When Mr. Morelli said, “Franco, this document formally declares our partnership null and void, with recognition of my sole ownership of the Walker,” Tara set down her Coke. She turned and watched Mr. Morelli reclaim his dominant position behind the desk, taking up his pen as though nothing had happened.
Franco looked up with bloodshot eyes. “Fuck you, Lou.”
Mr. Morelli blew out a loud sigh. “Franco, you are so damned tiresome. Do we have to go back to the gun?” Franco gave no reply, and Mr. Morelli slid an official document in front of him. “Sign this for me. Be a man about it.”
Franco clasped his hands to his midsection and pointedly looked elsewhere. Mr. Morelli said coldly, “Don’t disappoint me.”
Tara didn’t think Mr. Morelli was so charming now. She thought he should show sympathy for Franco. But then … Franco had almost killed him. Nervously, she caught her lower lip in her teeth, watching Victor pull Franco’s chair forward, positioning him at the desk the way a mother positions her child at a table. Then Victor strode to the bar and took down a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He poured whiskey into a glass and brought it to Franco.
Franco lifted the glass with a trembling hand, downing the whiskey in one gulp. He let out a palpable sigh, and then Victor took Mr. Morelli’s Mont Blanc and put it in Franco’s hand, closing his fingers over it. “Start signing, Franco.”
Franco gave a short hiccup. He hesitated briefly, and then looked up and met Mr. Morelli’s steady gaze. No words passed between them, but whatever he saw in the depths of those bottomless black eyes convinced him. He put pen to paper, signing away his hotel with his signature. There were several documents, and Mr. Morelli shuffled them in and out of Franco’s reach with the deftness of a lawyer. The tragic look on Franco’s face as he signed everything, further aroused Tara’s pity. She wanted to say something, offer a reassuring word, and tried in vain to catch his eye.
But now Mr. Morelli was eyeing Tara with interest. She was taken aback when he said, “I’d like for you to witness his signature.”
“What? Not me …” God forbid, she couldn’t do this. “Don’t involve me, please. I don’t think I can. Maybe Victor—”
Franco wheezed. “It’s okay, babe. Just do it. Get it over with. ”
Abandoning his chair, Mr. Morelli gestured for Tara. She stood, crossing the short distance to the big desk. He tapped the top of the chair, and she obediently sat. The leather was warm from his body, and now, up close, she could smell the clean, cool scent of his cologne ... a lingering scent, not overpowering. Tara liked it instantly.
He leaned over and tucked her in, drawing her chair forward, his sleeve accidentally brushing the side of her breast. Tara glanced up and caught his look of surprise, studying her curiously now, his anger quickly fading. In the split-second before Tara averted her gaze, Mr. Morelli softened, his eyes almost languid as he regarded her.
Like lightning, excitement flickered through her—shocking, considering her emotional state. Her sympathies lay with Franco, but Tara could not deny the infatuation she felt for her new boss. His fearlessness, his bold courage, even his merciless cruelty aroused and intrigued her.
Tara could not have explained why she felt as she did, but the yearning was stronger than words, deeper than reason. Only a sense of propriety and place kept her from revealing it. She took up the Mont Blanc and signed where he directed, taking deliberate care to avoid Franco’s eyes. But she need not have concerned herself. Franco was watching Victor, who was pouring another shot of Jack.
Tara could have refused to sign—it might have spared Franco additional humiliation. But no, she signed away, basking despite herself in Mr. Morelli’s approval. He seemed to appreciate her dilemma because he patted her shoulder approvingly and said, “Thank-you,” his gaze lingering on hers, bringing the heat back into her cheeks.
Chapter Eight
The longest day lengthened as lunch came and went. Not that Tara had much appetite—it was sickening to watch Victor escort Franco from the hotel. She’d been present, wincing, when Mr. Morelli said, not unkindly, “Franco, I’m going to have Victor walk you out.”
Panic flitted across Franco’s face. “My stuff—” he sputtered.
“What stuff?”
“I need to get up to Room 313. I left some personal things—”
“Get Victor a list. I assure you, anything rightfully belonging to you will be returned.”
He walked out, leaving Victor to do the dirty work. Shortly afterward four security guards arrived—not aging, retired cops—but secret service types, well-built, wearing blue blazers, all discreetly carrying. It was clear that not only was Franco being banned, but steps were being taken to ensure he didn’t return.
The afternoon shift change came and went. Sunburned guests trudged up from the beach, gathering on the terrace. Mr. Morelli drew Tara aside and asked if she knew what sort of personal items Franco kept in Room 313. Tara told him she had no idea, briefly explaining the situation regarding 313 and its haunted neighbor. She described how Franco had chopped up the floor in 313.
He listened without conveying emotion. Later, Victor asked for the key, and Tara saw him and Mr. Morelli heading toward the elevators. But she had no time to ponder this because a situation arose with a guest. Then Manny Bommarino entered the lobby from the pool deck, zeroing in on Tara and cornering her by the front desk.
Manny glanced nervously about, eyes lingering on one of the two guards patrolling the lobby. “Where’s Franco?”
“He’s not here,” said Tara.
Manny started toward the employees’ door. “I’m going to wait in his office.”
Tara sidestepped him. “You can’t do that, Manny.”
“The hell I can’t,” he said. “Try and stop me.”
Manny wore his laundry uniform, but Tara was aware that his daily visits with Franco had nothing whatsoever to do with official business. She said, “Look, I can’t stop you, but I think you should know that Franco is no longer here—”
Manny’s dark eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Again, he glanced anxiously at the guard. “What’s with the security?”
“Manny, you need to understand that Franco is not here. He’s not coming back …” she saw Victor step off the elevator, turn into the lobby.
Manny said, “What the fuck is going on around here?”
“I’m trying to explain. We had a corporate takeover this morning … I’m sorry, Manny … I know you and Franco are friends, but he was removed from the premises. You see, he no longer owns the Walker.”
Manny stared at her, dumbstruck. “You’re shitting me.” Victor had spotted Tara, was coming toward her. Manny looked suspiciously at him, and said loudly, too loudly, “Who’s this clown?”
“He works for the new owner, sort of his right hand man.”
“You know Franco and I had some business dealings, right?”
“I don’t really know—”
“Franco was holding some stuff for me in Room 313. He told me … why don’t you just let me go on up and take a look?”
“Manny, you know I can’t do that,” said Tara. “I’m afraid you are going to have to resolve whatever issues you have with Franco—”
He moved closer, crowding her space. “Maybe you and I can do some dealing—”
She deliberately stepped back. “I don’t want to be involved with whatever you and Franco had going.” Obviously, this was related to Franco’s tearing up the floor in 313. “What was he doing up there, anyhow?” she asked. “He has the whole closet floor bashed in.”
Manny gave her a hawk-eyed look, said guilelessly, “Don’t you know?”
“How would I know?”
“Being his girl … I thought he was confiding in you—”
Victor stepped forward. “What’s the pr
oblem, doll?” he asked, giving Manny a hard look.
Tara nervously licked her lips. “Manny is with the laundry service—”
“I had some personal dealings with Franco,” said Manny testily. “I had an appointment to see him this afternoon.”
“Franco’s not coming back to the Walker,” replied Victor coolly. “If you’d like to discuss your situation with me, you can.”
His message was clear. Manny wavered, assessing him, his eyes darting nervously about, resting on the two guards before settling on Victor. He looked at Tara, and she recoiled from the intensity in his eyes. Abruptly, he did an about face, mumbling the word “fuck” as he turned away. He did not immediately leave, but hung back, fumbling with his keys while keeping his gaze locked on Tara.
Victor cupped her elbow, walking her away from Manny. “I didn’t like the way he was talking to you, doll.” He pressed the key to Room 313 into her hand. “Put this someplace safe ... not in its regular spot. Lou doesn’t want anyone going in and out of those two rooms. I heard this punk mention Room 313. What kind of business did he have going with Franco?”
Tara flashed to her memory of Franco, snorting at his desk, Manny standing over him. “I’m pretty sure it’s drugs,” she said.
Victor nodded thoughtfully, as though he too had pondered it and arrived at the same conclusion. Tara saw his eyes go to Manny, who, upon witnessing the key exchange, had impulsively stepped toward her. Victor moved in, blocking him. “Beat it, buddy.”
Manny held up his hands, “Hey, be cool … just trying to get a message here.” He looked pointedly at Tara. “Tell Franco I’m looking for him.”
* * *
Late in the day Natalie showed up with Emilio and the children. Tara’s blond waif of a sister had never popped into the Walker before, and her timing did not sit well with Tara. It was bad enough that Natalie was dressed like a hooker, in high-heeled boots and hot-pink shorts, but she had the audacity to be stoned. Her sky blue eyes were glassy, and she stumbled in her spiked heels, but who wouldn’t?
At the sight of her sister and her family, Tara’s heart plummeted. Natalie was so not well, and Emilio was terrifying. Affiliated with the notorious Eighteenth Street Gang that operated out of Lake Worth, Emilio looked every bit the gangbanger, dressed in scuffed black jeans and a mesh tank that clung to the contours of his well-pumped body. Perhaps Emilio sold dope, but he didn’t look like he used. His body was lean and hard, his torso ripped with muscle and covered in swirly green tattoos depicting numbers and symbols and faces. Indian black hair brushed his shoulders, and his hooded black eyes, staring out from his pockmarked face, were flat and cold.
Fifteen months ago immigration had deported Emilio to his native Mexico. Within a week he was back in Lake Worth, back in Natalie’s bed. Rosa was born some months later. Today, kissing Rosa’s plump cheeks, Tara marveled at how much she’d grown. Rosa was Emilio’s child, and he seemed protective, lugging the baby in her plastic carrier, although he gave no protest when Tara unstrapped and then lifted her from it.
Ruffling Joey’s mop of pale-blond ringlets, Tara hugged him, searching his face for a clue that might betray the terrors of his life. Not seeing evidence of the abuse she suspected Emilio was inflicting on him, Tara was only mildly relieved. Joey seemed troubled, clinging to Natalie. While Rosa was in a clean, pink dress, Joey wore a stained Sesame Street T-shirt with faded shorts and cheap rubber sandals.
Anxious to conceal Natalie’s family from Mr. Morelli’s security team, Tara guided them into the alcove off the lobby. Fortunately, no guests were lounging on the sleek, red-leather chairs grouped around a marble pedestal table. The table was low, spread with glossy magazines and brochures. Natalie sat on one chair, putting the baby on her lap while Joey perched on the edge of her seat. Emilio set the empty baby carrier on the floor and claimed the chair beside Natalie.
Crossing his booted foot over his knee, Emilio nodded at Natalie. As if on cue, she said, “We don’t have enough gas to get home. How much can you give me?”
Tara felt the usual pinprick of annoyance with her irresponsible sister. “What are you doing in Miami? I thought—”
“Jeez, Tara, you are such a hoity-toity bitch. Can you give us gas money, or not?”
“I only have about twenty dollars—”
“That’ll do,” said Emilio.
Tara saw Emilio glance at Joey, who was sucking his thumb. She didn’t like the way his eyes narrowed, regarding the boy with a mean look. Joey’s woebegone face tore at her. She said, “Natalie, I’ll give you the money, but I want you to eat something first. You’re looking too thin.”
Natalie was looking thin, but Tara’s primary concern was for Joey. However, she didn’t want to draw too much attention to the boy. Emilio might not like it, might punish him for it later. Still, though feeding Natalie’s family fifteen dollar burgers was going to cost her on her account, it couldn’t be helped. She walked across the lobby to Abby’s and ordered the food, putting a rush on it. Then she went back to her office to collect her wallet.
She was detained with hotel business, returning fifteen minutes later with wallet in hand. Her heart sank when she saw Victor loitering nearby, eyes locked on Emilio, who was flipping through the pages of a glossy magazine. Victor gestured to Tara, and she walked over to him. “What’s going on, doll?”
Explaining her relationship to Natalie, Tara saw Victor looking at the kids, recognizing them from their photos. She was hoping he would give her some space, but he accompanied her to the alcove, where she introduced him as her supervisor. Never one to concern herself with Tara’s livelihood, Natalie launched into an explanation of how they’d run out of gas. “Tara’s going to lend me some money,” she said.
Tara scoffed at the word lend. She started to open her wallet, and Victor said, “Doll, keep your money. I’ll handle this as a favor.”
Tara was as surprised as Natalie when Victor peeled a fifty from a wad in his pocket, handing it to Natalie. Her eyes widened. “Hey, thanks, mister.”
Rosa let out a loud wail, prompting Natalie to pull a bottle from her oversized bag. Tara took Rosa from her sister, and putting the baby on her lap, she fed her the bottle. The arrival of food, delivered in carry-out containers, spared further conversation. Victor wandered off to talk with one of the guards. Watching Joey wolf down his French fries, Tara felt immensely calmer. Emilio was totally noncommittal, but he did not refuse his burger, eating with good appetite. He did not thank Tara for dinner or Victor for the money. When he rose to go, and Tara kissed the children and said good-bye to Natalie, Victor sauntered over to Emilio and said, “The Walker’s under new management. Probably a good idea to call first.”
Emilio gave Victor a hard look but turned to leave with no indication he’d even heard. He picked up Rosa’s carrier, leading the way through the lobby. Tara watched them go. Her heart ached for Joey. She saw his short legs pumping as he tried to keep pace with the adults. He looked back once and waved.
Tara turned to Victor. “Thank you,” she said. “It was really nice of you to give them the money. I’ll pay you back.”
“Doll, don’t insult me. I was glad to do it for the kids. Tough luck for the little guy.”
Tears welled in Tara’s eyes. She found herself explaining Natalie’s issues and her fears for Joey. “We just know he’s hurting Joey,” she said. “But there are no physical signs of abuse, and every time my stepmother calls the state, Emilio cuts off communication.” She sighed worriedly. “I do what I can.”
Victor patted her arm sympathetically. “It sure sucks, doll.” He peered at her with concern: A tough guy, but tender.
Tara’s heart went out to him. “You’re a nice guy, Victor.”
“No sense in being a hard-ass, is there?” He gave her a little smile, dropped the bomb with his next words. “Lou wants to see you when you get squared awa
y.”
Chapter Nine
Tara walked into the dimly lit lounge and observed Mr. Morelli sitting on a red-padded stool at the S-shaped bar. It was Happy Hour, and the banquette tables were packed with lively guests, a group of vacationing women drinking margaritas from fishbowl sized glasses. Two bartenders were hustling at opposite ends of the bar. Behind the bar was a wall-mirror, reflecting the vintage banquettes that reminded Tara of Mad Men. But there were no harried executives imbibing today. In fact, Mr. Morelli was the only man wearing a suit; all the others were in resort wear. Catching sight of her, he signaled with a slight wave, and she zigzagged around a group of tourists and claimed the vacant stool next to him, the one he’d obviously saved for her.
Tara squeezed in, her skirt riding up as she sat. His gaze dropped to the flash of exposed thigh before lifting to her face. He smiled, and then placed his arm on the back of her stool, conveying an intimacy that induced the hovering bartender to smirk. Friendly with Maurice, the man was a notorious gossip. Tara gave him a stern look.
Mr. Morelli said, “Do you want a drink, honey?”
The “honey” melted her. It was the way he said it, the little caress in his vowels. Tara shook her head, eyeing his San Pellgrino. He nodded at the bartender, and the guy set a small bottle of mineral water in front of her. He took down a glass and started to pour, but Mr. Morelli shooed him away and poured it himself. He touched his glass to hers and said, “Cheers,” his eyes fastening on her. She’d been aroused earlier, after that horrible scene with Franco. Now she was abruptly aware that her crossed legs were jammed against his thigh, her body responding to him already. And he’d told her she was dangerous.
She averted her gaze, nervously twirling a strand of hair. “Victor said you wanted to see me.”
“I want to apologize for what happened today. I lost my cool with Franco. I regret you had to see that, and I hope you don’t hold it against me.”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 6