I cringe. “Could you just play along for a few minutes? Candice went to all this trouble.” I’m torn. I don’t like this any better than he does, but I’m much better at the social niceties. Antonio is a rogue.
Candice steps forward with a microphone and starts in on some little improvised speech that includes a few half-ass jokes that aren’t funny. I laugh at what I think are the right intervals, while Antonio glares. She finally finishes, there is half-hearted applause, and then her disk jockey begins his button-driven band. I look toward Antonio to find that he has already gone.
Now I feel awkward, but I hide it and move around, looking for him. I finally see him in a circle of girls who are laughing at every cocky thing he says. A couple of them spot me coming and suddenly wander away, leaving him engaged with just one girl.
“Where’d you go?” I ask, trying not to sound catty.
“Won’t be part of a circus,” he says, and the other girl laughs.
I glance at her and then face him again. “Come with me, hey?”
“Where now?”
“There’s food in the house. Let’s check it out.” I could tell he’d been drinking for some time and has lost the thin layer of socially expected behavior he normally manages to have.
He is grinning in that glassy-eyed way that tells me he is drunk. “Sure,” he drawls and takes me by the hand into the house.
The kitchen area is filled with empty bottles so I know that the party had started long before I’d gotten there. Another shirtless guy with a bow tie approaches. “You’ll find a buffet in the next room,” he directs us. Antonio is weaving—not a good sign. It’s like having a 200-lb. Latin King Kong drunk and chained to you.
Antonio is in conversation with yet another girl, his white teeth adding charm to the upturned lip he tries to use when he’s flirting. I’ve seen it so many times.
“Hey, honey,” I carefully say in a low voice next to him. “Let’s get something to eat?” I tug at him, but he bats my hand away.
“Go feed your face if you want. I’m just fine right here.”
I open my mouth to protest but then remember where I am and that the goal is to get married, so I leave him there. I make a plate of a few shrimp and some caviar and wander around the party. The whole thing is a farce. I don’t even know most of the people there—my upcoming marriage is just an excuse for Candice to outshine me. I’m keeping my eye on Antonio from a safe distance. The girl had been lured away to dance with someone else, and Antonio has a drink in one hand, and his eyes are wandering. He sees me watching him now and comes over.
“You come with me this time,” he pulls at me and heads for the stairs.
“Oh, Antonio, we can’t. Not here and not now. We’re the guests of honor.”
“You really think anyone gives a shit if we go upstairs and fuck?”
I cringe at the vulgarity of his remark but know I have to get used to the way he talks. It is his Latin roots that make him so cocky. I follow him upstairs, and he kicks at doors until he finds an unoccupied one. He jerks me inside and gives me a push—hard enough that I land on the bed that’s covered with frilly pillows and a pristine white comforter. Candice’s mom always does have good taste.
“Take off your clothes,” he orders me, grabbing at the strap of my dress.
Frowning, I cajole, “Aren’t you going to at least kiss me first?”
“Don’t get mushy. C’mon, get those clothes off, and let me fuck you,” he demands, grabbing the neckline of my dress and tugging. Wafts of alcohol are emanating from him, and I can taste bile in the top of my stomach.
I pull back, afraid he will rip my dress, and I’ll have to leave the party half naked. “No, Antonio, don’t do this, not this way. I don’t like you being rough.”
He slaps me then. Not hard, but it stings across my cheek. “You’ll do what I want from now on,” he counters, rubbing his erection and grabbing for me. I hurriedly roll away from his grasp and get to my feet. Luckily, he is drunk enough that his reactions are slow, and I get past him and out the door. I dash down the stairs and out the door into the party.
I find Abby, sitting in a chair and just watching the others dance. “Come with me,” I tell her, grabbing her arm. She doesn’t seem surprised, but then Abby isn’t an alarmist. She sets down her drink and follows me into the outside darkness.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Antonio. He’s drunk and got me upstairs and then got rough with me.”
She just stands there, looking at me. It is code to tell me that I’ve finally recognized what has been obvious to others.
“What?”
“Nothing, never mind. C’mon, let’s go back to my place, and I’ll make us hot cocoa. You can sleep on my sofa, and we’ll watch old movies half the night.”
Her offer is tempting. I’m confused and completely turned off by Antonio’s behavior. I look over my shoulder at the house, remembering what had just gone on. “Okay,” I nod, and we leave.
I have no idea of the consequence of my actions.
Chapter 2
Michael
The SoBe heat is fierce and not even the breeze coming off the Bay can push it away.
“I’m going to be glad when this project is over.”
“Yes, sir.” Mort’s dislike of the South Florida heat is an often-mentioned fact. He’d much rather be back in his native cool and dreary London. Indeed, his skin is incapable of tanning; its pale, baby’s butt norm could turn into flaming alligator hide after one hour in the sun. I’ve seen him cake his face with sunblock for the duration of unloading the groceries.
“It should be wrapped up next week, and then we’re on to the next project. Anything in Liberty City is a nightmare of paperwork. I might try something completely different this next time.”
“Yes, sir.” Our conversations tend to be rather one-sided. That’s how Mort sees himself; the classic gentleman’s gentleman. It’s his idea of a job description, not mine.
I met him a month earlier. I’d been in London on business and left the dreary pub late. Mort, or Mortimer H. Harrington, as officially christened, was passed out from drink and lying against the building, covered only by the striped awning of the pub. “Hey, buddy?” I nudged him to make sure he was still breathing. He’d grimaced as he pulled his tweed jacket more tightly together. I tapped him again. “You got someplace to get out of the rain?”
The pub door opened then, and a red-faced man who obviously sampled his own brew regularly, indignantly began flapping his wings. “Here now, that’s enough of that!” he fluttered. He pushed at Mort. “Off you go now, or it’s the coppers I’ll be calling, you lazy sod.”
Well, if that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle … Normally, having worked in abandoned neighborhoods where drugs and weapons were the primary coins of the realm, I stayed away from these confrontations. But this guy looked fairly clean, even if he was stinking drunk. And after all … this was London. Wasn’t everyone here well-mannered and polite? At any rate, I couldn’t walk away that time.
“Hey, buddy, c’mon,” I said, lifting him by hiking my shoulder under his arm so that he was leaning heavily on me. I flagged my car and told the driver to put the guy up front with him; something my driver was not thrilled about. I directed him to take us to my hotel and to wait until I got the guy a room. Then, between us, we muscled the guy to his feet, straightened his clothing so the front desk wouldn’t object, and practically vertically dragged him to a room. I asked the driver’s help to undress the man, but he claimed he was in an illegal parking zone and left quickly. I’d pulled off Mort’s shoes, socks, and pants and pulled the blankets over him as well as I could. I left a business card on the nightstand. “Room 332. Come see me before you leave,” I scribbled on the back and then left him to fend for himself.
The next morning, late, there was a tap on my door. I opened it to find Mort standing there, his fingers working the fabric of his coat in nervousness. “I say, sir, I most humbly appreciate you
r putting me up for the night and heartily apologize for anything I may have done that would be considered humiliating.”
“Come on in,” I said in a resigned tone, and he complied. I had to admire his integrity under the circumstances. “So, what’s your name?”
“Mortimer H. Harrington, sir, most recently of an uncertain address here in London.”
“Is that your way of saying you have nowhere to go?”
“Not your worry, sir. No, sir. I can look after myself.”
“So I saw last night.” Mort had made use of the shower and the complimentary soap and comb. Cleaned up, he was quite presentable, and there was the flicker of intelligence in his eyes and the caliber of his diction that made me realize he was no bum. This was simply a guy who had fallen on hard times.
“Join me for breakfast, Mort,” I invited, but in an insistent voice. He nodded and followed me down to the tearoom. The server came for our order.
“I’ll have a cup of tea,” Mort murmured.
“The hell you will!” I interrupted. “Bring us each the biggest breakfast you have,” I ordered from the server, who nodded without comment and disappeared.
Over breakfast, I’d managed to wheedle his story out of him. He was, by profession, a gentleman’s gentleman, as had been his father and his father before him. His employer, after having gambled away his fortune on the market, leapt to his death beneath the minute hand of Big Ben, leaving his family destitute. The scandal had colored Mort, who was himself suffering a bit of depression after some financial setbacks. The result was that Mort was unable to find a new position and had been systematically running through his friends list for a meal or a bottle of drink. Unfortunately, they were all in the same profession and not in a position to help him much. That had brought him to the sidewalk outside the pub that night.
“Ever consider moving to America?” I asked him outright.
“Sir?”
“Well, you seem to be above your current situation, shall we call it. I’m from the south part of Florida—real estate development. I’m not married, nor looking to be so.”
“Yes, sir,” Mort said, nodding as though in complete understanding.
I realized what he was thinking. “Hell, no, I like the ladies, just don’t have time for any at the moment. Had one and she, well, let’s just say she discovered she was aimed in another direction.”
“Oh, very good, sir.” It seemed I had regained his approval.
“Anyway,” I continued, “I’ll put my cards on the table. I could use a sort of, well, secretary. Someone who can keep me headed in the right direction at the right time, manage my house, my clothes, and more or less act as an assistant. Now you, as I see it, are in a downturn at the moment, and I’m thinking that you might be looking for a position. I won’t lie … having a secretary who speaks like you do is not going to hurt my reputation. So, I’m offering you a job. Nice salary, a room at my house, clothing allowance, everything you need. What do you say?”
He seemed shocked. “But, sir, you don’t know anything about me.”
“You’re right, but I’m a pretty fair judge of character, and since I’ll be sponsoring your work visa, if you screw up, you’ll be coming back here. Don’t mean that to be insulting, but you see, I do have options. I happen to think I won’t need them, though.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir. I do believe I could handle the position—despite the responsibility involved.”
“Do you have family?”
“No, sir. Not really. Not anymore. My two daughters are married and on their own. My wife disappeared when my job ended. Between you and me, sir, I think it was just the excuse she’d been waiting for. She liked to visit her mother on the coast often. I believe she may have an old beau there.”
“Sorry to hear that, Mort.”
“That’s life, sir.”
“Been there. So, what do you say?”
“I say yes, sir, and jolly well thank you!”
We shook hands over the table and then left to find Harrods to get him a temporary wardrobe. “You’ll understand why you won’t want to wear this all the time when you get there,” I told him, pointing to the tweed jacket and heavy woolen trousers. I made a call to my attorney who handled the paperwork. His connections expedited the necessaries.
We left the next day, and the moment Mort stepped off the plane, he knew what I’d meant. To tell you the truth, I’d been looking forward to his reaction. It was like stepping from a blizzard into a blast furnace. His jacket couldn’t come off fast enough, and I don’t think he inhaled fully until we were safely inside my limousine with the air.
“Whew!” he exclaimed. “Sorry, sir, but does one get used to this?”
“Eventually,” I teased him. “In the meantime, you have my permission to leave off your underwear, except when in important business meetings.
He looked horrified, as I knew he would, but he wouldn’t be the first one to go native under silk trousers.
We had the limo take us to my house, and I introduced Mort to his new home. In his very British, very restrained manner, he indicated the place would work just fine. I pointed out there were eight bedrooms, ten baths, a media room with seating for twenty-five, two gourmet kitchens, a formal dining room, a pool and hot tub, a small stable and ten acres of ground that ended at the bay’s edge. I guess after surveying his previous abode of a sidewalk outside a pub, I expected more of a reaction, but as I say, he’s pretty low-key. I like that. We live in a world of hyperbole; understated dignity is a pleasant contrast.
My thoughts snap back to the present. I’m letting Mort settle in for a few days before I take him along on one of my business calls. There is some property I’ve wanted to take a look at outside of town. At one time, it was a sizable retirement community that, through natural attrition and poor upkeep, is now vacant. The owner passed, and it’s on the auction block. I think it could be developed into condos, and they’d be close to hospitals and shopping, which makes them ideal for retirees.
In the meantime, Mort has discovered the Western channel. Maybe “discovered” isn’t a strong enough word because at the same time he’s discovered what binge-watching is all about. I’ve staked him to getting some South Florida-proof clothing, and he is, at this very moment, lounging in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian-print cotton shirt in the media room. I told him his first day of work is tomorrow and handed him a cold beer. We’re working on the drinking part.
I recalled the conversation from yesterday. Mort was making us breakfast, and I was catching up on business development news when he began making observations. “Why doesn’t a nifty fellow such as yourself have women crawling all over him?” he posed.
I looked up. “I could have that if I wanted it, I guess. Had it once, and she strayed. Just don’t want the heartache again. At least in business, I have more control over the outcome.”
I don’t think that was what he wanted to hear because there was a decided frown on his face. “Shouldn’t waste one’s abilities while one is young,” he observed.
It took me a few seconds to catch up to his line of thinking. I laughed. “I don’t think any losses are imminent,” I explained, and he nodded knowingly. I felt sorry for the guy. I knew booze took its toll on the equipment functioning and guessed that might be his motivation. I let it go, but evidently, he hadn’t.
I hear him coming out of the media room, the sound of Indians hooting as they ride into battle with John Wayne pinpointing Mort’s position. He’s coming into my study where I’m working on a spreadsheet for the property I want to visit.
“Sir?” he begins. I look up and nod for him to continue. “At the risk of overstepping my place, I was wondering whether we might not visit a pub or two in the area?”
I point to the next room. “There’s anything you’d want right there on the bar.”
He nods. “Yes. Yes, sir, I’m sure there is, sir. But you see, it’s not just the spirits that interest me, sir. Surely a man cannot live alone fo
rever. Perhaps we might find a pub where the nice ladies frequent?”
I can’t help myself. I laugh aloud. “You getting frisky, Mort?” He blushes a deep scarlet. “Well, first of all, they’re not generally called pubs here, but clubs. I’m not sure you’re ready for South Florida clubs, Mort. They’re pretty lively.”
“Indeed? As in patronized by the ladies?”
I hold back my laughter. “Some, yes, although I’d use the word ‘ladies’ cautiously. Depends on where you go.”
He’s found his opening, apparently. “Might we visit one or two, perhaps this evening, sir?”
I know he’s out of his league, but watching him could be the best entertainment in town. “Sure, if you want to. We’ll leave about nine. Put on something, well … flashy.”
He nods, satisfied, and I hear the voice of John Wayne ordering his troops as the door closes behind Mort.
I take a short nap after dinner and meet him by the door promptly at nine. “I’m going to let you pick the place, Mort,” I tell him, and he nods enthusiastically. I have my driver take us in the limo, in case I want to drink. I can hardly wait to see where Mort will take us. He’s obviously done his homework because he instructs the driver to take us to Miami Beach and the Mango’s Nightclub South.
I let Mort go through the doors first. The neon, alone, is enough to require sunglasses. I drift over to the bar and take a stool, ordering a rum on the rocks while Mort settles in. I have to tell you that Mort’s hair is anything but stylish, belonging more in an 80s library than a nightclub in South Florida. He is wearing his tourist shirt again but has exchanged the cargo shorts for jogging pants made from something shiny. It outlines his mature silhouette, and he’s standing out like a sore thumb, especially when he opens his mouth. Curiously, it turns out that it’s the best thing he could have done. He has instant celebrity with his accent.
As I watch from my perch, Mort is swapped from one female to another on the dance floor, and while his steps are more Arthur Murray than hot Cuban nights, this seems to invite the women as a challenge to teach him how to strut his stuff. I send him over the occasional rum-based drink, and he’s getting looser and looser as the night goes on.
Dangerous Daddy Page 28
