We drove to Fort Lauderdale. Pop, like a maniac, wouldn’t hardly let us stop to pee. Mom loaded up the station wagon with her “essentials”—noodles, olive oil, sandwiches on thick Italian bread, salamis and hard cheese—in case they didn’t have the “good” stuff in Florida. We thought Florida was almost a foreign country, and my oldest brother, Jimmy, said they might not even speak good English like we did on account of how everyone had moved there from Cuba.
It was romantic and exotic, just the thought of being somewhere totally different from Philadelphia. Florida was going to be all the things Philly wasn’t: clean, pulsating with rhythms and music. Philly was like an old black-and-white movie. Florida breathed in Technicolor.
I wasn’t disappointed. None of us was disappointed. There’s a picture that Pop had a stranger take. It was all of us—Mom, Pop, my four brothers, and me—standing at the Bahia Mar Marina in front of the Jungle Queen, the biggest walking goofballs you ever wanna see. Pop, his black socks halfway up his white hairy calves, plaid madras shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt. Mom and me in our huge straw hats and our gigantic sunglasses. My brothers, all with Phillies baseball caps and cutoff blue-jean shorts because they didn’t have swimsuits. All of us grinning like idiots. What a picture! And yet we all have a copy of that picture somewhere in our homes, somewhere where we can pull it out and stare at it, remembering that for that one week we, the Lavotinis from nowhere, were golden and nothing could touch us.
I was thinking about that picture at five A.M. when we hit the outskirts of Fort Lauderdale. Raydean was asleep, her head leaning against the passenger-side window, little snorts of sleepy breath escaping her pursed lips. Fluffy had curled into a ball between us, her head resting on Raydean’s purse. It was just me seeing Fort Lauderdale in the pink and purple haze of dawn, like Pop must’ve seen it almost twenty years ago. Only now there was high-rises and development everywhere. Cars raced down the highway, even in the early dawn. There were parts of town where tourists weren’t to wander for fear of losing their lives, and the tiny mom-and-pop hotels were all gone.
I drove down I-95 trying to figure what our next move was gonna be. I had sixty bucks and a credit card, a Chihuahua and an elderly maniac. My options felt limited. My eyes were red-rimmed and I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly. I pulled into a service station, across from the airport, that advertised hot coffee and hot dogs, thinking maybe more caffeine and some protein would improve my chances of developing a plan. Raydean shot up in her seat when I came to a stop in the parking lot, instantly vigilant.
“Where are we, Buttercup?”
Her hair was smushed flat on one side and her skin was pockmarked with indentations from the window and door lock. I doubt if she knew what planet we were on, let alone what part of Florida. Fluffy was starting to stir, pushing her tiny paws out and stretching.
“We’re in Fort Lauderdale,” I answered. “I’m gonna get a cup of coffee and try and figure out where to stay. You want anything?”
Raydean was staring out the window, her eyes focusing on a jumbo jet that roared off the runway.
“Let’s stay there,” she said, pointing toward the Airport Hilton. “Then I can watch the planes taking off, monitor the activity.”
Fluffy was awake now, staring in the direction Raydean was pointing, her lips curving into a smile. I looked over at the Hilton and sighed. A cup of coffee and a hot dog there, let alone a room, would just about bankrupt me. I was going to have to break it to Raydean that this was not a vacation and I was not the Queen of England.
“Raydean, that place is expensive. It’s gotta be over a hundred dollars a night. We’re kind of on a tight budget. I’ve only got sixty bucks cash and a credit card that’s almost maxed out.” I sighed and felt for the door handle. “I’ll get us coffee and a hot dog.”
“I’d really rather have a nice glass of tea and one of them mints they stick on your pillow,” Raydean said petulantly.
She fiddled with the handle of her ancient leather purse. I counted to ten, slowly. I am in her car, I reminded myself; I will be grateful and patient. Every bone and muscle in my body screamed with impatience. My stitches were starting to itch. Maybe this was a stupid idea.
“There,” Raydean said. “This oughta do it. A hundred dollars a night? Sign me up. Them Flemish cain’t touch me in a place like that. It’s a documented fact they don’t like airports—too many metal detectors and magnetic fields. We’ll be safe. Let’s go.”
I turned back to face Raydean, all set to tell her how it was going to be. Instead I found myself staring at a crumpled pile of bills—large bills—that spilled out of her purse and into her lap.
“Raydean,” I breathed, “where’d you get money?”
“Life is full of assumptions,” she answered in her cryptic way. “Just ’cause I live in a mobile home and entertain funny notions now and then don’t mean I cain’t have a few dollars put back.”
“But where—”
She didn’t let me finish. “I was married once,” she answered. “Most of it come from him when he died, the rest come from my family. I share that information”—she glared sternly at me—“on a need-to-know basis. When the big day comes and you people see how right I was, I will be prepared. Now, hit it sister.”
* * *
The Airport Hilton is down a drive lined with palm trees and little grass-covered hills that hide the fact that the airport is directly behind the hotel. When you pull up in front of the hotel, men dressed in white shirts and shorts with flawlessly groomed hair and smiling faces rush your car. They open the car doors and usher you out like you were visiting royalty and your car was a limo, even when in fact it’s a rusting lemon and you look like roadkill.
“May I take your luggage?” our little guy asked.
“No,” I barked defensively, “we’ll get it later.” Raydean, holding Fluffy in her arms, still wearing her faded housedress and rolled-down knee-high stockings, sailed into the brass-and-marble lobby, leaving me to trot behind her. People were staring.
I kept a pace or two back, smoothing my hair and hoping my bruises were somehow more attractive in the glow of wealthy surroundings. Raydean had rested her purse on the reservations desk and was entering into a conversation with a young woman whose nametag proclaimed her to be Maria from Panama.
“Honey, we’re gonna need a room with two double beds and a view of the airport.”
Maria looked uncertain. She was sizing Raydean up and finding her not to be Hilton material. I figured it was time to take over. I moved up beside Raydean.
“Mother, let me take care of the arrangements.”
Raydean frowned slightly and took a step back.
“Me and Fluffy’ll go take a seat in one of them upholstered chairs. Be sure they know I like mints. Take what you need from my purse, Sugar.”
I turned to Maria, who was watching Raydean’s retreat to the lounge with growing horror. In a moment I felt certain she’d be calling for her supervisor and maybe security to have us escorted back to our car and off of their fine premises.
“Maria,” I began, deepening my voice into what I hoped was a wealthier range, “my mother is a little, shall we say, eccentric? Her doctor at the Mayo Clinic feels it may be early-onset Alzheimer’s. I mean, why else would a woman of her means dress like a bag lady?” Maria shifted her gaze to me.
I laughed softly. “She’s got this delusion that we’re only inches from the poorhouse. Daddy insisted that we take our vacation, but the annual board meeting with the shareholders was this week, and in his position, he couldn’t leave. So here I am, escorting Mother.”
Maria looked like she might believe me, so I reached into Raydean’s purse and extracted a fifty.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d arrange a few extra mints for Mother’s pillow. We do so try to humor her.” I let my face look sad. “One never knows, does one?”
Maria shook her head dolefully. “I can’t believe it,” she whispered in a thick Hispanic accent. “I can give yo
u Room 510.” She reached into a drawer for the room key and began scrawling the room number inside the key holder.
“Maria, Mother wishes to pay cash. We’ll only be here one night. I’ll give you three hundred now, to cover the room and expenses. Of course you’ll want a credit card to guarantee…” Maria took my card and made an impression.
We were in, and I could finally get Raydean off my back long enough to figure out how I was going to find Leon Corvase. I walked slowly toward Raydean, aware that every spare eye in the hotel lobby was watching us.
“Come, dear,” I said sweetly. “Your room is ready.”
Raydean stood up, still clutching Fluffy, and managed to look confused, not unlike the Alzheimer’s patient I’d portrayed her to be.
“They ain’t no Flemish here, is there?” she asked in a loud, querulous tone. I led her smoothly toward the bank of elevators. Behind the safety of the reservations counter, Maria was whispering to one of her counterparts, gesturing toward Raydean and shaking her head sadly. One never knows, I thought.
“Poor dear,” I whispered as we passed the bell captain.
“Cold as a witch’s tit in here,” Raydean said as the elevator doors closed behind us.
Thirteen
Upper-class hotels cater to the forgetful. They leave little shower caps and shampoos on the counter in the bathroom. They stick hotel stationery and postcards in the desk. The really ritzy ones even let you wear their bathrobes on account of how rich people might not remember to pack said item because they were too busy making an important deal. The gift shops in these hotels are better stocked than most department stores. The Hilton was no exception.
After a few hours’ sleep, I left Raydean still snoring and headed down to the gift shop. On the sale rack I found a little white bikini with gold nautical braid and a short white minidress that would do for most of the places I had in mind to visit. The girl behind the cash register couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. She had streaked blond hair, a deep tan, and looked like she spent most of her time waiting to be noticed by Mr. Right. She took my money without hardly glancing up from her soap opera magazine. She would have returned to reading up on All My Children, had I not interrupted her.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She looked up, focusing on my face for the first time. Her face had assumed that well-trained, courteous “I live to serve” expression. The magazine was quietly folded and surreptitiously placed on the shelf behind her. Her name tag was visible now. Tanya from Florida, it read.
“Tanya,” I said, “you live around here, don’t you?” Stupid question—of course she did—but it started the conversation.
“Yes,” she said cautiously.
“I was wondering, where are the good clubs in town?”
She sized me up for a moment and seemed to decide I was in her generation.
“Well,” she said slowly, “there’s Septembers or Yesterdays, or Shooters if you like to watch the boats.” We were getting where I wanted to go now.
“Yeah,” I said, laughing, “I like big boats, especially big boats with rich men.”
Tanya actually laughed back. “Who doesn’t?” She seemed to think for a moment. “If you want to meet those guys, you oughta cruise the marinas.”
I looked like the idea had never occurred to me and that she was a genius.
“Wow,” I breathed, “like where? I mean, where are the big boats?”
Tanya was proud to be an expert. She had forgotten all about the soap operas.
“There’s two where I’d go,” she said. “Pier 66 and Bahia Mar. Bahia Mar’s got this little place out by the pool—Skipper’s, I think it’s called. You can sit outside, eat lunch, and do all the sight-seeing you want.”
I couldn’t believe it. The Bahia Mar, home of the Jungle Queen, now the home of the Whopper. In my mind the Bahia Mar was forever frozen in a time when the only people with huge boats were old, not fast and illegal. I walked out of the gift shop, my bag of clothing clutched to my chest, thinking. I’m not usually the type to have doubts about my actions, but suddenly I had a king-sized case. And I was frightened. Denise might be dead; in fact, that seemed like a likely assumption. The mob doesn’t do divorce well, especially when the spouse knows all about its illegal activities. But if there was even a minuscule chance that Denise was alive, I had to know and I had to get her help. I had to step into the pit and dance with the viper. I’m a pretty good dancer, but from all I knew so far, Leon Corvase was a great viper.
I tiptoed back into our darkened room, trying to make as little noise as possible. Raydean still slept. Fluffy opened an eye, and when she saw it was me, she jumped down off my bed and followed me into the bathroom.
“I’ll take you,” I whispered, “but let’s pray Raydean sleeps through it all.” Fluffy smiled; I knew she felt the same way I did. Raydean was a loose cannon. I struggled to pull the dress over my head. The stiffness was wearing off a little, but it hurt to wiggle into a tight skirt. Fluffy balanced precariously on the edge of the toilet and took a few sips while I slathered on makeup. After a careful inspection, I decided that I looked almost normal, especially with dark glasses.
“All right now, tiptoe,” I cautioned Fluff. I pulled the door open slowly and walked out. Raydean sat in a chair, purse clutched in her lap, a determined expression on her face. She was humming “Fly Me to the Moon.” I didn’t even attempt to dissuade her, as it would have been a wasted effort.
“Ready?” I sighed.
“As I’ll ever be,” she answered.
Raydean almost made it out of the hotel without incident, but the gift shop caught her eye. She made a beeline inside, cornered Tanya, and demanded peanuts and a Coke. Tanya hustled up off her stool and busied herself pleasing Raydean.
“What’s this here?” Raydean demanded. She had picked up a grotesque plastic puppet head, the kind you stick your fingers into and wiggle to make silly faces.
“I got to have me one of them. And fetch me up one of them large pencils, too.” Tanya quickly picked up a two-foot-long pencil that was covered in pink flamingos and had a bright red tassel. “Sugar,” Raydean said suddenly, “what y’all people need here is a good stock of Vienna sausages and some Moon Pies. Civilize this place.”
Tanya’s eyes were wide. “Yes, ma’am,” she murmured.
Tanya didn’t notice me until she was giving Raydean her change.
“All set?” I asked Raydean. Raydean nodded, pouring some of the peanuts into her Coke. “Well, let’s cruise, then. Maybe we can find you a nice rich one.” I heard Tanya behind us, choking, as we headed off toward the hotel lobby.
Once the valet had brought Raydean’s car around and we had pulled out into the flow of traffic, I could think. Fort Lauderdale was probably like most cities. It appeared large, but was actually divided into areas and neighborhoods that functioned almost like small towns. There had to be a limited area where Leon Corvase could be found.
He had a large fast boat, an upscale, illegal lifestyle, and a need to keep a low profile. In Philadelphia, that meant private-party rooms in the best restaurants and clubs. It had to mean the same thing here. Leon would hang with the big-league party boys, and keep his boat in an expensive but discrete marina. I knew the boat name from my brother; it was the Mirage. A piece of cake, right? Sooner or later, I’d run into him, or more likely, word would reach him that a blonde, a Chihuahua, and an old lady were driving around town asking after him.
We were on the 17th Street Causeway, just over the bridge. Raydean and Fluffy had their noses pressed to the glass, staring at all the boats. We hit A1A and the ocean broke open in front of us. It was no longer the way I’d remembered it as a child. Now there was a fancy brick walkway and a low white wall that curved and undulated like the Great Wall of China, only tailored to midgets.
The palm trees were still as I remembered, and the lifeguard stations, but the old Lauderdale was gone. In its place was the smell of money and privilege. The funky little bars that vis
iting college students called home were interspersed among fancy clothing and jewelry shops. I had the sense that soon even the bars and beach-supply stores would vanish and be replaced by art galleries and home furnishing meccas. There wasn’t much room here for the regular guy and his wide-eyed family, let alone for a nostalgic stripper.
I almost missed the Jungle Queen and Bahia Mar. The big gaudy boat blended in with the rest of its surroundings and somehow seemed small. When I was little, the smokestacks of the big paddlewheel touched the sky. The bright red and gold paint had seemed brighter, truer than the fire-engine red of Pop’s hook and ladder. Now it seemed faded, a poor relation among the gleaming white cabin cruisers that rimmed the Bahia Mar.
We parked amid Cadillacs and BMWs. Raydean had produced yet another floral housedress from her Piggly Wiggly sack of clothing and God knows what else. Her hair was no longer smushed flat on one side. It stuck out at random all over her head. We were going to be noticed, no doubt about that.
Fluffy was walking on the end of the rhinestone leash that I keep in my purse for important show-off occasions, and when leash laws are in danger of being enforced. Fluffy fit in here—at least that’s how she carried herself. She pranced like this cousin of mine did in my brother Tony’s wedding. My aunt Angie thought my cousin was a big disgrace, calling attention away from the bride. But my cousin was taking her moment, letting the world know that she was fine with herself.
That’s how Fluffy took the dock at Bahia Mar Marina. She looked from side to side, taking her time, looking to see who was around and who was watching. The damn dog had more self-confidence in her toenails than my aunt Angie ever mustered in her life.
Raydean was oblivious to everything but the big boats. She walked along, her clunky shoes catching now and then in the thick wooden slats of the dock. She looked like a drunk.
When Fluffy screamed, and that’s really what it was, I was unprepared. The high-pitched yelp of pain and panic caught at my chest, sending my heart racing. At first I must’ve been in denial, ’cause I looked around for another dog, then instantly knew. It was Fluffy.
The Miracle Strip Page 7
