The kids were hot, hungry, and tired. Tara discovered they had been waiting three hours. Taking one look at her sister, her heart plummeted into her stomach. She held a horrified hand to her mouth, and said, “Oh my God, Natalie.”
“Don’t start. I need a place to crash. Can you put us up without the lecture?”
“Sure, come on.”
Tara had essentially moved out. There were no provisions in the house, and without her personal items, the apartment had an air of abandonment. It smelled musty. She booted up the air and did a mad dash to Publix where she loaded up on the groceries. She then drove to the discount retailer Ross and purchased clothing for Natalie and her kids, adding a few items for herself.
Back at the apartment she fed Natalie’s family. After getting the kids settled, she called Jerry. But her father and his wife were involved in a fishing tournament and could offer no relief until the weekend. It was midnight before Tara got her bath, and then she slept on the couch, having done the honorable thing and given her bedroom to Natalie and her children.
Before leaving for work in the morning, Tara had a chat with her sister. Natalie agreed Emilio was an abuser, admitting he had hit her before and that he had a “crazy temper”. She said she couldn’t go back to him. She agreed to counseling, to calling the domestic abuse hotline. If anything, Natalie’s bruises looked worse today, mottled green and purple, spreading over her face with matching ribbons of bruises on her throat. It was easy to see that Emilio had choked her, but Natalie would not hear of involving the police. Throwing up her hands in exasperation, Tara gave her money and left for work.
Nursing a broken heart and suffering for lack of sleep, Tara walked into her office and discovered Louie’s son, Tony, sitting at the big desk. She had forgotten the dutiful son was in attendance, and she despised him on sight, if only because he was Louie’s son.
She knew she was being irrational. Tony certainly made an effort to be pleasant, introducing himself with a smile. But she couldn’t even pretend to be courteous. She saw him looking at her, trying to figure out why she was such a bitch. It didn’t help that he resembled his father, although his eyes were a gentler brown. He was taller and broader than Louie, with curly hair. He had many of his father’s mannerisms and none of his fiery magnetism; a heartthrob if she’d met him under any other circumstances.
Tara knew Tony was married. She’d seen his wedding picture along with all the family photos. She even knew he had a one year old son and that his wife was expecting their second child. To his credit, he wore a wedding ring. And this burned her even more.
She managed to execute her duties with a minimum of conversation, although late in the afternoon Victor called her and said, “Doll, you’ve got to be nice to Tony.”
Then she felt petty and stupid, knowing people were talking about her. But if her day had been bad, her evening was worse. Returning to the drama at home, Tara discovered Natalie was half-drunk. She’d spent Tara’s money and had done nothing, nada, not one phone call. Joey had new toys, and a playpen was set up in the front room. On the counter were jars of baby food and a gallon of Absolut Vodka. Natalie had managed to feed her daughter, but Joey was hungry and Tara took him to McDonald’s. Then she went home and did the laundry.
Suddenly, she was a single mother with a demanding job and an inadequate babysitter. But when she scolded Natalie, her sister accused her of being selfish. Overwhelmed and exhausted, Tara excused Natalie’s bad behavior. She called the domestic abuse hotline and got the information for the safe house. But now Natalie did an about-face. She didn’t think she needed to go and started to justify Emilio’s abuse by saying, “I started it.”
Tara said, “For God sakes, Natalie, he beat you up, and it’s not the first time. Please tell me he doesn’t hit Joey—”
“Oh Christ, you sound just like Pam. Emilio’s nice with Joey, a really good daddy to him.”
Looking at Joey, his big blue eyes round with fright, Tara quietly agreed with Jerry’s wife; she didn’t think Emilio was such a hot stepdad. But there was no convincing her sister, and she let the matter drop. Come the weekend, she would turn Natalie over to their father, let him sort it out.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tara had left Louie with an air of injured pride. Now she hung on pins and needles, expecting him to call. When he did not, she was crushed. Sleep-deprived from taking care of Natalie’s family, she threw herself into her work. Through the course of the week her dislike for Tony gradually lessened and then disappeared completely. She actually liked him, and thought he was a great asset, taking firm control of the hotel.
Come Thursday afternoon she was in her office, scowling over the accounts receivable, when her mother called. Tony had departed for the day, and Tara was glad of it because the first words out of Brenda’s mouth were, “How is it going with Prince Charming?”
“Huh, you were right. He’s married.”
Her mother, slyly triumphant, said, “That’s not all he is, missy. I just sent you an email. Call me back after you read it.”
Tara logged into her Yahoo account. Brenda, library aide extraordinaire, had sent attachments found on Google, hits on Louis Morelli from all over the place. From the USA Today: “Louis Morelli, New Orleans Crime Boss or South Florida Entrepreneur?” The article cited Louie’s real estate activities in Florida while referencing his dark past in New Orleans’ underworld. One man had written a book on the Morellis titled Gulf Coast Mob Dynasties, with pictures of a young Louie with his father, and quotes like “mob boss Tony Morelli” and “Big Louie Morelli”, alleging connections with gambling, prostitution, bookmaking, and loan sharking.
Tara recalled how Louie had taken over the hotel, legally, if not ethically. She remembered him slapping Franco and calmly dispossessing him of his gun, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the truth about her benefactor was on the screen in front of her. She’d seen this without really understanding what and who Louie was, so there was no great surprise or shock.
But it was an awful lot to absorb. She had to pause, crack open a bottle of water. She skimmed an article from New Orleans’ Times-Picayune, quoting an FBI agent as saying that “Louis Morelli is a very dangerous man.” There were references to diamond smuggling, multi-state racketeering, and mention of a grand jury indictment that was dismissed under a cloud of suspicion, amidst rumors of jury tampering. A hex on the prosecutor that caused mayhem in the courtroom, including all sorts of personal tragedies involving the judge and members of the jury, was attributed to Louie Morelli’s exotic mistress, Mercedes Glapion.
Now Tara got the hits on Mercedes, her name linked with Louie’s in many articles, one click leading Tara to the website for Madame Mercedes’ House of Voodoo, the site still using the founder’s photo even though she was deceased, but Tara could see why. Mercedes was a dark, seductive beauty, a real stunner. Her site advertised online readings for forty dollars, and Tara reluctantly dragged out her plastic, tapped in her VISA number, curious, in spite of herself, for an electronic card reading.
Soon, a brief summary: “Querent is in a transitional period: A time of great change and increased responsibility. Look for new and pivotal relationships, a love affair that feels ‘fated’. Anybody entering querent’s life now will have a profound impact for years to come. Some element of danger and/or deception is possible under these influences. Querent is best advised to explore all avenues and avoid hasty decisions. Future cards indicated wealth and success. Querent will literally ‘inherit the world’.”
Too coincidental. Tara exited the website, returned to the search engines and clicked on an article from the Palm Beach Post: “Retired mobster Big Louie Morelli moves to the Gold Coast,” scanned this. The Times-Picayune referred to him as semiretired, his cousin Anthony assuming his command.
There was more, but Tara pretty much had the gist of it. She called her mother, and Brenda sai
d, “You really know how to pick them, Tara.”
“He didn’t act like a gangster, Mom.” How was a gangster supposed to act? She had an image of Joe Pesci from Goodfellas, Tony Soprano at his strip club, a Vegas movie, Pesci again. “If you met Louie, you’d think he was a nice guy.”
“Hah,” Brenda scoffed. “I don’t know, Tara. You’re a smart girl, but I worry about your judgment.”
Tara said good-bye and hung up. She had lied to Brenda. Of course, Louie had acted like a gangster with Franco and Manny. It’s just that he didn’t particularly look like Hollywood’s version of a mobster. He was too charismatic, too beautifully attired, so far out of the stereotypical norms that she’d deliberately chosen to ignore the signs. But beneath Louie’s polished veneer she’d sensed his darkness, had been titillated and intrigued and aroused by it.
This said more about her than Louie. Wearily, she reopened the email and clicked one more Morelli reference. She hit pay dirt. The Times-Picayune: “Crime boss Louie Morelli at Madame Mercedes’ funeral,” and there it was: A picture of Louie on the steps of the St. Louis Cathedral with Mercedes’ husband, Robert Fontenay; a beautiful little girl stood between them.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chucky wasn’t too keen on doing business with Manny. The guy was too uptight, too needy. To be successful in crime you had to project confidence, get people to trust you.
Still, Chucky couldn’t resist the challenge. The Blue Diamond. It was unbelievable, a story like that, but the way Manny told it, that stuff about his grandpa Bo, Chucky had a feeling this was the real thing. It got a little tricky when it came to Franco. Supposedly, Franco admitted to hiding the diamond in the Walker’s haunted room, and then getting drunk and misplacing it, his chick Tara turning up empty handed.
So it was either Franco lying or the chick lying. Stones like the Blue Diamond just didn’t disappear. If Chucky could get his hands on it, he knew exactly the person to pitch it to, one of his previous customers, an old fag collector down in Key West. Of course, he didn’t think it was necessary to inform Manny of his plan. After all, when he got the diamond, he could call the shots, make Manny go fifty-fifty, maybe even sixty-forty. And what could Manny do anyhow?
The day after meeting Manny, Chucky went to the Walker. He saw Manny wasn’t kidding about security—there was a guard posted near the elevator, his colleague patrolling the lobby. Checking in two nights later, Chucky stopped off on the third and saw a guard sitting at the end of the hall, outside of Rooms 312 and 313. Now he got a funny feeling, it was almost as though he could smell the diamond. They wouldn’t have a guard here for nothing. But what was with these people, hiding a diamond in a hotel room? What was up with this?
Chucky knew he wasn’t getting into Room 312. He returned to the lobby and picked up a working girl in the lounge. She was a prime piece of ass, and he went to sleep smiling. In the morning he did another stroll on the third floor and discovered the same set-up with a different guard. Chucky went downstairs and walked out of the hotel. That afternoon on his lunch break he drove to Tara Evans’ apartment and used a credit card to jimmy the door.
The place was a pigsty. Manny hadn’t told him she had kids, but a playpen crowded the front room, an overflowing diaper pail beside it. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, soiled laundry piled in the hall. The bed was unmade; clothes were tossed haphazardly, kids toys underfoot. At first, Chucky thought he had the wrong apartment, but a quick glance at the mail stacked on the table showed it addressed to Tara Evans.
Chucky went through Tara’s dresser drawers, which were surprisingly neat and only half full. He poked around in the closet and looked under the bed, examined the kitchen cabinets. There was nothing of value in the apartment, certainly no jewelry. He wasn’t even sure if Tara Evans lived here—the closets were too sparse.
Chucky let himself out, stepping into the hallway just as a skinny blond carrying a baby and trailing another kid came up the walkway. Chucky smiled and held the door for her, then helped her carry groceries to Tara Evans’ door. “Do you live here?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you around before.”
“I’m staying with my sister.” She looked at him. “Do you know Tara?”
“Sure I know Tara. I heard she moved out.”
“She’s back—that rich prick she was with turned out to be married.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tara was leaving her office, flush with the knowledge that she was in love with one of the most dangerous men in the country, when Natalie called to say she had forgiven Emilio. She and the kids were leaving. Could Tara call their father and tell him not to bother driving up tomorrow?
Tara said, exasperated, “Natalie, are you nuts?”
“Emilio loves me. He’s just got a bad temper.”
“Natalie, you’re still bruised—”
“He promised never to hit me again.”
“They always say that.”
“Come on, Tara. You’re such a goody two-shoes, what do you know? You had that dork David and he cheated on you. At least Emilio loves me. He doesn’t cheat.”
“No, he just beats you up.”
But there was no sense in debating fundamentals with her self-destructive sister. Tara could only hope the kids survived intact. She said goodbye and called Jerry. He was out fishing, and she talked to Pam, whom she preferred, relaying the message. Then she went home and discovered Natalie had stripped the cupboards of food and left Tara the dirty diaper pail.
The next day, Saturday, was normally Tara’s day off. But she was covering a shift and worked a long day, meeting Lina at the Lincoln Park Mall afterward. They ate on De Luca’s patio, overlooking the pedestrian mall. Tara ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio and De Luca’s signature truffle ravioli, which she usually loved. But tonight she had no appetite and merely picked at her food. She was glad for Lina’s company, but at ten o’clock, yawning heavily, she said goodnight and hit the freeway for home.
Making the turn into her complex, Tara could barely keep her eyes open. She parked in her usual spot without noticing anything amiss. She was contemplating driving down to the Venezia tomorrow to remove her personal things and debating the morality of keeping her new couture. She didn’t have the heart to return the clothes, although every time she wore one of the outfits she would be reminded of Louie.
Tara had her key in the door when she realized it wasn’t locked. Wondering if Natalie had returned, she pushed open the door and froze, unable to process the disaster awaiting her. Everything was topsy-turvy, the dining table on its side, the couch tipped over and the upholstery slashed, foam guts spilling out.
Every cupboard door in her kitchen was opened, with broken glass and shards of crockery jumbled on the floor with the contents of the refrigerator, milk and condiments, poured out, her grandmother’s pretty stoneware busted to pieces on the floor where some fiend had squatted and mounded human feces on top as a final debasement. The comingling stench of spoilt food and urine and bleach assailed her. Glancing down the hall, she saw her bedroom had fared no better, her clothing torn off hangers and thrown helter-skelter, bodily fluids and bleach soaking through the fabrics. Instinctively, Tara backed out the door, her heart hammering loudly. Surely someone in the building had seen or heard something, but the doors on her floor were closed tight, although a television blared from across the hall.
She spun around and ran out to the parking lot. She fumbled with her keys and got into her car and called 911. Even while she tried to make sense of what she had seen, Tara understood this was no random act. She was so revolted nausea rose in her, and she opened her car door and vomited onto the oil-stained asphalt.
The Fort Lauderdale police arrived in two squad cars, lights flashing. They were quick and professional, their investigative unit inspecting the apartment. In the backseat of a cruiser, they jotted down her information. One of the policeman sa
id, “It’s pretty ugly in there, Miss Evans. It looks personal—who would want to do this to you?”
Tara thought of Manny, but dismissed him. He was creepy, but this was bizarre. Plus, she didn’t think he had any idea of where she lived. She gave the police a shortened version of Natalie’s situation, providing Emilio’s name. He would not have appreciated her giving aid and comfort to Natalie, and she explained this. The officers knocked on doors in the building, but of course no one had seen or heard anything.
One of the female cops asked Tara if she had somewhere she could spend the night. “It’s probably best you sleep elsewhere. Do you have a friend you can call, somewhere to go?”
Tara said, “I work for the Walker Hotel in Miami. I guess I can go back to work and get a room.”
The cop said, “That’ll do it.”
Tara got into her car. She remembered that it was Saturday night and the hotel was booked to capacity. She drove two blocks, pulled into a Shell station, and dug her phone out of her purse. Instinctively, without thinking, she scrolled her contacts for Louie’s name and tapped send. His phone rang twice, three times, and she began debating her options. He picked up on the fifth ring. Hearing his voice, she dissolved into tears. He said, “Baby, calm down. Tell me what happened.”
She told him. Calmly, he asked, “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Tell me where you are.”
She gave her location. Louie instructed her to drive to the Publix at the next intersection and park beneath a light. “Wait for me,” he said.
Tara waited an hour. She later learned Louie was home when she called and he had to summon Victor. The two of them drove down from Delray, swinging by her apartment to assess the damage and calling her en route. Tara had recovered enough to venture into the all-night grocery and buy a soda and saltines. She was sitting in her car sipping ginger-ale when Victor’s black XTS turned in, the Cadillac pulling alongside her.
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 14
