Marty and Cindy had been married five years. The marriage was childless, but Cindy had an eleven-year-old son from a previous relationship. This was Kyle, dangerously blond and beautiful, just coming into the age of temptation. Sitting beside his mother in his basketball shorts and mesh tank-top, his hair shone like spun gold.
Marty’s study was done in a minimalist style. The whole house was contemporary, but even more so in his private space. Marty collected art, but he only had one painting in this room, and this was the Cubist on the wall above the sofa, the one Franco had seen and failed to appreciate, the ill-fated painting he’d picked up from a private dealer in Toronto: The long stolen treasure from the Louvre. Marty felt a thrill whenever he looked at the canvas, as though he had personally masterminded the theft.
Marty was a tall, thin man, reedy and unkempt, with shoulder-length sandy-blond hair which he wore in a ponytail. His eyes were hazel, his skin ruddy, almost as if he had permanent sunburn. Preferring the shabby, intellectual look, he alternated a scruffy beard, which Cindy did not like. But he found it lent him credibility with his fans and the avant-garde who pronounced his films spectacular and enlightening.
Staring out the window, Marty watched Cindy and Kyle, looking more at the boy because he was starting to feel an unnatural attraction for him. Not that he would ever touch Kyle or betray himself so crassly, but the sexual urge could not be ignored. He knew what he felt, and he knew it was considered immoral by the society in which he dwelled. He, Marty, did not consider it so, but even a nonconformist had to abide by the law. And in the world that Marty lived in, it was illegal to seduce post-pubescent boys.
Observing Kyle get up, Marty sighed, his eyes tracking him as he walked down the flagstone path that led to the private stretch of beach. The ocean was deep blue and calm, nary a whitecap to be seen. The boy plopped down on the sand; from his posture and the hasty way he had left his spot, Marty deduced he’d had an argument with his mother.
He watched Kyle for a moment, allowing his imagination to consider the unthinkable while knowing it would never happen. But Kyle was still too young, another year or two and he’d be perfect. Marty didn’t like kids, at least, not undeveloped kids. Years ago, in his wild youth, Marty had experimented with LSD and alternate lifestyles. Starting out in the movie industry in the seventies, indulgence was the norm. Back then, he boasted of being bisexual, but he was never really turned on by men. He was attracted to women, and had been married four times. In the beginning, when his career took off, he was too busy to indulge his unusual tastes. But now he had more money than he could ever use and more freedom than most people dream of.
Marty hated capitalists, but he lived like a king. He had a house in Beverly Hills, this beachside palace on Jupiter Beach, and an apartment on Manhattan’s upper west side. His money had been made by directing and producing controversial films. He bashed oil companies and exposed greedy corporations. His biggest hit had been a documentary on global warming, a film so successful they were showing it to schoolchildren in remote parts of the world.
Next to capitalists, Marty hated religious fanatics and Fox News’ Sean Hannity who’d all but accused him of falsifying scientific reports. But despite Hannity and that fat fuck commentator on the radio who made sport of Marty’s movies, or perhaps because of them, Marty had won the Cannes Film Festival’s Palme d’Or. All his documentaries won Oscars.
Marty’s most recent targets were evangelicals and Catholics and their militant control of the Republican Party. His latest film, Gods, Guns, and Conservatives, had hit theaters eight weeks ago, and Marty was disappointed it wasn’t doing well, but he was facing massive protests from red-state Christians. Talk radio was savaging him, and he had all the Fox commentators going apoplectic, especially after an interview on ABC’s The View in which Marty suggested conservative Christians were as demented as radical Islamists.
Because his sexual proclivities could publicly humiliate him, not to mention land him in jail, Marty reserved his peccadilloes for his visits to third-world countries, indulging his passions in Bangkok, Rio, and Costa Rica. More recently he’d started playing with Miguel, the beautiful Guatemalan teenager Franco had hooked him up with. But this was an anomaly. He’d never strayed so close to home, but when he finally confided his needs to Franco, he’d been rewarded with Miguel.
Franco made it easy, delivering the teenage boy to a room on the Walker’s fifth floor. Since then it was a twice-weekly appointment whenever Marty was in Florida. Initially, after sampling Miguel, he’d tried to circumvent Franco, but Miguel resisted. He said, in his halting English, “I cannot do that, Mr. Paul”—Marty had come up with a fake name. “Franco gives me the room, and he doesn’t ask questions. He thinks I am eighteen, si, but really I am sixteen. I don’t tell him, no.”
“No,” said Marty, “it’s probably best not to tell him.”
It was not that Marty didn’t trust Franco; indeed, he found Franco astonishingly trustworthy, able to supply his cannabis, sweet hashish, and now his greatest vice, Miguel. His desire to bed Miguel outside his regular assignation at the Walker was only so Franco wouldn’t suspect his true depravity, and he always adopted a nonchalant attitude, as though to downplay Miguel’s importance. Whether or not Franco suspected the truth, Marty couldn’t say. But Franco was remarkably hip, assuring Marty he had other important friends who relied on him to procure for them.
Franco said, “Have your fun, bro. Remember, I’m looking out for you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Being a rich man’s mistress had tremendous advantages. It was even more advantageous when your lover was your boss, and missed hours at work didn’t mean lost wages but entailed a Bahamian cruise or an impulsive jaunt to the Caymans. Not to mention luxurious accommodations at Caesar’s Palace or a night at the Four Seasons.
Louie wined and dined Tara at the best places in town, his wealth revealing a world she had only glimpsed in movies, a world of fawning waiters and hushed lounges, of proprietors who hovered with handshakes and smiles and whisked them to the best tables where businessmen in dark suits waited with their mistresses. One night they had drinks with a senior Democratic senator at the Ritz-Carlton. On another occasion Louie hosted a Louisiana congressman aboard the Stella di Mare, Victor providing the congressman with a statuesque blond Tara later learned was a paid escort.
Overall, Louie’s world was a world of men, business associates and friends, groups of blue collar guys who took over her kitchen and played cards till all hours. Victor was a constant, and she developed a brotherly affection for him. She met Louie’s cousin, Anthony, when he showed up on her doorstep with a curvaceous blond. Anthony was a dozen years younger than Louie, a good-looking guy with curly hair and a boyish grin. He was well-built, rivaling Nathan in his workouts.
Anthony was a married father of two, proudly showing his kids’ pictures to Tara. Like his mentor, Anthony had a limitless freedom unencumbered by marital fidelity. This baffled Tara, who had grown up in a world where wives expected their husbands to be home at night. It was a bit of a culture shock to see that so many men cheated and did it so splendidly. Indeed, she spent enough time with Louie that she found herself forgetting he was married. It simply ceased to be an issue for her.
Tara tried to explain the lifestyle to her mother, who forewarned of lonely nights and subordinate roles. When she and Ralph paid an impromptu visit, though, she revised her opinion because Louie turned on the charm, taking them to dinner and providing a lovely cruise on the Stella di Mare. He even made Tara take a couple of days off so she could spend time with her parents.
Having flown down with the intention of speaking her mind, Brenda never said a word, not even when she was alone with Tara. Perhaps, like her daughter, she was seduced by the limitless luxuries so generously provided by Louie. She might have been a bit awed or intimidated. At any rate, she refrained from creating the scene Tara had dread
ed, and the visit was a pleasant one, despite her being given an eye-opener on her last night in Florida, when Victor began sautéing veal and Anthony’s curvy blond sashayed about in her bikini. Louie and Anthony tuned in to a Saints game, and Nathan appeared with several bottles of Chilean wine.
Nathan was back from one of his mysterious trips. He had shown up that morning and met Tara’s parents at breakfast. He and Anthony had gone off to do a herculean workout, and then spent the afternoon lounging at the pool. But now he was back, part of Louie’s inner circle, jokingly referring to himself as “the token Jew.”
Among strangers, Louie tended to be slightly possessive of Tara. Not so with his friends; he trusted them implicitly. He took it for granted that Tara should sometimes lunch with Nathan or visit the pool with him. She adjusted her schedule, making time for the fitness center each morning, and he frequently worked out with her. They took walks in South Pointe Park or along the beach, and on all of these outings Nathan never exhibited anything but friendship toward her. He was as easy to be with as her brother, and she enjoyed his company, sharing this with Louie, who didn’t begrudge her the companionship, seeming to approve of it. He treated Nathan with the same affection he demonstrated with all his friends, although Nathan tended to be a bit more reserved, and Tara sometimes thought Louie actually deferred to him.
“A quieter type,” observed Brenda, eyeing her daughter shrewdly. She made this pronouncement the morning of her departure. “Nathan’s not as flashy as Louie. And he is not married.”
Tara said, “He’s Louie’s friend. You can’t honestly expect me to go for him?”
Brenda rolled her eyes. “He’s a very nice man, Tara, and he speaks highly of you. I see how he looks at you. You could do worse.”
“And I suppose you think Louie is worse?”
“I didn’t say that,” sniffed Brenda. “But he is married. What could be worse?”
Tara bristled. Brenda had already put her on a guilt trip by voicing sympathy for what she termed as “Louie’s long suffering wife”. Tara, who frequently forgot that her lover was married, had turned away in annoyance. Now Ralph, thwarting an argument, said, “Nathan was telling us about his job … setting up security for governments … he’s an interesting fellow. I understand he does quite a bit of traveling.”
Tara still didn’t know much about Nathan’s work, and when she relayed this conversation to Louie, he said, fully amused, “Is that what he told them?”
Tara was miffed because Nathan had essentially told her the same thing. She asked Louie to clarify things, and he said dismissively, “He’s in security, but it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“My folks liked him a lot,” said Tara. “But then, it’s easy to like Nathan, isn’t it? He’s such a nice guy.”
“You think so, eh?”
Tara looked sharply at him. “Don’t you?”
“Sure,” he said. “Nathan’s a great guy.”
* * *
Brenda and Ralph weren’t the only family who visited. For a few weeks it seemed friends and relatives were constantly descending. One weekend Tara hosted a couple of girlfriends, her brother and two of his buddies flew down, and she had an aunt and uncle pop in. Louie took it all in stride. But then, it didn’t inconvenience him. When present, he was the perfect host. But Louie was Italian; he was used to large families and annoying relations.
Tara didn’t think any relative could be more annoying than Natalie. After Tara told the police she suspected Emilio had ransacked her apartment, they questioned him. It turned out he had an alibi, but Natalie was outraged Tara had fingered him. She responded by denying Tara her niece and nephew. But necessity was the mother of forgiveness, and Natalie soon resumed her pesky habits, borrowing money, dropping the kids off without prior notice.
Tara was so worried about the children that she never complained when Natalie dumped them on her. One afternoon Jerry and Pam brought the children to the Walker where Natalie was supposed to retrieve them. Of course, Tara ended up taking them home and providing for their needs. She was annoyed because she had to cancel dinner plans with Louie. But he and Victor showed anyhow. Victor made Joey macaroni and cheese, and Louie bounced little Rosa on his knee. He was good with kids, handled them naturally, and Rosa, crawling everywhere, singled him out by climbing onto his lap and falling asleep.
Later, Joey had an accident in his pants, and he wedged himself between the commode and the wall and Tara had to pry him out. He was clearly terrified, even though she explained he would not be punished. When she bathed him, she discovered fading bruises on his backside. She asked Joey what happened, and he sputtered in fright.
Joey had issues with men, timid and bashful with Louie, abjectly fearful of Victor, even though Victor tried to be pals and Louie was tenderly paternal. The boy shied away from loud noises and clung to Tara when she took him outside. After she put him to bed, he had nightmares, and she gathered him in her arms and tucked him into their bed.
Louie said, “Who the fuck does this to a kid?”
The next day, after reluctantly returning a scared little boy to his mother, Tara called Child Protective Services. She feared for Joey, not Rosa, who was, by all appearances, a healthy, vibrant baby, well taken care of. Joey was the neglected stepchild, singled out for abuse. But kissing Rosa good-bye that morning, Tara recalled Ceci’s ominous foreboding about dead babies becoming angels and felt a cold chill pass over her.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ari picked up Tara in his Porsche, and they drove up to Delray Beach, meeting Louie at Tramonti’s on Atlantic Avenue. It was Friday night, and the charming seaside village was thronged with people. Recently transformed from a sleepy mid-twentieth century town, Delray Beach was a fashionable mecca with a trendy arts district and a variety of local festivals, the most recent of which was blazoned on banners hanging from the streetlamps.
All the action was on Atlantic, where rows of restaurants and chic clubs vied for business. Sidewalks were crammed with people, cars on the street bumper to bumper as locals and tourists competed for precious parking slots, more frequently ending up in nearby garages or at overpriced valet stands.
It was quite clear there would be no parking on the Avenue tonight, and Ari handed his prized Porsche to an attendant across the street from Tramonti. The scene was picturesque; white lights strung about the trees lining the Avenue. Up and down the street people were dining curbside, and Tramonti’s was no exception, patio seating filled to capacity despite a brisk breeze blowing in from the sea.
Louie had told Tara to dress “hot” for him, as well as advising her to pack an overnight bag, which she left in Ari’s car. Tara wore the red Versace he’d bought her that fateful first night in South Beach. It was sleek and sexy, leaving her upper back exposed. With a new pair of Jimmy Choos and enough flashy costume jewelry to make Ari wince, Tara commanded admiring glances on the street. Entering the restaurant with Ari, she turned heads.
Louie was at the bar with Gino Silvestri, Tramonti’s owner, who also happened to be the nephew of the proprietor of New York’s famed Angelo’s of Mulberry Street. The curvy bar dominated one end of the elegant restaurant. Packed with people waiting to be seated, the bar was buzzing. On his home turf, Tara expected Louie to be more reserved in his displays of affection, but he kissed her and told her she looked beautiful, placing a proprietary hand on her back before introducing her to Gino and a couple of other men he’d been talking to.
Tara had a chilled Grey Goose martini before dinner. Dinner was excellent, if not uneventful, steamed mussels and grilled lamb chops, with Ari dining on farm-raised rabbit which she thought barbaric. Wine was Chianti, deliciously dry; Tara drank two glasses.
Louie had hinted that tonight was going to be special. He and Ari were dressed for dinner, both wearing sport coats. Ari seemed edgy, while Louie’s excitement was reflected in his eyes. He
wouldn’t tell Tara where she was going to spend the night until she was belted into the front seat of his S-600 Mercedes and they were crawling out of town, Ari’s Porsche trailing them.
Tara wondered aloud why Ari was accompanying them. She had it all wrong, imagined she and Louie were going to have a romantic evening, commencing with dinner, which had been delightful. But Tramonti was merely a prelude to a night that would prove to be bizarre and memorable and not at all what she expected, although her destination was a grand one: The Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach.
“Not the Breakers,” said Tara. She’d had too much wine, her head was spinning.
“The one and only, baby. It’s a beautiful old hotel. You’ll love it.”
For her benefit, Louie was taking the scenic route north on A1A. Palatial homes lined the Atlantic shoreline, spectacular mansions rising behind pike fences and tall, brick walls. Somewhere along this magnificent stretch of road was the house her lover lived in with his wife, but he discreetly refrained from pointing it out even as Tara “oohed” and “ahhed”, marveling at every majestic edifice.
A1A swiveled and curved, the night black beyond the range of the Mercedes’ headlights. Huge trees canopied the road, gave way to a stretch where the ocean appeared, and then came an unimpeded line of sedate mansions, and Tara knew she was in Palm Beach proper. They drove into the quiet little town with Ari’s Porsche hot on their tail. Tara liked Ari, but she couldn’t help feeling annoyed he was with them, the proverbial third wheel. Usually it was Victor, tonight it would be Ari.
Tara sighed heavily, and Louie said, “What’s wrong, baby?”
“I like Ari, I do. I was just hoping we would be alone tonight.”
“We will be, later. First it’s business.”
“Business?” She looked askance at him. Since when did he involve her in business?
He smiled. “We’re meeting a man at the Breakers, a guest.” He gave her a deliberate look. “This man is European … a diamond dealer. I should warn you that he’s a bit eccentric. He’s buying the Blue Diamond.”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 18
