PEDESTAL
A Novel By
Lawrence De Maria
Copyright©Lawrence De Maria 2015
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this book may be reproduced, downloaded, transmitted, reverse engineered, decompiled or stored in or introduced into any storage or retrieval system in any form or by any means, electric or mechanical, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading or distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Published by St. Austin’s Press
(305-409-0900)
Special thanks to my website designer, Nancy Kreisler, and to
Maryellen Alvarez and Deborah Thompson.
Dedicated to Patti, without whose love, support and faith this book
–and others–
would not have been possible,
and to my sons,
Lawrence and Christopher.
Good men, both.
Why comes temptation, but for man to meet
And master and make crouch beneath his foot,
And so be pedestaled in triumph?
-- Robert Browning
PROLOGUE
PORT ROYAL, NAPLES, Florida
The three girls had never seen such a grand house, let alone been in one. They shared a one-bedroom “garden” apartment in a rundown complex in Calusakee, approximately 50 miles north of Port Royal, the wealthiest section of Naples and the third-richest ZIP code in the United States. Living in one of the world's finest neighborhoods, all but a few of Port Royal’s 600 families enjoyed breathtaking backyard views of either the magnificent Gordon River or the Gulf of Mexico into which it flowed.
Calusakee had no water views, except that of alligator-filled canals, and was not even a city, but a sprawling hodge-podge region the Federal Government designates as an “unincorporated area and a census-designated place (CDP)”. Florida’s rank as the No. 2 producer of tomatoes in the country, after California, is primarily due to the tomatoes picked in Calusakee, which represent 90 percent of the nation’s winter crop.
The lives and working conditions of thousands of tomato pickers have improved markedly in recent years, thanks to the efforts of the feisty Coalition of Calusakee Workers, which enlisted the backing of some of the nation’s biggest restaurant chains and retailers and won higher pay and stricter workplace standards. No longer did farm labor around Calusakee typically result in stolen wages and the sexual, physical and verbal abuse of men and women who were locked in trucks and then dumped in the fields at 6 AM to work all day under a broiling sun far removed from the cooling breezes of the Gulf of Mexico. Occasional abuses still occurred, but they were usually the result of individual sadists, as opposed to the institutional norms of the past.
Life was now better, but Calusakee was still no Port Royal. Once nothing but swampland occupied by the Calusakee Indians, the CDP has a population of 25,000 people, many of whom work either in the sprawling tribal Calusakee Casino or in the tomato fields. Almost 70 percent of the population is Hispanic.
More than 30 miles inland from the glittering gulf resorts of Fort Myers, Bonita Springs and Sanibel Island, the “census designated place” is a hard-scrabble town of taco joints and Chinese restaurants; payday-loan stores, bodegas, roadside produce stands and backyard chicken coops. Alva and her friends were lucky; they lived in an apartment. Many farmworkers could only afford clapboard shacks or trailers on blocks not high enough to keep out the rats. The only thing that glittered in Calusakee was the casino, where the girls worked as cocktail waitresses.
“Are you sure this is the right place, Alva?” Rosalita Campos now asked as they stared in awe at the two-story Mediterranean-style mansion with its keystone columns, portico entrance, enclosed front veranda and double mahogany entrance doors with dual brass knockers.
In the passenger seat, Alva Delgado checked the address on the slip of paper against the one she had in her iPhone GPS app.
“This is Gin Lane,” she said, “and the number on that stupid mailbox is the same.” She pointed at the garish mailbox, which was in the form of a huge pelican. “And I can hear music.”
“Then it is party time,” chirped Carmina Laraz from the back seat.
Rosalita drove her nine-year-old Toyota Corolla into the huge circular driveway, which, like much of the front lawn, was full of Audis, Jaguar coupes and Mercedes convertibles.
“Jesus, Alva, I thought you said this was a college party. The police may tow my car away.”
“Don’t be silly. A lot of guys from the football team will be here. And rich fraternity boys.”
“The football players are not all rich,” Carmina said.
Alva laughed. She was more worldly than the other girls, who were not as far removed from the tomato fields as she was.
“Let’s just say they have rich friends. Tony is one of them. He said he supports the team. Park over there by that fountain.”
The steady thump-thump-thump from whatever percussion instruments were dominating the music emanating from the house was augmented by the chirps of tree frogs and crickets in the lush vegetation surrounding the property. The night air, replete with the sweet scents of jasmine, jacaranda and lobelia, added to the exotic mystery of the palatial setting. It was pleasantly warm. The Naples “season,” January to Easter, when the local population tripled with the influx of tourists, vacationers and snowbirds, was coming to a close. In a week or two, year-round residents would again be able to get tables at their favorite restaurants, the private jets at the airport would no longer be parked wing tip to wing tip, the roads would have fewer Bentleys and Maseratis, and the days would get progressively warmer. But except for August and September, not excessively so.
As the “locals” knew, and more and more people from up north were finding out, the summer climate along the shore in Southwest Florida, at the tip of a peninsula where the atmosphere was constantly in motion between the Gulf and The Atlantic, was far superior to just about anyplace else in the southern United States. Of course, the atmosphere sometimes moved a little faster than they liked. But they felt that the occasional hurricane, which typically only gave the area a glancing blow, was a small price to pay for living in a tropical paradise.
Alva and her friends approached the front door.
“It looks like a door to a cathedral,” Carmina said, nervously. “Maybe we should make three wishes.”
Alva laughed.
“Something tells me we may be about to have a religious experience at that.”
She lifted the door knocker and let it drop with a thud. Nothing happened, so she did it twice more.
They were all dressed alike, except for the colors: short skirts, low-cut blouses, push-up bras and high heels. Their attire was not much different from what they wore at work. All were pretty, even exotic looking, and tall for women of Hispanic origin; the casino liked its cocktail waitresses leggy. There was even a joke among the young girls in the fields: If you don’t have to bend down too far to pick tomatoes, don’t bother applying for a casino job.
One of the massive doors opened and the noise level doubled. The distinctive smell of marijuana drifted out. A stocky, tough-looking man
who appeared to be about 40 looked them up and down. He was wearing a white sports jacket over a black silk shirt, open at the collar, and had a pencil-thin mustache and a small, reddish scar on his chin.
“Who invited you?”
“Tony Desiderio,” Alva said, cautiously, adding. “I met him at the casino. We work there.”
The man gave them a wintry smile.
“That figures,” he said, and stepped aside. “Party is in the back, by the pool. Just head toward all the noise.”
As magnificent as the outside of the house was, it didn’t do justice to the interior. The girls first passed through a huge living room with a circular ceiling and a stunning Tuscan fireplace, then into the entertainment room with beamed, coffered ceiling with a wall-sized plasma television. Coming from an apartment furnished and decorated with consignment-shop leftovers, they would have been impressed with Rooms-To-Go decor. The plush carpeting, leather couches, wall paintings and sculptures of this home dazzled them.
“Jesus,” Rosalita said. “You hit the jackpot, Alva.”
Sliding doors led to two pools connected by a small bridge. On the patio they passed a black DJ working his audio equipment. He gave them a friendly smile and wiggled his hips. A wide expanse of lawn sloped to a dock area, where a yacht was tied up. The pool, lawn and yacht were crowded with people. Several men and women were sitting on the side of the pool – totally naked. Occasionally one of them slipped into the water for a swim. One of the men by the pool had an erection. He raised a bottle of beer in their direction and smiled.
“Oh, Dios mío!” Carmina exclaimed.
Most of those at the party did indeed look college-age, and athletic. But the crowd also contained a few older men, some with ample bellies stretching their garish print shirts. The women, black, white, yellow and many other shades, were uniformly gorgeous.
“Alva!” A handsome man in shorts and a golf shirt walked up the lawn to them. “I’m so glad you came. And brought some of your friends.”
“Hello, Tony,” Alva said.
She introduced Rosalita and Carmina. Desiderio smiled politely and shook their hands. A tall blond girl wearing a yellow sun dress glided over and put one arm around his waist. She looked at the girls.
“Hands off, senoritas. This one’s mine.”
Some liquid and mint leaves slopped out of a tall glass she was holding in her other hand.
“Behave yourself, Tiff. Why don’t you be a good girl and show Alva and her friends where the bar is?” He turned to Alva. “I’ll catch up with you later, honey. There’s a couple of guys I want you to meet.”
Desiderio walked away.
“OK, kids,” the blond girl said, “follow my mint leaves. I see some more mojitos in our future.”
“Your name is Tiff?” Carmina said.
“Tiffany. Tiffany Tyler. But my friends call me Tiff, so feel free. We’re all friends here, right?”
Alva looked back. Tony was talking to two boys, one black and the other white. The three of them were staring at her. The white boy smiled and gave her a little wave. She waved back. He looked familiar. So did the black one.
But for the life of her, Alva couldn’t remember where she knew them from.
***
“Where are my friends?”
Alva was having a hard time concentrating. She was sitting, a bit wobbly, in a chair by the pool. There weren’t many people left.
“They left hours ago, honey,” the blond girl named Tiffany said.
“Without me?”
“You told them to go. I don’t think this was their scene. What have you been up to, anyway?”
Alva was having a hard time getting the words out.
“I was on the boat.”
She vaguely remembered going onto the boat with Tony and the two boys he’d been talking to. They went into a large stateroom with a circular bed. Then ….
“Don’t let Tony hear you calling it a boat, honey,” Tiffany said, laughing. “It’s a yacht. His baby.” She looked closer at Alva and frowned. “You sure you weren’t on the Titanic? You look like something the cat dragged in.”
“I don’t feel so good.”
“Nothing a mojito can’t cure. Hang in there. I’ll fix you one. You just leave it up to old Tiffany.”
Alva grabbed her arm.
“I remember. They hit me. After they … ”
Tiffany furrowed her brow.
“After they what, honey?”
“What are you two girls talking about?”
Alva looked up. It was Tony Desiderio. Behind him stood the man with the pencil mustache who had opened the front door.
“The kid doesn’t feel well, Tony,” Tiffany Tyler said. “I was just going to get her a drink.”
“I think she’s had enough, Tiff,” Desiderio said. “I’m gonna have Nicky drive her home.”
“You’re kind of pale, honey,” Tiffany said, now looking really concerned. “Where do you live?”
“Calusakee.”
“What’s that? Like a golf community or something.”
The man named Nicky snorted.
“Maybe she should stay over, Tony,” Tiffany said.
“Maybe you should mind your own business, Tiff. I said Nicky would get her home. It’s not far. Go get me a drink, will you?”
She huffed off and the two men walked Alva around to the front of the house and helped her into a car.
“Christ, boss. It’s a fucking hour each way. Can’t I put her on a bus or something?”
“Sometimes I wonder about you, Nicky. Just get her home.”
Tony strapped Alva in the passenger seat.
“Tony,” Alva said, “why did they do that to me?”
“Do what, kid? Nothing happened you didn’t want to happen.”
He saw the other man look at him over the car roof as he slammed the door.
“Nothing you can prove, anyway,” he said aloud as the car pulled away.
Desiderio walked back to the pool. Tiffany Tyler handed him a margarita.
“She going to be all right, Tony? She said someone hit her.”
Desiderio looked at her.
“Yeah, she told me, Tiff. But she said someone hit on her, not hit her. There’s a difference. You see any marks on her face?”
“No. But she didn’t look so good.”
“No wonder, with all the mojitos you poured in her,” Desiderio said, laughing. “When I put her in the car she told me some of the guys were rude to her, that’s all. You’d think a damn cocktail waitress would be used to that.”
“That’s mean. She seemed very nice, Tony.”
“Sure. Sure. That came out wrong. Look, I’m gonna go talk to those guys. Tell them to watch their mouths. No excuse for bad manners.”
Tiffany seemed to buy his act. He leaned forward and kissed her.
“Want to go up to my bedroom and wait for me? Watch one of my videos? Then fuck?”
She laughed.
“Don’t be long.”
She headed into the house and Desiderio started toward the yacht. Tiffany was going back to Miami the next day. No harm. No foul.
. ***
Things had not gone well for Manuel Herrera the past few months. Nothing was the same since Alva told him they were through. No reason. No warning. She just said it was time for her to “move on”. She wanted more than the trailer-park ambiance he could offer, no matter how good the sex in his trailer was.
Alva was more than sex to Manny. She had been the only bulwark against the loneliness he felt in the United States, where he knew he was valued only for his ability to pick tomatoes. She made him feel like someone who mattered. Now, he worked six days a week in the fields and spent too many nights alone drinking and eating takeout from strip-mall Mexican restaurants.
He was dozing in front of his television when his cell phone beeped. He ignored it. He was drunk. Not very, but drunk enough. The 40-ounce bottle of Tecate Titanium lay on its side next to the half-empty bottle of Cazador
es tequila. Both were the cheapest brands he could buy. The Tecate beer had pungent-sweet grain flavor that went well with the Casadores. Or, at least he thought so.
He wondered how long he’d been asleep. He looked at the screen on the 19-inch General Electric TV that sat unsteadily on the tray table by the wall. It was an ancient set, with a huge back containing electronic parts that occasionally emitted a slight burning odor. When it gave up the ghost he would buy a flat-screen TV. He didn’t really have the money, but the smaller ones were pretty reasonable now.
Castle, the same show he’d been watching when he nodded off, was still on. That didn’t mean anything. The police procedural was in syndication and episodes were constantly rerun on cable. He liked the show a lot, even though he thought its premise was ridiculous: Rich thriller writer pulls strings with his Mayor pal to hang around with a star homicide detective in New York, because he will base his next fictional hero on the detective! Or, rather, heroine; the cop is, of course, a stunning beauty. Manuel knew it was only a matter of time before the writer and the detective went to bed together.
Herrera had to squint at the screen to see what was going on. The cops were looking at a bloody body hanging from a ceiling. He soon realized that a totally different murder was being investigated. It wasn’t the same Castle he’d been watching.
He heard a beep on his cell; someone had left a message. Who would call him this late? Hardly anyone ever called him at any time. And no one ever left him a message. He felt a chill. Maybe it was bad news from home. His mother had been ill. He had been trying to save up enough money to visit her in Hermosillo. Despite his growing despair in Florida, that would be the only reason he would go back to Mexico, unless he was forced to do so by Immigration. That was why he was watching television on a set that might explode and was drinking cheap booze, although he knew he could save more money if he didn’t drink at all. But he needed it to get through the days — and nights.
He was about to check the message on his phone when it buzzed again. That couldn’t be good. He picked up the phone. It said the time was 3:10 A.M. Jesus, he’d missed a lot of murders on Castle. He tried to read the name of the person calling. His vision was blurry, but he finally saw who it was. He snapped the phone open.
PEDESTAL (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS Book 5) Page 1
