Blood Relations Page 8

  George’s wicker-backed chair clattered to the sidewalk when he stood up. “Do it, motherfucker. I’ll bust that pretty mouth of yours. No stomach punches. I’m goin’ for the teeth.”

  A waiter hustled over, followed by the manager, then a cook with a huge neck and a scowl, wiping his hands on his apron. Sullivan knitted his fingers over his belly, relaxing. He could see which way this would go.

  The manager took George’s arm, spoke close to his ear. “What’re you doing, George? Come on, cut it out. I can’t have this.”

  George jerked away and leaned into Sullivan’s face. “You’re through on the Beach, asshole.”

  “Gee. I’ll never work in this town again.”

  He watched George stomp back across the street, get into his miserable car, and screech out of the parking space, barely missing a van with an Ohio plate. A horn blared. A cloud of bluish smoke drifted slowly upward. The manager put the chair back.

  Sullivan waited until his hands were steady before he reached for his juice. People at the other tables gradually returned to their conversations, and the flow continued on the sidewalk.

  The kid’s mouth was hanging open. “Aren’t you scared he’ll do something?”

  Sullivan shrugged. “I can deal with George.”

  Tommy leaned closer, a hand on Sullivan’s chair. “What’s Stavros?”

  “Not what. Who.” He exhaled. “Stavros was a friend of mine who became involved with George Fonseca. He’s now dead.”

  “No shit. You mean … George killed him?”

  Sullivan looked steadily at Tommy Chang. “No. Stavros died in a motorcycle accident, but he was working his way up from cocaine and meth to heroin, thanks to George. Ask Caitlin, she knew him.” For a while Sullivan sat without speaking.

  Tommy Chang’s curiosity hadn’t run dry. He prodded, “Who’s Claudia Otero?” He had scooted his chair closer, and Sullivan could feel the heat radiating off his body.

  Sullivan took another swallow of cranberry juice, then set down the glass. In the sunlight, the liquid danced red on the white tablecloth.

  “Claudia Otero is a designer from Madrid, born in Havana. She has a boutique on Lincoln Road. She and Tereza Ruffini hate each other’s guts. Claudia has talent. Tereza recycles last year’s Versace at half the price. Just the thing for South Beach.” He added, “Claudia and I spent some time together. I met her on my first trip to Paris, when I was twenty-two.”

  The kid grinned. “You went out with her?”

  Sullivan slid his arm across Tommy’s shoulders and said quietly, “I did not ‘go out with her,’ Tommy. I fucked her for a week solid up and down the Côte d’Azur on a yacht owned by Nino Seruti.”

  “Bitchin’.”

  “Believe it. We’re still friends. In fact, you should meet her.” Just in time, Sullivan stopped himself from mentioning Claudia’s party at La Voile Rouge on Friday. He wouldn’t mind taking this kid to La Voile Rouge, but not without a haircut and some manners.

  “Tell you what. Come over to the Colony Hotel tonight. My agency is throwing a party. Free champagne. Meet the folks.”

  He could see the emotions flitting across the kid’s face. “I don’t know these people. I can’t, like, just walk in.”

  “You know me.” Sullivan spoke softly into his ear. “Listen, Tommy. It doesn’t matter who you are if you know the right people. Yes, it’s a spurious sort of existence, I grant you, but what other kind is there, when you really think about it?”

  “I guess.” Tommy was a little dazed. The cream of American youth. At that moment Sullivan wanted to backhand him.

  Then he played with the idea of suggesting that Tommy come by his flat first. They could go to the hotel together, wouldn’t that be easier? Of course he would say yes. The kid was smiling already, thinking of how to impress all those cool people.

  A chill passed over Sullivan’s neck as if a blast of air conditioning had rolled out the door of the restaurant onto the sidewalk. He pulled away from Tommy and crossed his arms. The melancholy was settling down like a cold, wet dog on his chest.

  Tommy said, “What am I supposed to do? Like, wait for you outside the bar, or what? Hey, are they going to card me? I could get a fake ID.”

  For several seconds, Sullivan looked at him, unbearably weary. “You know, you really should clean yourself up. It’s disgusting. You chew with your mouth open and you have the vocabulary of a twelve-year-old.”

  Confused, Tommy said, “Hey.”

  “Yeah. Hey. Like, why don’t you shove off? Go play with your Kodak.”

  After a second, the kid pushed away from the table. “Fuck you, man. You’re crazy.”

  Sullivan watched him through the crowd of pedestrians on the sidewalk, his long, black hair gleaming on his bare shoulders, bouncing with each step. Nice shoulders. Too bad.

  He noticed a man at the next table looking at him from behind sunglasses with shiny silver lenses.

  Sullivan stared coldly into them for a minute, then turned his chair, closed his eyes, and let the sun pour down on his face.

  chapter six

  Leaning back with his cowboy boots propped on the edge of the table, Frank Tolin heard the elevator whine to a stop. Then a muffled ding. He went back to the peach yogurt he’d found in Caitlin’s refrigerator.

  It was quiet here, five floors above the traffic on Collins Avenue. The studio was on the southeast corner of what used to be a stockbroker’s office. Light streamed in through the blinds onto an empty expanse of concrete where the carpet had been peeled up. There were lamps on tripods, props and colored backdrops, and a wall of shelves filled with photographic equipment and storage boxes. She had a small darkroom, a kitchenette, and a daybed. Frank’s money had paid for it. Caitlin tended to forget that fact.

  Taking another spoonful of yogurt, he kept his eyes on the door. A few minutes ago, he’d been gazing out the window to pass the time and had noticed Caitlin talking to Marty Cass down on Lincoln Road. Twenty years as a trial attorney had taught Frank about body language. Now he was wondering whether it had been wise of him to ask Marty to give Caitlin that job. Marty was probably trying to stiff her. He was getting to be a pain in the ass.

  Keys jangled at the lock. Frank blotted his mustache on a napkin and set the yogurt aside.

  She came in and turned to fasten the deadbolt. A camera swung from her shoulder. She was wearing shorts, and her legs were tanned from the sun. Her streaky blond hair was under a cap, a ponytail sticking out the back.

  When she turned around she saw him and jumped.

  He smiled at her over the tooled leather toes of his boots. “Boo!”

  “Dammit, Frank.” She tossed her hat onto an armchair stacked with photography magazines. “I wish you wouldn’t just come in here like that.”

  “Afraid I might catch you at something?”

  “Ha-ha.” Caitlin set her camera on a workbench by the darkroom door. “I thought you were going to be at my apartment later. Someone wants me to do some head shots at three o’clock, and I really can’t stop to talk.”

  “It’s nice to be missed.”

  “Aww-w-w.” She came around the table to kiss him. He didn’t respond other than to tilt his face up, wanting to see how much she would put into it.

  Not much. It was a friendly peck on the lips.

  She patted his shoulder. “Did Tommy Chang come by?”

  “He just left. He said to tell you he’s taking the film to the lab.” Frank watched her go over to the sink to wash her hands and face. Her fanny moved when she worked up the suds. He asked, “How’d the Grand Caribe shoot go?”

  “Fine. I think we got some good ones.”

  “Everything okay with Marty? Did he pay you?”

  She dried her hands. “He wasn’t there. I’ll see him next week for a check.”

  “You didn’t see him today?”

  “No.” She hung up the towel on a hook. “If I have any problems with Marty, I’ll let you know.”

  Frank s
miled. What made her lie like that? It was a challenge, figuring out what she held back, what she would tell him. “Let’s go to the Strand tonight,” he said. “I’ve got some clients coming, so wear something nice. The blue dress I bought you. My suit’s in my car. I’ll change at your place.”

  She stood with a hand on her hip as if she was going to say something, then shook her head. He knew what that was about. She didn’t want him making himself at home in her apartment. They had already had that argument more than once, and he didn’t want to start it up again. He decided not to remind her that he owned the building and she didn’t pay a dime in rent.

  He said, “If you don’t mind.”

  She shook her head, then leaned over to unload the cart her assistant had brought up. Frank noticed the broken vein on the back of her left thigh. And she was getting lines around her eyes. Her body wasn’t as firm as it used to be either, but none of that mattered to him. Caitlin Dorn was still a beauty. Eight years ago he had met her at a party for the production staff of Miami Vice, and her smile had nearly knocked him out. Some of his friends dated younger women, often in their early twenties. They went through one after another of these girls. Frank didn’t want that. What he and Caitlin had was permanent.

  But now and then they’d hit a rough spot, and she’d have to be by herself for a few months. He used to tell himself that an occasional separation kept the relationship fresh, but he was getting tired of this game. Maybe he spoiled her. Caitlin didn’t realize how few good men there were out there, especially for women her age. Frank knew he was a good catch. He had a successful law practice. He was healthy and trim, appearing younger than his age, which was forty-seven. He got along with just about everyone, provided they weren’t total assholes.

  Lately Frank had started thinking about marriage, which he’d sworn never to do again, having been through two of them. Last week, in fact, he was about to suggest that Caitlin move her things into his condo in the Grove, but there were those vibes again, like the small tremors that precede a major earthquake.

  Something was going on with her, ever since that model had been raped. Possibly that was bothering Caitlin, but Frank didn’t think so. He was afraid it was something else.

  About three years ago, during one of their longer separations, he had suspected she was running around. He hired a private investigator and got the story. She’d been cheating on him with Sam Hagen. A double betrayal. Frank had brought Sam into his office a year or two before that, paid him a good salary, and spent considerable effort showing him what a civil trial practice was all about. All as a favor for Sam’s wife. Dina Hagen had come to him privately, had told him they were having money problems. Then she mentioned that incident in Vietnam, as if Frank owed Sam for something that had happened when they’d been kids. He could see Sam bragging to Dina about saving Frank Tolin’s hide. An embarrassment then, more so now.

  Sam Hagen lacked the drive for personal injury work, so he’d gone back to the state attorney’s office. Then a few months later he started fooling around with Caitlin. Frank had been so torn up he’d had fantasies about getting out his shotgun and blowing them both to hell. He stayed drunk for a week instead, dosing himself on uppers to get to the office. Then Caitlin came back, as she always did.

  Now Frank had reason to think she had seen Sam Hagen again. He dropped his feet to the floor and stood up. His boots echoed on the concrete.

  Caitlin was dusting off her telephoto lens, putting it back in its case. He went over and lifted her ponytail, and tickled her neck with his mustache. Smiling, she turned around and kissed him. This one was better.

  After a while he drew back far enough to see her face clearly. “I heard the state attorney’s office is investigating that rape you saw at the Apocalypse.”

  “Oh?”

  “Marty Cass told me.” Frank wound a loose strand of her hair around his finger.

  “Yes, I heard the same thing,” Caitlin said.

  “You didn’t tell me.” He tugged on the strand of hair.

  “Ouch.” Wincing, she pulled it out of his grasp. “I just found out, Frank. Just this morning.”

  “Have you talked to Sam Hagen about it?”

  “Sam Hagen? No. Why?”

  “He’s the prosecutor in charge. You didn’t know?” Frank locked his hands behind her waist and pulled her up against him.

  “I do know that, yes.”

  “Marty says Hagen is talking to witnesses. You’re a witness. You haven’t talked to him?”

  “No. I said I hadn’t.” Those big green eyes of hers could convey such innocence. “There were other witnesses, better than I.” She slipped out of his arms to latch the case on her telephoto. “The best witness told me this morning that he has already given a statement. Maybe I won’t have to.”

  He was curious. “What witness?”

  She went around a divider that separated kitchen area from studio to put the camera away. He heard her voice. “Sullivan. Charlie Sullivan. I told you he was there that night.”

  “Oh, yeah. Superstud.”

  There was silence; then Caitlin said, “If this gets to trial—”

  Frank waited, then asked, “If this gets to trial? What, sweetheart?”

  She reappeared. “I don’t care about Sullivan, believe me, but if he testifies—” Caitlin turned her green eyes on Frank. “You know about trials, how nasty they can get. This one, particularly. Reporters and private investigators rooting around for anything the slightest bit juicy.”

  “Like what, Catie?” Her affair with Sam Hagen would be a juicy bit for a defense attorney to discover.

  She said, “Like the prime witness being involved with the prosecutor’s son.”

  Frank stared at her. “Give me that again?”

  “Charlie Sullivan seduced Matthew.” Caitlin took his hands. “Please, Frank. Swear you’ll never mention this to anyone.”

  “Matthew?”

  “Yes, Matthew. You must have met him.”

  “Sure, once or twice, when Sam brought him around to the office. I don’t remember him very well.” Caitlin gripped his hands tighter, and he said, “No, I won’t tell anyone.”

  She let him go. “Sullivan wouldn’t deny it, if anyone asked him. It’s nothing to him, but Klaus Ruffini’s defense attorney would love to use that information.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Matthew and I worked together. I did the photos for his book. We got to know each other, and I more or less picked up on what was going on with him. He was only nineteen, and he was so trusting. Oh, God, Frank. You don’t know. Sullivan is such a vampire. Poor Matthew.”

  “Sam Hagen’s boy?” Frank smiled, thinking of the irony. Hagen must have gone ballistic.

  Caitlin’s face flushed. “It’s not humorous in the least. It’s awful, what happened to him.”

  “No, Catie, you surprised me, that’s all. Look, this is Miami Beach, not rural Alabama. If Sam Hagen’s kid had a thing going with another guy, so what?”

  “Frank, you don’t understand. Matthew was depressed and confused. Sullivan told him he was a loser, he’d never make it as a model. He died in a motorcycle crash only two weeks later, drunk out of his mind. What does that look like?”

  “You mean he did it deliberately? Killed himself?”

  “People could think so.”

  “I guess they could.” Frank rubbed her back through her T-shirt, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton. “I wonder if Sam knows about this.”

  “I doubt it. Matthew told me they had problems talking to each other. He was intensely afraid of anyone in his family finding out.”

  Frank spoke softly, his lips against her temple. “Are you worried how Sam would take it?”

  She laughed. “Not much bothers Sam Hagen.” Then her face emptied. “Well, I shouldn’t care, but I do. His only son died. You have a son, Frank. What if he killed himself? It would be horrible. Worse than an accident. And not just for Sam. What about Matthew’s
mother? Think of it. I mean, there was this person you loved, and then suddenly somebody tells you he was queer, and he killed himself because his boyfriend called him a loser. Or maybe he was a drug addict who couldn’t stand himself anymore and ran his motorcycle off the road. Whatever twisted image is thrown in your face, the person you loved is not only dead—he’s erased. You have nothing. You don’t know who he was or even why he died. I’ll tell you about Matthew.” Caitlin’s eyes suddenly glistened. “He was a good person, Frank. He would have been okay.”

  She went to make herself busy at her workbench.

  Frank stared at her, wondering what the tears were all about. Then he knew: Caitlin was scared. She was afraid he would find out about her affair with Sam Hagen.

  Caitlin said firmly, “I don’t want to testify. I’ve seen what lawyers can do, how they can twist the truth and tear people apart.” She laughed. “God knows I don’t get into much trouble lately, in my old age, but nobody cares about reformed sinners. They only want to hear about the sins.”

  With his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans, Frank watched Caitlin rewind the film in her camera, pop open the back, and take it out. Finally he went over and turned her around. “Sweetheart, listen to me. You’re working yourself up over nothing. The state attorney’s office is going to check it out, then do a no-file. The investigation is to satisfy potential critics, that’s all.”

  She looked at him, wanting to believe him. “How do you know this?”

  “Marty told me. He says Hal Delucca has a line to the state attorney.” Frank kissed one of her eyes, then the other, tasting salt on his lips. “You know Dade County politics. Anything bad for the tourist industry, it’s going to disappear. They can’t go after Marquis Lamont or Klaus Ruffini. Don’t you worry about it, all right?”

  She laid her forehead on his shoulder, and her arms went around him. She needed him. He hugged her tightly. Here they were, the two of them, needing each other. He could be a fool sometimes, forgetting that.

  “Oh, Catie. If you know how much you mean to me.” He held her face and kissed her, brushing his mustache across her lips, then kissing her again. He moved his hands over her breasts then down to unsnap the waistband of her shorts.