There were times when she wished that she had never set eyes on him. There were also times when she did not know how she had ever managed to exist without him.
If he asked her to marry him she would. Whatever her parents said.
She was amazed that he had agreed to come and meet them. ‘If it will help you out,’ he had shrugged. ‘We don’t want them locking you away ’cos they think you are mixing with undesirables. We’ll show them what a fine upstanding guy I am.’
* * *
‘What do you do, Nino?’ asked Evita.
She and Jorge sat at the luncheon table with him, waiting for Cristina.
‘I study,’ replied Nino, trying to engage her in a moody stare, but not succeeding.
‘Oh yes, and what do you study?’ Her tone was ever so faintly mocking.
‘Politics.’
‘Very good,’ boomed Jorge, ‘excellent. Hoping to be President one day, eh?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Where do you study?’ inquired Evita.
‘What is that girl doing?’ complained Jorge, glancing impatiently at his watch.
‘Shall I go and find her for you, sir?’ volunteered Nino.
‘No, no, I’ll send Maria.’ He summoned the maid, a fat, surly girl. ‘Go and tell Miss Maraco we are waiting, and to come at once.’
She bobbed a nervous curtsey. ‘Si, señor. I tell her.’ She rushed off.
Jorge indicated the plate piled high with delicious chunks of melon in the middle of the table. ‘Let’s start. Help yourself, Nino. Make yourself at home.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Nino politely, and he shot another look in Evita’s direction, but she seemed to have decided to ignore him. Bitch! She thought she was too good for him. He helped himself to some melon.
‘Where is your home?’ inquired Evita.
Questions, all she could ask was questions.
‘My family were killed in an automobile accident when I was very young,’ he replied smoothly. ‘I live with an aunt who has always taken care of me.’
What lies! ‘Oh. Where is that?’
He was saved from answering by the appearance of Cristina. She had changed into jeans and a shirt similar to his. Somehow it really annoyed him that she tried so hard to look exactly like him.
‘All that time to end up looking like a ragbag,’ complained Jorge. ‘You have such pretty dresses. On a Sunday it would be nice if you could wear them.’
‘Oh, Poppa! Sometimes you are so old-fashioned.’
‘Old-fashioned,’ sniffed Jorge, ‘old-fashioned because I would like to see my daughter wear something that makes her look like a girl. What do you think, Nino?’
Cristina looked to him for support. He said, ‘I must agree with you, Mr. Maraco. I like a girl to look like a girl.’
You weasel, Evita thought. You nasty little weasel.
Cristina blushed a dull red. ‘I don’t care,’ she said defiantly. ‘Anyway, Nino, it was you that said it was wrong to waste money on clothes.’
‘Really?’ said Evita. ‘Did you say that, Nino?’
Now it was his turn to be embarrassed.
‘I didn’t mean not to buy any clothes at all.’
‘What did you mean?’ Evita had him on a spot.
‘Well – you know,’ he looked around helplessly at Jorge in his hand-made silk shirt and immaculate French trousers, Evita in her three-hundred-dollar towelling beach robe. ‘I just meant that to own an excess of clothes when there are people starving on the outskirts of the city is wrong.’
‘Starving?’ questioned Evita, ‘I hardly think they are starving.’
‘You wouldn’t know,’ flashed Nino.
‘And you would?’
She had caught him. He had been determined not to get involved in any arguments or discussions with them. He knew these kind of people. One threat – even a minor one like him – and they would order him out of their daughter’s life. It wouldn’t do to have their luxury rocked by a would-be revolutionary hanging around.
He shrugged. ‘No, I don’t know.’
Evita laughed coolly. ‘And I thought you were going to be a young man with a cause.’
He shovelled some melon in his mouth. ‘No cause.’ Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!
The rest of the lunch passed without incident, and at exactly three o’clock Jorge rose from the table and said, ‘I know you young ones will excuse us,’ and helping Evita from the table, added, ‘It’s been nice meeting you, Nino.’
As soon as they were out of sight Cristina giggled. ‘No cause,’ she mimicked.
Nino turned on her angrily. ‘What did you want me to say? That I think the way they live is disgusting? That their outlook is selfish and bourgeois? That they should do something useful with their money instead of sticking it on their backs and fingers and wrists?’
‘Poppa supports many charities.’
‘Charity!’ spat Nino. ‘The people shouldn’t have to accept charity. By right, if all the money was divided, everyone would have enough. There would be no need for charity! Come on, let’s get out of here, the stink of useless money is making me sick.’
* * *
Jorge stripped, preparing for his shower. ‘Quite a nice young man,’ he commented.
‘A trouble-maker,’ replied Evita. ‘I know his kind, I grew up with his kind.’
Jorge held her by the shoulders, helping her off with her robe. ‘You can be a hard woman.’
‘We must stop Cristina from seeing him.’
‘And how do you propose we should do that?’ He began to peel down the straps of her white swimsuit.
She shrugged, the gesture freeing her breasts. ‘I don’t know, it’s something we must talk about. Maybe a trip – a long trip.’
Jorge fingered his wife’s breasts. ‘Whatever you want,’ he said. ‘You know you always get what you want.’
* * *
‘I want you to start seeing Louis Baptista again,’ Nino said.
He and Cristina lay naked on his bed having recently finished making love.
She sat up. ‘What?’
‘Now don’t get excited. I have my reasons.’
He pulled a pile of newspapers from under the bed and laid them out. He picked up one and read an item that had been circled in red.
‘Rock/soul superstar Al King has accepted millionaire impresario Carlos Baptista’s offer to do two concerts in Brazil. His fee will be an astounding one million dollars.’
‘Why are you reading me this?’ Cristina asked.
‘One million dollars is a great deal of money.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Can you imagine what the organization could do with a million dollars?’
‘I don’t under—’
‘Stop saying you don’t understand and listen to me. I am trying to explain to you. If the great Al King was kidnapped – what a simple matter for them to pay one million dollars to get him back. The money is already available – instead of paying him, they pay us. Get it?’
‘Don’t be silly, Nino. It would be impossible – people like Al King are guarded all the time – and anyway – kidnap is a bad crime. If you were caught…’
Nino jumped off the bed irritably. ‘We just talk about it and already I am caught! What faith you must have in me.’
‘I do have faith in you. I know you can do anything you want to. But how could you possibly kidnap Al King?’
‘With your help.’
She was startled. ‘My help?’
‘You and your friend Louis – Carlos Baptista’s son. You told me he was mad about you.’
‘I stopped seeing him when you and I started to see each other.’
‘That doesn’t mean he will not be thrilled when you telephone him and resume your relationship.’
‘But I don’t want to.’
He sat down on the bed again, reached under her shirt and started to caress her. ‘But for me, you will. If you love me, you will.’
‘Why?’
Was she being deliberately dense? ‘We have three weeks. Right now Al King is resting in Arizona, then he goes to Los Angeles and then he comes here. Three weeks will give you more than enough time to grab young Louis with your charm and newfound talents. From him you will be able to get all the information we need about Al King. We will be able to plan the best form of action.’
‘But…’ He silenced her by pressing his mouth down on hers.
She would cooperate. Of that he was sure.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Las Vegas. A razzle dazzle city in the middle of nowhere, filled with lovers and gamblers, con men and hookers, entertainers and mafiosi, winners and losers.
Las Vegas. If Los Angeles was the City of Angels, Las Vegas was the City of Devils. Blackjack. Craps. Roulette. Poker. And many other harmless little games to part a man and his money. Or a woman. Although their Las Vegas role was slightly more servile. Women worked according to their looks and their age. The beautiful, tall, spectacular show girls, baring it all. Their more energetic but equally pretty sisters were the dancers. The attractive girls with dipped necklines dealing you in blackjack. The not quite so attractive girls donning black tights and cute shortie costumes to serve you free cocktails. The over-thirty ladies, with the same shorty costumes, baring ass and tit, patrolling the lobbies and restaurants, trying to sell you tickets for Keno, or some such fun games. And then the motherly waitresses in sensible white uniforms serving you Corned Beef Hash and Frank Sinatra sandwiches in the various delicatessens that no decent hotel would be without.
Al flew into the city in a suitably drunken haze. A haze that he had existed in since the fateful Rush party.
At first Paul had been delighted to see big brother back to normal. But three days and ten blondes later he wasn’t so sure.
Al was back to normal with a vengeance.
A series of events had taken place.
Item one. Al had phoned Edna to explain to her about Evan. Not the whole truth, just the fact that he was with him, and safe, and that he would keep him there a while longer.
Edna, to Al’s surprise, had received the news calmly. Then, just as he had been about to end the conversation, she had requested a divorce. Edna had asked him for a divorce! No hysterics, no crying. Just a matter-of-fact statement that they would both be better off without one another. Of course the thought had been in his mind for some time. But for Edna to suggest it! Jesus Christ! It was an outrage! How dare she!
He had mumbled something about they would talk about it later, and hung up. The next day Edna had announced it to the newspapers. The newspapers yet! Edna, who baulked at having her photo taken with him! She had given an intimate interview to a hard-nosed bitch who made him out to be a combination between Casanova and Dracula!
Item two concerned Dallas. The fact was she lived up to his expectations, refused to speak to him, sent back his flowers, and in a face-to-face confrontation outside her house told him to go fuck himself. He had given up after that. Battles he didn’t need.
Item three was the film Paul wanted him to do. The script was right, the money and percentages were right, the contracts were being drawn up. Paul had negotiated the deal with Lew Margolis. Somehow Al had doubts. He was a singer. What gave everyone the impression he could turn into an actor overnight? As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t made up his mind yet, whatever Paul thought.
Meanwhile, in Las Vegas, he concentrated his energies on going straight to the tables. A path was created through the tourists whilst whispers of ‘Al King, Al King, Al King’ reverberated through the place. An admiring crowd gathered around the roulette table he picked, and oohed and aahed as he proceeded to lose thirty thousand dollars.
He shrugged, grinned, moved over to the craps tables. The crowd followed him.
A florid-faced dress manufacturer was just about to roll the dice. His face broke into a huge smile when he spotted Al, and he handed him the dice. ‘Here you go, Al, you take ’em –maybe it’ll change my luck.’
He took the dice, squeezed them hard – ‘Five thou on the line,’ he told the houseman. The houseman turned to the pit boss for confirmation. The pit boss gave an imperceptible nod.
Al rolled. The crowd were silent. He threw a five and a two. The crowd cheered its approval.
‘Let it ride,’ he told the houseman. The man added five thousand dollars’ worth of chips to the stack already there.
He blew on the dice, rolled again. This time a four and a three. Lucky total of seven again.
‘I knew it!’ the florid-faced man exclaimed, scooping up the chips he had won betting on Al’s throws. ‘I knew you were a lucky devil.’
Several females were edging as near to Al as they could. A particularly large-bosomed redhead was making the most headway.
‘Let it ride,’ instructed Al. He hurtled the dice down the table. Five and a two again. He was up twenty thousand dollars. Not bad. But of course he was down thirty thousand on roulette. If he let the twenty ride and he won, he would be up ten thousand. What the hell, it was only money.
‘Again,’ he said.
The crowd held its breath, then, just as he was about to roll, the big-bosomed redhead grabbed his hand holding the dice and gave it a wet and sloppy kiss. ‘For luck, baby,’ she breathed, nudging him with her bosom.
It was too late for him to stop. But he knew he would crap out. Knew the redhead had blown his luck.
He was right. Two miserable ones showed up on the dice. The crowd groaned.
‘I could offer you a consolation prize,’ the redhead suggested.
He ignored her, signing the chit the pit boss handed him. So he was down fifty thousand dollars. So what?
‘Could I have your autograph?’ a very fat lady was asking, ‘for my little niece. Charlene. C-H-A…’ She spelled the name as he scribbled an almost illegible ‘Al King’ on the book of matches she had given him.
He walked away. The redhead followed him. ‘Buy me a drink?’ she suggested. She had nothing much to offer except the boobs and the hair.
‘Are you a hustler?’ he asked.
‘Of course not!’ She appeared deeply offended.
‘Shame. I thought you and I could work something out.’
She bit her lip, then coyly said, ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘A good fuck.’
* * *
Paul was on the phone. Lately he seemed to spend half his life on the phone. It was a bad line and he could hardly hear. ‘I’ll call you back, Melanie,’ he said. He had been trying to reach her for days, but she always seemed to be out. Finally he had left a message for her to telephone him. He wanted to talk to her before they flew off to South America. Who knew what the phone connections were like there?
‘You can’t phone me back, I’m not at home,’ Melanie’s voice seesawed down the phone.
‘I can hardly hear you,’ complained Paul.
She said something that he couldn’t hear at all, then ‘…can’t see there is any point.’
‘What?’
‘I can get it in Mexico,’ she screamed.
‘Get what?’
‘A divorce.’
He thought she was talking about Edna. ‘Why does she want to go there?’
There was a series of electronic noises, then the operator interrupting, saying: ‘You’ve been cut off. I’ll try to reconnect you on a clearer line.’
He banged the phone down. It rang again immediately. It was the manager just wanting to inform him that Al King had signed chits totalling fifty thousand dollars. Terrific. Now he would have to haul Al away from the tables before he did any more damage. He had only been down there half an hour.
There was a knock at the door. Bernie stood there sweating.
‘Have you seen Al?’ Paul questioned.
‘Yeah. He just boarded the elevator with a real water buffalo. Jeeze – you’ve got to have a grudge against your tool to go near a barracuda like that.’ Bernie wheezed his way over to the table with the booze on
, and poured himself a shot. ‘With his money he should buy himself a new wife!’
‘At least he’s away from the tables.’
The phone rang and Paul snatched it up.
Melanie’s voice came through clearly. ‘I’m glad you agree,’ she said. ‘I’ve even decided to let you have the children.’
‘What?’
‘You want them, don’t you? They’ll be better off with you. Manny and I will be leading an erratic life – not the sort of life children will fit into.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Aren’t you listening to me?’ Melanie shrilled. ‘Do I have to go through it all again?’
‘You want to go to Mexico with Edna. Is that it? Well, I can tell you now…’
‘You fool!’ snapped Melanie, ‘I’m divorcing you in Mexico. I’m marrying Manny Shorto and we want to do it as soon as possible.’
Paul did not believe what he was hearing.
‘You can keep the children,’ Melanie shrilled on. ‘As I said before, they’ll be better off with you. Of course the Mexican divorce will be a temporary step until we can arrange a proper English divorce. Manny wants everything to be done properly. He…’
She talked, whilst Paul sat down and listened unbelievingly. She had never gone home. She had stayed in New York. She had run into Manny, an old flame. Jesus – old was the operative word – he must be at least seventy. They had rekindled the flame. This time it had been too big for both of them…
Paul replaced the receiver, cutting off her voice. First Edna, now Melanie. What was going on? He slumped into the couch.
‘Everything cool?’ inquired Bernie, scratching under a sweaty armpit.
‘You’re going to love it,’ replied Paul, still in a state of shock. ‘Melanie’s divorcing me. She’s getting married to Manny Shorto.’
Bernie laughed, ‘Come on, man…’ He trailed off when he realized Paul was serious. He didn’t know what to say. Paul was slumped out like a man in an accident – yet he had been balling that Linda Cosmo most of the trip – so the wife couldn’t mean that much. But who knew with married couples… What the fuck… For the first time in his life Bernie was at a loss for words.
Lovers and Gamblers Page 47