CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “The Carluccis have a hit out on you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Nando Carlucci asked me to do the job. Said it was a way to redeem myself for fucking up the other thing. Said I owed him.”

  “How is it supposed to go down?”

  “He said to make it look like an accident.” He tried to laugh but it hurt too much. “The way you drive that wouldn’t of been too hard.”

  I don’t know if I had been in Porgie’s shape I could have made that joke. It said something about the man.

  “How much did he offer?”

  “Two thousand.”

  Even given the state of the economy that seemed embarrassingly low. Besides, hits were presumably recession-proof. Porgie must have noticed the look on my face because he quickly added, “He said he’d also fix my car for nothing.”

  Terrific. It was obvious I had been away too long. I had to restore my reputation before I became a target for anyone who needed a lube job and a tire rotation.

  “Why did you say no, Porgie?”

  “I know what I am, Mr. Rhode. I ain’t no altar boy. But I ain’t no killer. I never hurt nobody in my life didn’t try to hurt me first.” Porgie was slurring his words because only one side of his face appeared to be working properly. “Besides, you were decent about everything, all things considered. I was gonna take your advice, about getting a job and going straight.”

  “I take it Nando wasn’t happy with your attitude.”

  “You got that right. He thought I wanted to negotiate. Offered me more money. When I told him I wouldn’t do it for any amount he went batshit. He and a couple of his goons worked me over pretty good.”

  I looked at all the tubes and machines he was tethered to.

  “How are you fixed for money, Porgie? You need some.”

  “Nah. Angie’s got good insurance from work. It’ll cover most of this.”

  “What about the stuff it doesn’t cover?”

  “We’re OK. Guys down the harbor are passing the hat.”

  “I appreciate you telling me this, Porgie. I won’t forget it.”

  “That’s OK, Mr. Rhode. You don’t owe me nothing. I did it for Angie and the kids. I’m outa that life now. But Carlucci ain’t gonna forget it either. He’ll find someone.”

  As I walked to my car I pondered my next move. Well, actually, I knew my next move. Dinner. But after that at some point I would have to ask Nando what the hell was going on. After seeing Porgie, I felt that I owed the fat bastard a visit. But that wouldn’t do the Carmichael family any good. Better to let him think I was still in the dark about his interest in me. I wondered if he still wanted to make it look like an accident. I hoped so. That might give me an edge. It sure beat getting shot in the back of the head or being blown up starting my car. A hell of a thought to have while starting your car. But nothing happened. Getting blown to pieces by an I.E.D. back in the United States would have been hard to take. I was running the risk that Nando was now so annoyed at me he’d throw caution to the wind but I had to take that chance. If I could see the “accident” coming, I might be able to grab whoever was setting me up. Porgie was hired help. The next guy might be a font of information. I wasn’t worried about getting him to talk. I misplaced my copy of the Geneva Convention somewhere in Sandland.

  I was getting hungry. Actually, that’s a misnomer. When one is perpetually hungry, you don’t have to get there. I stopped by Pal Joey’s, my neighborhood pizza parlor, to order a pie to go. It was apparently going to be a race between the Carluccis and cholesterol. Given my recent diet, my money was on the latter.

  “Cut it in nine pieces,” I told the counterman. “I’m really hungry tonight.”

  I was opening the pizza when Ellen James called me back. I asked after Savannah.

  “She’s in the hospital.” Before I could say something, she added, “Her chemo knocked her out this time and they have to run some more tests anyway, so they want to keep her a couple of days. These setbacks aren’t unusual.”

  I told her what I had found out. I also told her what our options were.

  “Alton, you’ve accomplished more in a few days than the high-powered firms I hired have in months. I want you to follow up, not some people in Florida I don’t know.”

  “He may not even be in Florida. It may be a dead end.”

  “I have a feeling it’s not. But I don’t know if I should tell Savannah about Billy’s mother. She’s too fragile right now.”

  “The old lady won’t be around forever, Ellen.”

  “Neither might my daughter,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “And from what you say the poor woman wouldn’t know what was going on.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s your call. But she could be another DNA match.”

  “Would they allow us to get marrow from a woman who can’t give her consent?”

  “They might allow a test.”

  “It would probably take a court order. The whole process might take too long. I can work on that but I want you to go to Naples. If it’s a question of money, I can give you a lot more.”

  “I haven’t even dented your retainer. And you know it’s not about money.”

  “Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry.” Her voice softened. “Alton, do you have plans for dinner tonight? I feel terrible saying this, but I have a free night in Manhattan and I want to enjoy it. Will you join me? I promise not to bombard you with too many questions about the case. I just feel like spending some time with an adult who is not wearing a white coat. Savannah won’t mind a night alone. She knows I need an occasional break. We’re used to this. Please. It will be my treat.”

  “There you go, talking money again. I’ll come in if you let me buy dinner. Deal?”

  We agreed to meet at Bemelman’s Bar at the Carlyle at 8:30 P.M. I put the pizza in the fridge and went upstairs to shower and change. One doesn’t go to the Carlyle to meet a beautiful blond in one’s pizza-eating clothes. I put on a blue Brooks Brothers pinstripe suit, white Charles Tyrwhitt shirt and burgundy Ferragamo tie.

  Living on the North Shore of Staten Island, I had three choices if I wanted to drive into the city: Through New Jersey using the Goethals or Bayonne bridges or over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge through Brooklyn. The wrong choice could add anywhere from an hour to an Ice Age to the trip, depending on traffic. I left it up to Gladys, just to have someone to blame. She went Goethals to New Jersey Turnpike to Lincoln Tunnel and I made it to the Carlyle in just over an hour. You just never know.

  Smaller and more intimate, Bemelmans is not as well-known as its sister Café Carlyle, where Bobby Short charmed a generation of audiences. Bobby was dead and I still regretted never hearing his interpretations of Cole Porter, George Gershwin and Duke Ellington. But with dark brown leather banquettes, black glass table tops, black granite bar and gold-leaf ceiling, Bemelmans is a perfect Manhattan bar. Its famous murals, depicting scenes from Central park, were painted by Ludwig Bemelmans, better known as the creator of the Madeline children’s books. In return the Carlyle let the Bemelmans family live for free for almost two years.

  Ellen James was talking to the bartender, who was laughing. She occasionally took a sip from a martini. The room was full and there were several good-looking women in it, but I caught men glancing at her. It was not hard to see why. She had looked beautiful in my office. Now she looked regal. She was wearing a backless black satin pleated sheath dress, accented with emerald-cut diamond earrings and a double strand of white pearls. A white silk wrap was folded over the back of her chair.

  There was an empty seat next to her, which surprised me until I saw her silver clutch on it. When I walked up to her she offered her hand and then leaned in and gave me a peck on the cheek.

  “My alibi is here, Frank” she said.

  I glanced at the bartender, whose name tag said “Frank.” He looked embarrassed.

  “At first Frank thought I was a hooker,” she said. “I told him I was waiting for my date, a fam
ous detective. He let me save the seat but I don’t think he believed me.”

  I turned to Frank.

  “I’ve never seen this broad before in my life. Do you know how much she charges?”

  They both laughed and Frank said, “I actually thought she was Charlize Theron. You can’t be much of a sleuth if it took you this long to find her. I’ve had to fight off half the guys in the joint. And some of them are here with their wives. What will you have?”

  I ordered a Beefeater martini and sat down.

  “Famous detective?”

  “I’ve been drinking.”

  We chatted about everything, and nothing. I told her about the murals.

  “They are charming,” she said. “I’m glad it wasn’t Salvatore Dali.”

  When her second drink came she recited:

  I like to have a martini;

  I can take one or two at the most.

  I finished the ditty for her.

  Three and I’m under the table;

  Four and I’m under the host.

  Very good,” she said. “You know your Dorothy Parker.”

  “I read a lot of cocktail napkins. Occupational hazard.”

  She looked at me.

  “Speaking of occupational hazards. Tell me the truth. Are you in danger? From those people you mentioned.”

  “It’s just a distraction.” Nando would undoubtedly take offense at that. “My primary concern is Savannah.”

  “ I don’t want anything to happen to you.” She put her hand on my arm and I felt a jolt in my solar plexus. “You’ve done more for us than anyone. I want you to stay on this, but only if you feel safe.”

  I thought about her daughter in the hospital and the ravages of chemotherapy.

  “Wild horses, little lady.”

  She looked at me. I’d been hoping – and dreading – that look.

  “Alton, would you like to skip dinner?”

  I almost said something stupid. But I didn’t.

  “Yes.”

  Without a word she stood up. I followed her to the elevator. She had taken a suite near the top floor facing Central Park.

  “Why don’t you fix us a drink,” she said.

  There was a sideboard with all the fixings. I made two martinis and tried not to think of Dorothy Parker although I was pretty sure where this was going. We took our drinks to the window and stood looking down at the park, our shoulders touching. I turned toward her. She put her hand behind my neck and pulled me into her. We kissed. It lingered. Her tongue darted into my mouth and she pressed into me. I could feel the hard points of her breasts. When we came up for air, I said, “Ellen, do you think this is a good idea?”

  My voice was hoarse. She took my hand and brought it up to her breast.

  “Why, do you have a better one?”

  I sure as hell didn’t.

  Making love to an elegant, intelligent woman for the first time has always presented a problem for me. There is a fine line between a natural male urgency and the desire to draw things out, to savor the experience. To basically not act like the randy teen-ager that lurks in all of us just below the surface. With so many delights to choose from, I usually don’t know where to start. I shouldn’t have worried. Urgency was at the top of Ellen’s list, too. Her need was feral. We barely made it to the bed, dropping clothes in our wake. Once there, I tried to slow things down but she was having none of it.

  “No,” she gasped. “Don’t bother. I’m ready. Please!”

  Her hands, insistent and practiced, guided me. She stared straight into my eyes for a moment, and then came fast and loud, proving once again that elegance and sexual release are mutually exclusive, as they should be. Afterwards, as we lay there trying to control our breath, she giggled as she pulled off the rest of her clothes. So did I, although without the giggles. I put my hand on her stomach below her belly button. I could feel the occasional post-orgasmic twitch. Her legs still trembled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as I leaned over her. “I guess I really needed that. But it couldn’t have been very good for you.”

  “I hope you didn’t think I faked it.”

  “Of course not,” she said, laughing. “But, good Lord, what must you think of me?”

  “I just hope the room is soundproof.”

  She turned crimson. I kissed her nearest nipple, which was still hard.

  “I think you are wonderful,” I said. “I just wish I’d had more time to explore your naughty bits.”

  She put her hands behind her head and stretched her body. I took in the view. Her breasts were small; she was a model, after all. But they were firm and well-defined. Her waist and hips were nicely proportioned. She must have worked hard to stay in such wonderful shape after having a child. But it was almost 14 years ago. I looked down. She was mostly shaved, but it was obvious she was a natural blond. Her legs ran on forever. Like her belly, they were toned.

  “Do you like what you see?”

  “What’s not to like?” My voice was hoarse again.

  She laughed, closed her eyes and took my hand.

  “Start there. Then take your time. And then I think I owe your naughty bits some attention. We have all night.”

  CHAPTER 21 – TRANSFUSION

  When I awoke I looked over to Ellen’s side of the bed. Or the side on which she had eventually wound up. We had covered it all at one point or another and even managed to almost fall off entirely. There was only an indentation in her pillow. In the movies the lover always looks surprised to find the bed empty. I’m always surprised when I wake up to find someone else lying next to me, so my reaction was muted. Besides, I heard the shower running. There was a knock on the suite’s front door.

  “Room service.”

  I threw on a shirt and trousers and went out into the living area, gun in hand, shutting the bedroom door behind me. After I looked through the peephole, I put the gun in my waistband, covering it with my shirt. I didn’t think the Carluccis would go through the trouble of dressing a hit man in a hotel uniform. Or actually sending up a large tray of food. They had already proven how cheap they were with their $2,000 hit offer to Porgie.

  Besides, I was so hungry I probably would have eaten an Uzi. I opened the door and the man wheeled in his cart. Without asking he went to a small table by the window, began lifting the covers off platters and set the table. Coffee, orange juice, Eggs Benedict and various French pastries. Perhaps it was a murder attempt after all. I tipped him and he left just as Ellen emerged from the bedroom, wiping her hair and wearing one of those fluffy white robes you get in upscale hotels. I could tell she had nothing on under the robe but I headed for the Eggs Benedict. I might need my strength.

  “Oh, good,” she said. “Perfect timing. I hope you like Eggs Benedict.”

  “I could eat a horse.”

  “I bet you could, you poor man,” she said. “I made you miss your dinner. I hope you weren’t too disappointed.”

  She leaned across to kiss me and her robe opened. The Eggs Benedict lost their place in line. She saw my gaze and closed the robe.

  “No. I’m starving, too.” She laughed. “Besides, I have to go to the hospital. They’re going to discharge Savannah. I just called.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Ellen hesitated, looking embarrassed.

  “That might not be a great idea, Alton. She knows I’m coming straight from here. If you’re with me she might put two and two together. She’s at that age. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t believe I have sex.”

  “Then you’d better straighten out the bedroom. It looks like a tsunami hit it.”

  She laughed so hard some eggs dripped from her mouth.

  “I have an idea. You clean up here while I go. Can you kill a couple of hours? I’ll take her shopping. That will cheer her up. Then we can all meet for lunch as if you just came into the city. I know she wants to see you. And we can tell her what you found out.”

  We decided on Isabella’s at 1 P.M., which is just down
the street from the Museum of Natural History on the West Side. Hopefully the Eggs Benedict would only be a pleasant memory by then.

  After Ellen left I called the front desk for a razor and toothbrush. I gave the bellhop my suit and other clothes, telling him that I needed everything cleaned and pressed within the hour. He didn’t think that was possible until I gave him a twenty. I was mildly disappointed when he left without commenting on the fluffy white robe I was wearing. I had just finished shaving, showering and straightening out the bedroom when he came back with my clothes. Savannah was a sharp cookie, so I had him take the incriminating remains of the breakfast with him.

  ***

  I took a cab through Central Park and killed a couple of hours looking at dinosaurs in the museum before walking to Isabella’s, a trendy restaurant on Columbus Avenue that is a favorite with the lunch crowd because there are usually some celebrities in attendance. The food is better than good and its bartenders make a terrific Bloody Mary, one of which I was sipping as I waited for the James girls. The celebrity pickings were slim. I did spot a perfectly coiffed silver-haired doctor who was a regular on one of the evening news shows. He usually had a segment devoted to the latest medical study or Surgeon General’s report warning everyone that nothing they ate was good for them. He was sitting two tables over with two gorgeous women who were hanging on his every word. The women were eating salads. He was downing a bacon cheeseburger with fries. If I walked over and shot him I was confident that no jury in the world would convict me.

  I turned to my menu. Looking at tyrannosaurs had whetted my appetite. By the time the James girls walked in carrying shopping bags from Saks and The Gap I had narrowed down my lunch choices to either the Hay and Straw Linguini With Chicken, Mushrooms and Sundried Tomatoes or the cheeseburger, which also had a fancy description that couldn’t disguise the fact that it was just a cheeseburger, albeit Jurassic size. Neither would go particularly well with my tie should, as was likely, I dripped on it. When I rose up to hold the chairs for Savannah and her mother I shot a glance at the TV doctor, who was having altogether too much fun with his burger and women companions.