by Herren, Greg
As I sat there, staring at the Uptown address on my computer screen, memories I hadn’t thought about in years came back to me.
I’d grown up in a dusty little east Texas town called Cottonwood Wells, living in a trailer on the wrong side of town. We never seemed to have much money, and knowing that most everyone I was in school with considered me trash didn’t help matters much. My clothes were always ill-fitting and from Sears, and I knew the kids whose parents belonged to the country club and bought their clothes at big fancy stores in Houston laughed at me, mostly behind my back but sometimes right to my face. My mom drank and my dad was violent. We always had to walk on eggshells whenever Dad was home because you never knew what would set off his mercurial temper. When he got mad his brown eyes turned black and spittle would fly from his mouth as he screamed at us. He smashed things, punched walls, took his belt and beat me and my brother and sister. Even something as innocuous as watching a football game on television could turn ugly with no warning.
That was the worst part of it. Something that would make him laugh one day could send him into one of the rages another day—and there was nothing to do but ride it out. He made no sense, and nothing anyone could say would make the situation better. Anything you said was wrong.
My goal growing up was to survive until I was eighteen and then get as far away from Cottonwood Wells as I could—and never look back.
Football was my ticket out—of everything. Once I displayed talent and ability on the football field, all the snotty things kids would say about me ceased, and I became one of the “popular” kids, the football star everyone wanted to be associated with. But rather than embracing this wonderful change in my life, from trash to popularity, by now I knew I was gay and had to hide that from everyone else.
I chose LSU because it was the college offering a full scholarship that was the farthest distance from Cottonwood Wells. The others—the University of Houston, the University of Texas, Texas Christian—were too close.
And so I came to Baton Rouge as a big eighteen-year-old virgin, my first time away from home, entering a world that might as well have been another planet.
And Luke Marino was King of the Planet.
As a freshman tight end on the Tiger football team, I’d had a major crush on him. What wasn’t there to like? He had thick, curly bluish black hair and olive skin, and the five o’clock shadow he always had by late afternoon tinted his cheeks and chin. He’d been around six feet tall or so and carried 220 pounds of solid, defined muscle on his frame. He actually liked working out—for me, it was always an odious chore, part of the price I paid to play football. He had the most amazing legs I’d ever seen to that point—his quads were so thick and powerful they could have easily cracked coconuts. He was also one of those guys who had no shyness about his body. Most guys on the team walked around the locker room or the training room with a towel tied around their waists. Not Luke Marino—he walked around either in just a jock or stark naked with a big grin on his face with everything exposed for everyone to see. He’d had a thick patch of hair in the center of his broad chest and a treasure trail leading from his navel down to the pubic thatch, and his massive legs were also covered in curly black hair. I tried not to stare, but would always steal surreptitious glances whenever I could so I could replay them in my memory later, when I was alone in my room at the fraternity house. I dreamed about him for years after he graduated—and for a long time, I always judged every man I met by how their looks compared to his.
In addition to that amazing body, he was also impossibly handsome, with big, round brown eyes with heavy lids, an aristocratic nose, impossibly white teeth, and a deep cleft in his chin. His sister managed a tanning salon in Baton Rouge, so he had a deep all-over tan. His eyes had a sparkle to them and were incredibly expressive underneath the thick black eyebrows.
He was a big star on campus—everyone knew who Luke Marino was. He might not be the fastest running back, or the strongest—but when Luke got the ball, it was practically a guaranteed three yards. He just put his helmet down and ran over everyone. He made all SEC his junior year, and his senior year we managed to win the SEC despite our loss to Florida. We went into the Sugar Bowl ranked fourth in the country, and humiliated our Big Ten opponent 44–14, which jumped us up to Number 2 in the final polls. I remember after that win partying on Bourbon Street with my teammates—and wondering where in the Quarter the gay bars were.
I found those on a solo trip down a few weeks later.
But Luke Marino was friendly and nice—no one had a bad thing to say about him. He never yelled at anyone on the team, never criticized or made fun of anyone—he always knew the right thing to say to make someone who was down get back up. He was a natural leader—he could fire up the team even higher than the coaching staff could. When he talked, his eyes flashed and you could hear a pin drop in the locker room. He made you want to play harder than you ever had before because you didn’t want to let him down.
He had a steady girlfriend, Mandy Welles, who was one of the Golden Girls in the marching band. She was beautiful and was always waiting for him outside the locker room after games. He would kiss her, and they would walk off together, his arm draped around her shoulder, her long blond hair bouncing. They got married right after the Sugar Bowl. He entered the pro draft and was taken in the second round by the San Diego Chargers. I followed his pro career, such as it was. It never really got off the ground. The Chargers had a lot of high hopes for him, but when he got in to play during his rookie season he didn’t exactly cover himself with glory. His second year, he blew out his right knee against the 49ers, ending his career.
And then he dropped out of sight of the public eye.
I’d seen him once in the years since I myself graduated—Paige and I had dinner at Marino’s, his family’s restaurant on Magazine Street, shortly after I got on with the NOPD. He and Mandy had been there with another couple, and he’d started gaining weight. Obviously, since leaving professional sports he simply didn’t see the need to keep himself up with the kind of physical conditioning he had before. Our eyes had met at one point, and I could tell he recognized my face, just didn’t know where he knew me from. I’d just nodded and turned away.
I thought about calling him, but decided to just take a chance and drop by the house.
The address turned out to be a big yellow house on Jefferson Avenue, about a block on the river side of Newman High School. It was a big place, with a circular drive and a gallery that ran along the entire front of the house. Two gas lamps bracketed the front door, and the curtains were closed in the big windows. There was an emerald green Mercedes parked in the driveway with MARINO 2 on the license plate, an LSU plate. There was also an LSU plate frame and a sticker reading GEAUX TIGERS on the right back bumper.
I parked on the street and sat there for a moment before getting out. I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to steel my nerve and making fun of myself for being so nervous. He isn’t the big star on the team anymore, I reminded myself. I got out of the car and headed up the walk. I rang the doorbell and a dog started barking. I could hear someone yelling at the dog, and then the front door opened.
The years had not been kind to Luke Marino.
He was balding, and trying to hide it by combing his hair over the bare spots. The bluish-black hair was not only thinner but was shot through with gray. A second chin was forming beneath the original one, and his eyes were bloodshot. His face was wider and rounder than I remembered, and there were heavy bags underneath both of his eyes. He was still a big man, but his stomach had expanded exponentially, straining the buttons on his white shirt. He was wearing a pair of jeans that he had to belt low underneath the bulge of his stomach. His legs were also thicker—but I rather doubted that was muscle. I could see red veins in his nose, and grayish black hairs jutted out from his nostrils. He was wearing a T-shirt underneath the white shirt, but black hairs were poking out through the neckline.
He was only three years o
lder than me, but he looked fifty.
At least.
“Mr. Marino?” I said, hoping my shock didn’t show on my face. “I’m Chanse MacLeod—”
“The detective!” He smiled, managing to look a little less harried, and shook my hand. His was warm, soft, and damp. “Yes, Loren told me you might be coming by at some point. Thank you so much for taking the case! Great having you on board. Come on in.” He gave me an apologetic look as he stepped aside to let me in. “I’m really sorry, everything that could possibly go wrong today has, and the place is a mess, the maid quit—” He broke off and shut the door behind me. “”But you don’t care about that.” He showed me into a living room, through a door to the right of the front hallway. “Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea?”
“Iced tea would be great—it’s kind of hot outside.”
“I’ll be right back. Have a seat—make yourself at home.” He disappeared through a door on the other side of the room.
The living room had been turned into a shrine to Luke’s football career. No, shrine wasn’t the right word—it was a temple. The long wall directly opposite the door had an enormous, almost life-size portrait of Luke in his uniform, holding a football and posing on one knee at the fifty yard line, smiling carefree at the camera. I stepped closer and marveled at it. He’d been even more handsome than I remembered, which made the present-day version even sadder. The entire wall was covered with pictures and awards certificates. His LSU diploma had a place of honor next to the massive portrait, and four team photos were hung directly beneath the diploma. I stepped closer—the team I was on was the lowest one. It had been mounted, and in the lower right corner was an oval-shaped duplicate of the massive portrait. I smiled—I had four of those framed team pictures myself, in a box somewhere in one of my closets. I picked myself out in the picture from Luke’s senior year and smiled at my innocent young face. I was shocked at how young I looked—and how thick my hair had been. I ran a hand through it.
Yes, it had definitely thinned since then.
There was a case beside the front window with game balls and trophies, and I walked over and glanced at them. Luke’s letter jacket from LSU was folded on the bottom shelf, nestled between some game balls and Mandy’s Golden Girl costume. I put my hand against the glass. College seemed like it had been a million years earlier, I thought, and shook my head, turning my back to Luke’s past. I don’t even know where all my trophies and letter jacket are, I reflected.
I hadn’t thrown any of it away—so it was probably all in a box somewhere.
There was a massive plasma television mounted on the opposite wall, and all around it were more framed pictures of Luke—these were from high school and from his brief career with the Chargers.
“Here you go.” Luke walked back into the room and passed me a tall glass of iced tea. I took a drink—it was over-sweetened, but I drank it anyway. “You an LSU fan?”
I gestured to the team picture from my freshman year. “I was a freshman when you were a senior.”
He grinned. “I thought you looked familiar—sorry I didn’t recognize you.” He made a face. “But man, the older you get, the memory just goes. Sit down, sit down, please.” He gestured at the sofa. “Did you play in the pros?”
I shook my head. “I blew out my knee in the Sugar Bowl my senior year. I wasn’t sure if I could make it in the pros—wasn’t sure if I should try.” I shrugged. “I probably wouldn’t have been drafted anyway, and truth be told, I was kind of sick of playing football, so the injury made it all a moot point. Probably for the best.”
“Damned knees—they’re a bitch, aren’t they?” He slapped his left one. “That’s what finished me with the Chargers. Got hit in a game with the 49ers and I heard it go. I still hear that crack in my nightmares sometimes.” He grimaced. “It hurt like a son of a bitch. But like you said, it’s just as well—I wasn’t having much of a pro career, and it probably wasn’t going to get any better, but if I hadn’t gotten hurt I would have kept working, plugging away at it hoping to turn it all around. Still, I was glad to come back home and get my life back together.”
I nodded. “Sorry to hear about the lawsuit.”
He whistled. “Those thieving sons of bitches. I know they got to Mona somehow—and now she’s missing?” He shook his head sadly. “When Loren told me Mona was changing her testimony, it broke my heart. I don’t know how they did it, you know? Mona was like family to me. She worked for me at Cypress Gardens almost right from the beginning.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Mona?” I pulled out my pad.
“It’s been a few weeks—maybe even months. I wasn’t really keeping track, you know?” He crossed a leg. “Mona came by here—she wanted my advice about a contract for Jonny—he got a really good offer from the Barras Casino Group, and she knew that was who I sold Cypress Gardens to—”
“When exactly did you sell Cypress Gardens?”
He nodded. “Didn’t Loren tell you? Yeah, a couple of years after Katrina, I was having trouble keeping the place going.” He shook his head. “I had to take out loans, you know, to do repairs and get the place going again because the damned insurance was taking so long to work out everything—I was stretched to the max, you know? If I didn’t make the bank payments, I would lose the place, and every day I was wondering if that would be the day I would go bankrupt—which is what those motherfuckers at the insurance company were hoping for, you know?” He sighed. “Morgan Barras made me a hell of an offer—enough money to pay off the loans with a little left over to live on. What else could I do?” He made a face. “And now the insurance company is trying to use the fact I sold the place to get out from under what they owe me, may the bastards fry in hell for all eternity.”
Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that Morgan Barras had turned up yet again? Aloud, I said, “So she wanted you to look over the contract?”
He nodded. “She also wanted to know what I thought of Barras. Like I said, Mona was like family, and I knew Jonny pretty well—she would bring him around, you know, in the summer when he wasn’t in school. He was a handful.” He smiled, remembering. “I know she was worried about him—even after I sold Cypress Gardens—and you know, I gave her six months’ severance—we stayed in touch. We tried to have dinner or lunch together once a month or so over the last few years. My wife and I—Mona was our babysitter of choice, you know. I still can’t believe she wants to change her testimony.”
“What did you tell her about the contract?”
“I told her it looked fair, but she should have a lawyer look it over. I told her to have Loren look at it—told her not to worry about the fee, I’d just have him bill me. She was family.” He shook his big head again. “She was really worried about Jonny, you know. She didn’t like the girl he married, and that he’d dropped out of high school, and I guess they’re going to have a baby? I also told her that he might be a bit of an asshole, but Morgan was pretty trustworthy. I mean, he offered me a really good price for Cypress Gardens—and to be honest, I would have let it go for a lot less—it had turned into such a fucking nightmare after the storm, you know.” He ran a hand over his head. “I’d have been more than happy to let it go for just taking over the loans, to tell you the truth. I was seriously fucked and was going to have to try to borrow money from my family.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, how much did he pay for Cypress Gardens?”
He shrugged. “It’s a matter of public record. I sold him Cypress Gardens for fifteen million. After paying off the loans, I cleared about 1.5 million.” He sighed. “I am suing the insurance company for twenty million—the amount of the loans, loss of business revenues, and legal fees. If the insurance had paid out like it was supposed to, I wouldn’t have had to sell the place or take out the loans. Now they’re saying since I sold out, they shouldn’t have to pay.”
“So, when you saw Mona, she didn’t say anything to you at all about changing her testimony?”
“No. Not a
word. When the lawyers called me and told me, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I couldn’t believe it—I still can’t believe it. There had to be a reason. Mona wouldn’t just do that, you know?”
“Do you think they might have bought her off?”
“No. Mona wasn’t like that. How can I make you understand that?” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “I would have trusted Mona with my life. She is one of the most honest people I’ve ever known. She wouldn’t even borrow money from petty cash to buy a soda from the vending machines. So the idea that she could be bought off? It’s ludicrous.”
“What if she needed the money?”
“Well, if she needed money, she could have just asked.” He gestured around the room. “I may not exactly be rolling in money, but I’d help her out if she needed help.”
“Can you think of any reason Mona might have needed money?”
“Mona’s great with money—which was why she was such a great property manager. That woman knows how to stretch a dollar—she could pinch a penny till Lincoln winced.” He laughed. “I can’t imagine Mona herself ever getting into financial trouble—every once in a while I’d try to talk her into investing money, and she would always say the only difference between the stock market and a casino was at least you knew ahead of time the casino was out to take your money. So, bad investments? No, she wouldn’t have ever done anything like that.”
“But what about one of the kids? Did you know her other kids well?”
“I met Lorelle a few times—I liked her.” He frowned. “The older son—Robby? Him, I didn’t care for. There was just something about him I didn’t like, you know? He was—” He fumbled for the words, finally adding, “a phony. One of those guys who want to get rich quick but don’t want to work for it? His wife had money, I think—I didn’t much care for her, either—she was Queen of Rex and he brought it up every time I talked to him, like I give a shit about that? Marinos weren’t good enough for the old-line krewes, we never were. He kept wanting me to invest in things that never seemed legitimate, you know what I mean? He worked in investments, you know, a broker or advisor or something. He was always coming over here, wanting my business, you know? When I’d press for details there never were any—like I’m just going to give him money without a prospectus or something?”