Blood Relations (10 page)

The kid shook his head and swallowed, then wiped a finger across his lip to catch a smear of ketchup. “Not at the present time. Me and her broke up about a month ago.”

She and I, you moron. Were they all like this? No. Not all of them. Stavros had been more refined, when he wasn’t playing at being a delinquent.

How would this turn out? Sullivan wondered. How would he play it? Assuming he wanted to play at all. It was always interesting, never knowing what he himself would do, never mind anyone else.

Men and women had come on to him, some of them incredibly beautiful. He could say yes, or he could tell them to fuck off, depending on his mood. Not that his mood seemed to matter, they would still have that sappy look on their faces. He had slapped a particularly sappy woman again and again, wanting to know how many slaps would knock it off. Six.

With a clank he laid down his fork on the clear glass plate. “Don’t expect glamour,” he said. “It’s just a job.

There’s no glamour to it. And it’s not easy.”

“You just said it was.”

“it isn’t. All right, I’ll tell you what it is when you start out. A phony agent will charge you hundreds of dollars and produce nothing. A photographer will have his hands on your arse. You show up at a go-see, seven A.M., to see if they’ll hire you to model cheap sportswear for a discount department store. Everybody and his brother is in line ahead of you. Finally you get into the room, they ask for your card, the art director looks at it, not at you, because you’re only what appears on a piece of paper, after all, and he says, ‘Sorry, not what we want. Next!” Then you go to another call, and another and-”

“That happened to you?”

“Of course. Do you suppose that someone’s going to snatch you off the street for the next Calvin Klein underwear campaign? If you can’t stand the word no, you don’t belong here.”

Tommy Chang was nodding, taking a big bite of hamburger, gripping the bun in both hands, wondering if he was up to the challenge. Not looking sappy yet, but give him time.

The screech of brakes drew Sullivan’s attention. A shabby red Mustang convertible was making a U-turn down the street, coming back.

“Shit.” He didn’t know he’d said it aloud until the kid asked him what was the matter.

“It’s George Fonseca. He’s one of the men who raped that girl in the Apocalypse.” The Mustang pulled into a space at the curb, and the driver vaulted over the door. He wore big sneakers and in-fitting shorts that cupped his genitals.

Sullivan waited, his muscles tensing.

A 11 shadow fell across the table. “I been looking for you.

“What do you want, George?”

“I want to know what the fuck you think you’re doing.”

His black T-shirt had no sleeves. Gold’s Gym. Lots of armpit hair.

Sullivan exhaled. “The state attorney’s office asked me some questions, and I told them the truth.”

“I am not happy, man.”

“After what you did, I should think not.”

“What I did. You lying fuck.”

“Go away, George. You’re making people stare.”

George glanced around, then grabbed another chair and forced himself down into it, but it appeared he would spring back up at any moment, as if he were a piece of metal that had been bent.

“Look, Sullivan. We gotta talk sooner or later.”

George’s eyes went for a moment to Tommy, whose back was pressed up against the wall. “You’re still pissed off about Stavros. Okay. What the fuck do you want me to do, man? That wasn’t my fault, I told you.”

“This isn7t about Stavros. The thing is, George, that Klaus Ruffini is going down the tubes, and you’re simply on the same piece of toilet paper.”

George spoke through his teeth. “I get it. It’s your buddy, that cunt Claudia Otero. She’d give her right tit to put Moda Ruffini out of business. Is she paying you to do this?”

Tommy shifted as if he might have to run for it. Sullivan touched his forearm. “Notice, Tommy, how he froths at the mouth, literally. The spit is bubbling in the corners.”

“You’re dead meat.”

“That’s original.” Sullivan dropped his voice to a growl. “Leave, George, before I kick your bleeding ass across Ocean Drive.”

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 going’ 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 C6te d’Azur on a yacht owned by Nino Ser-uti.”

“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.

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. Caidin 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 Cassie 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!”

“Daminit, 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 byT’ “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 smiled. 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 Dom 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. Caidin 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.