“Yes. If we had Molly.”
“If?” Tex sent right back with a mischievous grin. And with that, he withdrew from his white jacket a baggie filled with white baby capsules. We laughed evily.
“Later,” I suggested. Tex stashed them away in silent agreement.
Right then I experienced a downtick, a rapid shift in feeling. I had experienced it occasionally for years, but recently, it had been occurring more often, without warning, and it threw me into an unpredictable state of mind quite unlike that of my usual self; also, I seemed to have no control over its coming or going or how I felt during or afterward. It was the dreaded disconnect, one of the things I didn’t like to think about, that always made me feel like someone else was living my life for me, and I was watching it all happen helplessly from above.
3
THE RAVEN
No one knew his real name or why he was called The Raven. Where he came from was anyone’s guess, and no one particularly cared. He simply appeared, and he was the type of jackass you loved to hate unless he was on your team; then he was a welcome, indispensable guest. The Raven was a provider. A procurer. His commodity: women. Beautiful women. The young, impressionable ones. The mid-twenties, more seasoned ones. The older, somewhat wiser ones who were hanging around a little too long, still in search of a scene and the hip place to be. When it came to inviting and corralling these international beauties—models, mostly, the most glamorous twenty-first-century commodity—The Raven was a genius.
You can groan, complain, and roll your eyes at the word “model,” but at the end of the day their impact is immediate: they can incite the envy of women and men in seconds, and suck the oxygen from a room in minutes. It all begins and ends with one definite asset—beauty.
The Raven’s personality was not electric, but it was effective. He tossed off enough macho, enough cool, and enough of a sense of humor to get beautiful models to like him. Or to feel comfortable with him, which was all that was needed, really. If you asked him, he’d say he was in PR. But he was really the fool of the court of any sufficiently affluent and important person who was in need of his services.
In actuality, The Raven was creepy, a little sweaty, and had a noticeable belly. He was rather disgusting in that he lived like a rock star without a nickel in his pocket. He was a dolce vita disaster who always hung with the biggest names, boarded the biggest boats, frequented the most beautiful houses, rode in the most expensive cars, drank the best wine, consumed the best drugs, sat at the best tables. He was always broke and borrowing, but this total shipwreck of a guy had one talent, and that talent was finding the greatest girls in the world and getting them to simply . . . come along. The deal was he’d get a hundred dollars per girl.
The Raven stepped into the cabin of Tex’s GV, which was parked on the Teterboro tarmac, and he did not disappoint. Although they were half an hour late in arriving, the models had indeed come along, and they kept on coming, up the stairs and through the doorway, ten in total.
“Sorry I’m late. We had to wait for Amber,” The Raven stated in a scolding tone, and pushed his ornate black-and-gold D&G shields partway down his nose, the better to eyeball the girl in question. In this arena, beauty needed to be tamed, and The Raven was a maestro. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I’m sorry,” the drop-dead-beautiful brunette with the most perfectly shaped hornet-stung lips said meekly.
For the entire flight from New York to Miami, the jet was transformed into an EDM rave complete with disco lights, bottle service, coke, and Molly. The girls were dancing, jumping, making out with everyone and one another. I remember three pairs of breasts lined up before me in the bathroom as I performed some form of Charmin squeeze test crossed with a Himalayan alpine climb. There may have been some fellatio involved, too, when one pair dropped suddenly out of sight.
“Hey, Rodrigo, you got that five hundred?” The Raven asked just then.
“What five hundred?”
“Need to borrow it for my phone bill.”
“Did you ask me for it?”
“Tried texting, but my phone didn’t work. Dude, my phone is off—”
“So be it,” I think I said. I sometimes said that. But I may have said instead, “Sure, no problem.” In the circumstances, I really wasn’t paying that much attention to what I was saying. And despite the attention of the models, I was still in a strange mood.
But later on, when I tried to recall the events of the trip, this was the only spoken exchange I could remember from the plane. And it hadn’t even been with one of the unbelievably beautiful models; it had been with The Raven.
4
TOWER SWEET
A glaze seemed to be covering my eyeballs. I became aware that I was in bed in an immense room. Across the immaculate white expanse of the room, I could make out the unmistakable curves of a woman’s beautiful backside in the bathroom. At first I wondered if I was dreaming. I must have slept through much of the afternoon, and when I tried to recap the day’s activities after the hazy plane trip, I could not remember anything that would have inspired this gorgeous rear-end cameo. All was quiet until: “Rodrigo, time to get ready . . .”
I opened my eyes and Rafaela was looking down at me, her hair wet.
“I used your shower. I hope you don’t mind.”
I was still too groggy.
“My room wasn’t ready yet. The previous guests wouldn’t leave, and there weren’t any other rooms. Place is packed.”
“You have a beautiful ass.”
“What? You were watching me?”
“I think so. I knew it would be, too.”
“Be what?”
“Perfect.”
I rolled over and groaned into the pillow. The groan was a release of angst brought on by my present headache, frustration at never being able to touch Rafaela, and wondering what the hell had happened on that plane ride.
I ordered OWC and showered quickly. The One While Changing feature was a courtesy perk for those inhabiting tower suites at the Soho Beach House, Miami’s outpost of the exclusive London club. A bartender came to your room and served you while you got dressed or engaged in whatever activity you had in mind. I needed to equilibrate myself, and a dry martini was the appropriate hair of the dog.
The suite was enormous—an entire floor, one giant room with a bathroom. There were leather club chairs, a freestanding bathtub, fainting couches, Cuban tile floors, and oceanfront views. It was London-between-the-wars meets Havana-before-the-revolution. In lieu of a minibar was a maxibar, a gorgeous art deco reproduction stocked with lemons and limes, an impressive array of crystal stemware, and a silver cocktail shaker. I counted thirteen liquor bottles. And the act of counting made my head start to grieve again. Make no mistake, Art Basel was the international art world’s excuse to have a party, and the Soho House was the place to be. And if you had a suite, so very much the better.
Rafaela and I debated a quick dip in the plunge pool on 8, but realized we didn’t have time. We needed to get to the marina.
After the early-evening cocktail, in true fiesta fashion Rafaela and I found ourselves speeding across the waterway in Tex’s lemon-colored Cigarette boat with the name Viagra emblazoned on either side in electric blue. Pfizer normally paid for the advertising, but Tex welcomed the Viagra logo free of charge. We were on our way to an exclusive charity dinner and auction on Hibiscus Island. Michael was there, too, and thankfully, he’d left the umbrella behind. But I was happy he was with us, because I was certain we’d need his talents as a body defender soon enough.
The kickoff event was being held at Avi Scheiner-Ross’s notoriously overdone house, which was less infamous than the owner himself. Many things had been said about this Israeli who had made Miami his home: rumors concerning everything from guns, to planes, to drugs. And that type of sinister ambience was perfect for the sit-down dinner for forty, held in the luscious garden, where the cream of the art world’s buyers and sellers convened—stars and starlets, an
d of course billionaire collectors, too. The party was a private viewing of artworks by assorted contemporary artists, and it served as a preview for the big show at the Convention Center the following day. To get things rolling and to raise money for a local Miami cause, a representative from Christie’s was to auction ten pieces before the doors were opened to the after-dinner crowd.
I greeted everyone, most of whom I knew, and although I’m generally considered a gregarious and genial guy, it wasn’t long before I became sufficiently bored and emotionally detached to want to get away from the crowd. Was it some kind of lingering effect from the downtick I had experienced earlier in the day, in Tex’s limo? I didn’t know. I pulled up a seat for Rafaela so she could sit next to me, and I didn’t give a damn if anyone got upset.
“Are you okay?” she asked thoughtfully. She even patted my thigh.
I just looked at her. The answer was a resounding “no,” but I chose to remain silent. I was already tired of the talk, the stroking, the bullshit, and the bullshitters. And the auction hadn’t even started.
About halfway through a performance by African-American men in diapers wielding swords and ladies on stilts, I got up to find Tex, who seemed to have vanished. No doubt he was rifling rails in a bathroom somewhere, and I was soon on a mission to join him. As I passed through gaudy rooms adorned by Avi’s collection of ancient Samurai swords, I felt a sudden rush of indigestion and I began to sweat. I crept up the stairs slowly, holding on to the banister, only to come upon another display I wasn’t likely to forget soon.
The party’s host, who had been absent from and oblivious to the festivities below, was whipping a naked woman chained to the wall. She had bright ruby lips and a Catwoman mask. The dominator was wearing a black leather Speedo and face mask. The woman craned her head slightly and looked at me, and I could see the most curious expression in her eyes and on the part of her face not covered by the mask—a certain sadness pushing through her seeming attempt at kink and submission. Had it been the me of yesteryear, the righteous, caring man of conviction and defender of Good, I would have released her. I moved on quickly, although the host did twist back and see me.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said deceptively, then laughed uproariously. And he resumed his activities without closing the door.
As I looked back over my shoulder in astonishment at the scene playing out, I rammed right into none other than Tex himself, who had found a pretty blond partner with whom to go extracurricular.
“What do you think of the art?” he said, all jittered up.
“Who cares?” I said, deadpan.
“Here,” he said, and jammed a packet into my palm. “It’s all yours.”
I thanked him and proceeded to find the nearest party corner. I was not really worried about anyone witnessing my intake, largely because of the medieval Olympics going on nearby. It made my indulgence seem rather tame in comparison. Any discretion at this point was overkill.
When I returned to the table, Rafaela was gone, and the waiters were presenting dessert. As I looked around, I had the conscious feeling of a frenzy being whipped up. I could feel the energy, and there was noise coming from outside the house. Certainly, the after-dinner throng of scenesters, wannabes, and hobnobbing hopefuls had collected outside, trying to get in. I took it all in and sniffled several times.
An aggressive hand assaulted my shoulder. “Hey, where’s The Raven?” It was Tex again, and I just shrugged. The Raven, who hadn’t been invited to the exclusive dinner, had planned to arrive for the party afterward. Tex moved on to table-hop. He was running on bathroom inspiration, and from this jacked-up perspective, he felt comfortable enough to assault the famous crowd.
“There you are,” a half-panicked voice said in my ear. Without turning around, I knew it was Jazzy. She was a pal, too, and we’d been fucking around for a couple years. Her eyes were buzzing and she looked disheveled, with her long, wavy black hair twisted in an awkward low knot. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Here I am.”
Exasperated, she plopped herself down in the seat next to me. “This party sucks.” Jazzy, a singer, was a constant target of the press and the paparazzi, and a lot of it had to do with her own publicity-generating antics. She was part African American and gifted with a gorgeous face and café au lait skin, like a modern Beverly Johnson. She was a mess, really, a victim of the prototypical torture that often accompanied her half-white, half-black lineage. On top of that she was a pop singer, a profession that offered a perfect storm of psychological pressure on an already troubled psyche. She rope-swung through unfulfilling romances and relationships, and she’d been in and out of rehab for drugs and alcohol. She was not supposed to be out or be seen out, especially in a way-public scene as explosive as Art Basel.
“How are you, babes? Are you hungry?” I said.
She looked at me like the thought of food hadn’t been enticing to her in several years. As we looked around, we could see the party growing in numbers, more and more people shooting past us to the open bar.
“I barely got onto the island. There’s a total traffic jam of cars trying to get in, cars getting blocked from leaving. There are so many cops out there. I saw The Raven, too.”
“What was he doing?”
“Trying to get in, but he was getting pushed around by the crowd.”
I overheard someone saying the auction had raised fifteen million dollars.
Just then I could feel the weight of something. Danger, perhaps. It seemed the place was getting out of control, transforming into some sort of Caligula-style free-for-all. Pushing, drinking, clamoring, laughing, yelling, and it was getting deeply primal very fast.
“Let’s escape,” I suggested just as Jazzy said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” We both knew that much.
I took Jazzy by the arm, and we dashed toward the entrance past a brace of cops who seemed determined to shut the party down. As we slipped past the hordes desperate to get in the front gate, I heard The Raven’s unmistakable voice frantically calling my name, but I didn’t want to deal, so I pretended not to hear him. Then I heard him groan like he was getting sideswiped. I looked back and saw a cop giving him a hard time and roughing him up a bit. The Raven could “cop an attitude,” too, as his years of dolce vita access made him feel, act, and talk superior to the masses—police included.
Jazzy and I quickly realized there was no way we’d get a cab in such a cluster-fuck mess. “How did you get here?” she asked, looking around for a way out.
Of course: I had come over on Tex’s boat. As Jazzy and I spun around and carved our way through the rapidly increasing crowd to go in the direction of the private dock, I had the feeling of becoming unglued from everything around me. I wondered if it was a cocaine-infused reaction to the swirling crowd.
Finally, we made it to the Viagra. I thanked the skipper for taking us on board and instructed him to go back to the party to get Tex and his entourage after he dropped us off.
“He already left. They went to the club, but he told me to get you. They’re waiting for you at The Rock.”
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”
Soon we were charging back across the waterways. I could see the choke of cars and the sea of brake lights on the mainland, all lined up trying to get onto Hibiscus Island.
We hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take us to The Rock. As soon as I had a moment to myself, looking out at the beautiful sweep of lights emanating from downtown Miami, Jazzy’s lips landed on mine, and we made out the rest of the way. I stuck a decent but polite finger beneath her skirt and let it swim in her pussy for a while to make us both feel like we were actually having a great time. Perhaps we were. It didn’t really matter one way or the other.
And then I thought about the face of the woman with the Catwoman mask and bright red lips. The woman the host had been whipping. I wondered what she thought of the art.
WE PULLED UP BEFORE The Rock Lounge at the Mina Hotel, and
I shoved the cabdriver some cash. As we emerged, the paparazzi went nuts, and Jazzy shielded her face with a scarf while I just looked down.
“Hey, Rodrigo, who you with?”
“Not tonight, guys . . . not in the mood . . .”
“Not in the mood? It’s fucking Art Basel!”
“Who are you with?”
“Who you meeting?”
The flock of paparazzi followed us right up to the velvet ropes.
“Hey, Rodrigo, who’s inside, anyone famous?”
“I’m beautiful, famous, and have more money than Santa Claus. Who else needs to be here?”
Julio, the doorman, got a kick out of that one and smiled as he ushered us in. The joint was jumping to some house grooves. I saw Tex there, doing his “shopping for tables” thing. His MO was never to make a reservation at the hottest places, and then to show up with ten people, an entourage to exclude you from any possible table consideration. He’d walk around, spot a good table, and say something along the lines of “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Tex, and I am the King of Fun.” Then he would show them the cover of some recent financial periodical with his picture on it, Fortune or Forbes or the WSJ, that he always carried folded up in his suit-coat pocket. “I started at the bottom, but now, well, here we are. I apologize, I forgot to book a table, but I would love to offer you a nice sum for yours, say, forty thousand dollars? Sorry, ladies, I don’t mean to be rude, I’ve been travelin’ a lot, and I just want to have a great night with my friends. Of course, my offer is to this fine gentleman for his table, but all you ladies, the beautiful angels of the world that you are, are more than welcome to stay.”
Once the guys picked their jaws up off the floor, they would snatch the bank check made out to cash and magically disappear. The young ladies were usually all too happy to stay. And at that price, the guys didn’t really mind. I found the routine somewhat funny, as crass as it was.
“Hi, Rodrigo.” The shapely young maître d’ greeted me with a total-body embrace that told me I could have a table or anything else I wanted. I had her number but hadn’t been around to give her a call yet. But she was worth the time. As she held on to me, I could see the row of annoyed faces impatiently waiting for her attention and service.
The Beautiful Dream of Life Page 2