No way. Marty mumbled something about having a sensitive stomach, but it was obvious neither Morelli nor DeAngelis had any gastrointestinal issues from the way they dug in. Marty worked a piece of bread, washing it down with J&B. Morelli’s manner was disarming, acting as though he had not swindled Marty out of millions and held him hostage with an obscene video that could send him to prison for statutory rape.
On the floor next to Morelli’s Manolos was a briefcase. Morelli took his time getting to it, conducting a conversation in Italian with the waiter. As soon as the calamari was cleared from the table, plates of pasta began arriving, the waiter serving Marty with a flourish. He ordered another J&B.
Driving into Delray, Marty had imagined all sorts of unpleasant scenarios, and this civilized discourse was unsettling. But now Morelli was talking about the property adjoining the Walker Hotel, site of Henri’s, the well-known but declining eatery. Marty wondered what Henri’s had to do with him, but wait, Morelli was explaining that he was closing the restaurant, looking at Marty with a slight, mocking smile and saying, “I owe Franco Santia a few favors.”
Marty’s stomach rumbled, and he set down his fork. It took him a few minutes to catch on. Morelli had purchased the property and was demolishing the existing structure, planning on building a nightclub. He was setting Franco up as proprietor, but the cost for demolition and rebuilding was extensive, not to mention the lavish décor.
Marty had to excuse himself to go to the john. He had hardly eaten a thing, but his stomach was cramping. In the stall Marty remembered the scene in The Godfather when Pacino goes to the toilet and returns with a loaded gun, blasting away. Gun control advocate notwithstanding, Marty wished he could be so lucky. Then he considered that his trek to the bathroom was taking too long and was sure to arouse suspicions. Sure enough, when he returned to the table, DeAngelis smirked, and Marty went hot with embarrassment.
Dinner plates had been removed. Morelli had coffee and dessert on order. The briefcase was on the table. Marty gulped Scotch. Morelli handed Marty a legal envelope stamped with the name of a prestigious law firm; inside were blueprints and documents. The contract was on top, the sum of twelve million dollars typed neatly on the page and highlighted in yellow. Marty’s face burned. This was his financial commitment to the project: twelve million. He looked at Morelli. “It’s too much.”
Morelli gazed arrogantly at him. He said, “I thought you’d like to help out Franco.”
“You help him out. You’re the one who took over his hotel.”
Stirring sugar into his espresso, DeAngelis paused, spoon in hand, and gave Marty a nasty smile, letting Marty know he was out of line. Smoothly, Morelli continued. “Yes,” he said agreeably. “But I’ve developed a fondness for Franco. I was under the impression you were his friend. After all, he’s been so accommodating of your … needs.”
Marty glanced at the paperwork. He read the names of the other investors: Morelli for five million; another Morelli, Anthony, for the same amount; a senior Republican senator from Mississippi for ten million, the senator’s name startling Marty, making his eyes go back over the line, rereading. The senator was a vile, disgusting man, an heir to a massive retail chain. Marty had depicted him as a buffoon in one of his films, showing the man taking payoffs from oil-rich Saudis. Now his name was forever linked with the senator’s.
The humiliation was too much. Marty said bitterly, “What do you have on the senator?”
Morelli laughed. “Senator Markham recognizes an opportunity when he sees one. He’s a smart man, realizes the benefits of an investment such as this one.”
Morelli’s eyes held his, intimidating Marty without uttering a single word. The prolonged gaze had the desired effect. Marty became increasingly nervous, reaching for his watered-down glass of J&B. He said flatly, “It’s extortion.”
“Don’t be cheap, Marty. I know what you’re worth. Really, I could have tapped you for the whole project, but I thought I’d go easy on you, seeing as how cooperative you were in our previous dealing.”
Frustrated, he drank Scotch, said meekly. “Where do I sign?”
Morelli seemed surprised at his capitulation. “You can take the paperwork and have your attorney review it.”
“What’s the point? I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?”
Morelli’s smile was wicked. “Everyone has a choice, Marty.” He swallowed a bite of tiramisu. Fork in hand, he turned to DeAngelis. “Victor, call Emily. Tell her to send the notary over.”
DeAngelis nodded, doing as he was told. The incongruity of the thing struck Marty as peculiar, Morelli stealing and making it legal. Worse, he was actively participating, allowing himself to be used. Summoning his courage, he said, “What happens if I refuse?”
“You really don’t want to do that, do you? Think of our prior agreement, the advantage I have. You haven’t forgotten the video, have you?”
Marty blushed, caught DeAngelis’s ugly smirk. He shook his head no, worried now that Morelli was going to blackmail him into the poorhouse. But he could do nothing about it, trapped by his own behavior, by Miguel …
They had to wait about twenty minutes for the notary to arrive, and during this time Marty revisited the restroom. He watched Morelli and DeAngelis polish off the tiramisu, and then order Sambuca. A couple of businessmen came to their table and greeted Morelli. Marty was introduced and hands were shaken. The owner stopped by to chat, asking how their meal was, and DeAngelis said, “Beautiful, Gino.”
Yeah, fucking beautiful, thought Marty. A young woman with shiny blond hair and skintight jeans arrived: the notary. She was beautiful. Perfect white teeth and subtle cleavage; flashing Morelli a smile as she sat at the table. Marty signed seven original contracts, and she witnessed them all. Watching her, Morelli spoke to Marty. “You won’t regret this. It’s going to be an awesome place.” He smiled. “You might even make a little money.”
Marty said stiffly. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a capitalist.”
DeAngelis snorted. “You are now.”
Marty flushed. He wondered how he was going to explain this to Cindy. She would think this kind of venture reprehensible, might even divorce him for it. He sighed wearily, watched the notary put away her stamp. Morelli said, “Thanks, baby,” and the girl gave him a gorgeous smile. Fuming, Marty wondered why she didn’t just proposition him outright.
DeAngelis put his hand on the young lady’s arm. “Come on, doll, let me buy you a drink at the bar.”
They got up, Morelli checking out the girl’s ass as she walked away. Marty said, “How often are you going to do this? Am I going to hear from you every six months, another ten million here or there? I don’t want to be a personal piggy bank.”
Morelli laughed. “Never fear, Marty. I’m not a greedy man. You’ve served your purpose. Just don’t make any movies that piss me off.”
Marty’s movies were guaranteed to piss off at least fifty percent of the population. Although he had a feeling Morelli was in that percentile, he couldn’t tell whether he was serious. Morelli smiled. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “what you should do is make a movie about the Blue Diamond. That’s a hell of a story. Of course, I wouldn’t exactly include this latest chapter. But you’re a creative guy, think of something. You could even use the fake Blue Diamond. Even the phony is beautiful. I think it would be a nice idea if you used the phony in the movie and gave the credit to Ari Klein. After all, he did a superb job recreating that stone.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Five months after her breakup with Louie, Tara married Nathan. It was a quiet ceremony, performed on the beach in front of the Walker, with Lina and Ari standing up with them. Tara was six months pregnant with Louie’s child, but Nathan couldn’t be happier. In the weeks since proposing he’d gradually won her trust, providing the companionship she desperately needed. Indeed, he’d become her best
friend, performing all the services of a significant other without the rewards. But Nathan was nothing if not patient, and one day, watching him building a Lego set with Joey, she had a glimpse of her future. She told him right then and there she would marry him.
The day after they married he moved Joey in with them and started the legal proceedings for adoption. A month later they purchased a rambling house in Coconut Grove. Built in the forties on a large lot in a gentrified neighborhood with tall, stately trees, the house was distinctly Spanish with colorful tiles, beamed ceilings, and a wrought-iron banister on the circular staircase. A screened lanai with a built-in swimming pool provided a perfect refuge, looking out over the treed yard, and a detached garage boasted an upper level studio for Nathan’s office.
Tara loved her new home, working tirelessly to put it together, despite her advancing pregnancy. She decorated Joey’s room with no less enthusiasm than she had for the adjacent nursery, providing a safe haven for the boy whose recovery was nothing short of miraculous. Sometimes she did too much, exhausting herself, and Nathan would gently chide her.
Nathan’s devotion to her and Joey was touching. He was protective, ferrying Tara to her doctor appointments with the dedication of an expectant father. Indeed, Tara relied on him so much it sometimes seemed he was the father. He was almost too solicitous, and she fretted that it wasn’t fair to him, bringing up the subject on the eve of their wedding.
He said, “Why don’t you let me decide what’s fair for me?”
“It’s easy for you to say this now, but what about after the baby is born? He might look like Louie, and then you’ll feel—”
“I expect he will look like Louie,” said Nathan, calmly. From the ultrasound they already knew she was having a boy. “But why would the child’s appearance make me love you or him any less? Do you think I’m going to begrudge the boy a place in my heart because of his biological father? If you want to know the truth, Tara, I’m grateful to Louie for bringing you into my life.”
After the great passions experienced with Louie, Tara feared she might not feel anything for Nathan, worried that he would be a poor substitute. But Nathan was deeply affectionate, and the relationship evolving between them had nothing whatsoever to do with Louie. Her mother, who adored Nathan and couldn’t be happier for Tara, said it best: “Sometimes God gives you what you need, not what you want.”
* * *
Late one Saturday afternoon Tara was standing on the small balcony off her bedroom watching Joey ride his bike on the front drive. The chocolate lab named Sasha that Nathan and Joey had rescued from the pound was running alongside him, barking playfully. Given to him on his fourth birthday, Joey’s red bike had training-wheels and multi-colored streamers dangling from the handle-grips. Sitting proudly in the seat, Joey was pedaling the bike up and down the driveway and around the circular loop.
Flanked by tall trees, the long driveway was bordered with brick pavers. In keeping with the Spanish I the house had a courtyard with a cast-iron fountain. A stone bench encircled the fountain. Nathan sat on the bench, his eyes trained on Joey. He wore shorts and sandals, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his T-shirt.
Tara was in her ninth month, acutely miserable, her belly extended as far as it could go, her face and feet puffy, her lower back throbbing. She’d been resting on the bed in the cool comfort of their room when Joey’s high, piping laugher roused her. She’d stepped out onto the balcony and called down to him, rewarded when he looked up and waved. Craning his neck and gazing up at her, Nathan said, “You’re supposed to be resting.”
Enclosed by an iron grille, the narrow balcony was ideal for potted plants and flowers. Tara had been surprised by the size and price of the house. “Can we afford this?” she’d asked Nathan, delighted to discover that he was quite well off financially.
“You don’t have to work,” he told her. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.”
But Tara loved her job at the Walker, and though she prepared for maternity leave, she’d made no plans to quit. Ironically, she hadn’t seen Louie since that day in the hospital. He had been by the hotel, but only on her days off, leaving Tony and Tara to manage the place without him. They’d promoted Lina to management, responsible for hiring and training personnel for several key positions.
Tara gazed at her husband, casting an appreciative eye on him. He’d been so good to her, almost perfect. Joey’s training wheels clattered noisily on the pavement. Worn out, Sasha meandered over to Nathan, sitting on her hind legs while he petted her. An ancient oak tree cast leafy patterns over the lawn. Tara missed the ocean view, but this tropical paradise was heaven, the lawn dappled with sunlight, a humid, midday haze hugging the horizon.
On the street a black Town Car slowed in front of the mailbox, turned onto the drive and cut through the trees, sunlight glaring on its windshield. Tara’s heart began beating furiously, the baby kicking abruptly. Calling for Joey, Nathan stood. Taking the boy’s hand, he walked to the top of the drive and met the car, Sasha on all fours beside them.
Tara held her breath. She had a glimpse of Sam behind the wheel, heard Victor’s voice before she saw him, and then he was on the drive, greeting Nathan before opening the rear door for his boss. Louie stepped out, slim, debonair, dressed in beige summer slacks with a cream silk shirt, his arms and face as tanned as ever. Her conquering hero, the man she’d deliberately deceived in order to have his child. She noticed considerably more silver in his hair; he was distinguished and handsome, but aging, nonetheless.
Louie turned and looked at the house, his chin lifting as he raised his eyes to her. She stood still, one hand flat on her belly, the other gripping the wrought-iron railing. She smelled the moist green of her garden and the mingling scents from her flowers, felt the warm brush of the Caribbean in the breeze blowing in from the south. Their eyes met, locked together, a dozen unspoken words passing between them. Then he deliberately turned away, anger and regret and sadness and longing flashing on his face, all at once.
Tara’s vision blurred, her heart burned, the baby kicking again and again. Sam slammed the driver’s door and came around the vehicle, shielding his eyes from the sun. Nathan’s voice sounded normal as he invited the men in. Louie reached back for a briefcase, then came up the walk with his head bowed. He did not look up again.
Tara backed into the bedroom and shut the door. She heard them enter the house, Joey and Sasha following noisily, the dog barking and Nathan hushing her with a simple command. Victor said, “Hey, Nathan, you’ve got a nice place here.”
Tara sat on the edge of the bed, her heart thumping. She pressed her hand to her belly, alarmed that the shock of seeing Louie might send her into labor. Downstairs, the men moved into the front parlor at Nathan’s edict; she overheard snatches of conversation, Victor’s laughter. Nathan offering drinks, playing the perfect host. Five minutes later his tread sounded on the stairs. He pushed open the bedroom door and stood on the threshold, studying her. He said, “Are you all right?”
She drew a deep breath. “It’s a shock, seeing him. Why is he here?”
Nathan walked into the room. He was not in the least bit upset by their visitor. “He wants to see you, Tara.”
She looked down at her swollen body, her maternity top smudged with peanut butter from Joey’s lunch. Her hair was wild and matted from her nap. She trembled slightly. “I don’t want to see him. I can’t—”
“You look beautiful,” he said huskily, coming to her side and touching her tenderly on the shoulder.
The baby kicked. Nathan felt this one, placing an open hand on her abdomen. “He’s been at it all day,” she said. She let him pull her to her feet. “Nathan, why is Louie here? What does he want?”
“It’s business—something to do with the Walker.”
“Why come here, to our home?”
“It’s out of respect for me, for us. He won�
��t to talk to you without my being present.” He cupped her elbows, drew her forward. “Louie called me earlier, asking if he could stop by. I told him yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to me?”
“I didn’t want you getting emotional. Come on,” he nudged her toward the door. “He wants to see you. This will only take a few minutes.”
She looked inquiringly at him. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“Yes: Louie wants to give you majority ownership of the Walker.”
“What?” She shook her head, not quite understanding. “He told you this?”
“Why don’t you let him explain it?”
She started for the door, the baby moving inside of her. “What do you mean, give me majority ownership? How can he do that?”
“It’s a sixty-forty split between you and Tony, with you retaining the majority.”
“I can’t accept it.”
“I told him you would be resistant to the idea. But I’m afraid he’s going to insist. Louie wants to make amends, Tara … do right by you. He doesn’t want to interfere—” he ran his hand over her stomach, patted it gently. “He knows this kid is mine; he forfeited it when he walked away from you. He feels badly about the way things ended, wants to leave you a little legacy—”
“So it’s a guilt gesture, to ease his conscience?”
Nathan smiled. “I guess you could say that.”
“But … but … what should I do?”
“Take the hotel. If you refuse, he’s going to appoint a trustee for you. Look at it this way: He won’t be your boss anymore. He’ll be out of your life now, for good.”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 29
