“What about Franco?”
“What about him? He’s out.”
Victor considered this. Having introduced Franco to Louie, Victor knew him well. But by the time Louie entered the picture, Franco had run through his old man’s money, borrowing heavily against the hotel to fund his lavish lifestyle. Franco’s father had owned the Walker for fifty years and never encumbered it, but Franco’s wild spending spree was legend. Franco’s problems were twofold; his cash problems had arisen during the banking crisis, and after he proved negligent in payment, further borrowing became impossible. The second issue was personal and pressing. Franco owed his Cuban book two hundred G’s, and with the recession biting down hard, the Walker’s profits didn’t provide enough to satisfy payment to his unconventional creditor.
This is where Louie came in. He had the capital and was willing to lend it, provided Franco made him a full, albeit silent, partner, with complete rights of ownership. After attaching his name to the deed, Louie tapped the remaining equity to fund other projects, and then he stepped back and waited for Franco to hang himself. It took a couple of years, with Louie having to cover the occasional shortage or gambling loss. But the Bank of Morelli was predatory, and Louie was initiating his own form of foreclosure—complete takeover of the Walker Hotel. Of course, a novation releasing Franco from liability as well as ownership was required.
This was troubling Victor. He knew Franco well enough to know he was a first rate fuck-up, but Victor also knew he had a proprietary pride when it came to the Walker, and Victor couldn’t see him letting it go. Glancing uncertainly at Louie, he said, “I don’t know, Lou … Franco’s going to make a stink.”
Excited that the long awaited deal was at hand, Louie said facetiously, “Don’t worry, Victor, I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Chapter Three
Tara Evans woke up tired. She’d tossed and turned through the night, due in part to the faulty air conditioner in her Fort Lauderdale apartment. It had been blowing hot air when she arrived home last night, and she’d shut off the motor and opened the windows, inviting noisy street sounds. Tara was in a one-bedroom off of Sunrise Boulevard, miles from Fort Lauderdale’s lovely beaches and in an area of commercial sprawl featuring big-box retailers, furniture stores, and fast-food restaurants.
Eyeing her brown appliances and tacky furniture, Tara knew the only thing she could boast about was the rent. She’d killed a few roaches in the kitchen this week and had left two messages with maintenance. Now she would have to call about the air-conditioner.
The complex offered irregular leases for transients, which is another reason why Tara had taken it. But the downfall was a collection of odd neighbors, and she was pretty certain there were at least ten Mexicans living in the apartment across the hall. She credited her neighbors with providing the source of food for the roaches, as she had nothing to eat in her own cupboards.
The fridge held a four-pack of strawberry Yoplait and a quart of orange juice. Tara ate one of the yogurts before heading into the bedroom, dressing in her maroon polyester skirt and white blouse, the Walker uniform minus the braided jacket. It was already, or rather, still hot in her apartment, and she quickly blow-dried her hair, running the round brush through her dark locks to smooth the natural wave. Tara wore her hair in a center part, sides cut shorter than the back and curling around her jaw. Her morning ritual of mascara and lip-gloss was accomplished in minutes, and gathering her purse, Tara headed into the corridor. One of the Mexicans was exiting the apartment across the hall, and after a perfunctory nod, Tara looked away, noting, not for the first time, how deeply soiled the carpeting was and how flimsy the lock on the exterior door.
Striding across the parking lot to her Sebring, Tara’s mind turned to her more pressing problems, the broken air-conditioner being the least of them. Yesterday her half-sister, Natalie, had called and asked for money, and Tara, who’d given her a hundred dollars last week, had to refuse. “I just don’t have it, Natalie,” she said. “I can’t keep giving you money—I’m not rich—”
“You have that big job—”
“I work at a hotel, and I don’t get paid enough to support myself comfortably, let alone you and your family. What is the money for, anyhow? I thought Emilio was working.”
Emilio was Natalie’s scary, scary boyfriend. He and Natalie lived in the Hispanic community in Lake Worth with their fat-cheeked seven-month old baby girl, Rosa, and Natalie’s too thin, too pale, three-year old boy, Joey. A beautiful boy with a mop of pale blond ringlets and eyes clear as blue ice, Joey had been born disadvantaged to a mother with substance abuse issues and a father who was doing twenty-to-life for grand larceny.
Natalie and Tara shared a father. Jerry lived in Islamorada with his third wife, Tara being the product of his first marriage, and Natalie his second. Tara’s parents divorced when she was five, and her mother’s remarriage to a man who adopted her was the best thing that ever happened to her. Jerry had been absent for most of Tara’s childhood, but after years of battling alcoholism, he’d sobered up. They were on good terms, but Tara considered her stepfather to be her real father, reserving the honorary title of “dad” for him.
Natalie hadn’t fared as well as Tara, bouncing between her mother’s home in Plantation and her grandparents in Michigan. For a time she had lived with Tara’s family, but even as a young girl, Natalie was troubled. Ten years younger than Tara, she had two kids, no job, and no prospect of ever having one. Natalie did get state aid, but Tara, who feared for the welfare of her niece and nephew, suspected she didn’t use the money to provide for her children. Joey always looked so woebegone and frightened.
Last night, while talking on the phone with Natalie, Tara heard Joey sobbing. Alarmed, she asked Natalie about it, and her sister said, “Joey what’s wrong with you? You better stop sniffling or I’ll have Emilio give you a spanking.”
Tara, who was scared to be in the same room with Emilio, said, “Don’t you dare let him touch Joey.”
“Don’t be such a bitch, Tara. You don’t know anything about raising kids. Emilio says they need a good crack once in awhile—”
“Natalie, so help me God, I’ll call the state.”
“Well, you won’t be the first to call,” she said snidely. “Tell me that bitch Pam didn’t already call … I know it was her.”
Pam was Jerry’s wife. She and Tara frequently discussed the situation regarding Joey. Pam had called child welfare services. They investigated, finding no cause to remove Joey from his mother’s home. But this was not heartening. Hardly a week went by without some horrendous story in the news about child abuse, and how the state of Florida let some poor innocent slip through the cracks.
After refusing to further fund Natalie’s habits, Tara was called an “unfeeling bitch.” Natalie hung up, and Tara was left with the memory of Joey’s plaintive crying, imagining the worst as she tossed and turned on her bed. This morning she woke with her sister’s problems uppermost in mind, but after leaving her apartment and heading south on I-95, Tara began to think about the other issues that were troubling her.
It was becoming clear to Tara that the Walker was facing financial difficulties, and she was worried about her job. One thing she’d had in her hometown of Sterling Heights, Michigan, was job security. As office manager of a large dental practice, Tara had made more money in Michigan than she was making at the Walker Hotel. But one of the dentists made lewd advances, and after David dumped her … well … she’d been looking for a fresh start.
Accepting Jerry’s offer to visit, Tara applied for the job at the Walker and stayed. At first she was thrilled, she loved living in Florida and working in glamorous South Beach, and for awhile, she was a little in love with Franco. But she soon discovered his weaknesses: gambling, alcohol, and women. Then she learned he was estranged from his wife and not divorced as he had told her. He lied about other is
sues too, because Tara knew how bad things were, even if none of her co-workers suspected. Franco knew how to put on a front, that’s for sure.
He certainly liked to brag about her being his girl, a fact which did nothing to endear her to her underlings, some of whom actively resented Tara. Not having had any hospitality experience, Tara adapted, managing Franco’s staff and hotel with efficiency. But for some of Franco’s employees, she was always going to be the bimbo who slept with their boss. The animosity and disrespect stung. But all of Tara’s efforts to introduce a professional distance were in vain. Hardly a day went by that Franco didn’t try to get back in her favor. She also had to contend with his fat Cuban bookie making inappropriate comments. Franco was in fear of his bookie, raiding the cashbox whenever he showed, and he didn’t dare to reprimand him. And then there was goofball Manny, calling her twice yesterday to ask her out. Tara didn’t like Manny, and she especially didn’t like the way he leered at her. But lately, he seemed to be constantly underfoot, coming in every afternoon and lounging about the office.
Yesterday, after Manny asked her out, she told him she was Franco’s girl, playing into the lie to get rid of him. The creep actually said, “Franco don’t need to know anything about us.”
“Aren’t you his friend?” Tara asked.
“Me and Franco understand each other,” Manny replied. “I don’t think he’ll mind if we go out. Where’s he taken you anyhow?”
Manny had a point. Franco had taken her nowhere, the stars falling from her eyes when their “dates” remained confined to unrented guest rooms. Talk about fodder for gossip. And Tara had no one to blame but herself. But after a long decade of boredom, she was tired of being the nice girl in the corner.
The Walker had valet service, but Tara preferred parking her own car in the Walker’s garage on the north side of the building, accessible via a narrow drive that divided the Walker from a neighboring high-rise. Usually Tara entered the hotel through the service entrance, but a Sysco van was unloading at the dock and she walked around to the front of the building, approaching the Art Deco beauty from the front.
Designed with a central tower and jagged wings, the Walker dominated a narrow strip of land that stretched from Collins to the Atlantic. Built in the Roaring Twenties, the hotel had sustained several renovations, with trends and economic conditions dictating alternating periods of wealth and decline. Royal palms lined the walkway, a short, curving drive bringing guests to the door. To the left was the high-rise, and bordering the Walker on its south side was Henri’s Chop House, a venerable institute that had once served the likes of Sinatra and Marilyn Monroe. But Henri’s had been in decline for a couple of decades, dishing up overpriced low-quality cuts to unsuspecting tourists. The restaurant was dirty and in need of repairs—an eyesore with its pitted parking lot and unimpressive façade.
Greeting uniformed doormen, Tara entered the Walker through the revolving front door, stepping into a lobby that was long, rather than wide. Standing just inside the door, and beneath the first of three chandeliers evenly spaced the length of the lobby, Tara looked straight through to a wall of windows overlooking the terrace. From this distance she could not see the ocean, but the long infinity pool, glistening serenely in the morning light, caught her attention.
The Walker’s marble floor with its pattern of red-diamonds had been restored to original splendor. To her left was the bellhop station, and on her immediate right was an alcove with red-leather chairs and a round, marble-topped table. Just beyond was the front desk, a square box jutting into the lobby. At the far end of the lobby was the Walker’s in-house restaurant, Abby’s, which served a daily breakfast and dinner buffet. Until recently Abby’s had been a discotheque, but the dance club had not survived the recession. Tucked between restaurant and concierge was a dimly lit lounge with red leather bar-stools.
Lina, a striking Latina dressed in the Walker’s maroon jacket and skirt, was manning the front desk. Lina was single and had plenty of man trouble of her own. She had confessed to Tara that she’d also had a brief fling with Franco, so she certainly understood Tara’s situation and empathized with her.
Tara always stopped to chat with Lina and whoever was scheduled to work with her. Today it was Maurice, a slender, dark-haired man who did not like Tara and never failed to let her know it. Maurice had an attitude with clients as well as his fellow workers, and Tara had complained to Franco about him. But Franco had no intention of inconveniencing himself by firing him.
Tara was always courteous with Maurice, but she never tarried to chat with him. This morning both he and Lina looked up, gesturing wildly for her. Guests were checking in, and Tara was forced to stand aside while their business was being conducted. She admired the chic reception area, with its sitting stations and tall, potted plants. Hotel patrons would never guess that the private door behind the desk opened onto a corridor with peeling paint and buckling linoleum. Off this corridor was the reservations office where Tara’s predecessor had sat with two full-time clerks and a rotating shift of several part-timers. An employees’ lounge came next, with Franco’s posh office at the very end. Having spared no expense in his space, he’d run out of money, thus relegating his employees to shabby surroundings.
As the hotel guests were concluding their business, Maurice turned to Tara. Barely able to contain himself, he said, “Franco totally lost it last night.”
“What happened?”
Maurice’s brown eyes were snapping with excitement. He was forty—Franco’s age—with a sharp, pointed nose. He smiled unctuously. “Franco went on some kind of bender and took a sledgehammer to the floor in Room 313.”
“What?” said Tara, disbelieving. Room 313 was a dead room, never rented due to its close proximity to Room 312, the haunted room. At the end of the corridor on the third floor, rooms 312’s and 313’s doors were just feet apart. Even in the Walker’s heyday these were smaller, less desirable rooms, but due to the mischievous ghost of a little girl who’d been killed while trying to cross Collins Avenue years ago, both rooms were inhospitable.
Franco told Tara the story her first day on the job. Francine was ten years old when she was killed in front of the hotel. She and her family were guests, staying in Room 312. While her bereaved parents had gone north with their daughter’s broken body, her spirit had stayed behind. A very active ghost, Francine claimed Room 312 as her own, with some proprietary inclusion extending to neighboring 313.
Consequently, neither room was ever rented. Room 313 was used as storage, but 312 pretty much looked the same as it had when Francine was a living guest. A few years back Discovery’s Hauntings had featured Francine in an episode. Afterward they were bombarded with requests to stay in her room, but visitors seldom lasted the night, and Franco soon put an end to it.
Tara had never seen Francine, but she tended to avoid both rooms. So did most of the staff, including Franco, so she was surprised by Maurice’s announcement.
“What was Franco doing?” she asked.
Lina said, “Oh, Tara, he bashed in the whole closet floor.”
“What, why?”
“God only knows. Franco went down to maintenance and got a sledgehammer, and took out the closet floor. The room is an absolute mess—covered in white dust—it’s tile over wood, you know. Derek said Franco looked possessed and wouldn’t let anybody in the room with him either.”
Derek was the night manager and a personal, party friend of Franco’s. “Great,” said Tara. “Was he drunk?”
Maurice rolled his eyes, said sharply, “What do you think, darling?”
Tara considered this. Franco’s habits were getting out of control. Her eyes went to Lina’s, where her concern was mirrored in the Latina’s big brown eyes. “And that’s not the worst of it, Tara,” said Lina. “Franco went into Francine’s room and passed out on the bed. He stumbled out of there about four this morning, white as a sheet
. He claims Francine sat on his chest—”
“The room’s torn apart,” said Maurice. “No ghost could have done that—the mattresses were pulled right off the beds. Franco claims he blacked out, and that he doesn’t know how the room got destroyed. But I’ll tell you, Francine is not happy. Things are happening up there—lights going off and on in the hallway. Maintenance went up, and can find nothing wrong.”
“Hmm,” said Tara. “Where is Franco now?”
“Derek drove him home early this morning.” Lina’s big eyes, lined expertly with black, gazed directly at Tara. “Maurice is right. Francine is angry. Guests are reporting disturbances—”
“Sightings,” said Tara, anxiously.
“No,” said Maurice. “Odd noises—one woman swears she hears a child crying.”
“Has anyone attempted to straighten the room?” asked Tara.
“And who would volunteer for this?” snapped Maurice. “You know there isn’t a maid who’ll step foot in Francine’s room.”
“What about Derek?”
“Huh, he left at seven, said it wasn’t his job.” Maurice smiled gloatingly. “I guess that leaves you, darling.”
Chapter Four
Stepping off the elevator on the third floor, Tara encountered her reflection in the wall mirror. Framing the glass were two fake potted palms, one of them listing sideways, which she immediately set upright. Looking at herself, Tara noted that she didn’t have much of a tan, despite living in Florida. Her face was round, her mouth a bit too wide, and her teeth perfectly straight due to braces worn in adolescence. She’d been blessed with a flawless complexion and Irish green eyes—her best feature—fringed with sooty lashes.
It was an ordinary face, not stunning or mysterious, but decidedly pretty—the face of the girl next door. Tara could live with it. She was a bit more conflicted about her body, and touching a finger to the silver crucifix she wore on a short chain, she eyed her full breasts and slender waist, the voluptuous curve of her hips. Tara was nowhere near fat, but she often felt self-conscious and overweight, longing to be fashionably thin. Today, she was a bit critical, tucking in her blouse and smoothing the creases in her skirt. She’d adopted the fashion of going without stockings, showing off her shapely legs. Glancing down at her shoes, Tara wished she could afford something decent, as she was wearing cheap, open-back pumps, and the strap on her left foot was biting into her ankle. She anticipated a blister by day’s end.
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 3