But then, it wasn’t my money either.
The aisles of Trader Tom’s outdoor flea market were narrow and crowded and the smell of sweat mingled with scented candles and the aroma of hot dogs on the grill beside a vat of poutine, a Canadian treat of French fries smothered in gravy. On the booth’s speaker, Celine Dion insisted that her heart would go on.
The next booth sold t-shirts printed with sayings like “Jamaican Me Crazy” and “Herb is the Healing of the Nation” with a big marijuana leaf in the center. Jimmy Cliff competed with Celine, telling me I could get it if I really wanted. It was South Florida in a nutshell. Sunburned tourists mingled with Haitian hotel maids still in their pink uniforms, everybody out to get a bargain.
Seeing those women made me wonder if bargain-hunting was part of my genetic makeup. After my father died, my mother was left with two boys, ten and five, and no skills beyond homemaking. She had begun cleaning houses for rich people in Scranton, where we lived, and she shopped at flea markets and thrift stores to stretch every penny. But those markets of my youth were nothing like this one.
Back then, most of the vendors had been local people cleaning out their attics, craftsmen who made silver jewelry or handmade soap, and jobbers who bought remaindered items from retailers. At Trader Tom’s market, these were regular retail operations, selling produce, cut flowers, clothes, handbags, sunglasses and fine jewelry.
As I strolled through the market, I was stunned at how many fakes I could recognize. At a sunglass booth, I bought a pair of gold-framed Ray-Bans in the Aviator style with green flash lenses that complemented my fair coloring. Fake, of course, though I hoped I’d be able to keep them.
Then a pair of bright red Nike Air Huaraches in my size. I knew from my research that the real ones were made to order and cost about a hundred fifty bucks, so I was pretty confident that the ones I paid forty-nine dollars for were knock-offs.
Someone jostled me as I walked past a cosmetics counter, and instinctively I reached for my wallet, which I was carrying in the front pocket of my shorts. My hand brushed someone else’s hand, but when I turned the guy had slipped away. I wanted to go after him, but I wasn’t there on a pickpocket detail, and it was more important that I stay focused on my mission.
I had learned from my research that nearly thirty thousand shipments of counterfeit goods were seized every year, but untold thousands more slipped past inspections and made it to markets like Trader Tom’s. And the criminal gene didn’t discriminate—I bought merchandise from a rainbow selection of vendors, from an African with skin so black it looked like the darkest of nights to a plump South Asian woman in a sari to a young man with close-cropped blond hair and a Russian accent.
I deliberately saved Venable’s booth until I was hot and sweaty and burdened down with bags. The guy manning it was in his early twenties, with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard and a man-bun of dark hair. My gaydar pinged and I figured a little flirtation might get me results.
I took the last swig from a bottle of cold water I’d bought, tossed it into a big metal bin, and walked forward. “You look like you’ve had a good shopping day,” the guy said as I stopped in front of his booth.
“I have. But I still need a belt,” I said.
He looked at me, and my skin tingled as his eyes traveled up and down my body. “You’re a twenty-eight waist, aren’t you?” he asked.
“More like thirty,” I said. “But I like being flattered.”
“Then I’m the right guy to sell you a belt.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Larry.”
“Andrew,” I said. It was the standard name I used when I didn’t want to give my own. That way I’d hear the beginning “An,” and be able to respond.
Larry pulled out a black leather belt embossed with the Coach logo. “Try this on.”
I liked the way it fit, but it didn’t have any of the tell-tale signs of a knockoff. “Not quite what I was looking for,” I said. One of the complaints we’d had involved a Louis Vuitton belt a customer alleged to have bought from the booth which turned out to be fake. “I was hoping to find a Louis V, but I haven’t seen anything here.”
Larry looked around. “I might have something for you,” he said. “I haven’t put them out yet because they’re for a special client.” He leaned down and picked up a box of coiled belts, and began lifting them out, one by one. “Here’s a thirty-inch,” he said.
It was a beautiful belt, a pebbled dark brown with four-pointed gold stars and the LV logo in gold metal as a buckle. I tried it on, and it fit beautifully. “How much?” I asked.
“For you? I can make a special price.” He picked up a sheet of paper, and while he calculated I examined the belt carefully. For the price Louis Vuitton charged at retail, customers expected perfection in every detail. I found a minor irregularity in the stitching near the buckle, though, which was what I expected from a fake.
“I can do one-twenty-five,” Larry said, which was still a hell of a lot less than the five-hundred-dollar retail price.
“Let me see what I’ve got left,” I said. I fanned out six twenties in front of him. “I’ve only got a hundred-twenty left,” I said, though I had some more in my pocket. “Can we make a deal?”
“What’s five bucks between friends,” he said. “Sure.”
We weren’t exactly friends, and I wasn’t going to ask the guy out on a date when he might be the subject of a Federal investigation, but I agreed readily and handed him the cash. He slid the belt into a cloth sack with a drawstring. Another indicator it was fake: the real belt would have come in a brown box.
I thanked him and walked away. Mission accomplished: I’d established that Venable’s booth sold counterfeit merchandise. I walked back through the narrow aisle with a sense of accomplishment.
Then I heard the shouting.
A pimply-faced guy with a pouf of black hair was yelling at a heavy-set man behind a display of running shoes – the booth where I’d bought the fake Nikes earlier that day. “You sold me a fake, asshole! I want my money back!”
“You think you were getting real Adidas for the price you paid?” the man said, in a heavy French accent. Given the local population of French Canadians, he was probably from Quebec. He pointed to a sign on the table. “No refunds.”
“I should call the cops on you,” the young guy yelled. He turned to the crowd that had gathered, blocking the narrow aisle. “This guy’s a thief!”
The Canadian man came around from behind his booth. “Get the fuck away from here before I beat your skinny ass.”
“You tell him!” a man said from a neighboring booth.
“Give him his money back!” a woman shopper called.
“You think you can come to this country and rip off real Americans!” the young guy said. “We ought to send your ass back to Canada.”
Several people in the crowd applauded, though others shifted uncomfortably.
“You’re a little piss-ant,” the Canadian said. He waved his hands at the kid. “Now shoo!”
The kid must have thought the man was going to hit him, because he swung back. He was surprisingly strong, and he hit the Canadian square on the chin with his fist. The Canadian fell to the ground and the sound of his head hitting the pavement was gruesome.
“Holy shit,” someone in the crowd said.
The kid stood there for a minute staring at the man on the ground, his mouth agape. Then he turned to run—but a security guard had just muscled his way through the crowd and he grabbed the kid by the arm.
Someone called 911 on a cell phone, and a woman in a hijab said, “I’m a doctor.” She squatted beside the Canadian and took his pulse. “We need 911 right away. Can someone call?”
The crowd was stunned for a moment, then began to buzz. There were plenty of witnesses, so I slipped back the way I had come, passing Larry’s booth. “What was all the fuss?” he asked.
“Kid who bought counterfeit shoes confronted the vendor,” I said. “Took a swing at him, knocked him to th
e ground. The vendor hit his head, but there’s a doctor with him.”
Larry’s eyes opened wide and I could see him putting the pieces together. Whatever Venable was paying him to run the booth wasn’t enough to risk getting hurt like that. He slid a rolling metal grille down over his booth with a clang, and I ducked out a side exit into the hot humid sunshine.
3 – Burning Love
When I returned home that afternoon, I turned my attention to Frank Sena and his uncle’s painting. I emailed Frank and asked him to scan or photograph the documentation he had, including the segment of his father’s will which established him as the legal heir.
Then I went to an art history website to learn about the Macchiaioli. The term had some negative connotations—it implied that the artists' finished works were no more than sketches. The name also referred to the phrase darsi alla macchia, meaning to hide in the bushes, which tied in with the artists’ desire to paint outdoors—what was otherwise called by the French term en plein air.
It was interesting to read that their works also commented on socio-political topics, including Jewish emancipation, prisons and hospitals, and women's conditions such as the plight of war widows and life behind the lines.
By then it was early evening, and I put aside my research and headed west to Eclipse, a gay bar on the edge of Wilton Manors to meet up with Lester, my personal hunk of burning love. He was a former high school gym teacher and bar bouncer, six-two and two hundred fifty pounds of muscle and sex appeal.
He was a bouncer at a different bar when I met him, and after we dated for a while he told me that I inspired him to want to make something more of his life. He had connected with a company that made small batch whiskey, and was hired as a brand ambassador, traveling from bar to bar chatting up owners and staff and making specialty cocktails.
When I walked into Eclipse, I leaned over and gave Lester a peck on the cheek. He comped me a Lion’s Tail, a mix of whiskey, bitters, lime juice and simple syrup, and I stood by the side of the bar and watched him work. For a big guy, he moved with surprising grace, opening cartons of whiskey, handing bottles to the bartenders, even cleaning up the bar back when he wasn’t busy.
I didn’t want to stand around doing nothing, so I began taking photos of the drinks and posting them to Lester’s social media accounts. Pictures went up to Instagram and Snapchat and Pinterest, Facebook and Twitter and even LinkedIn, along with the appropriate locations and hashtags.
When Lester came over I showed him what I’d done. “We make a great team, G-Man,” he said, and he kissed me. “Thanks for all that. I can finish up here in about fifteen. Then you want to go back to my place? Or yours?”
“Mine would be better,” I said. “I have some research going on I need your help with.”
“You got it, babe.” He kissed me once more, a little more forcefully this time, and went back to work.
At just over six feet, I was a bit shorter than Lester, slim to his bulk, but we fit together very well. My red hair and fair skin complemented his shaggy brown locks and Mediterranean complexion. When I was with him, I didn’t have to be a Federal agent, charged with protecting the population. I could just be Angus Green, boyfriend.
He finished as promised and he followed me back to my place in his SUV, leased by his employer so he’d be able to carry all those boxes of whiskey from bar to bar.
My roommate’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Jonas had begun dating a guy a few weeks before, and he was spending a lot of time over at his new friend’s place, which was fine with me.
Lester and I tumbled into my bed as soon as we could, and worked off all the sexual tension generated by spending time in a bar full of cute guys and testosterone. Just before I fell asleep I remembered my dinner with Tom and Frank. They had been awkward together at the restaurant, as if they were on the verge of a dating relationship, and maybe if I worked with them on the search for the painting, I’d be able to nudge them closer.
The next morning, Lester and I were both up early, and we went for a long, sweaty run around my neighborhood. We passed a few older men walking dogs, heard the hum of air conditioners, and waited to cross the street between a line of cars waiting to park at one of the Pentecostal churches.
I went into the shower first, while Lester made us breakfast smoothies of orange juice, bananas, pineapple chunks and strawberries. By the time he finished his smoothie and took a shower, I had my laptop open on the kitchen table.
Lester had a love of art, and we’d spent some time at street fairs, buying small pieces and admiring larger ones. I opened my laptop to the documentation Frank had emailed me. “You think you can help me make sense of some of this stuff?” I asked Lester, turning the laptop to face him.
His hair was damp, and he was freshly shaved, wearing only a pair of boxers, and I really would have preferred to jump his bones, but I needed his help. I opened a page I’d bookmarked about the Macchiaioli and showed it to him. He read for a couple of minutes, then turned back to me. “You’ve heard about the Impressionists, I’m sure,” he said.
I nodded.
“These guys used a lot of the same techniques, similar color palette and optical effects. Some critics called them “failed Impressionists” because they weren’t as good as the French guys.”
“Which is probably why you hear about Manet and Monet and those other guys, but not these artists.”
“That’s part of it. But they were more like early Modernists, who had these big ideas about how painting can capture the essence of a moment.” He switched screens to the photo of Ragazzi al Mare that Frank had sent me. The painting depicted five young men, all nude, enjoying life at an ocean beach. One young man stood in a somewhat classical pose, while another appeared poised to jump into the water. The other three were in various stages of repose on the sandy shore.
It looked Impressionist, with the blurriness that I had learned was characteristic of the style in my one art history course at Penn State, and I understood the connection Lester had made to those more famous painters.
“See how this one guy is about to jump into the water?” he said, pointing to a boy on the left side. “You can almost feel the movement coming.”
“That’s very cool.”
“And there’s a reason why most of these guys are naked,” Lester said.
“Not just because Fabre was queer? I read this biography of him that said he never married. That plus all the naked guys in his pictures sent my gaydar pinging.”
Lester elbowed me. “You are such a horndog. This article says that his work focused on the male nude as a response to the overwhelming presence of female nudes in classical art. He felt that there was no reason why the male body couldn’t be as sensual as the female.”
We talked about Fabre some more. He preferred rich flesh tones, the vibrant blues of the Mediterranean and the brilliant yellow of the Tuscan sun. Many of his works had been painted at the seaside. His most famous, which was at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, was of a beautiful sunset on a beach on the Ligurian coast. A single bather stood by the water, nude, and according to the records was a sailor from the nearby naval base at La Spezia.
But we couldn’t find any specific information on Ragazzi al Mare. Eventually Lester had to leave for a Sunday afternoon tea dance at a bar in West Palm Beach, and I called Tom to tell him what I’d found.
“Why don’t I call Frank and see if the three of us can get together,” he said. “Then you can tell us both at the same time. And I have to admit I’ve been trying to come up with an excuse to see him outside the book group.”
“Sounds like a plan.” While I tidied up the house and waited for Jonas to return, Tom called Frank, and then called me back with a plan to meet at Frank’s that evening. “He wants to show you the film he found of his uncle’s apartment in Venice, which shows the painting on the wall.”
He hesitated. “And he suggested that three of us should stay for dinner, if that’s all right with you.”
I
loved the tentative sound of Tom’s voice. “I’d be delighted,” I said.
By the time Jonas got back, I’d stripped and remade my bed and run a load of laundry. Since I was about to walk out the door, all l I had time for was a quick fist-bump and a promise to get together one night that week.
It wasn’t far from Wilton Manors, the inland suburb of Fort Lauderdale where Jonas and I rented a small house to Galt Ocean Mile, but it was another world from my neighborhood of run-down single-family houses to the line of elegant high-rises with water views to die for. Most of the traffic was coming the other way, cars and SUVs leaving the beach after a day of swimming and sunning, and I cruised easily up the bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway and turned left onto A1A, the divided four-lane road that paralleled the beach.
I found Frank Senna’s building and parked in a guest spot out front. I checked my hair in the rear-view mirror, smoothed my collar, and marched in to the concierge desk, where I gave my name and was directed to an apartment on the eleventh floor.
Frank let me in and shook my hand once again. “Thanks for coming by,” he said.
Frank’s apartment looked like it had been decorated by a professional, though I’d learned not to underestimate the gene that some gay men had for fashion and design, which seemed to have skipped me. The leather sofa shone, as did the matching club chair. Built-in cabinets along one wall showed off a collection of small artifacts,
Tom was standing by the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, a crystal lowball glass in his hand. As usual, he looked casually elegant, and I hoped that when I reached his age I’d look as good.
I crossed the room and hugged Tom hello. I smelled his lime after shave as our cheeks touched. “Can I offer you a cocktail?” Frank asked.
“Whatever Tom’s having,” I said. “I trust his taste.”
“Scotch rocks it is then,” Frank said. “I’m pouring Glenmorangie, if that’s all right with you. I have a few other choices if you’d rather something else.”
Survival Is a Dying Art Page 2