valet driver was attempting to bring an SUV into the garage, the Town Car crowding it. Louie got out of the back, motioning for the SUV’s driver to pull forward, and then he turned and strode rapidly to Tara. His face was like a thundercloud as he pulled her against him. Two security guards burst out of the service entrance, the heavy metal door clanging behind them. They jogged over, blazers flapping. Louie said, “What the fuck are you guys doing? Where’s my security down here?”
One of the beefy guards glanced sympathetically at Tara. He said awkwardly, “We were rotating shifts.”
Louie glared at him. He nodded his head in the direction of the SUV. “Tell that kid to park it and beat it.”
The guard moved off on his rubber-soled shoes, giving the order to the attendant. The SUV zoomed forward, turned into a parking slot. Sam pulled the Town Car alongside them. He got out and opened the rear door, but nobody moved because Manny came up on one knee. Ta
ra thought he was attempting to stand, but his right hand went to his left ankle, started reaching beneath the hem of his trousers. Victor leaned in low and jabbed him in the ribs. Tara heard Manny’s ribs crack, a split second later he shrieked, falling forward onto his hands. Victor coolly rolled up Manny’s pant leg and extracted a six-inch hunting knife from an ankle holder.
“Fucking bastard,” Manny gasped brokenly. “Fucking bastard, you broke my ribs.”
“I’ll bust your fucking head open you go near her again.”
Victor sprang up on the balls of his feet, slapping the dust off his trousers. He calmly surveyed Manny, and then he turned and handed the knife to one of the guards. Louie said, “Call the towing company; get this van out of here.”
One of the guards nodded, his eyes sliding to Manny. He looked back at Louie, questioning. Louie said, “Take this punk to the hospital. Make sure he understands that we’re not pressing charges, but if he shows his face here again, he’s a dead man.”
Chapter Seventeen
Safely ensconced in the Lincoln, Tara burst into tears. Louie held her, let her sob all over his beautiful suit. “There, there, baby,” he said soothingly, “it’s over now. I’m here.”
No man’s arms had ever yielded such comfort, such tenderness. “Shush,” he said, touching his lips to her forehead. “You’re safe, baby. I won’t let him hurt you again.”
Tara couldn’t recall a time when she had ever felt so protected. Brushing the hair off of her brow, Louie turned her face sideways to examine the handprint flaming on her cheek. He studied the vivid marks on her wrist. “Are you hurt, honey, or just shaken?”
Victor said, “I think she’s shook up, Lou. I got there before he could too much damage.”
Contemplating what might have happened to her if Victor hadn’t been present, Tara suppressed a shudder. She sipped at the bottle of water Sam had produced, and blew her nose in Louie’s snowy white handkerchief. She’d never known a man who carried a hanky, and this one was beautiful, monogrammed with his initials. Within seconds it was smeared with snot and lipstick.
Tara cried harder, thinking about what a wreck she looked. Manny hadn’t hurt her, but he’d stolen her happiness. She’d come sailing out of the Walker excited about her date. Now her hair was a mess, her make-up ruined. She opened her purse and took out her compact, started rubbing at the streaks of mascara on her cheeks.
Sam drove up to Lincoln Road and began circling back. Traffic was thick, moving at a snail’s crawl. Tara sniffed into his hanky. “Where are we going?”
“Smith and Wollensky for dinner. But I thought we’d do a little shopping first, get you out of this uniform.”
Surprised, she looked up, noticing that they were near the Lincoln Road Mall. But Sam went south on Collins, passing the Walker and heading into the heart of South Beach. Louie directed Sam to a row of upscale shops, telling Tara, “I was by here this afternoon and happened to notice this dress. I thought it would look good on you.”
Dumbfounded, Tara said nothing as the Lincoln glided to a halt. Taking her hand, Louie helped her exit the car. He said, “Sam, give me an hour.”
In a minute she was on the congested sidewalk, the last of the day’s sun warm on her face. Above her the sky was streaked with shades of lavender and orange. Up ahead the boutique’s display window showed a mannequin in an emerald-green cocktail dress with an accordion-pleated skirt. Halfway up the walkway Tara noticed the Dior insignia. She halted, looking at Louie with surprise. He smiled. “I want to buy you this dress.”
Without even knowing the price, she said, “It’s too expensive.”
“I thought the color would be good on you. Come on, let’s go try it on.”
The saleslady, a Latin beauty in a leather skirt and thigh-high patent leather boots, was salivating at the sight of them. Entering her shop was a rich man with his mistress—Louie was a sweepstakes. After directing Tara to a powder room where she fixed her face, the clerk ushered her into a dressing room with the hot little number, plus a few others, “just in case.”
The Dior fit perfectly, a flirty little dress with a low-cut diamond back, so low Tara removed her Maidenform. Louie sat on a chair, the saleslady chatting him up. They stopped talking as Tara emerged from the dressing room. Adjusting the hem, the Latina gushed. “Ooh, you are gorgeous.” She turned to Louie. “See how beautiful she is. You like it, yes?”
Tara was about to say that she loved it when she realized the question was meant for Louie, whose eyes were sweeping her, lingering at the swell of her breasts. He said, “Turn around, sweetheart.”
Tara presented her backside, watching him in the full-length mirror as he met the saleslady’s eye and nodded. He caught Tara’s wide-eyed gaze and gave her a small, intimate smile. The sexual charge hit like a fist, and she turned away, shaky, fumbling with the zipper. The saleslady smiled. “You should try the red one.”
The “red one” was a clingy knit by Versace. Tara nearly swooned at the price. She felt disembodied, thrust into somebody else’s life. It might have been a fairy tale, except that Louie was very, very real. He gave the girl the go-ahead on the Versace, telling her Tara was going to need shoes and a bag. Suddenly, three clerks were circling, and Tara was trying on a little black skirt, a filmy top—they kept bringing more—and she kept protesting.
The original saleslady said, “You should not refuse when a man wants to buy you clothes.” Her curious eyes were bright with envy. “He is your lover, yes?”
Tara said yes. She had no doubt he would be before the night was through. The clerk observed knowingly, “They are always more generous with their girlfriends.”
They put her in the green Dior with a pair of green suede wedge sandals by Rinaldi, a matching drawstring handbag, and a pair of dangling heart-shaped earrings with centers of sparkling jade. Tara stood there as though in a dream, shoppers and staff admiring her, Louie saying, “I was getting tired of your uniform.”
When she stepped outside, two men walking with their wives nearly tripped over themselves. Opening the rear door of the Town Car, Victor gave an old-fashioned wolf whistle. “You’re gorgeous, doll.”
Chapter Eighteen
The fashionable steakhouse that was Smith and Wollensky sat at the very tip of the peninsula at South Pointe Park. The patio was perched at the edge of the government cut, with Fisher Island just across the busy waterway, its ferry boats coming and going. The view of the downtown skyline was stellar.
A constant parade of pedestrians strolled on the sidewalk which ran unimpeded through the patio, dividing it in two. A neon lit patio bar was crowded with beautiful women sipping colorful cocktails. One platinum blond with seriously oversized breasts turned out to be Victor’s date. Suzy was half-sloshed by the time they sat at a round table overlooking the terrace, sitting inside because the breeze was gusting, the night air cooling. Beneath the table she set her hand on Victor’s thigh, smiled knowingly at Tara.
The restaurant was elegant and casual, all at once. It had a feel of the British Indies with its mahogany woods and muted lighting. Plate glass windows overlooked the patio and the shipping lanes. A stuffy waiter, annoyed at being called “buddy” by Victor, was pouring Cabernet into wineglasses when a man in a navy sport coat walked into the dining room. Spotting Louie, he came directly to the table, extending his hand to him. He said, “Sorry I’m late, Lou. I didn’t get in from Rio until after six.”
Victor’s date said, “Rio, as in Rio de Janiero?”
“Yes,” he said. “Brazil.”
This piqued Tara’s interest. One of the perks of working at the Walker was that she got to meet people from all over the world. She wondered what the man had been doing in Brazil. He had a dark complexion, and it was possible he actually was Brazilian. She eyed him curiously. He was fortyish, Louie’s height, but much stockier and very well-built. His clean-shaven fac
e was ordinary, his neatly clipped brown hair starting to thin at the crown. His eyes were dark brown, a bit serious as he surveyed the group.
There was nothing at all remarkable about him. He had none of Louie’s magnetism or Victor’s friendliness, but in that first moment when their eyes met she recognized a mutual attraction. If Tara hadn’t already fallen in love with Louie, her interest might have even been romantic. But this seemed so patently and absurdly disloyal that she quickly brushed the traitorous thought from her mind.
He certainly looked South American. He wore his sport coat with a Continental flair, pairing it with a cream silk shirt and dark slacks, quality clothing, but nothing ostentatious. Projecting a quiet competence, he claimed the available chair on Louie’s right. Tara was expecting Louie to introduce him by a Spanish name, something flowery or romantic. Instead, Louie said, “Baby, this is my friend, Nathan Roth.”
Nathan reached over and briefly clasped her hand. He caught the flash of surprise in her eyes and laughed. “Yes,” he said. “I am Jewish.”
“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” she replied. “Half of Miami is Jewish. But I thought for sure you were South American.”
“That’s because I said Brazil. If I had said Italy or Greece, you would have assumed I was Southern European. I’m Israeli by birth. But I’m a native now.”
“How long have you lived in Miami?”
“I emigrated eight years ago.”
“And you don’t even have an accent,” she mused.
Louie said, “Nathan’s good with languages. He speaks several fluently.”
Tilting her martini glass to her lips, Suzy said, “Oh, you’re an intellectual.”
With a little twinkle in his eye, Victor said, “Sure, doll, Nathan’s an intellectual.”
Tara ordered Australian tails, Louie opting for filet—all the men in their party going for the steak. Giving Louie one of her tails and taking half of his meat, she thought it was excellent, although, after a few bites, Louie pronounced it mediocre. “Overpriced and undercut,” agreed Victor, eating heartily. They discussed the difficulty of getting a good meal in South Beach.
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 10
