This week, apparently, Tara had lost the attitude. Idly, Manny eyed the red couch, noting the rumpled pillow. He knew Franco sometimes slept here, but now the sly little slut had Manny’s imagination working overtime. Manny wouldn’t mind seeing Tara lying there—her body was like an old-fashioned movie star’s, curves and ass. No fake tits, either. At least, not that Manny could tell. Still, in spite of everything, Tara’s ass was her best feature, and Manny made sure he got a good look at it as she walked to her desk.
Unlike Franco’s executive desk, this second one, set against the wall to the right of the window, didn’t fit with the décor. It was putty-colored, with a maroon office chair that had been snatched from the reservations office where Franco’s previous manager used to reign. But Franco had wasted no time moving Tara in. She had personalized the space by adding a glass-framed photo of a little blond boy and a black-haired baby girl who looked Hispanic. “My niece and nephew,” she explained, leaving Manny to wonder why one kid looked Aryan while the other was clearly a Spic.
On Tara’s desk were a blinking monitor, keyboard, phone, and a stack of invoices. Tossing her shoulder-length chestnut hair, Tara gestured impatiently at the pile of bills. “Franco, you need to decide what to do with these. I can’t keep putting off—”
“Jeez, babe, tone it down. I’ve got company here,” said Franco.
It was getting hot in the pick-up, and Manny roused himself, his recall broken by the sight of his mother coming down the walk in the yellow sundress she’d bought last week at Wal-Mart. Carmelita’s black hair was curling about her face, and Manny thought, spitefully, that she looked like a giant bumblebee. As she approached the vehicle, he saw her swollen eyes and blotchy face and knew she’d been crying. He pushed open the driver’s door, humidity swamping him like a wet blanket.
“Hey, Ma, what’s going on?”
“It’s your grandpa,” she said, lower lip quivering. “He’s dying, Manny.”
* * *
Bo’s room smelled of piss, and Manny almost gagged, stepping in. Breathing through his mouth, Manny eyed the bottles of Vicodin on the dresser, calculating the street value. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: dark brown eyes in a sweat-shined face, hooked beak of a nose, and brown hair frizzing in the spots where his gel had failed. Carmelita always said Manny looked like Bo, having the same slender wiriness that had characterized his grandfather. He did not have Bo’s blue eyes, and regretted this if only because chicks dug blue eyes.
Shrunk to skin and bones, Bo huddled beneath the bed-sheet, his frail, sun-spotted hands clutching a battered gift-box. His bony head was propped on pillows, his face pinched with pain. On the wall behind Bo’s bed, the giant rosary encircled his wedding picture. “It was your grandma who saved me,” Bo once told Manny. “She turned my life around, led me to God.”
Bo looked at Manny as he came in, eyes clouded with cataracts, but his brain was sharp, even now, at the end. Pulling a chair close to the bed, Manny reached for his crablike hand and said, “Hey, Pops, how you doin’?”
Manny eyed the box. Ironically, a faded black and white postcard of the Walker Hotel was taped to the top of it. Surprised, Manny said, “Pops, I was just at the Walker today. I’m friends with the owner.”
“You ever see the ghost?”
The Walker was purported to be haunted by the ghost of a little girl who’d been run over by a car while trying to cross Collins years ago. Franco had told Manny the story, but he hadn’t believed him. He was surprised his grandpa even knew about the haunting. He said, “Heck, pops, I don’t go for that type of thing.”
“I knew her,” said Bo. “Francine. When I first came down from Chicago, I stayed at the Walker. Her family was staying in the room next door—she was a nosy kid … came barging into my room once.” He drew a deep, raspy breath. “It was on account of me that she got run over.”
“What are you saying, pops?”
“The boss … I worked for him—”
Boss. What boss? “Doing what, tile work?” Bo had made his living as a tile man. Their little shithole of a house had the best bathroom on the block. He’d been pretty handy in his day and had tried to teach Manny the trade. Unfortunately, Manny had discovered more lucrative pursuits.
Bo fell silent, a sudden gust of ventilated air rattling the blinds. “I wasn’t always a good man, Manny. There was a time, when I was young …”
Bo began coughing, and Manny fetched a glass of water, holding it to his mouth so he could sip. When Bo’s wheezing calmed, Manny said, “Pops, I’m confused. What are you trying to tell me?”
Bo lifted the box, this slight exertion exhausting him. “In here,” he said. “Look.”
Manny took the box from Bo and opened it. Crammed inside were newspapers, yellowing and brittle with age, the Miami-Herald’s moon landing issue on top. Manny had seen this before, having taken it to school when he was in his brown-nosing stage. Below the Herald were a couple of Havana periodicals, but this was not what Bo was after. He waved an impatient hand at Manny, urging him to dig deeper. Beneath the Spanish magazines were a stack of old newspapers, all with captions announcing the theft of the Blue Diamond.
Headlines blared the news: Diamond gone from Saudi prince’s yacht; Greta Harper’s big blue vanishes in Miami; Police suspect foul play in missing forty carat diamond.
Manny didn’t need to read the articles. The story was lore by now. In 1938 Greta Harper owned one of the world’s rarest diamonds, second only to the Hope Diamond. Like the Hope Diamond, the Blue Diamond was cursed. Although it could be traced to medieval Europe, the diamond was best known for having been owned by the Empress Alexandra of Russia. At the height of her fame Greta purchased it for the staggering sum of one-point-five million dollars. But Hollywood was not kind to Greta, and she was shopping for a buyer when her diamond went missing, conveniently, while on Prince Al-Aziz’s yacht, igniting an international firestorm.
Whatever had happened, two things were clear. The diamond was cursed. Greta died of an overdose at the Beverly Hills Hotel eighteen months later. Bo didn’t have these accounts, but Manny knew this as settled fact because Greta Harper was a legend in keeping with Marilyn Monroe and Judy Garland, a tragic Hollywood tale. The other reason Greta still made headlines seventy years after her death? Her famous diamond had never been recovered.
Bo’s rheumy blue eyes watched Manny. But Manny didn’t get it. He glanced back through the newspapers, wondering what they had meant to Bo and why he had kept them. Finally, Manny set aside the box, and leaned back in his chair, “I don’t get it, Pops,” he said. “What does it mean?”
Bo’s smile was disarming. “I took it,” he said.
“Took what, Pops?”
“The diamond,” Bo rasped. “I took it from Greta. Then I hid it in the Walker, thinking I’d come back after the heat died down. But I got to Cuba and met your grandmother—”
Chapter Two
Louie Morelli slept through the sunrise, but when he stepped onto the deck of his eighty-foot Hatteras, the Stella di Mare, the orange flame was hanging low over the Atlantic, its creeping climb turning the Miami skyline pink.
Louie had grown up in New Orleans, and he’d seen his share of gulf sunsets. Now he lived in Delray Beach and saw sunrises daily, but nothing beat a Miami sunrise. It was the sun’s reflection on gleaming glass and gold towers. Plus the vista of multi-hued waters, ranging from the blue-green of Biscayne Bay to the aquamarine waters off the white-sand beaches. All these colors merging in a shimmering mirage as the tropical sun rose on the eastern edge of the city. Buildings turned pink, then gold. But the downtown skyline was a sight to behold at any time of day or night, especially when viewed from the water.
The Stella di Mare was in a slip at the Miami Marina. Last night, after dining with his wife, Louie met Victor DeAngelis at the yacht club in Boca. Louie’s three-man, one-w
oman crew sailed them south via the Intracoastal, stopping briefly in Fort Lauderdale to pick-up Victor’s chick, Suzy.
They’d berthed sometime after midnight, but Louie was already asleep in his stateroom by then. He slept soundly, without any qualms of conscience about what he was planning to do today. Upon waking, Louie swam his regular quota of laps in the marina’s pool, returning to shower and shave, splashing on aftershave, L’Homme Libre, a recent gift from his beautiful princess of a daughter, Stella.
Stella was always buying him presents. Within the space of two years she had married and given birth to a daughter. After the arrival of his granddaughter, Louie assumed Stella would confine her gift giving to holidays. Not so. Stella was as generous as ever, stopping by yesterday with the cologne. She’d come without her husband, and Louie was delighted. He didn’t care for his son-in-law, if for no other reason than he’d married Louie’s baby. Incidentally, Louie had named his prized Hatteras after Stella. Translated, “Stella di Mare” meant “star of the sea.”
Medium-framed, a half-inch shy of five-feet nine, Louie was on the slender side, dressing today in a Pal Zileri suit custom-cut to the contours of his body. Leaving off the jacket, Louie donned a white shirt and red-silk necktie by Giorgio Armani, another one of Stella’s presents. Louie was a southerner at heart, but his preference for Italian fashion leant him a European air. His dark good looks and coarse black hair, streaked with silver now that he was in his fifties, furthered this image.
Louie’s deckhand, Linda, greeted him as soon as he stepped onto the deck. A square-shouldered blond, Linda was fortyish, dressed in the Stella’s uniform of white shorts and navy polo, the words “Stella di Mare” embroidered above the right breast-pocket. Linda was married to the Stella’s captain, but once upon a time she had been a waitress, and her professional efficiency, combined with a very pleasant manner, endeared her to Louie.
Linda gave Louie a welcoming smile. Knowing he preferred to breakfast on deck, Linda had preset a table, draping it with white linen. Three places were set with the Stella’s blue-rimmed china, cups turned down in the saucers. Today’s Miami-Herald was on the table, along with a pitcher of orange juice.
Linda poured Louie a glass of juice. Sipping from it, Louie walked to the deck railing. It was hurricane season, but there were no storms brewing in the Caribbean. The morning was drenched in sunshine, the Miami skyline rising behind the MacArthur Causeway. The air was rife with saltwater and diesel fuel and the smell of bacon frying in a nearby galley. Gazing southward, Louie saw the Fischer Island Ferry approaching the green island tucked between the Atlantic and Biscayne Bay, on the edge of the shipping lanes. A huge cargo ship was heading into port, an oil-tanker tailgating.
The Stella sat in slip, gleaming white fiberglass hull, sliding smoked-glass doors, deck set with comfortably cushioned bench-chairs and sun-beds. Water lapped at the Stella’s hull, swirled around the marina’s deep pilings. Moored beside the Stella was a tony Chris-Craft, with three ladies in wide-brimmed hats taking coffee on deck. Sighting Louie, they waved airily. An engine on a nearby cruiser fired up, blew air into the water with a loud gurgle. Two men stood conversing on the dock, their backs to Louie as they studied a giant catamaran.
The marina’s turquoise-topped buildings sat low and squat between the high-rises of neighboring condominiums. One oval tower caught Louie’s eye. This was a salmon-colored building, forty stories high, and he perused it with a deep sense of pride because twelve years earlier he had partnered with another developer and built it, naming it The Venezia Tower. Louie still retained ownership of four units, leasing three and rotating corporate guests out of the other.
Louie owned L&M Enterprises, a real-estate development and investment company. He had initially started the company in New Orleans, but huge profits lured him eastward. It was his investments in Miami Dade and neighboring Broward and Palm Beach Counties that catapulted Louie from merely rich to superrich.
Louie had been born rich—the firstborn and only son of a New Orleans crime boss that conspiracy theorists linked to the 35th president’s assassination. Inheriting the city while relatively young, Louie had legitimized much of his father’s empire. He still did business in New Orleans and maintained a residence there, but the day-to-day operations of what the FBI referred to as the “last vestiges of the New Orleans mob” he’d turned over to his cousin, Anthony.
Florida made Louie legit and anonymous, although people who knew knew, and every now and then, upon meeting somebody, he’d get a look. But most of the Jews and WASPS and even the Italians he did business with in South Florida didn’t have a clue. And that’s the way Louie liked it.
Louie finished his juice and walked to the table. Sitting, he reached for the Herald. He had two cell phones, but nothing high-tech. For years his business was in his brain, committed to memory, and he had a natural distrust of computers. So he preferred to get his news the old-fashioned way.
Louie read his way through the front section, starting on the editorials when Victor slid open the door and stepped onto the deck, his girlfriend trailing him. Suzy was of a type Victor preferred, blond and big-busted. Louie seldom troubled to learn their names, although he’d remembered Suzy’s. Deeply tanned, and with bright blue eyes, Suzy was wearing one of Victor’s Hawaiian shirts. Victor was built like a linebacker, and the shirt hung to her knees like an oversized kimono.
Victor’s bushy-brown hair, still damp from his shower, was already frizzing. In business attire, Victor wore a blue suit, eschewing his diamond ear-stud, although his diamond pinkie ring was flashing. Hazel eyes, a bit mercurial, shifted green as Victor squinted at Louie.
Linda hustled out the coffee. She put a platter of melon and a basket of muffins on the table. Victor took his place, he and Louie divvying up the Herald. Victor reached for an oversized banana-nut muffin, started peeling back the wrapper. Excitedly pacing the deck, Suzy bounced from railing to railing, taking in the view. It was her first time on the Stella.
“This is so cool,” she exclaimed, just before opening Victor’s oversized shirt and sliding it off her shoulders, letting it drop to floor. Clad in wedge sandals and a pink thong, Suzy adopted a sexy pose. “Victor said to show you my breasts,” she told Louie.
Louie’s eyes skimmed over her, noting the absence of tan lines. Suzy cupped her breasts, presenting them like trophies. Her nipples were pierced with sapphire studs. She said, “Do you like them?”
Louie was fairly certain she meant her breasts, and not the jewelry. He said, “They’re lovely,” smiling faintly. He thought her breasts were too round—plumped up with silicone or saline or whatever it was they used nowadays. He was getting a little tired of implants, but this didn’t mean he was in a hurry to look away. “It must have hurt, baby.”
“I damn near fainted. After the first piercing, I almost couldn’t do the second. It hurt terribly, but the results were worth it.”
“Definitely worth it,” said Louie. His eyes went to Victor’s, exchanging a look of camaraderie. Eager to prolong the show, Suzy pranced to the railing, waving at the two men on the pier. They looked over with ear-splitting grins, but the ladies on the Chris Craft were not as pleased, one disapproving matron rising with a noisy “Hmpf” and slamming her cabin door. Linda, face purposely blank, finished pouring coffee.
Victor said, “Doll, come over here and sit.”
“I’m not hungry. I’m too excited to eat, Victor.”
Victor reached for another muffin. “Doll, you gotta put your clothes on.”
Suzy pouted, rolling her eyes skyward. She bent to pick up Victor’s shirt, taking her sweet time about it and giving her admirers another peep. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders and put on the shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. “Gee, Vic, I thought I could go topless in Miami.”
“On the beach, doll. Not on Lou’s boat ... at least not while we’re in slip. Now sit down and behave
. Lou and I have work to do.”
* * *
At eight-thirty Victor put Suzy into a cab. Having planned on hanging at the marina all day, Suzy wasn’t happy about her dismissal. But Victor had had his fill of her. Returning to the Stella, he stepped in and saw Louie sitting at the table with paperwork from the law firm of Goldman & Epstein. He wore reading glasses, his cell phones within arm’s reach. He had put on his jacket.
Contrasting with the vivid brightness outside, the cabin’s smoked-windows filtered the sun. Rich woods and burls complemented creamy carpets and plush leather chairs, the mahogany table in an alcove, the wall behind it plastered with silver-framed family photos. A built-in cabinet holding a television divided the galley from the salon, its flawless picture being transmitted on a wide screen. Channel 7, WSVN, was giving the weather report; eighty-eight degrees and sun, mildly rough surf were forecast.
Linda was cleaning up in the galley, wiping down the black-granite countertop. She looked up at Victor’s approach, asking if he wanted coffee.
“No, doll, I’m cool.” He drew back a chair and sat opposite Louie. “I told Sam nine.” Sam was the driver Louie used in Miami. What Victor meant was that Sam was en-route to the marina.
“Good. Epstein’s going to have his people there at nine-fifteen.”
Glancing at the papers, Victor said, “How much did you put into the joint?”
Louie took off his glasses and gave Victor a little smile, his dark eyes snapping. “I gave Franco five, up front. SunTrust loaned him ten before they cut off his credit, and I will have to assume this debt. Plus, there are tax liens and delinquent contractor’s fees. Franco hasn’t paid anyone in a long, long time.”
Victor snorted contemptuously. He knew all about Franco’s financial woes. He also had a pretty good idea of what the Walker Hotel was worth. He said, “Not bad for a Miami Beach hotel, Lou.”
Louie grinned. “Considering the appraisal came in it at one-twenty, I’ll say. I’ll flip her for at least that much.”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 2