“I asked him that, and he laughed at me. He wants me to have the money, said he would be insulted—”
“It’s a form of control.”
“Well, it works, doesn’t it? Gosh, Mom, he’s incredible. He bought me two designer dresses yesterday, two. And he bought me shoes and a handbag, and he is just so rich … I’ve never known anybody who has this kind of money. If you could see the place I’m in, you would swoon. I’m on the twenty-second floor of a building that he built; it’s absolutely gorgeous. He wants me to stay here.”
Brenda sounded worried. “You’ve known him two days and you’re moving in with him? Tara, don’t you think that’s a bit rash—”
“I know it is, Mom. I’ve never done anything like this before. But then, I’ve never met anyone like Louie.”
“Well, I thought you were very impulsive with Franco. As soon as I met him, I could see he was a phony. But you fell for him.”
“That was because I was on the rebound from David. And I didn’t fall for him, not really. It was just a fling. This is the real thing, true love.”
“I see,” said Brenda, in a tone that implied otherwise.
Tara’s mother was nothing if not practical. While Tara was growing up, she’d worked as a cashier at Kroger’s; nowadays she clerked part-time at the county library. Brenda was moderately attractive, a brunette who wore her hair in an outdated pageboy, but she’d kept her figure, and she could have been stunning except she cared little for clothes or makeup.
Brenda said, “How old is this man?”
“Hmm, I’m not quite sure. He is older.” Actually, he was two years older than Brenda, but Tara wasn’t about to share this nugget.
“You said his name is Morelli? Is he from Michigan? We have a Morelli here who runs the Italian Cultural Center. What’s that, Ralph?”
Ralph was Tara’s stepdad. Tara could hear him in the background saying, “A Jewish fellow,” and Brenda said, “No, Italian. Morelli. Does that sound Jewish to you?”
“Mom, Louie’s originally from Louisiana. He was born and raised in New Orleans.”
She didn’t know if Brenda understood because Ralph was talking. Hearing his voice, she had to smile. Jerry was her biological father, but Ralph had adopted her, becoming her true father. For this, Tara bore him a deep and abiding affection.
Now, with Ralph piping in, it occurred to Tara that Ralph was actually Louie’s age; however, Louie seemed ten years younger. It was not that Ralph looked old, because he didn’t. He was an auto-worker who liked to fish and hunt. Ralph and Brenda were on a bowling team, and their idea of a classy night out was the Olive Garden.
For a while it was a three-way conversation, with Ralph asking Brenda about Louie’s company, and what kind of money were they talking, whistling when she told him about Tara’s raise. And then Brenda asked the inevitable. “Is he married?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you know that for a fact?”
“Mom, he moved me in here. He spent the night with me. I’ve met his friends—”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, with men.”
“Don’t try to spoil this for me. Louie’s perfect, and I’m in love with him.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Victor hadn’t broken Manny’s ribs, he’d cracked two of them; not that it made much difference. Manny was in bad shape, his left ribcage bruised like a side of beef. Plus he was missing an eye- tooth, his nose reset with surgical tape.
The emergency room personnel were all set for him to file a police report, but Manny demurred. He’d heard Morelli’s warning loud and clear, but even if he hadn’t, the last thing he needed to do was involve the police. It might get him in trouble with his PO. He was already up shit’s creek with his cousin Edward, who had to pay an impound fee to recover his truck.
Laid up at his mother’s house, popping Percodan like candy, Manny obsessed over his missing Blue Diamond and the dirty trick Franco had pulled. He was so damned mad at Franco he wanted to kill him. Manny had a horrible suspicion Franco had the necklace because the bastard had gone AWOL, his Coral Gables house abandoned. Whenever Manny called his cell phone, he got a message stating that the mailbox was full.
Manny lay on the couch watching The Jerry Springer Show, his drama queen mother making him soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Carmelita had been watching too much Dr. Phil. She told Manny he had to look on the bright side of things, advising him not to be so thin-skinned, saying, “If you weren’t so mad at the world, you might have gotten yourself a nice girl by now. That’s what you need, Manny, a nice girl.”
“I don’t like nice girls.”
“Don’t you want to get married and have babies? I think you should make me a grandma. Why, look at your cousin Edward—”
“Don’t talk to me about Edward,” he snapped.
The fat bastard had stopped by on the pretext of seeing how Manny was doing. He told Carmelita, “Manny has such a tough route I have to put two guys on when he’s off. He’s the best driver I got.”
Manny’s mother beamed, like the way she used to when he was a kid and got good grades. She served Edward coconut cake, the prick devouring it in two bites, complimenting Carmelita till she was positively giddy. As soon as she left the room, Edward asked sternly, “What the hell happened over at the Walker? They axed us and hired Rose Linen, made it clear you are never to set foot on the premises. Damnit, Manny, what is this about? I can’t afford any trouble. If you’ve been peddling drugs on the job … you know I can’t have that. The liability—”
“Relax, man. I was friends with Franco Santia, and they tossed him out on his ass, some kind of corporate takeover. That’s what it’s about. It had nothing to do with me.”
“Didn’t you get into a fight with one of their security guards over some girl?”
“Fuck no, man. I was just asking where Franco was, and the guy came out of nowhere and popped me. I should have pressed charges, sued the hotel’s owner. I still may do that. I could use the money. It’s hard to make ends meet, you know.”
Fearing Manny was going to ask for a raise, Edward’s eyes got small, disappearing into the fat folds of his face. He licked the last crumbs of cake from his fork and left without saying good-bye to his aunt.
Carmelita said, “Did Edward leave?” She looked suspiciously at Manny. “You didn’t say anything to make him mad, did you?”
“Give me a break. Why do you always think I’m at fault?”
“Because you have a bad attitude, Manny. You rub people the wrong way. I thought it was nice of Edward to drop by, and you acted like he was intruding. He went out of his way to give you a job—”
“He only did that because I’m his cousin.”
“Exactly. You should be grateful.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Manny.
Shaking her head, Carmelita went out, and Manny returned to the dilemma of his missing diamond. He was keeping in touch with a couple of guys at the Walker so he knew a couple of things. Franco wasn’t wrong—word on the street had it that this Morelli prick was mobbed up. Not that this bothered Franco. He’d seen enough guys like that in the joint. But Morelli had security all over the place, guys at the elevators checking room keys, suppliers getting tossed out of the bar.
Nobody had seen or heard from Franco; he wasn’t answering any calls, which made Manny really suspicious. Tara was boffing Morelli and had landed a big raise. He’d heard no mention of the Blue Diamond, and he was starting to believe that Franco and Tara were in it together. That sly little slut knew a lot more than she was telling, that’s for sure.
Frustrated, lying on his couch doped up, Manny ran through his options. He had to get back into the Walker and search Francine’s room. He had to find Franco, and he had to pressure Franco’s piece into giving up the necklace, assuming she ha
d it. The thing was, he couldn’t do any of it. He didn’t have the time or resources, and there was no getting around the Walker security.
After a week of stewing, busted ribs choking him whenever he took a deep breath, Manny tossed the Percodan. He hated to involve anyone else, but he decided to reach out to a guy he knew from Raiford, a virtual legend.
Chucky Lane was forty-eight, and he looked like Ron Howard before he went bald, a fair-skinned, red-headed guy with freckles and a southern accent. Chucky was famous for robbing more Palm Beach mansions than any other prowler in the history of the Gold Coast, and he did it by disarming their sophisticated security systems. He had been caught when he got greedy, hitting one mansion three times before one old broad wised up and held him at gunpoint.
When it came out that Chucky designed and installed alarm systems for his father’s security business, the authorities had a better understanding of his expertise. But Chucky was one of those rare crooks with integrity, and he refused to hit a house with a Lane system. The benefit was that his old man’s business flourished, and he adopted the slogan “No pain with Lane”, advertising in bold print that not one Lane security system had been breached by the notorious cat.
Actually, this should have alerted the cops. Instead they interrogated the owners and employees of every competitor in Palm Beach and Broward Counties, one company folding under a cloud of suspicion. Even the judge who sentenced Chucky was fascinated. He asked him why he had not robbed any homes with Lane systems, and Chucky’s reply was classic: “I didn’t want to jeopardize the reputation of my father’s company. Besides, Lane Home Security offers the best system on the market. I designed it myself.”
Chucky was the type of con who did his time quietly and without fanfare. Manny never had much to do with him, but he was impressed when A&E made a movie portraying Chucky as a Cary Grant type when he was actually nondescript, a real dork. After the movie aired, a software giant with an office in Hollywood, Florida, sent a man to interview him, hiring Chucky even before he made parole, the only con Manny ever knew who had a six-figure salary waiting for him.
Lots of guys said the computer job was BS. No way would a hotshot company put a guy like Chucky in charge of designing software, but Manny knew it was legit because one of his stops was in the same building in Hollywood, and he ran into Chucky in the hall. Chucky was stand-up, real friendly, greeting Manny by name.
Manny called Chucky at work and said, “Man, I got a story you won’t believe. It’s top secret, classified, and I can’t tell it to you over the phone.”
Chucky said, “I get lots of stories.”
“Not like this you don’t.”
Chucky agreed to meet Manny at Shooters in Fort Lauderdale, which was not quite the spring-break mecca of its former years. Changing demographics, much of it spurred on by guys like Morelli who came in during the last decade and tore down the cheap motels, replacing them with glitzy hotels and towering condominiums, were dictating a much more upscale crowd. What they had done on Las Olas Boulevard was stunning, and now there were more middle-aged swingers than college kids. Plus, Fort Lauderdale was one of the great boating capitals of the world, many of these boats cruising on the Intracoastal Waterway.
Chucky liked the boats, choosing the decades-long hot spot because it was on the Intracoastal, although Manny suspected Shooters wasn’t so hot anymore because there wasn’t too much happening. They sat waterside, watching the big boats coming and going. Chucky ordered fish tacos and a Coke; Manny had a burger and a beer.
He had to explain how he’d been beat up, downplaying it so as not to spook Chucky. Then he launched into his tale, watching Chucky’s pale-blue eyes grow bright behind the lenses of his wire-framed glasses. Wearing a green plaid short-sleeved shirt and high-belted khakis, Chucky looked like a nerd. His red hair was fading, going gray. He said, “Manny, I’ve been clean since I’ve been out. Two years now.”
“I’m not asking you to rob a bank, man. Just go up to that room and check it out. I want Bo’s diamond.”
“It’s not Bo’s diamond. See, you keep saying that, but Bo stole that diamond and hid it. I remember reading somewhere that National Insurance is the rightful owner of the Blue Diamond.”
“Man, all I’m asking is for you to take a peek. Franco told me it was there. If you find it, I’ll cut you in at ten percent.” Chucky got up and reached for his keys, and Manny said, “Okay, twenty.”
Chucky resumed his chair, his pale eyes focusing on a shiny Scarab, the racer’s giant engine deafening as it drew abreast of the restaurant, trolling southward. Two girls with breasts as round as softballs waved at the diners on deck. Noting the fat, balding captain, Manny thought enviously of what he’d do if he had that kind of dough.
The Scarab passed and Chucky said, “Forty percent, on account of me being the one taking the risk in recovery. But where do you think you’re going to unload it, Manny? That’s big bucks, big time. Who do you know who has that kind of cash and is willing to make a rare investment?’
Manny hadn’t thought that far ahead. He said, “Do you know anybody?”
“Maybe. But let’s not jump the gun. We don’t even know if it’s real. I’d like to see it before I make my decision.”
“It’s real, all right,” said Manny. “Bo told me Greta put it right in his hand.”
Manny could see by the glow in his eyes that Chucky was hooked. He nodded, thinking, clearly intrigued. “So you think Franco took it and split town?”
“Yeah,” said Manny. “Either that or his chick has it, except she’s not his chick anymore. She’s a hot number, comes with the hotel. Her name is Tara. Tara Evans.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
On the Friday of Week One of the greatest love affair ever, Tara arrived at the Walker, signed and distributed the employees’ paychecks, and then took off. She went to a salon on Lincoln Road where she had two inches clipped off her hair and honey-toned highlights blended in. Then she drove up to the exclusive Bal Harbour Shops and blew a ton of money at Saks and Nieman Marcus.
Splurging on beautiful clothes was sinfully delicious. She’d never had this luxury, and she felt more than a little guilty when she returned to the condo and the doormen had to help her bring up the bundles. She hung up her new couture in the closet, and then went for a dip in the pool, careful not to let her hair get wet.
She didn’t see Nathan at all, but the next morning he knocked on her door and offered to drive her to Fort Lauderdale so she could remove her personal belongings from her apartment. Tara was glad for Nathan’s help. He was remarkably efficient, unloading everything when they returned to The Venezia, hauling up bags of clothing in the elevator. Tara said, “I really didn’t want to have to make you work.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call this work.”
“Yes, but you must have something better to do on a Saturday morning than helping me move, don’t you?”
“I can’t think of anything just now.”
Nathan was laid-back, but she saw him sneaking looks at her when he thought she wasn’t watching. Appreciative looks, it seemed. But if he found her attractive, he didn’t let on. She knew Louie trusted him completely, but after spending a few hours with him, Tara could see why. Nathan was the classic nice guy, literally, the boy next door. He was a little techy too, because after helping her move, he sat in the den and hooked up her desktop, running badly needed updates and installing protective software.
It was taking a while to get it running smoothly, and Tara came and sat with him. He’d already told her that he was in the security business. Without going into detail, he explained that he “trained” corporations and governments about security tactics. His job took him all over the world, and he’d been in some exotic places, the jungles of Guatemala, the Amazon, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iran—places that read like a map of civil unrest. He confessed to having been shot in Iraq, sh
owing her a scar on his shoulder and adding that “he’d gotten lucky.”
“Were you in the service then?” she asked.
He looked at her calmly. “Louie must have told you I was in the military.”
“He did. He told me you were in the Israeli army.”
“I joined at seventeen, did ten years. This,” he pointed to his shoulder, “happened a couple of years ago, when I was doing contractual work for the U.S. government.”
“Do you miss Israel?”
“No. There’s nothing there for me.”
He said this with such finality that she looked sharply at him. “Don’t you have family in Israel?”
“Not anymore.”
“Do you have family here?”
“No.” He checked the latest program booting up on her computer, turned away from the monitor. “That should do it.”
She was a sentence behind him. She said, “Surely you have family somewhere?”
“No, I don’t.”
“No wife, no girlfriend? Not even a sweetheart?”
He gave her a little smile. “I lived with a British woman for six years, but it didn’t work out. I’m afraid I’m not very good at romance.”
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right girl yet,” Tara said hopefully.
“Maybe.” But he sounded doubtful.
She said, “I’m crazy about Louie.”
He grinned. “I already figured that out.”
“I guess it’s obvious. But I’m in love with him, and I’m not ashamed to say so. My mother thinks I’ve lost my mind, and I told her, ‘No, not my mind, just my heart’.”
Nathan was easy to chat with and Tara found herself divulging all sorts of personal information. She told him about her parents’ divorce and Jerry’s alcoholism, explained how Ralph had adopted her. She talked about growing up in the Detroit suburbs and meeting David in her senior year of high school. “I fell hard for him,” she admitted. “We were young … after a few years I moved in with him. We were supposed to get married after he graduated from law school, but we never did. And then he dumped me, took up with my best friend.”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 12
