Chapter Twelve
After a few extra lies and a few extra bucks and calling in a favor he wouldn’t return, Leo airmailed Whitney off to Lawrence in Daytona. Whitney had been fun while she lasted, but she cost too much money, and Leo was sick of her. Somewhere along the line, Whitney had gotten hold of the silly notion that she was in love with Leo, which Leo couldn’t blame her for, but worse, she had decided that Leo was in love with her. He might’ve let it slip a time or two in the heat of the moment, but it most definitely was not true. He vowed to be very, very cautious, from now on, what he said to these girls.
Now that Whitney was out of the picture, though, that left a crucial slot that needed to be filled. Leo, who was not a young man who sat on his hands where women were concerned, made a date with his dream girl of the season. She was a tall stack of everything good about Italy, and her name was Valentina.
Valentina seemed to belong to another century. Not the Renaissance, which was what people always said because they didn’t know what they were talking about, but she had a style, a classic old-world beauty that put miles of ground between her and every other person on the Beach. No tattoos, not a single one, anywhere. No metal stuck out of her nose or eyebrows. Her black hair wasn’t dyed. Her heart-shaped face had the saddest cast, as if she had witnessed sorrows beyond description, which Leo was pretty sure she hadn’t, but whatever it was, it was killing him. Leo was far from the only smoothskinned lifestyler attempting to coax the panties off Miss Valentina, so he had his work cut out for him, but that was all right. Nothing like a bit of unfriendly competition to get the blood flowing.
He did a bump out of the jar he had stashed in the freezer, his third of the evening or maybe his fourth, but who was counting? Leo measured a two-finger shot of tequila, cut a wedge of lemon, and shook out some salt on his wrist. A lick, a swallow, a suck of citrus, he was just about ready to go. A reminder: buy a fifth of Cuervo. Make that two fifths.
It’d be absolutely wrong to have tequila on his breath behind the wheel of the Jag. These cowboy cops pulled you over for everything as it was, but they were particularly hard-assed about young guys in expensive cars. Exhaling Jose Cuervo Gold into the face of some gung-ho redneck, very bad mechanics.
While he was scrubbing his teeth, Leo decided his shirt wasn’t working at all, and neither was his pasty, nightclub pallor. Too many late nights taking divots out of his afternoons at the beach. Which is why the white shirt failed him. He looked like an undertaker’s apprentice. The Kid needed some sun.
But now that he’d changed into a mint-green mockturtle that played nicely off his eyes, how could he stick with these black cap-toe lace-ups? Black shoes were like anti-Miami, and what he was shooting for with Valentina was a splash of traditional Beach glamour.
White loafers. White loafers were the key. White loafers and a white cotton windbreaker. Except when he gave himself a final exam, he noticed a chocolate stain near the zipper. Back upstairs one last time for the linen sports coat that originally belonged to his grandfather, a guy who knew a thing or two about looking sharp.
There was authentic H2O running through the plumbing of this fountain, trickling streams that would’ve made a soothing sound if this warhorse of a mariachi band weren’t camped out in front of it. They must’ve completed their Ocean Drive circuit then migrated up here to Lincoln Road to haul out the exasperated strains of “Guantanamera” for one final flogging before calling it a gig.
The guitarist’s bowling-ball gut had propelled a button off his shirt, and a bunch of the dingleberries that should’ve been should’ve been hanging from the brim of his sombrero were missing in action. It seemed to Leo that some of the profits needed to be re-invested in that costume.
He practically tripped over Valentina’s table. Four people were seated behind four place settings, and Leo found himself shambling up like somebody’s poor cousin. A minion from Valentina’s agency sat to her right. Announcing a photo opportunity, he blinded Leo with a flash from his disposable camera. A frumpy, frizz-haired girl sat across from him, but Leo forgot her name the instant it left Valentina’s lips.
Valentina’s brother was there, too. His name was Paulo, he was preposterously handsome, and to Leo’s horror, he was wearing the exact same linen sports coat as Leo, except his was offset by a deep tan. Al Pacinolooking motherfucker in a white dinner jacket, making Leo disappear.
Paulo was in complete control. He got the waiter’s attention with a smile, and the waiter had a chair under Leo in two shakes, sticking him on the end between Paulo and Valentina. He half-filled a wine glass with Montepulciano and poised to recite the specials.
“I’m actually not hungry,” Leo said. “I just stopped by to say hello.”
“The food is fabulous,” said the agency minion, whose name was Gregory, a butterball queen with a too-round face and a Fred Flintstone nose.
Paulo said, “It is good,” in an accent it was hard to detect.
The menu the waiter handed Leo was in Italian, and it didn’t give up any clues to what the dishes might be in English. He didn’t want to eat, but thought it’d be polite to have a plate in front of him. He took a sip of wine, but he didn’t want that, either.
When the waiter came back, Leo asked for a mozzarella, tomato and basil salad, the tomatoes would go down easy, and a Cuervo Gold margarita, straight up with salt. That’d go down easier. Except he needed to prime it with a shot. He nodded to Valentina, then to Paulo, and went inside to the bar.
All the action was outside. The dining room was deserted and the bartender was manning an empty bar, a short guy in a maroon vest. Leo barked back a tequila and headed toward the bathroom.
He took the opportunity to check his hair. Nothing wrong there. He slid into a stall and sat on the bowl. Twisting his Bullet-gram into the open position, he huffed a bump up his left nostril, and a bump up his right. He washed his hands and tilted back his head, letting some florescence up his nose. All clear. All clear and feeling good about life.
His margarita was on the table waiting for him. Leo sat down and crossed his legs. They felt safe in that position. He was glad to see everybody smoking. Lighting up a cig of his own, he tried to pick up the conversation.
The frumpy chick was a childhood friend of Paulo and Valentina. This was her first trip to the U.S. and she was flying to New York to accompany Valentina on some big modeling job. All this came through Paulo. The frump spoke no English.
Paulo disliked the New York assignment. “Valentina should be concentrating on her studies,” he said. “What does this prove? That she’s a beautiful girl? Anybody can see that. This fashion business, if you ask me, is shit. No offense, guys.”
He was a bit of a spoilsport, this brother.
“She’s going to be major,” Gregory said. “Major.” Looked like old Greg was getting himself a nice buzz on, that goblet sloshing wine at the end of his pudgy fingers. He snuffed one extra-light cigarette and lit another.
Leo was trying to think of something to say. He licked salt off the rim of his glass and took a swallow, then drew a breath as if to speak, but nothing came out. Oh, well. Fuck it.
Frumpy’s name was Chi-Chi. That was it, Chi-Chi. Paulo was pleading some case in Italian, but Chi-Chi refused to get involved, swabbing a hunk of onion foccaccia around a saucer covered with an olive oil film, her cigarette still burning in her left hand.
One waiter came to clear plates and another followed, shouldering a tray he set on a stand that a third guy opened on the flagstones.