Adrenalin flooded his body. Wild-eyed and frantic, Franco struggled to free himself and Victor said, “Easy, Franco. Don’t give me a reason to hurt you.”
Blinking against the harsh light, his heart racing a mile a minute, Franco tried to grasp the meaning of Victor standing in his bedroom at four a.m. He said, “Victor, what the fuck—?”
He noticed the butt of a nine-millimeter poking above the waistband of Victor’s jeans. Not handling the Beretta, but deliberately showing it. Victor’s eyes were cool and calm, narrowing slightly as they met Franco’s. Fear swamped Franco, burned in his stomach like acid.
Victor said, “Get up, Franco.” He inclined his head toward the front of the house. “Lou wants to talk to you.”
Franco stumbled to his feet. He was wearing a blue T-shirt and Tasmanian devil boxers. He swayed, eyes darting frantically about, and Victor thrust him toward the door, shoving Franco in front of him. The hall light was on, revealing a bulky man standing outside the bedroom door. He was bald as a cue ball, his small, pellet eyes fastening on Franco. He had dark eyebrows and a thick mustache. His clothing was nondescript, faded jeans and a black windbreaker, but his aggressive, square-shouldered stance and unrelenting stare reminded Franco of a psychotic prison guard he’d once seen in a movie.
He froze in his tracks, and Victor pushed him forward. Victor was so matter-of-fact, calmly deliberate, that he spooked Franco almost as much as the stranger. Walking with Victor behind him, Franco passed the open door of the john. Bladder suddenly full, he said, “Can I take a leak?”
Victor said, “You touch anything but your dick in there, and I’ll hurt you. Got that?”
Franco nodded and nervously stepped in. He didn’t even think of closing the door. He walked to the toilet and propped a hand on the wall above the tank and took out his Johnson. But now he couldn’t piss, everything was blocked up inside of him, frozen. He said, “Fuck it,” and turned around. His eyes fell on his razor, a hairbrush: Potential weapons, but not against Victor’s Beretta. He met Victor’s eyes, noticing, for the first time, the tint of green in them. Franco had underestimated Victor. Now, in this strangely intimate moment, he saw that Victor was not the dolt he’d pegged him for.
Franco exited the bathroom. He still had the urge to pee, but he couldn’t stand there all day waiting to go. He shuffled into the living room, observed Louie sitting at the table in the nook off the kitchen. The verticals on the window, which Franco always left partially open, had been closed. The Tiffany-inspired chandelier was on, the refrigerator humming noisily.
The imitation oak table was square, with Louie’s chair at an angle to it, his legs stretched out. Wearing a black knit sweater and blue Dockers, Louie was unshaven, a dark bristle on his chin. But it wasn’t his lack of nocturnal grooming that made Franco’s chest tighten; it was the stripping away of Louie’s civilized veneer, the showing of his dark side with all its inherent power.
Impassively, he watched Franco make his way to the table. Extending one black-booted foot, he kicked back the chair facing him. “Have a seat, Franco.”
Franco sat awkwardly, considered the hopelessness of his situation. He was in his boxers, barefoot, they were dressed and armed. Somehow, they’d gotten into his house without breaking any windows or doors—stealthily, expertly.
He was aware of Victor hovering over his shoulder. The other guy took up a soldier’s stance behind Louie, his beady eyes staring down Franco. With a cruel smile he opened his jacket, showing a Sig and something that at first looked like a pair of pliers and that Franco abruptly realized were bolt cutters.
Franco swallowed noisily, turning his attention to Louie. The hard shine in Louie’s eyes unnerved him even more. Louie was angry, but it was a cold-blooded rage, totally void of passion. His voice was silken, his soft cadence menacing. He said, “Franco, I’m very disappointed in you.”
“I—I don’t understand, Lou.” Franco’s voice cracked. “Why are you here? How did you find me?”
“It’s not too difficult when you sign a lease in your own name.”
“What do you want, Lou? You already broke me. I’ve got nothing—”
“You still have your life, Franco. And I would really like for you to keep it. I really would because, in spite of everything, I do like you. I didn’t come here to kill you, but make no mistake: I can and will kill you, if you don’t give me the answers I’m looking for.”
“Answers … what answers?”
“I’m going to make this really easy for you, Franco. I’m going to ask you questions, and you are going to answer me. If you lie to me—and you’re a really poor liar, Franco, did you know that? If you lie to me, it’s really simple. I turn you over to Gasper.”
Franco looked at the man standing behind Louie. His beady eyes hadn’t left Franco’s face, and now he smiled broadly, his hand brushing the bolt cutter, as though he relished the thought of torturing Franco.
Franco smelled urine before he realized it was coming from him, a burning stream soaking his shorts and flowing down his leg. He was horrified, but unable to stop it, his full bladder letting loose. Urine dripped down his ankle and pooled beneath his feet. Hot shame overwhelmed him and he hung his head, waited for them to ridicule him.
Victor made a noise in his throat, but gave no comment. Louie turned to his hired killer. “Gasper, get a couple of towels.”
The bald guy walked into the living room and turned into the hall. Franco heard the door of the linen closet squeak open. Gasper was back inside of a minute, handing the towels to Louie, who dropped two onto the floor, using the toe of his boot to slide them toward the puddle of urine. Louie gave Franco a third towel, which he spread across his lap.
The kitchen smelled of piss. The lump in Franco’s throat was the size of a fist, choking him. Seeing him struggling, Louie signaled Victor. Franco heard the refrigerator crack open, felt a cool breeze on his neck. Victor leaned over Franco and set a bottle of Mountain Dew in front of him. He even unscrewed the cap, making it easier for Franco to lift the bottle. Trembling, Franco took a swig of soda.
Louie said, “Tell me about the necklace you hid in Francine’s room. You told Tara it was a necklace, a valuable one. It seems that you’re not the only person who is interested in it.”
Franco looked up. “Did you find it?”
“I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I was hoping you could clue me in.”
“If you let me go up there, I’ll find it for you.”
“I’d rather you tell me your story first.”
So Franco told him, all of it: Beginning with Manny’s half-crocked story. “I didn’t really believe him—it was too far-fetched. But I was curious, and then … I bashed in the floor and there it was. It was incredible … I couldn’t believe it.”
He spoke of his emotion, the magical feeling when he touched it. He’d taken the necklace into Francine’s room because Derek was snooping, and he didn’t want him to see it. But something had happened to him, he’d been high, disoriented. Unbelievably, he misplaced it. Because of the takeover, he never had a chance to get back up there. That’s when he asked Tara to take a look.
“Did you tell anyone else you found the diamond?”
Franco shook his head. “Absolutely not. I didn’t want to share this with anyone.”
“Did you send Manny over to Tara’s place?”
“Why would I—”
“Answer me.”
“No, I didn’t send Manny to Tara’s place. I wouldn’t do that, Lou. Not to Tara … I—I respect her too much.”
“Cut the shit. You treated her like a tramp.”
The hard edge in Louie’s voice sent a fresh wave of panic through Franco. He looked at Louie. “I swear to God, Lou, I never sent him to her place.”
“Did he ask you where she lived?”
“Never. I w
ouldn’t have told him anyhow. I’m a stand-up guy, Lou. I wouldn’t tell a creep like Manny where Tara lived. I wouldn’t do that to her.” Franco drank soda, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What happened? Did Manny do something?”
“Somebody did. Tore her place apart, poured bleach on her clothing and took a dump on her grandmother’s dishes. You know a lowlife who would do something sick like that, Franco?”
“God, no. I don’t even think Manny would do something like that.”
“But you don’t really know, do you? Manny likes to play tough. He roughed you up, didn’t he? And he’s desperate, you said so yourself.”
“He wants the Blue Diamond. He thinks it’s his, on account of his grandfather hiding it.”
Louie said, “Yes, and he thinks Tara has it, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know what he thinks, Lou. All I know is that I don’t have it.”
Louie studied him. He didn’t seem particularly menacing now. They’d conversed as if they were alone, but Victor and Gasper were silent sentinels in the background. Soaking in his own piss, Franco was miserable. But he had the sense he’d dodged a bullet; Louie was nodding, listening. He crossed his legs and said, “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on, Franco? I would have worked something out for you.”
Franco said, “I guess I fucked up. I was just trying to make a buck, Lou. You know, it was like it was my play. I was going to cut Manny out completely, tell him it was all BS. Then I was going to sell it and score big.”
Gasper was leaning against the wall, jacket closed. He wasn’t even looking at Franco. Behind Franco, Victor was running water and prepping the coffeepot. Franco sighed. “I planned on making enough money to pay you back, Lou. Regain control over my hotel. But you came in the next morning and that was that. ”
“That would be a huge score, Franco. Who do you know who has that kind of money?” He smiled unctuously. “Besides me, that is.”
Franco hesitated, his eyes suddenly dropping. Louie said, “Go on.”
“There’s a guy I’m friends with, sort of. He’s a movie guy, and he’s loaded. He likes to collect art, and I know for a fact he bought a hot painting before because he showed it to me. He said it was stolen from the Louvre like fifty years ago—he bragged he paid five million for it. It was nothing impressive, at least not that I could see. He has it hanging on the wall of his study. He has a place in Jupiter Beach. He invited me up there one afternoon.”
“Who is this guy?”
“He wants me to keep our friendship secret.”
“Franco, do I need to remind you that you have no secrets from me?”
Franco hung his head. “His name is Marty Morgan. He makes movies—documentaries mostly.”
Butting in, Victor said, “Not the fucking hippie asshole that makes movies sympathetic to terrorists and blames their problems on the CIA and the state of Israel?”
“That’s him: Marty. He started coming into the Walker a few years ago.”
“The story about the painting could be bullshit,” said Louie, thinking aloud. “From what I’ve seen of the guy, he’s a blowhard. What makes you think he’d go for the diamond?”
“He’s a collector. His house is full of art.”
Louie grimaced. “Somebody like that … a Hollywood hotshot … he’d probably call in the Feds if you popped it on him. Why were you willing to take this risk?”
“I trust Marty. You see, I do him a few favors. He kind of owes me.”
Louie perked up. “What kind of favors?”
Franco shrugged. “He’s a perv—he’s got a thing for boys.”
Louie exchanged glances with Victor, who set down a coffee mug so hard a piece of ceramic chipped off. “Whoa, Lou, you hit pay dirt. It’s like the fucking lottery.”
Louie’s gaze rested on Franco. He shook his head, mystified. “What’s the matter with you? You had this kind of an advantage and you didn’t do anything?”
“What could I do? He’s famous, an important guy. I didn’t want to muscle him.”
“All the more reason. It’s precisely why you should muscle him. Besides, I’m an important guy, and you didn’t mind asking me for money. Or don’t you think I’m important, Franco?”
“I know you’re important, Lou.”
Victor snorted, said facetiously. “I don’t know, Lou. He did try to pop you. Lost your nerve though, didn’t you, Franco?”
Ears burning, Franco nodded dully. He’d rather forget his moment of humiliation. Louie regarded him coldly, toying with him. “I guess I’m not important enough, eh, Franco?”
“Come on, Lou, don’t bust my balls.” Franco chanced a look at Gasper, the guy standing there like a fucking Ranger. “I’m squaring with you.”
“You should have been square with me from the beginning. It’s your bullshit that pisses me off. What I don’t get is why you didn’t tap this bastard. You could have paid me back ten times over. Why even come to me with this kind of potential walking around?”
Franco sniffed. “It’s a recent thing. Morgan used to stop in for a drink every now and then. He likes the action on the patio bar. It’s a young crowd, and nobody ever recognizes him. One night we did some lines, and he told me he likes them barely legal, you know? On account of his being married, I assumed he meant girls, but it’s boys he’s got a thing for. So I fixed him up with a young hustler—the kid looks fourteen, but I think he’s older.”
“Jesus, you think? How young are we talking?”
“As young as he can get them. He’s weird—”
“More like a fucking pedophile,” mused Louie.
Franco nodded. Victor said, “I saw Morgan and his wife on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. She’s as wacky as he is, a real fruitcake.”
Louie said, “You take a cut on this kid’s action?”
“Yeah, sure, I did. A couple of bucks. Morgan doesn’t know that, though. He thinks I’m doing it out of the kindness of my heart. But he’s kind of hooked, you know? Comes by every couple of weeks—”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Two days before you threw me out. He told me he was going to Thailand, but he should be back soon. He calls my cell directly. He thinks the kid’s underage, and for all I know, he could be. I don’t ask questions.”
Again, Louie and Victor exchanged glances. Louie said, “When he calls you, I want to know about it.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Louie slid back his chair, coming to his feet. He gestured distastefully at the table, wrinkling his nose at the smell of piss. “Jesus, Victor, get a fucking mop in here.”
Franco flushed. He didn’t know what to do, and Louie said quietly, “Go get cleaned up.”
Franco took a long, hot shower. He knew they were out there, but he took his time dressing, putting on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He blotted his hair dry and walked into the living room. Louie and Gasper were sitting at opposite ends of the couch, each with a steaming mug of coffee. The TV was tuned to the early news.
Light came from the lamps. The blinds were drawn against the picture window; even so, Franco knew it was still dark. Victor was at the stove frying bacon. The piss on the floor was gone, linoleum spotless and smelling of bleach. A stronger smell of coffee and bacon and toasting bread filled the house. The early edition of the Sun-Sentinel was on the counter next to a box of Dunkin Donuts.
Franco had no appetite, but he took the mug Victor shoved into his hands. Louie got off the couch and walked into the kitchen. He gave his empty mug to Victor, who filled it, spooning in sugar. Louie turned to Franco, said archly, “So … who do you think has the diamond?”
“I don’t know, Lou. I know I don’t have it.”
“Do you think Manny has it—or Tara? Do you think Tara took it?”
Every time Lo
uie mentioned Tara, Franco got nervous. Avoiding Louie’s intense look by stirring his coffee, he mumbled. “Tara told me she didn’t. I believe her.”
“But Manny thinks she took it, doesn’t he?”
“I guess he would think that. He probably thinks I have it.” He caught the hot gleam in Louie’s eye and said, “But I don’t, Lou. I swear. I’m not holding out on you. You don’t really think I have the diamond?”
Louie smiled. “No,” he said. “I have it.”
Franco’s relief was so enormous he almost pissed a second time. In Louie’s calm gaze he saw something of the affable businessman he first met and thought he could hustle. What a joke that was. He said, “If you had it, why—”
Louie patted him on the arm. “Because I want you honest, Franco. You were, and I won’t forget it. Now, sit down. We need to talk.” Franco looked confused, and Louie said. “I’m going to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Manny was floored when Franco called him to say. “Man, we’ve got to get that necklace.”
Manny said, “Where the fuck have you been?”
“I went on a bender, man—I owe money all over the fucking place—that prick Morelli says I owe him for damage at the hotel. You believe this shit? The guy’s suing me.”
“I’ve been calling you every day for two weeks. I thought you ran out on me.”
“Give me a break. I’ve been depressed, hiding from creditors. I’m living in a dump over here, Manny. It’s kind of hard to take. Listen, I know I didn’t do you right before, and I want to apologize, I really do. I figure we can start over. You cool?”
“Yeah, I’m cool. But you have to get me that diamond.”
“Listen, I talked to Tara. I guess you scared her pretty good by trashing her place.”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 16
