The Dark Side of Town

by Sasscer Hill

  Joan zeroed in on my date. “Rich, don’t these two make a gorgeous couple?”

  Rich showed his bucked teeth, and Joan continued. “What do you do, Calixto?”

  “Mostly, I manage the family money and dabble in horses.”

  Joan’s eyes gleamed. I’d bet my life savings she was dying to know how much money.

  “Yes,” she purred, “watching over the money. It’s a full-time job isn’t it, darling?” she asked Rich, sliding her arm around her husband’s waist and giving him an affectionate squeeze that seemed genuine. Rich responded with more teeth.

  “Georgina,” Joan cooed in the direction of a fiftysomething blonde in a black dress. “Come meet my daughter.”

  Tonight, she was proud to be my mother. I looked good, and was on the arm of a handsome, sharp-dressed man with money. What more could a mother want?

  Georgina arrived, her black taffeta swishing, her hair a helmet of blond. Her hand was cold, her handshake limp. “Joan, you didn’t tell me she was so lovely! Oh my, the two of them are absolutely the couple of the evening! Just fabulous, both of them!”

  I could imagine her reaction if I’d come as a Goth with Becky Joe as my date.

  Calixto leaned into me and whispered, “I see the evil look in your eye, querida. Be careful.”

  Rich was talking to Georgina, and Joan was staring at Calixto like he was a box of chocolate truffles.

  Calixto turned back to my stepfather. “Are you from Kentucky, Rich?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. You have a good ear, son.”

  I’d spent time in Kentucky with Dad when he ran horses at Keeneland in Lexington, and like Calixto, I could hear the accent. Except my stepfather’s voice lacked the refined quality of a landed Kentucky horse breeder. He sounded more like his family had come from the mountains. Regardless, his being from Kentucky might explain why he’d been involved with horses, which had probably led him to Joan. For all I knew, Dad had introduced them.

  When another man joined us, Calixto excused himself and headed for the bar. When the two remaining men started talking about horse racing, Joan rolled her eyes and launched into a conversation with Georgina about some scandal at the local country club.

  Rich was telling his new companion about a top racehorse he’d owned, named Behold the King. “Stop in at the house,” he said. “See the statue of him I commissioned from Pierre Lemarque.”

  Rich’s companion made impressed noises. “Lemarque, you say? Must have cost you a damn fortune.”

  “It’s an investment,” Rich said. “Take a look at it. It’s on a credenza in the living room. You’ll enjoy seeing it.”

  I remembered the statue from my first visit to the Gormans’ home. It was a fine piece. Probably cost more to insure than I earned in six months.

  “I’m starving,” I said to no one in particular, and left the group. I made a beeline for the bar and asked for a vodka tonic. Armed with a stiff drink, I hit the buffet table and nibbled on salmon mousse and fresh strawberries. Beyond the table’s end, among a small group of people, I spotted Al Savarine. I hadn’t realized he knew Rich, but then it was hardly surprising as the lives of wealthy racehorse owners had a tendency to intersect.

  At the other end of the table, a man from Joan’s catering service was carving a steamship round of beef. The tasty aroma wafting off the roast drew me toward him. I was reaching for a roll to put some beef on when the catering man stopped slicing abruptly.

  I followed his gaze. A rough-looking, dark-skinned man with Rastafarian dreadlocks was approaching the meat carver.

  “Excuse me,” the carver asked, “are you supposed to … are you a guest of the Gormans?”

  The Rastafarian’s mouth split in a wide grin that revealed yellow teeth. “Ya, mon. Dis be true. Mi wit Mr. O.”

  The carver’s brow creased in momentary uncertainty. “You mean Mr. Onandi?”

  “Ya, mon. Mi wit him.”

  I tried not to stare at the guy’s shaggy dreads and brightly striped knit hat that puffed up high on his head like a popover.

  The carver threw me a quick apologetic smile, then turned back to the Rastafarian. “That’s fine, dude. Maybe you should find Mr. Onandi?”

  The Rastafarian, glanced at the four-piece band and stretched his arms wide. “I like jazz, mon. But mi go to house, find Mr. O. Make you happy.” He smiled again, but the warmth never reached his eyes, and I wondered if his long colorful dashiki might hide a weapon.

  Stop thinking the worst of people, Fia.

  The Rastafarian disappeared into the house, and I sampled some grapes and Stilton cheese. The man from the caterers sliced me some beef which, after I placed it on a roll spread with butter, melted in my mouth and almost made me whimper. Heading back to Calixto, I stopped at the sight of the former Miss Jamaica walking toward the dance floor in a long emerald caftan.

  She wore gladiator sandals with four-inch heels, making her at least six feet tall. Through the slit in her skirt, I glimpsed leather laces snaking up her calves—a fashion statement that brought the word “bondage” to mind. Did she know Joan? She was far too lovely and refined to be connected to the Rastafarian.

  When I reached Calixto, Georgina and Rich had gone elsewhere. Joan stood closer to Calixto than necessary.

  “Oh, you’re back,” she said. “This man is terrific, Fia. I’m so glad you two are seeing each other.”

  She’d have us married in a minute. Then she’d be after his money.

  “Fia is special,” Calixto said, leveling his intense gaze on Joan. “And I see now where her beauty comes from.”

  Joan fluttered and blushed. I had never seen my mother flutter. She reminded me of a baby bird hoping to receive a worm. It was embarrassing. Did I act like that?

  As if hearing my thoughts, Joan slid a mask of composure over her face and threw Calixto a dazzling smile. “You are very kind. I’d love to stay and chat with you both, but I should mingle with our guests. You two enjoy yourselves and, Fia, before you leave, I’d like a word, dear.”

  Now what? “Sure,” I said. She swept away from us, a column of coral, her tan perfect, her hair luminous.

  Calixto’s gaze followed her departing figure. “Damn good-looking woman.”

  “Yes,” I said, “if you can survive the venom.”

  Movement on the dance floor caught my attention. The four jazz band members were returning from a break. They gathered their instruments and slid into a smooth rendition of “Misty.”

  “Dance with me,” Calixto said.

  Although it’s the women who love to dance—you see them all the time rocking it out by themselves on the dance floor—I’m convinced it’s the men who dreamed up this slow dance scheme. After all, how else can a male walk up to a strange female and take her in his arms and press himself against her?

  Which is exactly what Calixto did, brushing his starched white shirt against the bodice of my blue dress. Pressing his hand into the small of my back and clasping me into him, he caught me so off guard, I had an instinctive fight-or-flight reaction. At least until his heat reached my core and my thighs melted into his. Get a grip, Fia.

  “Querida,” he murmured.

  His lips grazed my cheek near the corner of my mouth. His light cologne mingled with his male scent intoxicated me. He was a good dancer, light on his feet, rhythmic. His body radiated a sense of controlled power that unleashed would be …

  Mental head shake. I shouldn’t have had that vodka. Or maybe I should have another and take what we both wanted.

  His mouth curved in a wicked, knowing smile. Could I keep nothing from this man? I used my irritation to douse the sexual desire he ignited in me. I felt my face harden with forced composure. Like my mother.

  “What is it, leona?”

  “Nothing.”

  Mercifully, the song ended, and he released me. The band picked up a fast tune and Miss Jamaica, without a partner, walked onto the floor. Her body swayed as she danced like a wild and exotic animal. The men s
tared at her. Calixto was not immune, either, his eyes narrowing, his nostrils flaring slightly. Between her supple, lush body and beautiful face, she was a testosterone igniter.

  “She won’t be alone for long,” Calixto said, as two guys in their thirties or early forties zeroed in on her. “If she came with a date, I hope he is not the jealous type.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” I said, “since she’s staring at you.”

  “It pleases me to think you are jealous, leona, but it is hardly my fault that she is a discerning woman.”

  “Maybe you should go over there and discern with her,” I said. “I’m going in search of the ladies’ room.” I gave him a little finger wave and headed for the house.

  Inside, someone had already occupied the powder room off the entry hall, so I headed for Rich’s study. Joan had shown it to me during my previous visit and I remembered it had its own private bath.

  My stepfather’s office was a masculine retreat with mahogany bookshelves, a deep brown-red Oriental carpet, and a tufted leather couch in the same rich shade. Clearly, Joan had gone all-out to decorate for him. The bathroom door was opposite the room’s main feature, Rich’s elaborate, paw-footed desk.

  I was startled to see the Rastafarian there, his sandaled feet lounging on the desktop as he smoked a cigar-sized blunt. The smoke drifted to me, its pungent, fruity scent unmistakably marijuana. Who had invited this guy, anyway?

  He smiled happily, and held the joint out to me. “Hey sista, ya want a hit a dis?”

  “No, thanks.” I ducked into the bathroom, closed and locked the door.

  My mother certainly had some odd people at her party. Did she even know this weird Rasta dude?

  After using the bathroom’s facilities, I grasped the doorknob, but held my breath before leaving. Getting high on the Rasta’s smoke while exiting through the study seemed like a bad idea. But a second voice in the room outside stopped me.

  14

  “Where is she?” a man’s angry voice demanded. “I told you to watch her!”

  “Di empress be fine. She like de dance.”

  “She’s dancing? And you’re in here smoking weed? We are not in Jamaica, you idiot.”

  The new man’s accent could have been Jamaican, but was so slight, I wasn’t sure.

  “Put that out!” the new voice said. “You want me to tell Kamozey you screwed up? Find her. Bring her to the limo!”

  I barely heard the Rastafarian’s next words, his voice was so low and quavery. His don’t-worry-be-happy mood was apparently shattered.

  “Ease up, mon. Mi go.”

  Was it the name “Kamozey” that had shaken him? I wished there was a peephole in the door to see the newcomer’s face, but as much as I wanted to see him, instinct told me it was better he didn’t know I was there and had heard him.

  I wasn’t worried about the Rastafarian. He was so stoned, he’d probably forgotten I was in the bathroom. But the second man’s voice raised hairs on the back of my neck. By now, my ear was pressed hard against the door, straining to hear their words.

  “Mi mon, someone is coming. What yuh tink—”

  “Shut up,” the second man’s voice hissed in warning.

  “Oops, sorry,” a third male voice said. “Somebody said there’s a bathroom in here?”

  “Sure, buddy,” the second man replied. “We were just leaving.”

  “Hey,” the third man said, “aren’t you—”

  “Like I said, buddy, we were just leaving.”

  I heard footsteps leaving the room and assumed it was the Rastafarian and his angry companion. My breath caught in alarm when the doorknob turned. The lock held, and a discreet knock followed.

  “Just a minute,” I said. I took a deep breath, fluffed my hair, and opened the door.

  The man in the white linen suit stood outside. He had an appealing face, or would have, if it weren’t drawn so tight with worry lines. His eyes were wide as if something had spooked him.

  “It’s all yours,” I said, waving a hand at the bathroom.

  “Um, thanks.” He sniffed at the lingering smoke, compressed his lips, and shook his head.

  “It’s enough to get high on, isn’t it?” I asked.

  He looked at me, focusing for the first time. He paused a beat, then his face lit with recognition and he smiled.

  “Aren’t you Joan’s daughter?” he asked.

  When I nodded, he said, “I’m Rich’s racing partner, Matt Percy.”

  We shook hands, and though he had a confident grip, sweat dampened his palm.

  “I don’t know my stepfather that well,” I said. “Actually, I’ve just met him for the first time, but Joan tells me he loves the ponies. So, you two own horses together?”

  Before he could answer, his phone chimed. He stared at the screen. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”

  I nodded, and edged around him, intending to see if Calixto had been seduced by Miss Jamaica. Or would it be the other way around?

  “Thanks for calling me back,” Percy said to his caller, as I started to leave the room. “Come to your office? I can’t be seen talking with the FBI.”

  He sounded so alarmed, I stopped, and pretended to adjust the ankle strap on one shoe.

  “No, I just wanted to alert you guys. I’m not alone right now. Okay, okay, I’ll come in. But tomorrow’s Sunday!” His sighed was filled with exasperation. “Look, I’m just trying to do the right thing here. All right, all right, I’ll be there.”

  He ended his call. I stopped fiddling with my shoe and stood up. I was curious about the conversation, but Percy was so rattled, I didn’t want to spook him by asking questions.

  “Nice meeting you,” he said, before walking into the bathroom and closing the door.

  When I stepped into the hall, the sweet smell of marijuana seemed to emanate from the Gormans’ bedroom. Wasn’t the Rastafarian supposed be looking for the angry man’s woman?

  Curious, I followed the scent until low, agitated voices reached me. I slowed, trying not to let my heels clack on the stone floor, then stretched one leg forward and took a large step to reach the Oriental runner that lay outside the bedroom. I crept on until I was almost at the bedroom door, then leaned forward to peek inside.

  Rich stood with his profile to me, as did the man opposite him, a man I had not seen before. But I knew his voice. The angry man from Rich’s study. He was tall and thin, with a large hooked nose. The Rastafarian was nowhere in sight, yet I could smell his smoke.

  I drew back before they saw me, and listened to the heated words of Rich’s companion.

  “You fool! How could you let this happen?”

  “It’s not my fault,” Rich said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “What difference does it make now, Darren? Listen, it’s not safe to talk about this. Not here in the house. Can’t I meet you at the Adelphi later?”

  “All right, but you better have a plan to fix this, Rich. Damn it.” There was a momentary silence before he continued. “You should return to your guests and your wife before the situation worsens.”

  The man’s words were sharp enough to draw blood. I waited for Rich’s reply, but only heard their footsteps coming toward me.

  I scooted backwards on the thick runner, then continued in that direction, tiptoeing back several feet on the stone floor. Then I clacked forward purposefully.

  “Hey,” I said as they came through the bedroom door, “bathrooms are at a real premium today.”

  Rich’s face wore a pleasant mask. I would never have known he was upset. “The one in here is available, Fia.” He gestured into the bedroom behind him.

  Smiling, I stole a glance at Darren. He had small piercing eyes and narrow lips. Curly hair and light khaki skin suggested he might have some island blood in his veins.

  I paused and put my hand out. “Hi, I’m Fia McKee.”

  His thin lips pressed into a smile. “Yes, it’s nice to meet you.” He kept going right past me.

  I gave Rich a
questioning look, hoping he’d introduce his friend. But, whatever Darren’s last name was, I wasn’t going to get it from these two.

  Continuing my act, I strode into the bedroom and headed for the bathroom. Pausing to listen, I heard the men’s footsteps fading down the hall. Joan’s impressive granite fireplace took up much of one wall and faced a lavishly upholstered king-size bed. The bed had a heavy silk coverlet the same river-blue as the tunic she’d worn on my first visit. Must be her favorite color.

  Why did I still smell weed? As if answering my question, the bathroom door opened and the Rastafarian poked his head out and stared at me. His red-yellow-and-green-striped hat drooped to one side.

  “Hey, sista, they be gone?”

  “If you’re asking about the two men? Yes, they left. You’re not still smoking that stuff in there, are you?”

  He revealed the yellow teeth with his wide smile. “No, mon. Mi put it in de toilet.”

  “Okay,” I said, wondering if he’d smoked the blunt down to where it would flush without jamming Joan’s pipes. Of course, it wasn’t like she couldn’t afford a plumber. I gave him a nod and said, “I gotta get back to the party.”

  “Be well, sista.”

  I followed the hall past a guest bedroom and a library, crossed the entrance hall, and entered the large living room that smelled of roses. Through the tall windows I could see the crowd outside, and to my right, beyond the dining room, I could see Joan in her Architectural Digest kitchen talking to a caterer in a white uniform.

  After stepping outside, I walked across the patio and carefully mown lawn into the tent, where I saw Miss Jamaica sitting at a table with Calixto. Big surprise.

  As Calixto lounged back in his chair, Miss Jamaica leaned toward him. She had a beautiful profile. As I watched, the side of her mouth curved into a smile as her hand touched Calixto’s arm. Whatever she said made him laugh, and I did not like the way this made me feel.

  This was exactly why I did not want to get involved with him. He was a babe magnet and I didn’t want to deal with it.