Manny hopped into the van and revved the motor. He peeled away, spinning gravel and chunks of grass, causing the dog walker to look after him with annoyance. Franco took the kids inside. They were spooked, asking all kinds of questions. Franco tried to make light of the scene, but he was falling apart, all of his old confidence failing him.
He settled the boys with a snack, judiciously avoiding the booze, even though he badly needed a drink. He called Victor and explained what had happened. He also asked Victor for money, saying, “I hate to ask, but things are tight.”
Victor said, “Can you meet me—?” Franco interrupted, explaining that he had his kids, to which Victor replied. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
Fifty minutes later Victor arrived in his black XTS. Meeting him at the door, Franco was relieved to see he was alone. Victor looked laid-back and casual, wearing jeans and a green-flowered shirt. Stepping into the living room, he interrupted a high-pitched squabble over the Xbox. Seeing him, the kids fell silent.
Victor said, “These are your boys, eh?”
Franco introduced him, the kids looking up shyly. Victor grinned like their best uncle, high-fiving their little hands. Victor was actually going out of his way to be nice, and Franco contrasted this Victor with the one who’d woken him from a deep sleep a few weeks ago. He had no doubt Victor would have killed him if told to do so or given enough provocation, but for some reason Franco didn’t hold it against him. In fact, he almost liked Victor, the guy always square with him.
Victor followed Franco into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and helped himself to a bottle of water. Unscrewing the cap and tilting the bottle to his mouth, he said, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I’m a little nerved up.”
“You look a lot nerved up. Listen, you did great yesterday, so what’s with the long face?”
“I’m worried about things.”
“Didn’t Lou tell you not to worry?”
“Yeah, but … Manny threatened to kill me. He had a gun, but he lost his nerve on account of my kids being there. They saw the whole thing.
Victor swallowed water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He eyed the boys, playing quietly in the living room. “They’re okay? They didn’t get hurt or anything?”
“Naw, just shook up, like their old man. Listen, Manny asked me who did this to him and I … I told him it was Louie.” He saw Victor’s pupils contracting, his eyes narrowing. “I didn’t intend to tell him, but damn it, Victor, he had a fucking gun. My kids—”
“It’s okay,” said Victor. “Don’t worry about Manny.”
“He promised to come back and kill me. I’m telling you, Victor, he’s unhinged. He knows—”
“Forget about Manny. Come here,” Victor clasped him in a bear hug, rubbing his head with his knuckles the way Franco did with his kids. “Come on, sit down.” Victor nudged him toward a kitchen chair. “I want to talk to you.”
Franco sat, and Victor, electing to stand, said, “Lou’s a little worried about you.” At the look of fear that crossed his face, Victor amended, “Not a lot worried. He doesn’t doubt you. He’s more concerned with your well-being … Lou considers you a friend.”
Franco doubted Louie thought of him as a friend. He said, “I’ve lain off the booze like he asked. But I’m a little … disorientated. I guess I had more of a problem than I thought. Plus, I’m broke, Victor. Flat out broke, and Christmas is coming—”
“I’ve got eight grand on me. Is that enough to tide you over?”
Franco nodded. “Wow. Yeah, that’s enough. That’s plenty.”
“Now listen to me. You’ve got to get your head on straight.”
“I’m trying.”
Victor patted the back of Franco’s neck. “Things might get a little complicated in the next couple of weeks. You never know, things happen. You can’t fall apart.”
“I’m not going to fall apart.”
“Lou appreciates what you’ve done. He’s asked me to convey this to you.”
“Is he going to pay me anything?”
“Not right away. Lou has other plans for you. Big plans, but it’s going to be a few weeks, maybe longer, maybe a few months before he implements anything. So you are going to have to be patient. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
“Listen, he’s not going to stiff you. He’s never stiffed anyone, ever. It’s one of the reasons he is so successful. He’s not going to forget what you’ve done so promise me that you’ll quit asking and be patient.”
Franco sighed. “I’ll be patient.”
“Good.” Victor pulled back the chair opposite Franco and sat. He drew a big wad from his pocket and slapped it onto the table. “I want you to do a few things for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Dad—” the kids were going at it, the younger one whining.
Franco got up to intercept, removing Alex from the fracas. “Behave, both of you, or I’ll take that game away.”
Satisfied they were not going to draw blood, Franco returned to the table. Victor polished off the water; rotating the empty bottle in his hands. He said, “I think you should leave town for a few days.” He glanced into the living room, observing the boys. “Why don’t you take your kids up to Orlando?” Fingering the money on the table, he continued. “This should be enough to cover you. Call me before you come home. If you need more money, I’ll give it to you. Okay?”
“Sure, okay,” Franco nodded.
Victor said, “I don’t trust you and the kids here with Manny making threats. We’ll have to give him a few days to calm down.”
Franco suddenly understood, felt a chill pass through him. Wondering how he was going to square it with Kathy, he found himself nodding agreeably. He trusted Victor, would do whatever he told him to do. Victor said, “When you get back, it might not be a bad idea to see a doctor, maybe go into that rehab program Lou mentioned. He wants you to stay clean. Can you do that?”
Franco looked at his kids. Alex was coming into the kitchen now, lower lip pushed out. He said, “Tell Louie not to worry about me. I’ll get my act together. I promise.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Manny still intended to kill Franco, and he was sorry he’d lost his nerve earlier. Fuckhead Franco would be dead if his snot-nosed kids hadn’t been watching. But Christ, if he had killed the traitor, he would have had to pop the kids. Now, cruising by Franco’s house at midnight, Manny lamented his earlier weakness. Franco’s house was dark and his car missing. The coward was on the run.
Bo had known the diamond was real, and for Franco to tell him otherwise only exacerbated his betrayal. Franco wanted Manny to believe it was a fake. But Manny knew the Blue Diamond was bona-fide and that Morelli—with Franco’s help—had robbed him of it. Nobody was going to get away with this. It was Franco first, then Morelli, then Chucky—the ultimate backstabber. He’d track every last one of those bastards and kill them.
Steaming, his bloodlust running hot, Manny spent the night plotting, only to awaken at dawn with no discernible plan. He contemplated not going to work, but what the hell was he going to do all day? So he clocked in under Edward’s watchful eye and loaded up his van. He spent the day stewing, drove by Franco’s only to find his car still missing and the blinds in the windows drawn tight. He went to Chucky’s office in Hollywood, where the receptionist informed him that Mr. Lane was on vacation. Then he drove to Klein’s Bal Harbour store where the real Ari Klein looked down his nose at Manny and said, “There must be some mistake, Mr. Bommarino. My Palm Beach store is closed on Mondays,” acting as if he hadn’t known what was going on. But Manny knew better.
All in all, he had an awful day. A traffic jam cost him an hour and a half, and it was pitch black and raining by the time he made his last stop in Lauderdale. Manny had just turned
onto West State Road 84, rain drumming on the roof and wipers go full speed, when a motorcycle cop tagged him, zooming up behind him out of nowhere, blue light flashing.
Now what? It never occurred to Manny to not pull over. He figured it was a routine traffic violation. He knew he was speeding, and he signaled and turned into the parking lot of a strip mall. The motorcycle pulled up behind him, flashers abruptly shutting off as a big cop unfolded his frame from the bike and, stepping to the van, shone a light in Manny’s eyes.
The light momentarily blinded Manny. He blinked rapidly, rolling down his window. He noticed the cop wore a standard uniform with a helmet and leather jacket, knee high military boots and black leather gloves. He was a big man, bull-necked, with small, beady eyes and a thick mustache. Holding up his badge, the cop said curtly, “Are you aware that you were traveling well in excess of the posted speed?”
Manny thought it odd the cop would be out in the rain like this, all by himself. Usually they traveled in pairs. He said, “Was I?”
“May I see your license, please?”
Manny started to dig out his wallet. Edward was going to be pissed, probably chew him out. He didn’t like his drivers getting tickets because it drove up insurance costs. Manny had his wallet in hand when the cop redirected the flashlight on him and said, “Manuel. Or is that Manny? You go by Manny, right?”
Manny froze. He stared to say, “How—?” when he saw the Smith and Wesson. He had a moment of pure terror before the cop pushed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
Chapter Forty-Six
Marty was reclining on the sofa in his den. He was half-asleep, drifting, pleasantly tired from a family day on the beach. Now, at dinnertime, he’d opted for a nap, although he was conscious enough to hear Cindy rattling about the kitchen, preparing her famous tofu patties and arugula salad.
She made him eat enough of this crap, and today he’d said, “For God’s sake, make me a steak.”
“Fat chance, buster,” she replied. “You have enough toxins in your body.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to have more,” he said, observing, without commenting, that she was becoming awfully thin. Her fake rack and blond Hollywood ‘do’ seemed to accentuate her fashionable concentration camp look. But Marty didn’t want to get into an argument and so he dozed off, only to snap awake when he heard the local anchorman say the words “Manuel Bommarino.”
Marty emerged from his fog, reaching for the remote control and upping the volume on his sleek LCD. The details were scant—Manny had been murdered sometime late yesterday. He’d been found early this morning when a police officer spotted his laundry truck in the parking lot of a strip mall. Anyone with pertinent information was advised to call the Fort Lauderdale police.
Marty’s appetite for his wife’s tofu patties was suddenly nil. He had a nervous digestive system, frequently becoming ill when stressed. Now, with his stomach souring, he got off the couch and went into his study. Klein’s card was sitting on his desk, and he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. He noticed the website address for the store and, impulsively, he booted up his computer, going to the homepage for Ari Klein Jewelers. He was dealt another blow when the founder’s photo appeared in the upper right hand corner of the screen: Ari Klein, Proprietor, typed below it.
This Ari Klein looked nothing like the Ari Klein he’d done business with. This man was tall and graying, with shaggy hair. Marty suddenly recalled how Franco had asked, casually, if he knew Klein. When Marty said no, Franco said, “I thought you might, bro. Klein knows all the big stars.” Flattering Marty, while setting him up. He should have known he couldn’t trust Franco. Stomach roiling, Marty dialed Klein’s Palm Beach store and was told he was in Miami; the call transferred, a chirpy female voice answering. Marty requested to speak to Mr. Klein.
Klein’s accent was much more pronounced than the imposter’s had been. His tone was businesslike, cooling slightly when Marty mentioned his name. Briefly, without going into details, Marty explained that he’d come into possession of a rare piece of jewelry. He wished to consult with Klein regarding its value.
“Hmm, I’ve a busy schedule,” said Klein. “Could I refer you to an associate?”
“I was hoping to see you, preferably in your Palm Beach store. When will you be available?”
There was a long pause, and then Klein said, “I’ll be in my Worth Avenue store tomorrow at one. You may come then.”
* * *
The Sun-Sentinel was full of depressing news about the economy—the greedy capitalists getting their comeuppance. A house fire in Opa Locka killed two children, plus the main story everybody was following about the missing baby, Rosa Gonzalez. Police and FBI were looking for the father, Emilio Gonzalez, suspected of having kidnapped her. There was speculation Emilio had taken the baby to his native Mexico.
Marty was not interested in the Rosa Gonzalez story, but Cindy had been following it for days, rattling off the details as they sat at the breakfast table with their organic oats and green tea. Feeling as though he had a stomach bug, Marty could barely sip the tea. Halfway through the meal he got up and opened a bottle of ginger-ale, inviting Cindy’s criticism. But she was too wrapped up in the story to dwell on Marty’s shortcomings, reporting that this Emilio was one nasty character. He’d beaten up his stepson so badly the kid was in the hospital with a broken leg and a fractured skull.
What riled people was Emilio’s long criminal record and illegal residency. Cindy prattled on about it, finally stopping to reprimand Kyle for opening a box of Pop-Tarts. At this point Marty snatched the front page, his eyes automatically going to the article below the fold: Police stumped in fatal shooting. No suspect had been identified in the shooting death of Manuel Bommarino. Fresh details emerged, none to his liking. Manny was an ex-con and a well-known drug pusher, linked to a street gang in Miami.
Marty wondered how long it would take the police to connect him to Manny, surprised they weren’t already knocking at his door. He’d dumped millions of dollars into Manny’s bank account—surely, the cops would track him? How would he explain it? Feeling as though he was going to puke, Marty worried about the effects of a scandal.
Marty pondered calling his attorney, but what could he say? I bought a stolen necklace, the world-famous Blue Diamond, from a drug dealer? With a muttered excuse about having to work, Marty left the breakfast table. In the sanctity of his study, he unlocked his safe and removed the Blue Diamond, feeling the magic as soon as he touched it. He’d told no one about the necklace, although he had mentioned to Cindy that he was thinking of researching the legend. Still clutching his treasure, Marty located DiSalvi’s card and dialed the number listed. Like Klein’s business, the firm was legit. But a cheery associate informed him that Mr. DiSalvi’s failing health had necessitated a leave of absence; he’d been out for months.
At one o’clock sharp Marty walked into Klein’s Palm Beach store. Contrary to how it had appeared on Monday, the shelves were well-stocked. Two clerks, an attractive young woman and a middle-aged man, were busy attending to customers. The man buzzed Klein, he came and met Marty in the showroom, shook his hand unenthusiastically. They went back to Klein’s office. Now Marty saw the framed photos of Klein with his wife, noticeably absent on his previous visit.
Klein made it clear he was short on time, looking at his watch even before Marty claimed the chair facing his desk. He perked up considerably when Marty set the necklace in front of him, his expression registering surprise. “Where did you get this?” he asked, fingering the chain of diamonds.
“Somebody sold it to me. I wanted your opinion: is it … is there a chance it’s real?”
Klein smiled. “Not a chance.”
“That’s a pretty quick assessment. You can tell, just by looking at it?”
“Yes, Mr. Morgan, I can tell: It’s definitely not real. In fact, I absolutely, positively
know it’s a fake because this is my work. I created this particular piece.”
“You—”
“Yes, yes, but please … don’t get so excited. It’s an excellent replication, capable of fooling an expert. See the blue diamond—it’s really high-cut quality crystal. A superb piece of craftsmanship, if I say so myself. I was quite pleased with the outcome. I’m curious, though, as to how you happen to be in possession of it.”
Marty said, “I was hoping you could explain.” He then told of his ordeal, meeting who he thought was Ari Klein, the early morning rendezvous in this very office. Plus, the worst thing of all: Manny’s murder. He showed Klein the article, explaining. “He was here with me, in your office. I feel certain he was killed—it must be connected.”
Klein was stupefied. “My store is closed on Mondays. We’ve had no security breaches—nothing was taken.”
“On the contrary, I was taken, Mr. Klein.”
“But this is preposterous,” he said. “Impossible. I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I lie?”
Puzzled, brow furrowed, Klein said, “I can make no sense of what you are telling me. My security is intact, unimpeachable. In addition to the alarms here in the store, I am on twenty-four hour electronic surveillance. Unfortunately, there is no record of your having been here on Monday. You, or this unfortunate character—,” he gestured to the newspaper, grimacing at Manny’s photo. “It’s a tragedy he was killed, but I don’t see how it pertains to me or my store.”
“He sold this necklace to me,” snapped Marty.
“Indeed,” said Klein icily. “And what did you pay for it?”
Too embarrassed to say, Marty asked, “What is it worth?”
Klein allowed himself a little smile. “I charged the gentleman who commissioned it from me ten thousand dollars. If I were to sell it retail, I would charge fifteen thousand. You see, it’s not totally without value.”
Marty trembled with rage and humiliation. He pointed at Manny’s picture. “Did he commission the necklace?”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 23