by Robert Lane
Our little circle had grown as a few other alpha males joined the perimeter, eager to be near the nucleus. One man, standing behind Escobar and off to his right, was younger, and his shoulders and chest bulged out of his tux. His greased black hair was in a tight ponytail and not a strand was loose. His left ear was pierced and his tuxedo was brown with a lighter shade vest and tie. He was the type of guy I didn’t need to look at twice to know I wanted to break his nose. I wanted to break it now. He had appeared when I was talking about the dolls and young girls.
Escobar’s public face was his carpet and rug business. I wasn’t surprised he didn’t mention the strip joints he owned, but I was willing to bet every man in the circle knew about them. Nor did I expect him to mention that he and his partners had profited handsomely when the Department of Transportation put in a new interchange a few years ago. The controversy around the location quickly evaporated as the power brokers moved on to the next big thing. A developer wanted to take 100 waterfront acres south of the Sunshine Skyway off the government’s hands in return for 900 acres of brush land. It had the potential to be the biggest development on the west coast, and the dogs were circling and lining up their support. To help pacify the nagging environmentalists, the developers planned on constructing a dolphin safe area, which was just what our bottle-nosed buddies needed with 8,000 square miles of the Gulf of Mexico awaiting them. I wondered if Escobar and Mendis were involved in that as well.
I wanted to squeeze Escobar and see what came out. You don’t own three strip clubs and keep your hands clean. You don’t put bulletproof glass in unless you anticipate trouble. The more I knew, the more leverage I had. I wanted to use the evening to face off with Escobar and let him know that I was on to him without revealing who I was. I would get enough dirt on him to broker my own deal for the letter.
I could always later announce my intentions and demand that he fork it over. But once I did that, all other options were off the table. He would deny having it. I’d punch him and he would call the cops. The official government stance was that Garrett Demarcus was a lawyer and I an unemployed Florida PI who recovered stolen boats. Both ex-military. Both not on the government’s payroll.
“I import carpet and rugs, Mr. Travis,” Escobar said, answering my question.
“There must be a lot of money in rugs.”
“There must be a lot of money in dolls.”
The men facing the house suddenly stepped back as if partitioned by an invisible force. I turned to see Sophia and Kathleen approaching like a sartorial wave, void of swagger yet well aware of the ripples that went out before them. Kathleen, tall in ivory, and Sophia shorter in red. Genghis Kahn could be storming the gates and not a man would have noticed. Kathleen slowed and let Sophia puncture the circle. The men’s club, momentarily, was shut down.
“Raydel, you haven’t moved all night, and Congressman, your legs have been set in concrete. I’m taking Kathleen on a tour. Anyone care to join us?”
“Michael,” I said. I showed my back to Escobar. “Would you be seriously offended if I followed these beautiful ladies? I assume you’ve had the tour?”
“Actually, I have not. I’d be delighted to join you.” He turned to Escobar. “Raydel, I’ll meet up with you later.”
“Anyone else care to join us?” Sophia asked. No one moved, and I took a few steps toward Sophia to let the dogs pick up the scent that the invitation was already closed.
I could feel the steel cold stare of Raydel Escobar on my back.
CHAPTER 10
Sophia marched us from room to room as I thought ahead to my next encounter with Escobar.
Although I didn’t think it was related to his IRS problems, I wanted to know how Escobar and Congressman Kittredge were initially acquainted. I planned to double back, check Escobar’s temperature, and push him a little harder. I had nothing to lose by making him uncomfortable.
One thing that became clear as we moved through the rooms was that you could tear the house apart for a month and not find a large envelope. Maybe he stuck it in a bank box. Maybe the letter was in Chica Bonita, the Carver’s tender. Even in my home, I’d have no problem hiding a letter so that no one could ever find it. And if they accused me of possessing such an item, I’d deny it and tell them to search away while I enjoyed a highball.
Sophia explained how she ripped off the crown molding in one bedroom because it “grated me” as being too large. The next size was too small. She returned to the original eight-inch piece. Each installment necessitated three coats of paint, as “color is instrumental in size perception.”
“Indecision may or may not be your problem,” I said.
She turned to me. “What? Oh yes, I see. I suppose you’re right, although I’m not like that in everything. It’s just that you want to get right those things that surround you every day. You become them. Don’t you think so?”
I thought of my little house with my outdoor shower. I thought of Morgan’s statement that a man should never need anything more than a sailboat could accommodate.
“You’re exactly right,” Kathleen cut in.
“We build our houses and then they build us,” Kittredge said. I was about to correct him on his botched Churchill phrase when Kathleen nudged me, reminding me not to override a congressman. Or did she just feel like giving me a nudge? Either way, to show my eternal gratitude, when Sophia and Kittredge were in front of us, I gave her a hard pinch in the ass. Right cheek. She shook her head without turning.
“And this,” Sophia said as we progressed down a long and wide walnut-paneled hallway partitioned with seashell sconces every four feet, “is Raydel’s study.”
The cavernous room was topped with a twelve-foot coffered ceiling. Ten yards of black glass reflected the night. Escobar’s desk occupied one end and rested in front of built-in shelves. A sofa and high-back chairs fronted the desk. A bar and a round poker table with five chairs anchored the other end of the room, where there was also a small table with a chessboard on it. A bursting bouquet of yellow flowers centered a tall table with a marble top that hugged a wall.
“A true man’s cave,” Kittredge said in appreciation as we entered the chamber.
“Just look at that dentil crown molding,” Kathleen gushed.
“Do you like it?” Sophia exclaimed. “It’s all handmade. The lumberyards didn’t carry the size I wanted. Each piece was cut and measured.”
“It must have taken days to measure and cut all those pieces,” Kathleen said.
“They did it twice. The first effort just appeared too small for the volume of the room.”
Evidently Mrs. Escobar tried on crown molding like she tried on dresses.
“Weren’t they glued?” I asked.
“Yes. It took considerable effort, but I had them tear it all down and start over. The size is proportionate now, don’t you think?”
“It looks perfect,” I said. I was beginning to wonder how Shramos, the builder, kept his sanity despite the crescendo of money he received from his fortuitous crossing of paths with Sophia Escobar.
Kittredge wandered off to the windows and peered out to the pool below and the Gulf beyond. “My goodness, this glass must be over an inch thick,” he said.
“Raydel said it was to block the sun,” Sophia said.
That, and Uzi machine gun bullets. Apparently she never questioned the thickness of her sunglasses. I wondered what Escobar shared with Sophia. My money was on her being in the dark about much of her husband’s affairs, but I would also bet, and bet heavy, that she was willfully ignorant.
We drifted around the circumference of the room, and I slipped behind his desk to view pictures on the shelves. One was of Escobar outside the Welcome In. It was black and white and projected an old-world charm. There were other pictures of him grinning and holding up fish, all taken in a flats boat. Judging by the shades of blue, they were most likely taken in the Keys. No water like that around here. In one photo Escobar held up a good thirty-pound permit with
a shark-size bite taken out of its tail.
But the picture that caught my eye wasn’t a fishing pose or an artistic black-and-white print. It was one of Escobar, Paulo Henriques, and Walter Mendis standing on undeveloped flat land, each smoking a large cigar with a glass of champagne, or at least champagne glasses, in their other hands. Across the bottom was scrawled “Thanks Bernie.” I assumed it was their interchange deal, as it was a scrappy piece of land, but I hadn’t a clue who Bernie was. I made a note to see if Mary Evelyn could find a “Bernie” in Escobar’s circle. Whoever the hell he was, he made the men in the photograph very happy.
I had a better idea.
“Who’s Bernie?”
“Excuse me?” Sophia spun back to me.
“In the photo, the boys are thanking Bernie. I just wondered who Bernie is.”
“Raydel and his business associates. I think he’s someone who used to work for him, but I really don’t know.” She waved her left hand in the air as she spoke, as if she could dismiss the whole lot.
Like peace, I thought. I’d given it a shot.
We departed the study and I ran my right hand against the west wall. I hadn’t detected any break in the east panels on the way in, and I wanted to know where the safe room was. Six feet from the room and into the hall I felt the break in the wall, and then I discerned the shape of a door.
“What’s this?” I asked, and the group stopped and turned. “It’s like a crack in the wall.”
“Oh, that’s the room where we keep the security equipment,” Sophia said.
“Ingenious, isn’t it, Michael? A door without handles,” I said. I wanted to draw him into the conversation so it wouldn’t seem as if I, and I alone, had an unhealthy interest in the room. Kittredge came back and ran his hand over the smooth, polished walnut surface.
“Amazing,” he said. “I can’t detect a handle and there’s barely a break in the wood. How does he even get into the room?”
Thank you, Congressman.
Sophia came back to us. “He has a pad, like a garage opener, behind his desk somewhere and it just pops open.” She said “pop” like the door would spring off its hinges, which I doubted it would do.
“And if the power’s out?” I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible.
“It’s battery operated, but even if that fails, he has a key.” She moved next to a black-and-white framed picture of a woman’s nude body from slightly below her belly button to just under the curvatures of her breasts. Droplets of glistening water rested on her skin like rainwater on a well-waxed car. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the floor beneath was wet. “I believe he keeps a key behind the picture that mechanically releases the door’s locks.”
“Nice picture,” I said.
“Raydel just adores that picture. It would be the first thing he’d grab if the house were in flames.”
“I’d grab you, Sophia,” I said. Kathleen rolled her eyes.
She tilted her head. “You are so sweet.”
“But I don’t see a keyhole,” I said with a casual shrug of my shoulders and hoped I had not overplayed my curiosity.
“It’s behind the picture as well.” If she questioned our interest for anything more than conversational banter, I could not tell.
“Well, his secret’s safe with us,” Kittredge said, staring at the picture.
“A woman’s body holds the key,” I said.
“Yes,” Sophia said, “I like that.”
“Do you do a lot of entertaining? Your house is so elegant and comfortable,” Kathleen asked. She must have sensed that we’d spent enough time on the safe room. I was going to drop it myself, already finding out more than I anticipated.
“Mostly family and Raydel’s business associates, but I do one big splash a year. I host an annual Christmas party to raise funds for families in need. This past year we raised $68,000 that we dispersed to local churches. It works so well that way. I mean, we really don’t know who warrants the assistance, but the churches do. I want to raise a hundred this year.” She turned to Kathleen. “Please tell me you’ll come.”
“We’d be delighted to.”
“Count me in as well,” Kittredge said with manufactured enthusiasm and apparently missing the veiled jab at his political dogma. “I wasn’t able to make it last year, but I’ll try to clear my schedule.” Already hedging.
“Are the gifts from the church, or do they just procure and facilitate who gets what?” I asked.
We had stopped at the second-floor foyer overlooking the great room below. The band was on break and I heard Sergio Mendes and Brasil ’66’s rendition of “The Fool on the Hill” float through the house courtesy, according to our tour guide, of forty-eight Bose speakers strategically installed throughout the rooms and grounds. “He insisted that they be wired with the thickest wires for optimum sound. Outside of his office, it was the only real intense interest Raydel had in the house,” she had told us earlier. Sophia rested her hand on the dark wood banister and faced the three of us.
“No, Jake, the gifts are not from the churches. They tell the recipients that the gifts are from anonymous donors. But to say they ‘just procure’ hardly does their effort justice. The various churches know far better than we do who is the most needy, the most deserving. Their responsibility is to identify the needy and purchase the clothing, food, toys, and, in some cases, disperse direct financial aid.”
“Very impressive, Sophia,” I said. “I hope you reach your anonymous hundred thousand.”
“We will.”
“Anyone ever complain about being anonymous?” I asked.
“There is no choice,” Sophia Escobar said.
Our foursome dissolved as Sophia excused herself and waltzed away. Kittredge was mobbed by a legion of tuxedos at the bottom of the steps eager to touch his political robe. Kathleen and I indulged ourselves at the buffet of Florida lobster, grilled mahimahi, oysters on the half shell, and crab cakes. A lady in a pale green dress instructed a catering employee in a white uniform where to find matches in the kitchen. Our plates full, we moved our feast to under a vibrant picture, at least three feet by four, of a tropical house with open walls that expanded to water and then took your eyes to a psychedelic burnt orange sunset. The picture seemed to generate its own light. Sophia had explained earlier that the picture was actually pressed onto thin aluminum and she had purchased it at a gallery in Key West. I recalled PC mentioning it and admired his power of observation. And his taste.
I took a bite of lobster. The Florida lobster is also known as spiny lobster or rock lobster. It was fresh, which was interesting as it was out of season. I fumbled for my phone.
“Who do you need to call at this time?” Kathleen asked.
“I’m sending a text to Garrett.”
I texted Garrett:
picture of es, Mendis, hen, all thanking bernie, who bernie?
Kathleen said, “Sophia’s very nice. She does a lot of good with her Christmas fund-raiser.”
“She could do a hell of a lot more if she weren’t so damn picky about crown molding.”
“That’s her choice. She doesn’t have to do anything at all, you know.”
I did know and I didn’t care. I wanted to locate Escobar again. “I’m going to leave you now,” I said and stuffed a piece of toasted, buttered Cuban bread smeared with tapenade into my mouth. I followed it with a sip of Maker’s Mark and wondered if I had crossed into heaven, but I didn’t see a dozen virgins descending the stairs and moaning my name.
“Fine, just drop me. I’m sure I’ll find other suitable men to pay attention to me.”
“I had no idea that you had an interest in suitable men.”
“I might tire of your boorish behavior.”
“I might tire of your long legs. Is that boorish enough for you?”
“I’m going to walk into the jungle and mingle some more,” she said as she looked at the picture and mocked indifference to me.
“I’m going to kick up the waters. If you
meet any suitable men, tell them to get a life. If I see any, I’ll send them your way.”
I turned and went back outside to the pool where the short, blond-haired bartender was still parked. This time, instead of seeking Escobar, I wanted him to come to me. I received a fresh drink from blondie, who informed me that she was a patient girl. I decided that she was really quite handsome, but maybe a little afraid of that look. I sequestered myself on the far corner of the patio. A five-foot-square chessboard was laid into the paver bricks. Its polished pieces reflected the flickering light of the torches and stood resolute in their spaces waiting for someone to engage them in one of the few games in the world void of luck or chance.
I didn’t wait long.
“Did you enjoy the tour, Mr. Travis?”
I rotated slowly as if I didn’t give a damn, which on any given day sums up my attitude toward a lot of things.
“Where are the rare rugs?” I asked. It seemed to catch him momentarily off guard.
“Why do you ask?” he said with wariness in his voice.
“I assumed a man who imported rugs would have a great collection himself.”
Escobar flashed a relieved smile and nod as if he was finally on board. “You know what they say about a cobbler’s son. I’m afraid that it’s hard to keep things that I can pass on for such a substantial profit. Tell me, Mr. Travis, do you keep many of your Raggedy Ann dolls?”
“Asia Annie.”
“Do you?”
“No, I do not. But decorating one’s home with children’s items is hardly the same as laying a rare Persian rug on the floor. Nonetheless, I would concur with your business instincts. It would be terribly difficult to pass up the quick profit. Nothing beats making money, real money, over a short spurt of time. The problem is the damn taxes, isn’t it? I mean it’s one thing to get a strike, but to turn around and forfeit thirty-five percent to Uncle Sam takes the wind right out of the sails.”
Escobar didn’t say anything, as if he were deciding who I was, what I knew, and where I was headed.
“Mr. Travis, we all must pay our fair share.”