It had all gone to hell, and on his watch. But now, miraculously, Franco had been given another chance. A miracle of miracles, delivered in the unlikely form of Manny Bommarino. At first, listening to Manny’s BS, Franco had laughed. “You’re telling me your ninety-nine year old dying grandpa told you he buried the Blue Diamond in the floor of my hotel?” Franco had asked skeptically.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Manny.
“Come on, Manny, that’s bullshit. An old guy like that, he was senile—”
“The fuck he was. Bo was sharp as nails right till the end.”
“Yeah, right.” Franco had grown up in Miami and knew all about Greta Harper’s stolen diamond. Every few years some theory surfaced, and Franco suspected this was one of them. He looked at Manny as if he was crazy and said, “Tell me this: How come a guy would steal a necklace like that, risk all that heat, just to bury it under a floor and forget about it?”
“Bo didn’t mean to forget about it. He assumed it was a temporary hiding place, but then he got to Havana and met my grandmother and had some kind of religious conversion. On account of seeing Francine get killed—”
“Francine? My Francine—”
“Yeah, you’re not listening, dude. Bo was staying in Room 313, lying low—he said all hell broke loose when that diamond went missing. The cops were pulling men off the street. Plus he had the Chicago syndicates looking for him.”
Franco rolled his eyes. “Who? Al Capone?”
“I guess ... he didn’t say.”
“Bo didn’t say a lot, as far as I hear it.”
“Let me finish. Bo was pretty handy, so it was easy for him to bury the necklace. He said workmen were laying tile on the third floor, and he used their tools, digging up a space in the closet. But Francine … she was staying in the room next door … and by accident she barged in and caught him red-handed. He chased her out. I guess she got scared and ran into the street. A big Packard hit her—tore her legs right off. Bo remembered exactly. He felt he was responsible for her death.”
“You’re fucking nuts—you and your old pops.”
“Come on, man. You got to at least check it out. What if the diamond is up there? It had to be somewhere all these years. Why not hidden in the Walker?”
“If it’s in my hotel, then it’s my diamond—”
“The hell it is,” said Manny.
They’d come to a standoff, both thinking what each of them would do if they had the diamond, with Franco half-heartedly committing to checking it out. Then he went on-line and did some research and learned that National Insurance Company, having paid the sum of two million dollars to Greta Harper’s sole survivor ten years after her death, was considered the Blue Diamond’s rightful owner.
Initially, Franco declined to take the story seriously. But Manny was intense, and Franco started thinking—hell, why not do some investigating. So he did a little digging and discovered that Francine was run over by a speeding Packard two days after the Blue Diamond went missing. Coincidentally, the occupants of the vehicle were Chicago gangsters. There was speculation they may have been involved in the diamond’s disappearance, but nothing was ever proven.
Franco didn’t share his research with Manny, but last night he had gone up to Room 313 armed with a sledgehammer. A couple of powerful whacks and the tile crumbled like confetti, revealing a shallow space in the corner of the closet. Tucked inside was a rolled-up hand-towel. It was about this time that Franco’s heart had started beating funny. Dropping his hammer, he reached for the threadbare towel and un-wrapped it. He saw the string of diamonds, and then the diamond, that big, beautiful stone. Forty carats he’d read, a large square stone, sky-blue, set in necklace of white diamonds. It was darker than the tourmaline ring he’d given Kathy last year, but lighter than her sapphire. Probably a shade paler than its sister stone, the Hope Diamond. It was the most incredible thing Franco had ever seen. And to think that it had been here, in his hotel, all these years.
Greta Harper had claimed the diamond had a magical quality, a seductive light that entranced the viewer. She’d also said the diamond was cursed, bringing bad luck to all who owned it. Franco liked to think he was going to be the exception to this rule. The diamond was a miracle, no doubt about it. Fucking incredible, he thought. But then, abruptly, Franco started feeling dizzy. A superstitious man might have blamed the diamond, but Franco attributed his vertigo to the three Vicodins he had popped earlier, washing them down with Jack.
The diamond was dancing before his eyes when his night manager, Derek, started banging on the door. “Franco, what’s going on in there?”
Derek jiggled the doorknob. Franco hollered, “Get lost, man. Leave me alone.”
“Jeez, what’s up with you?” said Derek. Franco heard him whispering with the new bellhop, the young fairy Derek had something going with, the kid’s laughter fading as they walked away.
Not trusting them, Franco waited a few minutes, and then staggered to the door. Glancing into the corridor, he saw they were gone. That’s when he decided to go into Francine’s room. Francine had never frightened him. Plus, her door had a working lock, and Franco threw the latch as soon as he stepped in. He sank onto the nearest bed, his breathing shallow and his heart thumping. Yes, he thought, cradling that big blue diamond, you are magic. Exhilaration swept him; it was akin to holding a winning lottery ticket. God was giving him a second chance. It was more than booze talking; he felt something, some awesome, awesome power. But, epiphany notwithstanding, the Vicodin got the best of him and he passed out cold.
He wondered about the way he’d passed out. He’d been higher in the past and less coherent. This was like being hit over the head. It was a total blackout, and when he came to, the freaking ghost was straddling his chest. Francine was real, terrifyingly real, a brown-haired girl with yellow ribbons in her hair. She wore an old-fashioned dress, what his mother would call a pinafore, with short, capped sleeves. She was flesh and blood, choking the life from him.
Paralyzed with fear, Franco felt himself being suffocated. Her weight on him was enormous, smashing his windpipes. He heard the wild thumping of his heart, Francine’s icy fingers pressing into his skin. Then Franco found his breath, wailing, and Francine evaporated. Poof, she was gone. He thought he saw her holding the necklace, but that couldn’t be real, could it? Except that when he got up, shaking and confused, the diamond was missing.
At the time Franco was too distraught to analyze the situation. He had seen Francine, yes, but there was no way she had taken the diamond. This was a figment of his imagination, the disastrous combination of Vicodin and Jack Daniels. No one had entered the room because Franco had the key, and it was in his pocket.
Scared witless, Franco returned to the lobby, slipping the key into its slot at the front desk. He shouldn’t have done this, but he was bewildered and stunned—still more than half-drunk too. In fact, he had another drink, and then Derek drove him home.
Now, Morelli was prowling around his hotel, and the Blue Diamond was hidden somewhere in Francine’s room. Determined to get to the necklace before Morelli, Franco didn’t bother with shaving. Slipping into Versace jeans and a black Hugo Boss sport shirt, he stumbled his way downstairs.
The house had a hollow, empty feeling, as though it was already vacated. The few remaining furnishings gave it a forlorn appearance. They’d gone modern, which could be done well in Miami, but the décor had always seemed gaudy and overdone, with a Scarface feel. The kitchen’s cabinetry was bone-white, the chairs at the glass table padded with purple leather. It was a gourmet kitchen, with a built-in gas range and Subzero fridge. But the fridge was empty, only a little tomato juice left in the plastic bottle Franco poured into a glass, adding a splash of Finlandia.
He downed his elixir, waiting for the pleasant warmth to steel his nerves. He had to get a grip, stop the frantic racing of
his thoughts. What the fuck had happened to him last night? How could he find, and then lose, the most coveted and priceless diamond in history? Had it happened as he remembered, or was he dreaming? Looking out the sliding-door at his patio, Franco’s distress was magnified by the sight of his neglected pool and spa—slimed over and covered with leaves.
His phone rang; Manny’s name was flashing on the display pad. He’d put Manny off yesterday, but now, impulsively, he answered. “Yeah,” he said.
Manny sounded excited, a little breathless. “Come on, man, I’m dying. Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
Manny’s tone was instantly hostile, tinged with suspicion. “What the fuck … you called me at four in the morning, told me you found Bo’s necklace.”
“What?” His panicked brain went for the lie, even while he desperately fought to recall his nocturnal ramblings. “No way, Manny. I was drinking—”
“You’re a fucking liar. You were crying you were so happy … tears of joy. Telling me our problems were over. Don’t fucking pull this shit on me, Franco. You told me you had it—”
“Bro, chill. I was pulling your leg—”
“Fuck you, Franco. That necklace is mine, and I’m coming to get it.”
Franco clicked off. He had no recall of having called Manny. Realizing his drinking might have reached a crisis point, he reconsidered. Had he really been that zonked?
As if to confirm his previous inebriated state, Franco’s head began hammering. He reached into the cabinet for the extra-strength Excedrin, popping two pills and chugging them back with vodka. Then he walked into his study and, opening his desk drawer, he took out his old man’s .32, checking to make sure it was loaded before tucking it into his waistband.
Franco drew a deep breath, and started down the hall toward his garage. He knew one thing, Morelli or no Morelli: The Blue Diamond was his. Then, as he got into his shiny little Beemer, he thought of the Walker Hotel, his father’s final gift. Tears blinded him, but grief soon gave way to fury. He slammed the Beemer into gear and backed out of his driveway.
Chapter Seven
Not yet noon and the blister on Tara’s foot had her rummaging in Franco’s vanity for a bandage. She’d been closeted with Mr. Morelli and Victor for the better part of an hour. They asked her dozens of questions relating to the hotel’s operations. Victor did the asking, although Tara had a sense he was doing so on behalf of his boss. Mr. Morelli was frequently interrupted with phone calls, and then she and Victor would chat about inconsequential things.
Tara wondered at Victor’s actual job. His business card identified him as an executive assistant, but he was a little rough around the edges, describing himself as “Lou’s right hand man.” Still, Victor was extremely likable, and in those lulls when Mr. Morelli’s attention was diverted, she found herself providing personal information which she felt certain he would share with his boss.
During intervals she attended to paperwork, but it was difficult concentrating, and she frequently looked up to find Mr. Morelli studying her. He confined their conversation to business, but it was obvious he found her attractive, addressing her as “baby” or “honey”, chauvinistic terms that might have offended Tara if anyone else had said them. But there was nothing demeaning about Mr. Morelli’s “baby”. His casual endearment seemed personal, with a tender emphasis that secretly thrilled her. Or perhaps, obviously thrilled her because she found him so maddeningly attractive she hung on his every word, giving him the kind of signals no man could fail to appreciate.
She liked the way he talked with his hands, his restless energy making him get up time and again. He’d pace the room, phone held to his ear, giving orders and making deals. Then he’d click off his cell and look at her, his eyes meeting hers from across the room, and Tara’s breath would quicken. She’d duck her head shyly, only to look back and find him still watching. Once Victor stepped out, and in the sudden silence they exchanged a look that made her mouth go dry and her heart beat fast.
He was back behind Franco’s desk, his chair swiveled toward her. For a moment the tension between them was so palpable she felt dizzy. If he had gotten up and touched her, she would have yielded. Instead, he gave her a beautiful smile and said, “Honey, you can’t look at me like that. It’s downright dangerous.”
“Oh,” she looked away, tongue-tied and blushing like a schoolgirl. Victor’s return saved her from a reply, but she still had color in her cheeks when she went into the bathroom for a Band-Aid. She found one, applying it to the back of her heel. Then she lingered in the bathroom, composing herself.
The noisy exhaust fan cocooned her, shut her off from the outside office, and Tara missed Franco’s blood chilling cry as he burst in. A minute later, opening the door, she saw him pointing a snub-nosed revolver at Mr. Morelli. Leaning over the desk, Franco held the revolver in his right hand, holding it about one foot from Mr. Morelli’s face, his outstretched arm strained and trembling.
The gun stopped Tara dead in her tracks. Her eyes darted to Mr. Morelli; he sat unmoving, face purposely blank, his restlessness completely stilled. He was utterly composed, his hands resting on the desk top, his phone within reach, but forgotten.
Caught unaware, Victor was scrambling to catch up. Drawing a semiautomatic from the inside pocket of his suit-coat, he closed in, less than two feet from Franco when he leveled the pistol at his head, and said, very calmly, “Franco, drop the gun.”
Franco did not drop the gun. In fact, he cocked the hammer, the resounding click spurring Tara’s panic. She let out a loud gasp, and Victor’s eyes came to her. He gave a cautionary shake of his head, and Tara stifled another cry as Franco jabbed the gun in Mr. Morelli’s face. “I’ll do it, Lou,” he said, his voice ragged and breathless. “I swear I will. I’ll kill you.”
Mr. Morelli flinched involuntarily; otherwise, he didn’t move a muscle. Eyes lifting from Franco’s revolver, he looked directly at him and said, “If you kill me, Victor will kill you. Is this what you want, Franco?”
“You bastard. You can’t take my hotel.”
“We had an agreement. I expect you to honor it.”
“You owe me—”
Unbelievably, Mr. Morelli said, “I don’t owe you shit. Damnit, Franco, why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult? Why do you want to piss me off?”
Victor said, “Come on, Franco, don’t make me shoot you.”
Mr. Morelli never took his eyes off of Franco. Slowly, he lifted his hands, his movement causing Franco’s arm to spasm, the gun jerking wildly. As soon as Franco steadied the gun, Mr. Morelli extended his hand, palm upright. He said, “Give me the gun, Franco.”
The authority in Mr. Morelli’s voice was striking. Franco wavered, eyes darting nervously about, and Victor said, “Franco, I’ll shoot—” and Mr. Morelli held up a hand, silencing him.
He said, “Give me the goddamned gun. Jesus, Franco, you are pissing me off.” As if he held the gun, not Franco.
Franco shook like an epileptic in the throes of a seizure, his whole body strained and trembling, his breathing labored in the sudden silence. It was so quiet Tara could hear the persistent thumping of her own heart. She marveled that Mr. Morelli showed no fear, hadn’t even broken a sweat. His eyes remained locked on Franco’s. Indeed, it was his intense and unrelenting stare that broke Franco, made him choke with frustration as he lowered his arm, dropping his revolver into Mr. Morelli’s outstretched hand.
Tara’s breath expelled in a loud gasp, Victor’s sigh of relief echoing hers. Mr. Morelli slid back his chair and came swiftly to his feet. Expertly, he thumbed open the revolver’s chambers, extracting the bullets one by one, before handing the gun to Victor. Pocketing the weapon along with his own, Victor gave Tara a reassuring wink, but her gaze was riveted on his boss.
Rounding the desk, his eyes bright and hard with anger, Mr. Morelli
backed Franco between the chairs and slapped him. Franco made a squawking sound, making no effort to fight back despite his obvious physical advantage. He did try to shield his face, but Mr. Morelli swatted away his hands. Grabbing a fistful of Franco’s hair, he yanked his exposed face toward him and delivered a series of rapid, open-handed smacks. “You miserable prick,” he said. “How dare you threaten me? You ever, ever, point a fucking gun at me again, I’ll kill you so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
Thoroughly cowed, tears streaming from his eyes, Franco collapsed onto one of the chairs. He said hoarsely, wheezing, “I’m sorry, Lou. God, I’m sorry … Don’t—”
Standing over him, hands on hips, Mr. Morelli said savagely, “I ought to let Victor work you over.”
He stood there a moment, as though debating. But Franco was beaten, utterly defeated, his loud, gut-wrenching sobs making Tara cringe. She retained a white-knuckle grip on the door, and Victor put his hand on her shoulders and led her to her desk, pulling back her chair. Tara sat gratefully, her own hands shaking uncontrollably. Victor went to the small refrigerator and retrieved a Diet Coke, popping the tab and bringing it to her. Tara accepted it with a nod of thanks, swallowing the lump in her throat with the soda. But the tears—as much from strain as emotion—spilled over.
She fumbled in her drawer for a tissue, Victor patting her awkwardly. “Shouldn’t we call the police?” she whispered, too frightened to speak in her normal tone.
Victor said, “No sense in making a fuss now, doll. It’s over. Just a spat between friends.”
Tara would hardly describe what she had just witnessed as a friendly spat, but she didn’t contradict Victor. The sound of Franco’s crying filled the room, jarring her nerves. Briefly, she glanced out the window at the pool deck, observing the sunbathers. The familiar scene was idyllic, totally unconnected to the drama unfolding behind her.
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 5