High Lie

by A. J. Stewart

  “Hoskin Palm Beach will feature complimentary limousines to shuttle guests to the proposed main gaming and entertainment center in nearby West Palm Beach. In addition, those guests looking for more excitement can board our exclusive, high-speed catamaran that will take guests from Palm Beach to our proposed Miami resort in less than an hour, complete with complimentary champagne and gaming during the journey.”

  I looked around the room. There were a lot of frowns. I couldn’t help but think Hoskin had misjudged his crowd. These people lived in Palm Beach because it wasn’t Miami. They didn’t want a shuttle bringing riff-raff to the island. And as for the most discerning clientele? In their not-so-humble opinions, the most discerning clientele already lived here. They didn’t need to arrive in a free limo from West Palm.

  The show finished in a big crescendo of strings and trumpets. I got ready for Hail to the Chief but it didn’t happen. Instead, the voiceover introduced Elroy Hoskin. Now there was a smattering of applause, for a real-life human being. Hoskin was shorter than I’d imagined him to be, and he looked younger than a guy who had met Sinatra. I wondered if he’d had any work done. He was stocky but looked in good shape, and his thick, brown curly hair covered his head like a helmet.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you. It has been my privilege to develop some of the world’s most exclusive resort destinations: Vegas, Abu Dhabi, Macau, even Sydney, Australia. Now imagine the best of the best, for the best. That is Hoskin Palm Beach. I know what you are thinking. Crowds and traffic and neon lights. Well let me assure you, that is not Palm Beach, and it is not Hoskin Palm Beach. Our exclusive club will be a small community, just like the island itself. A place to relax, unwind, and enjoy the company of other discerning individuals.”

  Ron leaned into me. “When did discerning come to mean filthy rich?” he whispered.

  I raised my eyebrows and watched the show.

  “Imagine the best of everything you love about visiting New York or London or Paris, now at your fingertips right here at Hoskin Palm Beach. With our main proposed facility located in West Palm Beach, you will be a short limo ride from the full entertainment experience, but secluded from it as long as you remain on the Palm Beach resort.”

  A man in black stepped up to the stage and handed Hoskin a glass of champagne, and as he did, a fleet of trays sailed through the room, offering bubbles to everyone. Then Hoskin held his glass in the air.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for coming tonight, and I hope that you continue to enjoy yourselves. Let us toast. To Palm Beach.”

  It was a good point to end on. This crowd loved their island and would toast it with another man’s bubbles at the drop of a hat. We toasted, then a smattering of applause saw Hoskin off the stage. The spotlight died, and the house lights came up just a touch, and lights appeared in the pool by our feet.

  I turned to Ron, who was smiling and shaking his head, and Cassandra, who wore a pretty solid frown.

  “Vegas on the beach,” said Ron. “Awesome.”

  “I think not,” said Cassandra. “A gambling house on the island? How ghastly.”

  “I thought the free ferry to Miami was a nice touch,” I said.

  “Where is this thing supposed to be, anyway?” said Cassandra.

  “I heard they were taking over the Colonial Hotel property,” said Ron.

  “Oh, Ronnie, say that isn’t so,” said Cassandra.

  The mayor of West Palm chipped in. “Word outside was Hoskin was going to buy the Everglades Club.”

  “Isn’t Hoskin Jewish?” I said.

  The mayor nodded.

  “Hard to see them ever selling that place,” said Ron. “Impossible to see them selling to a Jew.”

  The Everglades Club was an exclusive club that sat smack bang in the middle of the island on ritzy Worth Avenue. It was famous for having the most exclusive membership roster, one that reportedly managed by sheer accident to have no blacks, Jews, or women. Word was JFK’s dad had resigned his membership back in the day, in protest over their restrictive membership policies.

  “Well I don’t care for that club, and I don’t care for Hoskins Palm Beach. Plain old regular Palm Beach is fine with me,” said Cassandra.

  I was tempted to mention that there was nothing regular about Palm Beach but thought better of it. I turned instead to the mayor.

  “So, Your Honor. I’ve heard about this major entertainment center in West Palm. You keeping it for a surprise?” It wouldn’t be the first time in Florida that politicians had forgotten to mention a major development until after it was too late. But the mayor shook his head.

  “News to me, old boy. I’m sure we’ll assess any application on its merits, but there is a distinct distaste among the electorate for more gambling. Besides, the Compact is being renegotiated, and I would be surprised if Tallahassee turns its back on all that money.”

  As he finished, Elroy Hoskin appeared at his shoulder, doing the glad-handing bit of the show. He had good help with an assistant at his shoulder, letting him know who everyone was. It was good work, and made Hoskin look like he gave a damn about every individual.

  “Mr. Mayor, so happy you could join us,” said Hoskin, going for the two-handed pump.

  “Pleasure is mine, sir. Quite the show. I’d be interested in hearing more about this West Palm Beach property.”

  Hoskin smiled. “Early days, of course. We have a few matters to overcome with the state, don’t we? But I think all the jobs and tourism dollars we can bring to the city of West Palm Beach will help them see it from the right point of view, don’t you agree?”

  “Perhaps,” said the mayor.

  “I’d love to chat about it over lunch,” he smiled. “I’ll have my people call you.”

  Hoskin moved onto Cassandra, who again he knew by name, and then Ron, who he did not. Then he turned to me.

  “And Miami Jones, a pleasure,” he said.

  I shook his hand and checked his ear for one of those little earbuds that spies use, but found nothing.

  “I like the look of your high-speed ferry,” I said.

  “Don’t you? I love those things. We run one between Hong Kong and Macau. Really something. Did you know they are made in Tasmania, Australia?”

  “I did not.”

  “It’s true. Ours will be the fastest ever.”

  I believed it.

  Hoskin nodded to us all and moved on, assistant at his shoulder, smiling for the next group of well-heeled freeloaders. On that note I decided to get more champagne. I offered to do a run.

  “How are you getting home, Miami?” said Cassandra.

  “Ferry?” I said.

  “I have a spare room. You are staying with me. Now, I for one will have some more of that awful man’s champagne,” she smiled, winking at me.

  I liked her a lot. Not just because she made Ron so happy, but because she was stinking rich, and she didn’t deny she enjoyed what wealth offered her, yet she still didn’t believe her own press. She knew it was, like many things in life, just dumb luck.

  We all decided to make a bar run outside to see the lights of West Palm across the water. The marina was lit up, and we could hear music coming from a bar on the esplanade. I got four flutes and passed them to Ron, Cassandra and the mayor. The mayor was one of those guys who believed in his city and its people and who wanted to make the place he lived better for everyone. He was never going to rise from local politics. His suits were baggy and his comb-over not television friendly. He had lost his wife to cancer during his last campaign and had garnered a fair sympathy vote. But I gave him kudos for not wearing it on his sleeve.

  “What do you think, Your Honor? Jobs, money into the economy. Sound like a good deal?” I said.

  The mayors of Palm Beach and West Palm Beach looked after cities separated by a sliver of water, but might as well have been on different worlds. Palm Beach had been founded by Henry Flagler, the owner of Standard Oil. His name was ubiquitous in Florida, as it seemed every secon
d thing was named after him. He had built the railway from St. Augustine in the north, to Miami in the south, and in doing so had bought up all the property where he planned to build stops for the train. On that land, he had built lavish hotels. His personal favorite was Palm Beach. It became a winter retreat of choice for the New York elite to escape the snow. But although the hotel was on the island, the train stop was across the Intracoastal Waterway on the mainland. As happens, businesses popped up around the train station, serving not only the needs of the wealthy guests in Palm Beach, but eventually providing housing to the service staff who worked on the island. The city of West Palm Beach was born. Now it dwarfed the town it was created to serve and had all the issues of every American city. The kinds of issues that didn’t affect the wealthy residents of Palm Beach. Issues like jobs and pumping money into the cash registers of local businesses.

  The mayor shrugged. “It sounds good, but I’m not sure, Miami,” he said. “I’ve seen it happen, spoken with other mayors around the country. Big new development promises jobs, money. But that only works if the jobs are new, if people who aren’t working can get work, or if it brings new people to the area. But our research says that most of the jobs a casino would create are actually jobs that already exist in the city. You have a big new casino that employs thousands, but what about the stores, restaurants, bars that the casino puts out of business? The net gain of jobs is close to zero, and the money just moves from local business people to some huge conglomerate.”

  “Sounds awful,” said Cassandra.

  “That’s just one point of view,” said the mayor. “Sometimes there are new jobs. That’s why we have to evaluate each proposal. But lights and smoke and fancy videos don’t sway me. There’s too much at stake.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “I wish there were more men like you in Tallahassee, Your Honor.”

  He smiled sheepishly, for we both knew it would never happen.

  “Speaking of Tallahassee,” I said, as Eric approached with Jenny.

  As promised, I introduced Eric to Cassandra, and Jenny to everyone. Eric charmed the group, and Jenny looked the part on his arm. For a second I felt jealous. And then I didn’t.

  I just felt sad, and I couldn’t pin down why.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I MOVED AWAY from Eric holding court and wandered around the house. In my experience, anything worth happening at a party is probably happening upstairs. It was a truism in college, and it was just as true now. I climbed the staircase and found a massive foyer at the top that looked down on the reflection pool. The foyer opened out onto a balcony. I stood looking out past the balcony, when a door near me opened. Elroy Hoskin stepped out, carrying a small wooden box.

  “Mr. Jones, just the man. Would you join us for cigars?”

  I sat on a wicker chair that was topped by the most comfortable cushion I had ever sat on. This thing was like putting your cheeks onto a cloud. Hoskin passed cigars around to the small group. The collective wealth of the gathering was in the billions. But that’s the thing about a tuxedo. It’s a great leveler. Everyone looks like a billionaire in a tux. My friend and mentor Lenny Cox always said that there wasn’t a room you couldn’t get into in Palm Beach if you were wearing a tuxedo. Seemed it applied to private balconies, as well.

  “So, Mr. Jones,” said Hoskin, lighting his cigar, the end glowing with ash. “You are a transplant to these parts. How would you read the mood of the room tonight?”

  I clipped the end off my cigar and waited for the lighter to come around.

  “You mean after your presentation? Skeptical, I’d say.”

  Hoskin nodded. “If you had to rate our chances of getting this project off the ground, gut feeling, what would you say?”

  “Out of ten? A solid two.” I took the lighter off the gray haired gent next to me and puffed the cigar.

  Hoskin smiled. “You don’t sugar-coat it, do you Jones? I like that.” He turned to the other men in the group. “Yes-men are easy to find. The other kind, not so much.”

  The group all nodded as one, and looked at me like I was about to be the subject of a bidding war for my business consulting services.

  “If you were on this project, what would you do?” Hoskin said to me.

  I shook my head. “Not really my area.”

  “I hear you are quite perceptive, and, I see, not afraid to voice an opinion. I’m not looking for an MBA analysis; I have those by the truckload. I’m looking for street smart. Your gut.”

  I didn’t know if the guy was buttering me up or not, but the cigar was a real Cuban, and a butler-looking dude had just arrived with a decanter of brandy, so I played along.

  “If I were on the project? I’d be looking for somewhere else to do it.”

  Hoskin raised his eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as the quitting type.”

  “Not quitting. But when the cards are stacked against you, sometimes it pays to play another table.”

  Hoskins nodded and sniffed his brandy. “I like that metaphor. Do you mind if I use it?”

  “All yours.”

  “But really, you’d cut and run?”

  “The State is in a bind with the Compact, the people here don’t like the idea of anyone from outside spoiling their paradise, and the small size of your project makes me wonder how the numbers trump the effort.”

  “Nice evaluation. But I didn’t become a success by giving up.”

  “I’m not suggesting giving up. Rather, having a plan B,” I said.

  Hoskins focused on me, like an exhibit in a museum. “You almost made it to the major league, is that right?”

  “You have good intel, sir. Yes, I got onto the Oakland pitching roster.”

  “But you didn’t play.”

  “No, I never got to play.”

  He watched me, looking for that sorrow in the eye that thoughts of glory days bring. But he wasn’t going to find it. I didn’t get all misty eyed over my baseball career. I’d played, done my best, and moved on. I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t twisted in my gut at the time, getting to the majors but then never getting the chance to even throw one pitch in anger. But I had reconciled it, long ago. I’d had my chances. I went further than most but not as far as some. Some men would be ruined by making it within a hundred feet of the Everest summit, only to never see the top. I was okay with having gotten to see the view at all.

  “You played a couple of years down here in Florida, then you quit.”

  “I don’t see it like that.”

  “Quitters never do.”

  I smiled. “Are you trying to bait me, Mr. Hoskin?”

  He leaned back in his chair and puffed his cigar. Then he smiled. “Not at all. I just like to know the measure of a man.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” I said. “Did you play baseball as a kid? Throw it in your yard with your dad?”

  “Of course, I was an American boy.” He smiled at the group.

  “But you didn’t play professionally. Did you quit?”

  “I see what you’re trying to do, but no. I didn’t quit. I took other opportunities.”

  “My point exactly.”

  Hoskin nodded and put his cigar down and leaned toward me. “You have your ear to the ground here. I’ve spoken to people, and your name keeps coming up. So I’d like to make you an offer. Keep your ear to the ground for me. You hear anything at all, you let me know. I will build my resort in Florida. I can outwait the politicians; I can outwait the damned Indians. You do this for me, I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He nodded and pulled a silver case from his pocket and took out a business card.

  “My personal number. Anything you think is worth knowing over the next few days, I want to know. If things aren’t going my way, I want to know ASAP, so I can act. Now if you’ll excuse us, we do have some boring business to discuss.”

  I took the card and bid the group a good evening. I wandered back downstairs where music was now playing, and I saw Ron and Cassandra dancing
. I didn’t see Eric or Jenny, and I didn’t want to. I sent Ron a text saying I’d see myself home, and I turned and walked out the front door. A fleet of town cars were shuttling guests all over the island, so I got one to Cassandra’s apartment, then collected my car and headed home. I went into the empty bedroom to kick off my shoes and undo my tie. The black tie hung around my neck, and I undid a button on my shirt. As I turned from the room, I caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked myself over. For a guy my age I was in good shape, although the muffin top had crept in over the past months. I had been running less, and happiness had started to turn to flab. I told myself it was just age catching up with me. Then I caught myself, my thinking. I was prefacing every thought with for a guy my age. I looked at the sandy blond hair, at the lines on my face. It wasn’t the face of a boy on the edge of something great. It was a man’s face, weathered by experience. And, despite my protestations to the contrary, tinged with regret. Just like Sinatra, I had too few to mention, but they were there.

  I stood there in my tux, not looking as good as I ever did, but as good as I ever would. For a moment, I wanted to go back. To spring afternoons, throwing pitch after pitch in the cages, until the dark came and my mother called. I wanted to go back and quit practice early, so I could spend more time with my mother before she was taken from me. I wanted to reconsider my choice of college, to not leave Connecticut for Florida, so I could drive my grieving father from the bar and save the lives of him and the student he hit. I wanted to go back and move faster, step in front of the bullet that took Lenny Cox, the man who taught me everything worth knowing.

  I wandered out into the living room and grabbed the scotch bottle and a glass and slid out to the patio. I poured a long glass and looked at the empty lounger beside me. I smiled. How pitiful we are, Miami Jones. How pitiful indeed. I took a long drink and lay back on my lounger, looking at the dark water before me, and I thought of my college pitching coach. He told me I would get hit. For bases, for runs, for homers. He said some of my pitches would get hit so far they would never find the ball. But once done, it was done. The guys who sweated the last one, let the thought that they should have thrown the curve rather than the heat rattle around their brain, those guys got hit again and again. Those guys didn’t make it. Because they lived in the past, and a good batter was very much the present. Forget the last one, he told me. Focus on the next one. It’s the next one that might be the one that defines you.