“Aw, honey.”
“Anyhow, tell me more about what he said. About the money and being buried somewhere?”
“It’s probably nothing big. He said that Gino used a safe house up near St. Augustine. Some motel with some cabins, off the beaten path. Seems as though he had lots of meetings there, made lots of plans.”
Georgie urged her on, “Yeah, well, what about the money?”
“Vinnie said that he was pretty sure Gino buried a lot of cash, but after he died the guys had to find a new location for their operations, so I guess they all split.”
“But if there’s all that money there, why hasn’t someone gone and gotten it yet?” He tried to think back to when he lived with Vinnie, whether Vinnie had ever mentioned this story to him. He couldn’t remember specifics, wasn’t really interested in the mob stuff.
Irene had shrugged. “Like I said, Vinnie’s probably tellin’ a tall tale. He likes to brag to me. I think he likes my boobs.”
“He’d better keep his dirty old man hands off your boobs. Those are mine.”
Irene had smirked. “Last I knew they were mine, but you can check them out of the library every once in a while.”
Georgie said, “I think you need to get more information from Vinnie about this money. If it’s really true and no one’s taken it, then, what’s to say we can’t?”
Irene smiled, “You might be on to somethin’. I’ll pump him for more info.”
A few weeks later, Irene had shared more intel with Georgie, and they’d hatched a plan.
Irene was to gather the exact location of the motel and where Vinnie thought the money might be buried. If she had to use her boobs to get more intel out of Vinnie, then she would. Then she would get the info to Georgie via a coded message.
Which they did this morning.
The plan was to hit the motel cabin late in January. Irene would first drive up there and pretend to be interested in renting one of the cabins.
Irene was also in charge of gathering all the tools they would need to get in and out of the cabin pronto. She bought the shovels—two small spades with collapsible handles—a pry-bar, two small flashlights, and dark clothing.
Georgie sketched the cabin as he thought it might look. He reached for a red marker and wrote on the side of the cabin Georgie and Irene were here. Then, in smaller letters, and now we’re gone!
The Ladies of Pagodaville
ONE
SoHo, New York City
September 26, 1980
PARIS KATHERINE (PK) TODD
PK, barely awake after a late-night gig in the Village, stumbled from her bed to the door. “Jeez! Who is it?”
“It’s me, open the damn door!” It was Melanie, the bass player for PK’s band, The Sweet, and she did not sound happy.
PK’s head ached and her stomach roiled as she unlocked several latches. Too much crappy beer from the crappy bar at the crappy venue.
Melanie strode in and tossed her jacket haphazardly on an amplifier.
PK attempted to run her fingers through a tangle of shoulder-length brown/blond hair without success. She rubbed her deep-set brown eyes with the heels of her hands, sighing while she felt, more than watched, Melanie pace.
“What, Mel?” she managed to say.
“Are you really going to do it? Leave the band? Go to effin’ Florida? Have you discussed this with Jon? And why did I have to find out about it from Cass?”
“Yeah, I have,” PK answered her. “I’ve discussed this with Jon. It’s my life, Mel. I need a change of surroundings.”
PK shuffled into her dingy galley kitchen in her overpriced under-cared-for fifth-story walk-up in SoHo. She needed coffee. Bad.
When she had moved into the apartment eight years prior, she was glad to be out of her parents’ home in Westchester. Glad to finally have a space of her own despite her mother’s guttural comments about it being the hovel of the century.
She used the space by filling it not with furniture, but with musical equipment. Her sparse living fundamentals suited her just fine. It was all about the music. She had goals. And what other friends considered necessities were merely wasted dollars in PK’s eyes. She had had enough overabundance growing up.
The money she made from gigs and her full-time job at Jimmy’s Harborside as a line cook did not support the better things in life. But she had acquired two beautiful guitars, one acoustic and one electric, which she used at all the gigs. Her guitars were extensions of her hands, and her voice carried her soul flawlessly to whoever listened.
Melanie stopped pacing long enough to ask, “Why do you have to move all the way down to Florida? I mean, what gives, Paris?” She stomped her way from the tiny kitchen to the tiny living room and back again, arms crossed tightly in front of her.
The last thing PK wanted to do was to justify her feelings to Melanie, or anyone for that matter, about leaving New York City. But she needed to say something, anything to get Mel to stop her incessant pacing.
She reached for a mug from the rusted dish drainer. “It won’t be forever. I need some time to work on new material. I can’t do it here. I need a change of scenery, Mel.”
“But don’t you know we are replaceable? Jon can find another band in five minutes. We haven’t exactly hit the big time yet.”
What PK did not share with Mel was that she and Jon had worked out a solo contract.
Jon understood her. He had been following her career from the moment he’d heard her at a venue in upstate New York. His job was to scout new talent for Sable Records, one of the leading rock-and-roll labels in the country, and when he heard PK’s throaty, edgy yet discernible, voice laced with heartfelt lyrics, he knew she was going to be someone for him to develop.
Jon understood that she needed time to re-create herself. They had talked long and hard about what the future might hold and decided that taking time would be in both their best interests. He wanted good material from her, no matter how long it took.
“Look, Mel, I’m going to make this move. I need to get out of the city.
Melanie finally stopped pacing. “And what about us?”
PK sighed. “I know. We have to talk.”
“You’re fucking me over, aren’t you?”
PK tried to defend herself, but it came out more as a shrug. The truth was that PK was ready to move on.
“Don’t fucking shrug your shoulders at me! Say something!”
“Mel, really. Keep your voice down.”
Melanie shook her head. “You know, for all your bravado on stage, for all your kick-ass guitar licks and hair swinging and lyrics of steel, you’re a real pussy.”
“Enough, Mel. Lighten up.”
“Lighten up?” Mel moved up close to PK. “Maybe you should face the truth, Paris.”
“What are you talking about?”
She moved closer. “Three months ago, you and I were tight, we were friends, and we were writing killer songs. We had a real connection on stage. And then I made the mistake of letting your charm and passion take over my heart. Three months, Paris. We moved like one on stage. And off? The sex was amazing, your passion was crazy deep. But then, you just detached … with napalm.”
“Mel, come on. I’m not—”
“Whatever you’re going to say, zip it. You’re twenty-six, but you have the emotional attention span of a seventeen-year-old boy.”
PK crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And you? You’re so evolved at thirty?”
“I’ve played my love life in real time. You don’t. Here’s what you do. You find someone new, a pretty thing. But she can dance and sucks up to you. She’s enamored and full of inspiration. And when your creative inspiration peters out, she’s history.”
“Wait a minute—”
“No, your time is up, Paris. You and I had a true connection. I wasn’t just some perky fan thinking you were the next best thing to her vibrator.”
PK walked away from her. “See? You and I should’ve just remained friends. I
don’t need this shit.”
Melanie sighed and dropped her shoulders. “Yeah. You’re just not going to get this, Paris.”
“Get what, Mel?”
Melanie regarded her. “Maybe one day you’ll wonder why your life is missing something. You got your music and your future, but …”
Melanie reached for her beat-up leather band jacket and shrugged it on. She said resignedly, “Well, good luck with the move, Paris. Maybe you’ll meet someone down in Florida who can give you a run for your money and toss you aside when the passion fizzles out.” She took a deep breath and added, “I assume you’ll grace us with your presence at the gig tonight?”
“Of course, I’ll be there.”
PK was the front woman of her own band.
She could do it without them.
Melanie muttered, “I just hope you can keep a clear conscience about what you’re doing to us as a band.”
Melanie looked at PK, waiting for something. A nod, a hug, an acknowledgment, something.
PK had nothing for her.
TWO
Santa Fe, New Mexico
September 27, 1980
MARIELLA ‘MARI’ VASQUEZ
After she closed the side doors of her VW van, Mari took one more look around the lovely garden and patio of what had been her home for the last six years. She would miss the brilliant colors against the southwest skies, the heady aromas of cactus flowers, and the vast expanse of desert, framed by the Sandia Mountains in the distance. She would miss the clean air that was New Mexico.
She’d stowed some food in a cooler on the front seat of the van and had checked the tires one more time. She had rearranged the back of the vehicle to accommodate a makeshift bed for her travels, with her earthly belongings off to one side. All she really needed was her electric typewriter, plenty of paper, her journals, and her clothes. Other than that, she left the furniture, kitchen appliances, and major artwork for Lonnie to deal with.
She wanted very little of their life together in the way of material goods. There were plenty of shards left over from Lonnie’s infidelity without the clutter of what once was.
In her jeans pocket was the soft, worn drawstring sack containing two glass angels given to her by her Nani, to keep her safe in her life. Mari cherished them even if their powers seemed to have waned over the years.
It was time to go.
Forty-year-old Mariella Vasquez was quiet and unassuming. She was small in stature and nondescript in physical beauty but had deep brown eyes that were at times soft and gentle, and at other times full of fire.
Her smile, however, was her draw. White and wide, surrounded by thick dark red lips. People fell into her smile.
She wore her long, thick dark hair in a braid to keep it out of her eyes and off her face. When she worked at her typewriter, she could have no distractions.
When Mari had read the ad in the Lesbian Connection, advertising for artists, musicians, and writers at The Pagoda Motel in Heatherton County, Florida, she’d called the proprietor immediately.
She had introduced herself as a published writer.
The proprietor, Lorna Hughes, seemed very interested.
Half an hour later, and after Lorna had explained the concept of the motel, the logistics and rent, Mari knew she would go.
On her way out of town, Mari stopped at the post office to send the check for the first month’s rent, and a copy of her novel, A Woman from Brazil, to Lorna Hughes.
Lorna expected the check, not the book.
Mari thought that would be a good way to introduce herself.
She then left town and entered the highway to head south.
Then east for 1,600 miles.
She did not look back.
THREE
Gloucester, Massachusetts
September 28, 1980
ALICE ‘LUCKY’ PUNSTON
Alice took her tabletop easel, collapsible chair, two five-by-seven watercolor paper cards, a jug of water, some small rags, and a few paints out to the pier.
The sky held no contrast—just a milky white backdrop and a few scattered boats floating listlessly on the murky bay water. She set her gear up on a small wooden barrel that served as her workspace.
Alice had been working on a set of greeting cards for a small outfit in Boston and needed a few more watercolors to finish the pack. Commercial work like this wasn’t her gig, but she needed the money.
She painted in robot mode, her mind on the recent phone call she’d had with a woman in Florida named Lorna Hughes, who was looking for renters at her motel.
When Alice had seen the ad in the Lesbian Connection, she jumped. It seemed too good to be true. A haven for artists and the like. Individual cabins, cheap rent, fully furnished. What could go wrong?
She could pack her earthly belongings in her station wagon.
It was just the kick she needed to get out of the bitter cold and depressing winters of New England, out from under the collapsed bridge of her recent life.
And with her creativity at a standstill, a change of scenery was the next logical choice.
Alice Punston had been an artist from childhood. Her mother, Louise, used to tease her. “Whenever you had something in your hand that could be used on the walls of this house, there was no stoppin’ you!” And the media ranged from chalk to spaghetti sauce, pencils and peanut butter, finger paints, magic markers, and cake frosting, to name a few.
Her parents realized that the best way to detour frequent interior renovations was to equip their daughter with washable paints, crayons and lots of sketch pads. Her father, a print specialist at The Boston Globe, brought home blank newsprint papers much to the glee of his young artist in residence.
Alice did not have many friends growing up. She was teased because she was taller than children in her age group. She was thin, birdlike, pale. They called her an ostrich, a giraffe or, worse, a ghost.
She kept to herself knowing that no one understood her except for her parents. And when her younger sister, Cora came along, her parents transferred their attentions to the baby, who was born with cognitive and developmental issues.
Alice had become a latchkey kid by the time she was twelve, fending for herself the best way she could.
In high school, she did her best to keep her grades up, but it was at the art studio at Gloucester Island High School where she excelled, came alive.
Her style was not like anything the teachers had seen before. There was a bold yet gentle flow of lines and color to her painting. If the class was working on a still life, Alice painted the lesson as required. But instead of the given backdrop, she might insert a gritty downtown building, or a pier, or a fishing boat. Something to unbalance the subject and cause the eye to see the subject as the backdrop and the backdrop as the focal point.
Claire Estherhaus, an art teacher at the high school, watched Alice closely. She saw something very different and special in Alice’s expression. While her other students did the work as was instructed, Alice usually took each assignment to higher levels—far beyond the comprehension of her classmates.
Claire inquired, “Where does your eye go after looking at the subject? How does the backdrop relate?”
Alice answered, “It’s a story, really. It’s not just a vase full of flowers. It’s the story behind it.”
Claire regarded the assignment Alice had finished. “So, when you see something, it’s not really just the subject?”
“No, never.”
“Do you write stories, too?”
“No, I get too frustrated with words.”
Claire was instrumental in propelling Alice to apply to Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts, where the art program was one of the top five in the nation. The entrance competition was fierce but while Claire watched and challenged Alice to keep learning her craft, she felt that Alice had a good shot at getting in.
She was accepted into the program.
Alice left home after graduating from high school, ready t
o dive headfirst into her studies.
Until many years later, an unfortunate situation occurred, bringing her back to her parents’ home.
A voice from behind her startled her out of her thoughts. “Hey, girl.”
Barb Hastings, a recent ex-lover of Alice’s—one of the few who managed to maintain a friendship with her—put a hand upon Alice’s shoulder and jiggled a bag.
When Alice smelled the contents, she cooed, “You brought me coffee! How did you know?”
“Silly question.” Barb kissed the top of Alice’s head, then set the bag next to Alice’s little stool.
“Are you still goin’ into Boston today?”
“Yeah, gotta finish this last one, and then I’ll take off.”
Alice reached into the bag, feeling the familiar warmth of the lidded cardboard cup and the small lump next to it, which she knew to be a blueberry muffin.
Barb looked at what Alice was working on. “I like this, but I don’t see a bicycle on the pier.”
“That’s because I needed something to offset this colorless sky. You like the two-tone?”
“Love it.” Then Barb added, “I’m surprised you didn’t throw a dead body crashing up against the pier for added excitement.”
“I would have, but gotta keep it sane for the commercial machine, know what I mean?”
“Jellybean. Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Barb loved Alice’s work. It could be macabre and sensuous at the same time. Or it could be kind of out there and seemingly pointless. But it always had a central theme. Even though sometimes it was a little more challenging to find that theme.
Their short-lived love relationship had morphed into a friendship when Alice admitted to Barb that she was closed off emotionally, that she had nothing to give. And Barb could not compete with the constant freight trains going through Alice’s head.
Ladies of Pagodaville Page 3