Blood Relations Read online

  “I’m sorry for what happened. Jesus, if I could take back that whole night. I was totally wasted. I didn’t know what was going on.”

  “Yeah, right. I was crying, you asshole. Were you blind?”

  “You let me do it, Ali. You wanted me to.”

  “In front of God and the world? With three guys?” Ali made a little scream of frustration. “I didn’t even want it with you! What do you think I am?”

  “Okay, okay. Look, I can understand being mad, but you’re over-reacting. You want the police to arrest me, put me in prison the rest of my life? If I’d been the only one, would you be doing this?”

  “Shut up, George.”

  “No. You wouldn’t. So it’s not me you’re mad at.” There was a silence; then he said, “Maybe you don’t believe this now, but I swear to you, Ali, I swear on … on anything holy you could name that I care about you. I’ve been out with other women, but you’ve always been special, baby doll.”

  She laughed. “That is so pathetic. George, go away. Caitlin will be here any minute. And the police are coming, too. They’re escorting me, so you’d better leave.”

  George knew she was going to the state attorney’s office. Ali had told him when he called her half an hour ago. She wouldn’t have answered but the caller-ID showed her agency’s number. He had used their phone, the fucker, and now here he was. It was true about Caitlin, but not about the police escort.

  “Go away!”

  A low moan came through the crack at the door frame, like his lips were pressed to it. “If I could explain to you, tell you straight to your face how sorry I am. Take your hand. Like friends. Haven’t we been friends, at least? Please, I’m begging you.”

  The sound of his voice descended toward the floor, followed by a thud. “Jesus, I don’t believe this. I’m on my knees to you, woman. Ali, I was stoned. We were making love, then Marquis pushed me out of the way—”

  “You held me down, you shit.” Ali rushed forward and slammed her fist on the door. “Then you let Marquis Lamont do it to me. And then Klaus, who is even worse! I had to have stitches, and don’t you dare tell me it wasn’t your fault!”

  Eyes stinging, she ran across the small living room and grabbed a kitchen towel off the back of a chrome-legged chair. She pressed her face into the cloth and cried. The towel was damp and reeked sourly. She hurled it into the sink, where it sank in dishwater and sent a palmetto bug scrabbling across the counter. Ali went to the faded plaid sofa and dropped heavily on one end of it, drawing up her knees and resting her cheek on them. She remembered a year ago, carrying up her boxes and her new clothes, the apartment shiny as in a TV ad with a housewife holding a mop and smiling at her kitchen floor.

  “Are you crying, Ali?” She heard a soft knock. “Hey. Are you all right? Oh, baby. You’re in there alone, forgetting all the good times we had. Remember Key West? Ali? It was great, wasn’t it? Don’t throw it all away. Jesus, I’m sorry!”

  Lighting a cigarette, she watched the door. George Fonseca out there begging. Sounding like he meant it. She wondered if the prosecutor, Samuel Hagen, could sue just Marquis and Klaus. Put them in jail and threaten George, something like that. Make him really sorry. When they were going out George didn’t used to be so horrible. She wondered if he had changed, or if he’d always been a total sleazewad.

  “Ali, please—” She heard footsteps coming up the stairs, a pause, then George mumbling, “Hi. Just waiting for Ali.”

  He must have gotten to his feet. The landing out there was small, with stained green carpet and two doors leading off it. A Mexican couple lived across the hall. Ali heard keys jingling, then a soap opera on Spanish radio turned way up, then a door closing. The neighbor was illegal, so he wasn’t likely to call the cops. Not that Ali was afraid of George Fonseca. In all the time they’d gone out, he’d been nice. Until that night at the Apocalypse.

  She pawed through her black leather backpack for a mirror and checked her makeup. She wet the tip of her forefinger and rubbed away the splotches of mascara under her eyes.

  George said, “Ali? You listening? I talked to Marquis. I said, ‘Marquis, maybe you could get Ali a part in that movie.’ And he said, ‘Sure, tell her to come see me.’”

  “You’re a liar,” Ali said. She tossed her compact into her bag. “The stars don’t hire people, and Marquis Lamont isn’t even a star. And it’s a low-budget flick anyway. Terrorists taking over a cruise ship. How lame.”

  “Baby doll, you’re being stupid here. I mean, you’re not thinking this through. Okay, forget Marquis. You’re a model. Klaus Ruffini could get you some bookings. Think about it.”

  “I have. He’s a total turd.” She added, “Worse than you, George.” She picked up her cigarette from where she had laid it across an empty Diet Coke can. Crossed her legs, swung her foot. Waited. Maybe she could forgive him after all, depending on how long he groveled.

  There were dull thuds on the door, as if George was banging his forehead on it. “What the hell do you want?”

  She screamed, “You do not give me to your friends, George! You do not screw me in front of a roomful of people. Nobody does that to me!”

  “I fucking said I was sorry, for God’s sake!”

  “Sorry you got caught! Sorry you might go to jail!”

  She could hear him breathing.

  Finally he said, “I don’t have any money, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “Fuck you. Who asked you for money?”

  “Listen to me. Klaus might be a turd, but he’s a very rich turd. He’d pay you to drop this. He would. I could talk to him.”

  Eyes closing, Ali dropped her head to the back of the sofa and groaned.

  “Let me in, I’ll call him right now.”

  “I said no.” She got up and stood by the window, parting the dusty miniblinds to see out. Where the hell was Caitlin? Ali glanced at her watch. Twelve-forty-five already. They’d be late.

  George was saying, “You’ve got the man by the shorts, if you’d just realize it. Ali, you know that project on First Street? Grand Caribe? He’s into it big time, him and some high rollers. Nobody’s gonna let him run it from jail. If he gets hit with a rape charge, he’s in deep caca. Use your head for once.”

  “I am not a whore!”

  “Go ahead. Make your point. Then what? People talk for a while, then they forget and they’re on to the next thing, and where are you? Oh, yeah, the girl that banged three guys in the Apocalypse, what was her name? On the other hand, however, say you snag ten, twenty grand off of Klaus. You go to New York, make him get you some bookings up there. You’d be set. I’ve learned something about life, baby. If you have money you are never a whore.”

  Raising the miniblinds, Ali looked both ways along the narrow street. Two guys in nothing but swim trunks and sunglasses rolled by on skates. Still no Caitlin.

  The doorknob rattled. “Jesus! Talk to me, will you? I could kick this door down, but I’m trying to be nice.” A wooden bang reverberated through the apartment.

  Ali watched the lock, hoping it would hold. “Stop it! I’ll call 911. I mean it!”

  “Yeah? Tell them about that stash your roommate has in her closet.” The door groaned and thudded, and Ali backed away. “We’re gonna talk one way or the other.” The molding creaked.

  She sprinted into the tiny kitchen, skidded in her clogs, and threw open a drawer, metal clanging inside. She found a twelve-inch serrated bread knife and sped back across the living room. “Stop that! I’ve got a knife, a big one. If you come in here, I swear to God I’ll kill you!” The door bounced. “Don’t! I’ll cut you in pieces like dog food!”

  A surprised laugh came from the hall. “Jesus. You’re such a bitch, you know that? What the fuck, wasting my time.” His voice faded, then his footsteps returned. His palm hit the wood and Ali flinched. “You’re on coke and you pop heroin. Nobody would believe a word you said.”

  “And you deal! Everybody knows it. If you don’t leave I’ll tell the police
what you do!” Ali heard the toot of a horn and ran to the window. A blue Toyota was double-parked. With some effort she cranked open the jalousies. “Caitlin!” she yelled through the screen. “Watch out! George is up here!”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Ali.”

  His voice was right behind her. She spun around with the knife, ready to strike. But he was on his side of the door, his voice hissing through the crack.

  “Some people I know would definitely take exception if you open your mouth about certain matters. Do you understand what I’m saying? I hope you like the Everglades, baby, cause you might be taking a trip out there real soon.”

  And then his feet were thudding down the stairs.

  Flying over MacArthur Causeway bridge, Caitlin checked the rear-view mirror again to make sure no one was following. George Fonseca’s Mustang had roared out of the parking space at the curb, but she was afraid he had doubled back. He hadn’t, and she took a deep breath, trying not to show she was nervous.

  In the passenger seat, Ali was reaching up to tap ashes out the partially opened window. Her eyes were obscured by silver-framed sunglasses with lenses the size of quarters, her lips shone with gloss, and her red hair was a flaming cloud around her head. She wore a black miniskirt, patterned thigh-high hose, and a long-sleeved leotard that glimmered like mercury. No bra. Caitlin wondered if she ought to lend Ali her jacket. She herself didn’t intend to go upstairs at the state attorney’s office, only to wait in the lobby.

  Ali smiled through an exhalation of smoke. “George was so pissed off. God, you should’ve heard him screaming.”

  “I heard enough.” Caitlin looked at her. “Are you stoned?”

  “No, but I could use a Xanax.” Ali held up her palms. “Kidding! Caitlin, I was kidding. I haven’t done anything since that night, honest. I don’t know what happened to me, but it’s weird. I’m all—” She lifted her hands and splayed her long fingers. “Boing! Wake up!”

  Caitlin said, “Could I have a drag off that cigarette?”

  “What? No, you said you quit.”

  “I did, but I’m about to climb out of my skin.”

  “Really, Caitlin. You shouldn’t. They say it gives you wrinkles. Out it goes. Say bye.” After a last, deep lungful of smoke, Ali flicked the cigarette through the crack and rolled up the window. “Why did I ever go out with him? I was out of my mind.” She shook her head. “That’s it. Over. I’m finished with men. They’re trouble, that’s for sure.”

  A resolution like that wouldn’t last long, Caitlin knew, but at seventeen, Ali needed all the resolve she could get.

  “Make sure you tell Sam Hagen everything George said to you. The threats, everything.”

  “Somebody from his office knocked on my door this morning,” Ali said. She opened her bag and rummaged through it.

  “Whose office?”

  “Mr. Hagen’s. I pretended not to be home. He goes, ‘Miss Duncan, I know you’re in there. Miss Duncan, we need to talk.’ It was a creepy old guy with a limp. Not old old, but his hair was white. I looked out the window when he left. He was wearing a guayabera, but his name isn’t Spanish. He put his card under the door. On the back it says to call him.” She held it up. Dale Finley, Investigator, Office of the State Attorney.

  “Did you call?”

  “No way. The detective with the Beach Police—what’s his name? With the accent?”

  “Detective Ryabin.”

  “Right. He told me not to talk to anybody—except Sam Hagen.”

  “That’s probably a good idea.”

  Ali gave a casual shrug. “A reporter from the New Times wants to interview me. Plus Channel 7 and the Miami Herald left messages. My mom called. She was drunk, as usual. She goes, ‘Call Sixty Minutes. Call Inside Edition’ No way. It would screw up the trial. You hear about that all the time on TV. But maybe after it’s over I could sell my story.” Ali flipped up the cover on the visor mirror, took off her sunglasses, and checked her makeup. “Should I get a lawyer, do you think? What about Mr. Hagen? Does he do that?”

  “No. He’s a prosecutor.”

  “But he’s a lawyer, right?”

  “Very much so,” Caitlin said. “He’s yours, but only for the criminal proceedings.”

  “Brilliant.” Watching her image in the mirror, Ali said, “Speak to my lawyer, George. No, Mr. Ruffini, I cannot talk to you. My lawyer advised me against it.” She laughed and put her sunglasses back on.

  Caitlin said nothing. Ali Duncan was floating on a giddy rush of excitement, the star in a drama that the rest of the world didn’t care about, except as a passing example of sordid excess.

  Just two days ago Ali had come trembling to Caitlin’s studio, not knowing whether to go back home to her mother or tell the police it was all a mistake. And Caitlin had rushed in with the answer Ali had wanted most of all. Of course you didn’t deserve that. You’ve done some dumb things, but you’re a decent person at heart. First Ali had sobbed. And then she had become angry.

  Glancing now at the girl beside her, Caitlin didn’t want to talk her out of it. Ali D. had snapped into a young woman Caitlin had never seen before.

  Maybe the case wouldn’t be filed at all, if Frank was right about the city manager whispering in the state attorney’s ear. But that information had come from Marty Cass, who was hardly reliable. And anyway, Sam Hagen, for all his faults, couldn’t be bought. If Ali had the guts to go through with this, Caitlin could, too.

  She blew out a little puff of air and resettled her hands on the steering wheel.

  And if it came out about her affair with Sam, she would deal with Frank somehow. And if, by some remote chance, anyone learned about Matthew—well, that was in the past as well. It would hurt Sam and Dina to know it, but they could work out their own problems. And nothing could hurt Matthew anymore.

  The expressway rose high over the Miami River, over the rusty freighters and boatyards and small white houses with tile roofs. Far to the west, heavy gray clouds were forming over the Everglades, where the sprawl of asphalt and concrete finally ended in wetlands.

  “Let me give you a hint about Sam Hagen. I know him. Well, I used to. He practiced law with Frank a few years ago.”

  “Frank?”

  “Frank Tolin. You met him Saturday.”

  “Oh, yeah. Your boyfriend.”

  Caitlin glanced at her, then said, “Listen, Ali. Sam isn’t going to be impressed by the fact that you’re a model. He doesn’t like South Beach, the club scene, or the fashion industry.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t, that’s all. Be polite, be ladylike, and watch your mouth. Try to be respectful. He’d appreciate that.”

  Above the sunglasses, little creases appeared in the smooth skin between Ali’s eyebrows. “Wait a minute. I’m not the one who committed a crime. Why do I have to suck up to the prosecutor? Sam’s supposed to be on my side.”

  “Don’t call him Sam. It’s Mr. Hagen. He is on your side, but I’ve seen how you act around people you want to impress—men especially.”

  “What do you mean, how I act? I don’t act.”

  “Ali, you do. You laugh too loudly and you talk too much. Don’t try it with Sam Hagen. He isn’t like the people you’re used to. He has a low tolerance for bullshit. And you ought to wear something over that shirt. Take my jacket.”

  “God! I’m nervous enough and now you start criticizing me. How I talk, what I’m wearing. Thanks a lot.” Her voice shook.

  Caitlin said sharply, “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Why should you?”

  “Well, excuse me to hell and back. I didn’t have to drive you over here.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.” Ali stared straight through the windshield, thin arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Just drop me off and leave. I can get home by myself.”

  Caitlin guided the car off the exit ramp. “You’d be somebody’s lunch.”

  They waited at an intersection for the light to turn green. The state attorn
ey’s office was in the five-story, salmon-pink building to their right. No one was visible through the heavily tinted glass.

  Ali said, “Caitlin? I’m sorry. Okay? I mean, I’m like really scared about this.”

  Caitlin looked over at her, then reached across the seat. “It’ll be okay.” She squeezed Ali’s hand. The bones seemed as fragile as a kitten’s.

  “Damn.” Ali sucked in a breath. “It won’t do any good. Klaus Ruffini convicted of rape? Like it would ever happen.” She laughed shakily. “Or Marquis either. And they’ll say George was my boyfriend once, so it wasn’t rape at all. I could do what George said and collect a pile of money to shut up about it.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Ali’s head was moving slowly back and forth. She said quietly, “I remember everything they did to me. They think I don’t, but I do. They are going to be very sorry they ever saw me.”

  The light changed, and Caitlin drove past the criminal court building, slowing while people crossed the street. The sky was saturated with blue.

  “Ali—what I told you about how to deal with Sam Hagen? Never mind. Just tell him what happened. He’ll listen to you.”

  When she was Ali’s age, Caitlin was modeling for a department store in Pittsburgh to make extra money for high school. After her stepfather came into her room one night, her mother told her she’d have to leave. Caitlin stayed with a married cousin in a trailer and slept on the sofa bed. At eighteen she was sharing an East Village walk-up with a friend who had won a contract with the Wilhelmina agency in a “silky hair” contest. Caitlin had some head shots taken, made the rounds, and finally an agency signed her. They put her smiling face in a rack on the wall with her stats: height 5’8”, size 5/6, bust 34, waist 24, hips 34, shoe 8, hair blond, eyes green. Then her European sizes in French and German. Another clone of Cheryl Tiegs.

  During the day she rode the subway, noisy and crowded, to her appointments, where she was turned down more often than not. If she had no bookings, she didn’t eat. But at night she might be picked up in a limo and given champagne on the way to dinner at restaurants where the prices were printed on his menu, not on hers. She waited tables, made floral deliveries, walked dogs, froze in the winter, kept her energy up on cocaine if it was offered, and stole from delis when she was hungry.