“Frig you, Marvelli,” she muttered, swiping the tear from her nose.
“Excuse me?” Laplante asked.
“Shut up.”
“Who’s Marvelli?”
She paused and frowned, realizing where she was. “My husband,” she said.
“And you call him ‘Marvelli’? That’s his last name, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer.
“Continue with the massage,” Laplante told the masseur. “I’ll be right back.”
Loretta heard the snippy click of Laplante’s departing footsteps. The masseur kept working on her back. As soon as he was finished, she was getting the hell out of there, she thought. To hell with the IRS and to hell with Marvelli.
“I’m gonna crack your back now, okay?” the masseur asked.
“Sure . . . I guess.” She turned her head to look up at him. He had something odd under his lip. It looked like a braid.
“Lie still,” he said. “This’ll just take a minute.” He got up on the table, straddling the small of her back on his knees, then linked his fingers over her forehead and started to pull back.
“Hey, wait a minute! Wait a minute!” she said.
He stopped pulling. “What?”
“You’re not into Rolfing or anything like that, are you?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve got my own style.”
21
Marvelli was suspicious as soon as he walked into the room. It was a conference room at an IRS office somewhere outside of Fort Myers, but there were deli platters full of cold cuts and cheeses and all kinds of salads on the table, loaves of rye bread and pumpernickel, hard rolls, a cooler full of soda on the floor, and a coffee urn and big plate of cookies wrapped in pink cellophane on the sideboard. Lawrence Temple and his four attack-dog accountants were smiling at him, waiting for his reaction.
“What is it, Christmas?” Marvelli said.
Temple shrugged. “We’re gonna be here for a while. Might as well eat.”
Marvelli nodded to himself, scanning the plates of food. “Why are we gonna be here for a while?”
“To monitor Loretta,” Temple said.
“Oh. . . . So this is like . . . command central?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“Uh-huh. . . .” Marvelli nodded. “So how are we monitoring her from here?”
“I’ve got two men parked outside Rancho Bonita, watching.”
“Outside Rancho Bonita,” Marvelli said.
“Right. And that DEA plane I told you about? It’s still in the area. I asked them to keep an eye out for her if they pass over the spa.”
“If they pass over,” Marvelli repeated.
“Right.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You want something to eat?” Temple asked. “Go ahead. Help yourself.”
The attack dogs were already filling their plates, two Dobermans and two Rottweilers chowing down. One of the two big guys didn’t even bother to make a sandwich; he was stuffing a slice of rare roast beef right into his mouth. The skinny guy with the dark thinning hair tore open a hard roll and started spreading mustard on it, but he was keeping his eye on Marvelli.
Marvelli scanned the platters, but he didn’t have much of an appetite. He was worried about Loretta. And Renée.
“Mangia, Marvelli,” Temple said, heaping potato salad onto his paper plate. “Come on. Don’t let the taxpayers’ money go to waste.”
Marvelli went over to the coffee urn and poured himself a cup. He looked at the cookies through the pink cellophane, but nothing appealed to him. He poured milk into his coffee and took a sip. Loretta was over there by herself, he kept thinking. She could be in trouble—real trouble—and he’d never know it. These guys didn’t know what the hell they were doing. You don’t send someone out undercover and just leave her there. All these guys cared about was nailing Roger Laplante. They didn’t give a shit about Loretta.
They didn’t care about Renée either. They didn’t care that she was back in the hospital. They didn’t care that she could be dead by now.
Marvelli swallowed a quick gulp and told himself to calm down. Nina and his mother-in-law had his beeper number. If anything happened to Renée, they’d call. And they hadn’t called, so that meant nothing had happened.
But what if something did happen? he thought. What if Renée did die? Then what?
Everything goes down the toilet, thafs what happens, he thought.
It was Nina he was most worried about. His mother-in-law, Annette, was a good person, but she wasn’t going to be much help raising a teenager. Grandmothers don’t tell teenagers what they need to know. They just try to make nice with their grandkids when they get to that age. They never set kids straight about the stuff that matters. He couldn’t imagine Annette giving Nina the birds and the bees, giving her advice about boys and dates and sex and stuff. Annette didn’t talk about that kind of stuff. She thought it was “filthy.”
Loretta would probably be good at that, he thought. She was hip, and she put things straight. No bullshit with her. She called a spade a spade.
She wasn’t delicate about anything as far as he could tell, but there was something about her attitude and her sharp tongue that he kind of liked. There was something about her he kind of liked. She was real. Yeah, she could be nasty, and she was a little on the heavy side, but she was okay. Not bad-looking, either. Not at all. Very pretty face. Beautiful eyes. . . .
He stared into his paper coffee cup. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he thinking this? He had Renée in the grave and Loretta taking her place, just like that. What was he, crazy?
“You sure you don’t want anything to eat, Marvelli?” Temple was tipping up a cold cut platter, like the old hag offering Sleeping Beauty the poisoned apple. This was crazy, too, Marvelli thought. What the hell was he doing, hanging around with these sons of bitches when—?
But then he spotted something on the platter—rolled slices of olive loaf. He hadn’t had olive loaf in God knows how long. His mother used to put it in his sandwiches when he was a kid. Olive loaf with white American cheese. . . . He stepped toward the table. Maybe he’d just have a little.
“Go on. Make yourself a sandwich,” Temple urged as Marvelli reached for a slice of olive loaf. “I know you’re worried about Loretta, but come on, she’s a bruiser. Who’s gonna mess with her?”
The attack dogs snickered behind their sandwiches.
Marvelli put the olive loaf back and leveled his gaze on Temple. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Temple looked surprised. “What?”
“That Loretta’s a ‘bruiser,’ that no one’s ‘gonna mess with her’?”
“Well, you know. . . . I mean, isn’t it obvious?”
Marvelli shook his head. “Not to me.”
“Well, she’s a big girl,” Temple said. “She can take care of herself.”
“Oh . . . I still don’t get it.”
One of the Dobermans piped up. “What he means is, she’s too big to hurt and too fat to worry about guys hitting on her.”
The dogs snickered in agreement.
Marvelli just looked at them in silence. “So what you’re saying is, I don’t have to worry about her because she’s fat.” He stepped toward Temple. The dogs instinctively stopped smiling and went into formation beside their boss, one Doberman and one Rottweiler on either side of Temple.
“Look, Marvelli, I know she’s your partner,” Temple said, “but I didn’t mean anything by it—”
“Yes, you did. You said exactly what you meant. She’s out there doing your dirty work for you, but you don’t think she’s worth the time of day. She’s just some fat bitch who’s expendable to you. Like a paper clip. Well, that’s all over now.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, I’m going over to the spa and I’m getting her out of there. Forget about interagency cooperation. That’s crap.”
Temple’s smiling face suddenly turned grave. “Sit do
wn, Marvelli. Let’s talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Lawrence. You’re not helping us any, so we’re not helping you. End of story.”
The dogs put down their plates.
“I think you’re forgetting something, Marvelli,” Temple said. “We’re a federal agency. You’re state, and you’re out of your jurisdiction. When push comes to shove, fed trumps state.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Forget about it, Lawrence. I’m outta here.”
Marvelli moved toward the door, but the dogs rushed around to get in his way, blocking the doorway. They stayed in the same formation, all four facing him, the two skinny guys on the inside, the two linebackers on the outside.
Marvelli gave them a withering look. “Are we gonna play games here or what?”
“Sit down and have a sandwich,” the skinny guy with the thinning hair said. He didn’t say it very nice.
“Get out of my way . . . please.”
The skinny guy shook his head.
“I’m asking you nicely,” Marvelli said, his voice rising.
“Sit down, Marvelli.”
“I don’t want to have to ask you again. Now move.”
The skinny Doberman nodded sharply, and the Rottweilers knew what he meant. They lunged to grab Marvelli’s arms, but Marvelli was quicker, and he grabbed their neckties first, dropping his weight and dragging the big guys down. He kicked up while he was down low and caught the two Dobermans under the chins, sending them both to the carpet. When he pulled himself back to his feet, the Rottweilers were able to stand up, but Marvelli took the opportunity to take their balance by pushing them both in the face simultaneously. The Rottweilers staggered back and tripped over the Dobermans, falling into a moaning heap.
Marvelli stepped over them and opened the door. Before he left, he stared back at Temple, who was standing there with his plate in his hand, still trying to figure out what he’d just seen.
Marvelli pointed at his face, and Temple’s eyes widened. “You’ve got mayonnaise in the corner of your mouth, Lawrence.”
22
“Hold it! Hold it! Stop! You’re hurting me!”
Loretta struggled to break free from the masseur, but she was facedown on the massage table, and he was straddling her back, fingers linked around her forehead, pulling her head back.
“Stop, I said!”
“Just calm down and sit still,” he said. “This is good for your health.”
“The hell it is.” She managed to push his hands off her sweaty brow, but in the process her breasts nearly fell out of the towel that was wrapped around her. “That’s enough. I don’t want any more,” she yelled. She tried to wriggle out from under him, but he was too heavy.
“Just give it a chance, lady,” he said with a grunt as he latched onto her forehead again. “This’ll just take a minute.”
“No!” she protested, struggling to break his grip. “No more! You’re going to kill me.”
“Now who went and told you that?” he asked. There was a mean grin in his voice.
Suddenly Loretta was petrified. He was trying to kill her. She strained to keep him from snapping her neck. This was Martha Lee’s boyfriend, she thought. It had to be. A picture of the braid under his lip and the stubble on his shaved head flashed in her mind. She’d only caught a glimpse of him, but he seemed familiar. She wondered if he’d recently been hairier. She fought to turn her head a little, so she could see his face, but then she spotted the tattoo on his forearm. It was a red torpedo. That biker Marvelli had brought in the other day, she thought, Torpedo Joe Pickett. Oh, God!
“Let go!” she screamed. “Let me go!”
“Be still, woman. This here ‘adjustment’ won’t take but a minute.” He pulled back harder, and she could hear something cracking in her neck.
“Let go!” she screamed, but she could barely form the words. He had her stretched back so far she couldn’t close her mouth.
Oh, God! she thought, trying not to panic. Oh, God!
But she was panicking, and she knew it. It was the same feeling of dread and terror that she’d felt in the clothes dryer at Pine-brook.
Fight back, dammit! she thought. Fight back!
Loretta struggled and strained under Torpedo Joe’s weight and managed to get to her knees.
Joe was tottering on her back. “Hey! What’re you doing? Whoa!”
She lifted him up and dumped him over the side.
“You bitch,” he hissed from the floor, holding a sore hip.
She scrambled off the table, clutching the big white towel around her, but Joe got to his feet fast and blocked the doorway.
“Get out of my way,” she demanded.
He smiled at her. “Yeah, sure. Just for you, sweetheart.” He took a step forward and cracked his knuckles. “Come on, darling. This is your destiny. Let’s just get it over with.”
Destiny, my ass, she thought.
She pulled off the towel and thrust her chest out, letting him get a good look. “You ever see hooters like these, Frankenstein?”
He stopped short, slack-jaw dumb, startled by her bobbling boobs.
While he was distracted, she twirled the damp towel into a rat’s tail.
He was drooling into his braid as he reached out for a cheap feel. “Maybe we can arrange for a temporary stay of execution,” he said.
“Think again, Frankenstein.” She snapped the towel in his face and scored a direct hit.
“Ooowww!” He clutched the side of his face and dropped to one knee.
The loud smack had startled even her, and she thought she may have put his eye out, but she wasn’t going to stick around to find out. If he lost an eye, he deserved it.
“Bitch!” he snarled, trying to snatch her bare legs as she passed by.
She dashed around him and out the door, stark naked, the towel trailing behind her in her hand. She could hear him muttering and cursing behind her as she ran down the tiled hallway. Glancing back, she could see that he was limping, holding onto his hip with one hand, his face with the other.
Suddenly he roared, “Come back here and face your destiny, bitch.”
“I’ll figure out my own destiny, asshole,” she murmured as she kept running, huffing and puffing along.
At the end of the hallway, there was a fogged-up glass door with WOMEN’S STEAM ROOM painted on it in white letters. Hallelujah, she thought. Maybe I can lose him in there.
But when she pushed through the door, she was immediately disappointed. She’d hoped for rolling clouds of steam to hide in, but it wasn’t nearly as steamy as she’d imagined it. Just sort of misty. The long wooden benches were empty; no one else was there.
Joe burst through the glass door. “Where are you, darling? I’m gonna catch you sooner or later.”
Loretta had ducked behind the door as Joe came in, and now she was right behind him. As he hobbled into the room, she looped the big towel over his head as if they were skipping rope together, caught his ankles, and tripped him. He fell forward, sliding on the wet tiles, and crashed headfirst into one of the benches.
“Goddamm it!” he roared, squeezing his eyes shut as he clutched his head.
Loretta dropped the towel and grabbed an abandoned muumuu hanging on a peg by the door. It was big as a tent and in a horrible orange-and-green banana-leaf pattern.
Fat-lady drag, she thought with a scowl as she threw it over her head and ran out of the steam room. She headed down the hallway, adjusting the muumuu as she went, and burst through a metal door with a red-lit EXIT sign above it. Suddenly she was outside in the sunlight, and immediately her face turned red. She felt ridiculous in this getup.
“Loretta! Loretta Kovacs!”
Loretta spun around, trying to locate the whiny, singsong voice. Lance the aerobics instructor was standing by a bank of low palms, doing some kind of semaphore with hand weights Vel-croed to his wrists.
“It finally came to me,” he announced for
all the world to hear. “Loretta Kovacs! From New Jersey! And you’re a prison warden! Or something like that. Am I right?”
If she had had the wet towel, she would have rattailed him to death, the little jerk, and there was no time to strangle him because Joe was going to be out here any second. She turned her back on Lance and raced down the dirt path, running as fast as her bare feet would take her.
“Hey, Loretta! Wait! You didn’t tell me if I was right or not? Am I?”
“Bet you can’t catch me,” she called over her shoulder, mimicking his singsong.
“Oh, great!” he squealed with delight. “You’re on.”
He took off after her, sprinting down the winding path. “Is this a game I don’t know about, Loretta?” he asked, coming up behind her.
“Yup.” She was huffing and puffing, the stupid muumuu slowing her down like a wind sail.
“But don’t you think we ought to warm up a little first?”
“Nope.”
“It’s really not very good for you to start exercising from a cold start. Strains the muscles, the heart, the knees . . .” He caught up with her and kept pace, running by her side.
“It is good, cardiovascular-wise,” he blithered on, “but you should build up to it. Especially if you’re not used to running in this heat. You could dehydrate in no time out here if you’re not careful.”
“I’m . . . fine,” she grunted, struggling to keep up the pace.
“Oh, my God! You’re not wearing any shoes, Loretta. You could tear an Achilles tendon, especially if you haven’t stretched.”
The path wound to the right and suddenly went downhill through an isolated stretch of dense waist-high ferns. “What about the hips?” she panted.
“Your hips? Well, yes, I supposed you could do some damage there—Hey!”
She bumped him hard with her hip, knocking him off the path and into the ferns. When she looked back, all she could see were swishing ferns.
Maybe an alligator got him, she hoped.
She slowed her pace but only a little, not knowing where Joe was now. She’d already made up her mind: She was getting the hell out of there. Duty is one thing; stupidity is another.
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