Louie said, “I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that you never tapped this source before. This Morgan character should have been on your payroll for the next ten years. Hell, you could have retired on the takings, paid me off.”
Louie was treating Franco to a fifty-dollar steak at Morton’s. Franco imagined Louie had selected the Fort Lauderdale restaurant so he could see the gleaming glass towers he’d erected during the real-estate boom. But when Franco arrived, Louie was waiting at a corner table with his back to a wall, his view the classic steakhouse dining-room. Victor was with him, of course.
Franco had barely sat when Louie started with the disparaging comments, calling Franco “hotshot.” Just the three of them at the table with a fine bottle of Cabernet, and conditions were certainly more amicable since their last meeting, although Franco was leery. He eyed Louie over his prime rib, and Louie said, “I’m willing to forget our past differences, but you’ve got to lose the attitude, Franco.”
“It’s not so easy for me.” Franco set down his fork. “You’ve got a hard-on for me, Louie. Why are you being so tough on me? Do you think it’s easy for me, losing my hotel—?”
“Let’s not start on the hotel.”
“You could have given me a break.”
“I gave you a break the last time I saw you, or are you forgetting? What do you think, Victor? Did I give Franco a break?”
“It sure looked like a break to me,” said Victor, winking at Franco.
Franco went hot with the memory. He looked at Louie. “Well, you’re certainly not giving me any breaks now. Go ahead and laugh, but in case you haven’t noticed I’ve hit rock bottom. I lost my hotel, my wife left me—”
“And your girlfriend,” said Louie pointedly.
Franco started twisting his cloth napkin. He’d already asked how Tara was holding up. It had been several days since her niece went missing, and local media was covering the story 24/7. The baby’s father had yet to turn up—speculation was that he’d fled to Mexico, perhaps with his daughter. Tara’s nephew was in the hospital in a coma, and his ditz-brain mother, stoned on meth when they arrested her, had yet to utter a word.
Louie had acknowledged Franco’s inquiries curtly, although Victor had done most of the talking. Now, detecting the edge in Louie’s voice, Franco gave up on his prime rib. He said, “You’re sore at me about Tara, aren’t you?” He saw Louie’s eyes flicker, instantly regretting his words. Victor looked up from his porterhouse with one bite-sized piece of meat impaled on his fork, and studied Franco with wry amusement, his brows arched. Franco gulped wine. “I know I wasn’t always a gentleman, Lou, but I—I would never have done anything to hurt her, deliberately … you know? Tara’s a nice girl, and I know you and she—” He paused, seriously worried now.
Victor smirked. “You got more guts than I thought, Franco.”
Franco said, “I’m not trying to offend you. I’m glad you and Tara hooked up, but I—I don’t want you holding it against me. I didn’t know she was going to become your girl, and I don’t want you thinking I had anything to do with turning Manny on her.”
Patting Franco’s hand, Louie said, “You underestimate me. I don’t hold grudges. I’m not going to hold you responsible for Manny’s actions. But”—he gave a final pat and removed his hand, studying Franco with his head tilted—“Tara was definitely another one of your missed opportunities. Of course, I’ve benefited immensely.” He glanced at Franco’s plate of uneaten food. “Are you finished with your dinner? You hardly ate a thing.”
“My nerves are shot,” Franco admitted. “I haven’t had much appetite.”
“No drugs, Franco. I want you clean and thinking. Is it a problem for you to stay straight?”
“I’m not an addict.”
“Maybe not, but you’re close. How about if you let me get you set up in some kind of rehab program?”
The sincerity of the offer touched Franco, made him reflect on his habits. Did he have a problem? He used coke maybe two, three times a week, marijuana and alcohol daily, helping his shattered nerves with Xanax. He’d deliberately avoided the opiates except for Vicodin, and he was always able to refuse a drink or an extra line. Was it mere indulgence or addiction? Flustered, he glanced at Louie. “I’ll be okay.”
“I’m counting on you, Franco. After all, I’m investing in you, and I expect a nice return. You can’t fall apart.”
Thinking of the plan Louie had pitched to him, Franco grumbled, “That’s easy for you to say, but I’ll be doing all the work, sticking my neck out. It’s humiliating for me to have to go back to the Walker, Lou. Everybody will talk.”
“Nobody will talk. Hell, nobody will even know who you are. The entire night crew has been replaced, it’ll be all new people scheduled tomorrow night. Besides, Victor and I will be with you.”
Franco glanced at Victor, who was already peeking at the dessert menu, and envied him his appetite. In frustration, he tossed his balled up napkin onto his plate. The obsequious waiter stepped in, removing plates, and then topping off their wines. He took Victor’s order for cheesecake and looked inquiringly at Franco and Louie, who waved him away.
Louie drained the last of his wine. “Look at me, Franco.” Franco met his steady gaze, and Louie said, “You need to trust me. No, no, don’t turn away. Listen to me. I’m offering you my friendship here, my guidance. Do everything as I tell you, and I will take care of you. Don’t doubt me.”
But Franco was full of doubt. Louie was setting him up for a big play, and if things didn’t go smoothly, a big fall. He rallied himself and said, “I trust you.”
Louie didn’t look convinced. “Don’t fall apart on me, Franco.”
“I won’t, Lou. I promise. But I—” He halted, confidence failing.
Louie said, “What?”
“Lou, what if Morgan doesn’t go for the Blue Diamond?”
Louie smiled. “There are other patsies. He’s still worth ten million, either way.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Arriving at the Walker Hotel on a damp, rainy night, Marty Morgan handed off his Prius to the valet, certain the young man did not recognize him. Marty seldom starred in his documentaries, preferring to direct behind the scenes. In the event he might bump into some knowledgeable tourist or media type, Marty had tucked his trademark ponytail beneath a corduroy cap. He’d put on a pair of square-framed tortoise glasses, and adopted an unassuming air. But it was all in vain, because Marty would not be bumping elbows with his cronies. The jet set did not party at the Walker.
Franco was waiting for him in the lobby. Dressed in an electric-blue silk jacket, and with his dark hair slicked back, Franco looked a little thinner. He clapped Marty on the back. “Long time no see, bro.”
Marty commented on Franco’s weight loss. Franco rubbed his belly. “I’m down twelve pounds. I have to watch it now that I’m forty. It catches up with you, you know?”
Even though he was reedy and thin and could eat whatever he wanted, Marty said, “Wait till you hit fifty.”
“Don’t even want to think about it, bro.”
Franco escorted him through the lobby. Marty was reassured because everything looked unchanged. He noticed the beefed up security, but Franco marched him past one guard and skirted him around the front desk, where a hot Latin babe looked up with a smile. They stepped onto an elevator, and Franco pressed four. He handed Marty the card-key. He said, “Four-oh-eight. Miguel’s already up there. Been here about thirty minutes. I told him nine but I guess he’s a little anxious.”
Franco rode up with Marty. He always did this, as both a precaution and a courtesy. They sometimes encountered guests or hotel employees. Marty was relieved when they saw no one, although he was still glad for Franco’s escort. As they exited on the fourth floor, Franco said, “Take your time, bro. I left you some good Jamaican and a bottl
e of J&B. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” Jittery with heat and anticipation, Marty was trying not to rush.
Franco said, “Let Miguel leave first.”
This was standard. Miguel always left first and Marty was annoyed Franco mentioned it. He moved on without Franco, hurrying along the corridor, his heart thumping as he drew close to the room. He was trembling when he slid the card into the slot and pushed open the door. The acrid smell of reefer hit him, and he stepped in, bolting the door after him.
Miguel was reclining on the bed, smoke curling from the joint in his hand. He was naked, and as Marty stepped into the room, he set the joint in an ashtray and squeezed himself, looking suggestively at Marty as he did so. Marty’s reaction was immediate and intense, as though Miguel had physically touched him.
The face that looked up at Marty was heartbreakingly young. Miguel was bronzed all over, tawny-skinned and hairless, smooth as butter. He had a thick mane of black hair, squared off at his collarbone. His eyes were a deep chocolate-brown, as thickly lashed as a young girl’s. He was slight, maybe five-three, but there was no question that he was a man, at least from the waist down. The full sex, surprisingly large, excited Marty.
Coming to a sitting position, Miguel looked at Marty with a pout that reminded him of his stepson. Mentally, Miguel was a child. “You finally send for me,” he said.
Marty removed his jacket. “I’ve been busy.”
“You sell lots of boats now, eh, Mr. Paul?”
“Huh?” He’d told Miguel he was a boat salesman and that his name was Paul. He shook his head. “No, not so many now.”
“I asked Franco how come you don’t ask for me. I don’t make you happy, no?”
Marty sat on the bed and pinched the smoldering joint between his fingers. He inhaled, savoring the smoothness. Franco hadn’t been kidding. It was good shit, nice and rich. He looked at Miguel; his big doe eyes were glassy. He said, “I’m here now, aren’t I? I had to go out of town. Of course you make me happy.”
Marty held the joint for Miguel, watching him inhale the reefer. Then he pressed his lips to Marty’s, transferring the smoke. He felt the weed mellowing him and crushed the joint in the ashtray, reaching for Miguel. They embraced, and he broke this so he could shed his clothing, tossing it onto the floor. The air-conditioner was humming, the room set to a perfect temperature. Mounted on an entertainment center, the television was tuned to a Latin variety show, barely audible. Light from the bathroom spilled onto the bed.
Watching Marty, Miguel said suspiciously, “You bring my pay, yes?”
Marty pulled a fat envelope from his jacket and tossed it to Miguel. The kid caught it midair and ripped open the flap, eagerly thumbing the bills. Satisfied, he scrambled up and stepped to the entertainment center where he’d set his mobile phone and his portable DVD player. A green light was blinking on the player, and he slipped the envelope beneath it.
The cash provided Miguel the incentive he needed to accommodate Marty’s desires. He was breathing hard when Miguel said softly, slyly, “I am going to miss you, Mr. Paul.”
He grunted, “I’m not going anywhere.”
His hands were on Miguel’s hips; the boy was sighing like a girl, squirming. “My mother found my money—the money you paid me—and now she thinks I am selling dope. She is sending me to live with my sister in Texas. I’ll finish ninth grade in Houston.”
“Ninth grade! What the fuck—” Marty recoiled as though burned. “Miguel, how old are you? You told me sixteen.”
“I lied. I told Franco seventeen, but I am only fourteen. What does it matter when it is this good?” He peeked warily at Marty. “Do not tell Franco I am only fourteen. If he tells my mother—”
“Jesus Christ,” Marty bellowed. “Franco knows your mother?”
Miguel nodded. “My mother works here in the hotel. How do you think I met Franco?”
“I had no idea. I thought you worked the street?”
Miguel gazed at him with his big, brown eyes. He looked young and tender and innocent, sitting childlike now. He said, “I only had one other boyfriend before you, and he was seventeen. You are my first man, si.” He caught his lower lip in his teeth, casting his eyes downward. “You’re not mad at me, are you, Mr. Paul? Don’t be mad at me. Please … you make me feel so good. You know I like being with you … I’m a bad boy, si.”
Marty hesitated. Christ, the kid was begging him, the thing Marty craved more than anything else in the world in front of him, his for the taking. And now, perversely, Marty’s desire was fueled by the temptation of Miguel’s youth. With a groan, he reached for the boy.
* * *
When Franco led Miguel into his former office, Louie and Victor were sitting at opposite sides of the desk with a half-eaten pizza and most of a six-pack of Budweiser longnecks between them. Louie looked up as they entered. He’d done his best to make it easy on Franco, staffing the night shift with new workers who were unfamiliar with his recent humiliations, but being at the Walker hurt.
Victor said, “Just think of it as a job. Do it right and you’ll get paid, and paid well.”
So here Franco was, playing along as Louie looked at Miguel and said, “Do you have something for me?”
Miguel nodded. “I got it, man. Be cool.”
There was no trace of a Spanish accent. It was pure urban drive and pizzazz as Miguel handed Victor his DVD. At a nod from Louie, Victor popped it into Tara’s computer. He fumbled a bit, trying to find the right program, and Franco had to step in and assist him. Victor was not computer savvy.
It only took a few minutes to determine that Miguel did indeed have the goods. Victor made a gagging sound, pretending he was going to puke. He turned around and looked at Miguel with disgust. “You’re one sick kid. How old are you anyhow?”
“Nineteen.”
Louie said, “How come you’re hustling johns?”
“I make a lot of money, man. I’m the best.”
Louie said, “Victor, pay him.”
Victor peeled off ten grand. Miguel watched him count the cash, licking his lips as Victor forked it over. As he was preparing to go out, Louie said, “You scored big tonight, kid, but let me give you a word of advice. Don’t let it go to your head. And don’t come back to the Walker. Consider this a warning.”
Miguel hesitated briefly, then nodded and went out. Victor closed the pizza box and lifted his beer. “That’s one fucked up kid. It’s enough to ruin a man’s appetite.”
Louie said, “First time I ever saw you lose your appetite, Victor.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Call Chuck. Get this thing to him tonight. Can you email it?”
Victor looked skeptically at the computer. “Yeah, sure.”
“Tell him three copies, minimum.”
Victor was on the phone with Chucky Lane when the house line on Franco’s old desk buzzed. Louie signaled Franco, who picked it up. It was Morgan, requesting his escort. Franco said, “I’ll be up in a second, bro.”
Louie patted him on the back. “You did good, Franco.”
Franco puffed up. He had no idea why Louie’s approval meant so much to him, but it gave him the confidence he needed. Squaring his shoulders, he turned toward the door. He was ready to meet Marty and play his pitch.
Chapter Forty
Ari Klein Jewelers’ Worth Avenue store was elegant without being ostentatious. With a prime location on the world-famous street, Ari Klein competed with Cartier and Gucci and dozens of other high-brow establishments. Flanked by a fine-arts gallery and a French designer’s dress shop, the store’s window showcased gemstones in exquisite and intricate settings. Most of the display was geared toward women, but one shelf held a collection of Rolex watches that caught Marty’s attention. But Marty was not at Ari Klein’s to buy a watch, and he quickly stepped to the door an
d rang the buzzer.
At eight o’clock on a Monday morning Ari Klein Jewelers was closed for business. But the proprietor himself was present, opening the door and greeting Marty with a polite smile. “Mr. Morgan, how do you do?” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Ari Klein. I’m so glad to meet you.” He gestured toward the back of the showroom. “Please, come into my office. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”
They walked through the store with its sparkling chandeliers and gleaming glass shelves, although, oddly, many of the shelves were empty. “Are you running low on inventory?” asked Marty.
Ari Klein was a stocky, muscular guy with a dark complexion. His hair was close-cropped, thinning a little on top. Somewhere in his voice was a slight, very slight, Israeli accent. He explained. “Most of our display shelves are stored in the vault room at night. We’ve always done this—in fact, most jewelry stores do. But, in all truth, Mr. Morgan, my security is top-notch. Plus, the Palm Beach police are wonderful and keep a close watch on all the establishments on Worth Avenue. I’ve never had a break-in, and I don’t believe I ever will. I’d have to say Palm Beach is probably the safest town in Florida.”
Klein wore a navy pin-striped suit with a solid blue tie and a starched white shirt. His jewelry was an understated platinum watch and a wedding ring with a square-cut diamond. He looked conservative, but Marty was betting he was a liberal. Most Palm Beach Jews were. But he certainly wasn’t going to ask Klein about his political affiliations, although he smiled when the jeweler told him he was “a great admirer” of his work.
Behind Klein’s showroom a corridor led to a locked vault. A workshop was on the right, an office to the left, with Ari’s office at the rear of the building, next to a lunchroom where a pot of coffee was brewing. A baker’s box with a dozen assorted pastries was on the counter. Klein poured Marty a cup of coffee, stirring in cream as he requested, and told him to help himself to the goodies.
Marty took a cream-filled puff-pastry shell. Biting into it, he listened to Klein brag about all the awards he’d gotten. The walls in his office were hung with framed newspaper and magazine articles extolling the jeweler’s genius. On his desk was a picture of two school-age boys and a lovely woman. “My wife and sons,” said Klein, noticing the direction of Marty’s eyes. Noticeably absent were pictures of Klein himself. An oversight, perhaps, for Klein was as blustery and full of braggadocio as any Jew he’d ever met. He let Marty know that he’d played golf with Donald Trump on Saturday, saying “the Donald”, adding that it was a great time.
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