Revived in Rio
A Jacob Stern Novel
BY: AARON
ALSO BY AARON
Broken Justice
An Indian and Three White Men
(Confessions From Prison)
Baghdad on the Bayou
PUBLISHED BY:
AARON AT SMASHWORDS
SMASHWORDS EDITION
COPYRIGHT © 2008 by AARON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION
IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Nothing is important but life. And for myself, I can absolutely see life nowhere but in the living. Life with a capital L is only man alive. Even a cabbage in the rain is cabbage alive. All things that are alive are amazing. And all things that are dead are subsidiary to the living. Better a live dog than a dead lion. Better a live lion than a live dog. C’est la vie!
D. H. Lawrence
Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
Lie there what hidden woman’s fear their will,
We’ll have a swashing and a martial outside,
As many other mannish cowards have
That do outface it with their semblances.
As You Like It
PROLOGUE
DEATH ON THE HIGH SEAS
The Radisson High Seas is a fine ship and most unusual from your ordinary cruise ship. It is smaller, with fewer passengers, but all of the amenities are there. Because of this, its rates are higher. In fact it is quite luxurious, and the passengers tend to be wealthier and more elite than on a common cruise ship.
The ship spends most of each year traveling to different ports of call around the world. There are two five month cruises each year that cover substantially different ports of call. The remaining two months are spent in the Los Angeles homeport for maintenance and cleaning. The staff is consistently the same and well trained. The rich are different. And the staff, from stewards to captain, know precisely how to handle, with tact, congeniality and efficiency, her ultra rich patrons like Marlene and Roddie Malone.
The top executive deck has four staterooms. Marlene and Roddie have two adjoining staterooms. One for each of them. One private maid and one butler. Useable space is about 3500 square feet plus a large, open deck with private pool. A huge amount of space as far as ships go. For the five month cruise, the cost is $500,000 or about $100,000 per month. This does not include tips paid at the end of the cruise.
Although there is plenty of privacy, Roddie yearns for each port of call. He loves his posh surroundings and sunbathing on the deck but by evening’s end, his patience with Marlene is wearing thin. Every afternoon there is the requisite bridge game, with specially invited guests. Roddie never quite understood the game, but he gives it his best because it is Marlene’s favorite. Then, every evening there are cocktails, a prolonged dinner with invited guests either at Latitudes or the Cordon Bleu Restaurant where reservations and a designated table await. The Malones are well known and Marlene has even been known to enter the galley and lecture the chef on some recipe. At either of those ship restaurants, the staff remained on guard at the Malones’ approach.
Late evenings were spent playing Rummicube, another of Marlene’s favorites. She loved beating Roddie and winning the game. Marlene was a poor loser, whether it was one of her racehorses or just a game on board ship.
On occasion, Roddie would walk the teak floored decks below after Marlene had gone to bed. Or, he would visit the Observation Lounge. After an evening of sipping Pinot Grecio, trying desperately not to eat too much, but typically not being able to resist the Tiramisu, Roddie felt that he needed to walk it off. But not only that, it was quiet and non-demanding away from Marlene. The fresh sea air felt soothing on his face. The breeze blowing through his long blonde hair gave him a majestic feeling. Each morning with anticipation he would look forward to that night’s walk, not only because it was his time alone, but there was always that inner seed of excitement that he might meet some young man that he could actually talk to.
As Roddie returned to his stateroom he heard Marlene calling to him. “What is it, Marlene? What is the matter?” Roddie stated in a rather cold tone, as he entered Marlene’s bedroom. “Oh, Roddie, I don’t feel too well, and look, my leg has swelled some more!”
“Here, take these diuretics and sleeping pill that the ship’s nurse gave me for you. Tomorrow, we’ll get you in the whirlpool and have the masseuse work on you. You’ll feel better,” Roddie responded with half hearted concern.
CHAPTER 1
DID HE DO IT?
The next morning, Roddie reclined in the chaise lounge on the private deck off of the stateroom as the ship sliced through the pristine Indian Ocean waves. The sun was warm and luxurious, the sea wind exotic and sultry as it rushed across his body. He opened his eyes and lazily raised his sunglasses in order to look down and admire his deepening tan. He had his long brown hair highlighted in the ship’s salon that morning, knowing that the contrast of the bleached highlights against his bronzing skin would make him even more deliciously striking at the next port-of-call. He thought about some dark lover he would meet on shore as he stroked his own chest erotically.
Sighing, Roddie lowered his sunglasses and picked up his Gentleman’s Quarterly from the side table. There was no sense in getting in a hurry. He casually began turning pages when he thought he heard movement from the sitting room of the stateroom behind him.
“Jerry? Is that you?”
Even as he said it, he knew it was unlikely. Since Marlene had fallen ill he gave the butler the week off, promising to care for her himself. Behind Jerry’s stoic, professional henchman façade, Roddie sensed that the butler was grateful. Everyone knew what a pain in the ass Marlene was when she was sick, particularly those who catered to her hand and foot. A headache wasn’t simply a headache. With her whining and moaning and constant demands, one would think she had a brain tumor.
This time Roddie was sure he heard something from the stateroom. He sighed again, annoyed. He was lethargic from sunbathing, napping off and on and nursing his pitcher of Mimosas, but still, he supposed he should get up and investigate. He laid the GQ on the table and rose, cursing the unwelcome interruption under breath.
Roddie froze as he stepped through the breezeway doors, stunned to see Marlene crawling on the stateroom floor. What a pitiful sight. Her normally impeccable coifed gray hair dangled in sweaty streaks and hung in her face. Her silk nightgown, soaked in urine and feces, clung to her aged ass above a horribly swollen leg. Roddie overcame his surprise and spoke.
“For God’s sake, Marlene! What the hell are you doing out of bed?”
Marlene turned and looked at Roddie, her feverish blue eyes flickering with rage. Roddie made his way swiftly across the room as Marlene feebly reached for the phone by the sofa. He snatched the receiver from her hand and replaced it on the cradle, then moved the whole gadget beyond her reach.
Marlene, panting, fell to the ground and snarled into the carpet, “Goddammit Roddie, help me!” her voice was raspy, though Roddie knew if she could, she would be screeching at him like a banshee.
Roddie stood over her, thinking of picking up the breathless Marlene and taking her back to bed, but seeing the soiled nightgown, his nostrils filling with the rancid odor, he thought better of it. He went to Marlene’s bathroom and jerked a plus oversized towel from its rack, then hurried back to Marlene.
Marlene had rolled over onto her back. “Fuck”, Roddie thought. The last thing he needed was a shit stain on the white carpet. He laid the towel on the carpet beside her and then roughly rolled Marlene onto it. Then he picked her up in the towel and carried her to her bedroom.
Reaching the bed, he dropped Marlene unceremoniously onto the sweaty, foul sheets, roughly raked the towel out from underneath her, then pulled the comforter up and over her body. Marlene’s eyes had narrowed to slits. She reached out with a claw-like hand and buried her perfectly manicured nails into the skin of Roddie’s forearm. He jerked his arm away. “Fucking bitch!”
“Help me,” she insisted, gray, soggy locks of hair framing the hatred on her face. “I’m sick, Roddie, very sick, I think I’m dying.”
Roddie looked at her nonplussed.
“Help me, you flaming faggot,” Marlene spat.
“The ship’s nurse said you’ve got the flu, Marlene. Stop acting like it’s fucking malaria.”
Marlene’s eyes launched daggers at him. Roddie calmly countered with an insincere smile.
Suddenly he recoiled from her smell. He was surprised that it hadn’t hit him as violently before. Perhaps he had been too busy getting Marlene lovingly tucked back into bed to notice it. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Mother of God, Marlene. You smell like a rotting corpse.”
He crossed the room and drew back the curtains and opened the sliding door, ignoring Marlene’s blistering gaze and impassioned demands. The salty sea winds gusted around the room, carrying the revolting smell and Marlene’s whining with it as it rushed out again to the open sea.
Roddie walked across the sitting room into his own private quarters and stepped into a steaming shower. He showered and shaved, taking his time, then got out and dried off. He wrapped a towel around his waist before he padded back across the stateroom, avoiding the shit stains.
Roddie passed the shit stains on the carpet once more on his way to his room to dress. He decided not to bother with them. Jerry could deal with them.
A few minutes later, Roddie opened the door to the stateroom and looked carefully down the hall both ways. He had only to make it to the end of this hall to the service elevator. He listened for voices or footsteps. Nothing. Roddie stepped from the stateroom and closed the door quietly behind him. He strolled down the hall confidently.
On the doorknob behind him hung a printed sign with an added note. Roddie knew that he shouldn’t have, but he had been unable to resist one final brilliant stroke of twisted irony. The printed sign read, “Do Not Disturb,” and forged in Marlene’s flowing, feminine script on the Post-It-Note stuck to it, “My husband is fucking me!”
CHAPTER 2
HELP!!!
Mickey Jones is a highly competent lawyer and partner in a small boutique firm that specialized in trusts and estates, “Jones, Kall & Knight”.
Jacob Stern, a middle aged, life hardened private investigator sat with Mickey Jones in a small conference room filled with mahogany furniture. The 40th floor window of the Pontchartrain Building offered a spectacular view of a bend in the Mississippi River.
“You know, Jacob, we trust and estate lawyers get paid plenty of money and don’t have to get into all that high pressured confrontation that you trial lawyers do.”
“Well, I don’t have to get all pressured up in trial anymore, as you know.” Jacob said.
“That may be so, Jacob, but I have heard that you use those same techniques as an investigator. That’s what makes you one of the premier investigators in this part of the country.”
Jacob noticed that Mickey called his name often in conversation. He supposed this is what you do with gentile folks to establish that air of credibility. He thought he might try it himself, just to see how it felt.
“You know, Mickey, I never knew how you estate lawyers got paid such big money, without a client taking you to the grievance committee of the bar association. Yet, I’ve never seen an estate lawyer before the grievance committee, only on them. If I charged like you guys, either I wouldn’t get paid or I’d be constantly explaining my bill to the ethics board.”
“Jacob, that’s where you trial lawyers are so busy fighting each other that you can’t see the ocean for the minnows. If you are the ethics board, there is not much to explain. Besides that, we have a judicial finding of proper conduct.
“How’s that” Jacob said.
“Well, as you know, probate judges are just that. They handle probate of estates. On every estate we probate, no matter how big or how small, the amount of time that we bill for is never questioned because the Judge approves the bill. That’s why we who specialize in this field spend so much time and money getting the right judge (ha! You know, a fair judge) on the bench and keeping him happy while he is there.”
“Yep, sounds a whole lot like trial law. Just a different subject matter,” Jacob said.
“Okay, Mickey, enough shop talk, let’s get down to what you want from me on the Merry Widow.”
“Oh, so you know that we call Marlene the ‘Merry Widow,’ do you? Are you familiar with Die Lustige Witive, the romantic musical concerning the rich widow, Hanna Glawari, and her attempt to find a husband?” Mickey asked with wide-eyed surprise.
“No. I just heard your secretary refer to her as the Merry Widow.” Jake responded.
“Actually, I’m so pissed off at Roddie, I don’t give a damn about Marlene Malone or her Merry Widow antics.” Mickey said.
“Then what do you need me for?” Jacob questioned.
“Unlike a criminal lawyer, a trust and estate practice is only as good as its aura of credibility and trustworthiness in the community. These bastards, Rod the gigolo and Killman his new lawyer, set me up first to handle a trust funded by Marlene for the benefit of Rod, a couple million dollars, and are now suing me for mismanagement.”
“Yeah, but you’ll probably win, right” Jacob said.
“There is no winning and that conniving Philly lawyer, Killman, knows that. The mere making of such allegations destroys the credibility of an estate and trust lawyer. My God, it was all over the news. It’s hurt our business. God only knows, the law practice is competitive enough without having a credibility dagger stuck in your back.”
“I know what you mean.” Jacob said.
“Marlene and Rod are on a cruise on the Radisson High seas cruise line. I want to know what’s going on out there. I want to know how that Philly lawyer set me up to be the bad guy in managing Rod’s trust.” Mickey responded, his face beginning to get red and his eyes widening. “Damn it, Jacob, give it everything you’ve got. The world has got to know that I’m not the sleaze bag, here. That Goddamn Roddie and his Philly lawyer that he hired behind my back are.
“I’ll get started,” Jacob said, “but you know something this complex is going to take some time, and it looks like some extensive travel, and as you know, I charge a bit more than other investigators in town.”
“I don’t like spending the money but the time, expense and bad publicity of this bogus suit is outrageous.” Mickey responded.
“I know what that feels like.” Jake interjected.
I can’t live with these question marks pounding in my head anymore. I can’t stand the constant accusation of misdeed in the Bar. Let’s get started.”
On the way down from the 40th floor of the Pontchartrain Building in the elevator, Jacob began to realize what he had taken on. How do you find out what’s going on in a rich woman’s boudoir in the middle of the ocean? Or, what kind of game plan a machiavellian gigolo was dreaming up with a different lawyer behind the scene.
The Philly lawyer, Killman, going after Mickey Jones and using Roddie as the Plaintiff in that lawsuit. Was it just a ruse to hide what Roddie and Killman were up to, or was Mickey really screwing Roddie’s trust that he represented? Jacob knew anything was possible, here.
CHAPTER 3
ALLEN’S BAR
It had been several years since Jake was a licensed, practicing attorney. To him it seemed like a lifetime – and someone else’s life at that.
He nodded politely as he always did at Sam, a courthouse fixture for decades, and walked out of the doors to the edge of the first granite step. Back in “the day” this was where the media would meet him, his paralegal Mildred at his side, the reporters’ microphones inches from his lips, their questions coming as rapid as a fire of bullets about the case he had just finished. The jury having acquitted. The press wanting to know “Did he really do it?”
Whispers from behind him lurched Jake back into the present. He shook his head and stared down at the granite steps, a smile of irony tugging at the corners of his lips. If only the Ethics Committee had been as kind to him as the press. The reasonable doubts when he had been accused of conflict of interest in his disbarment were as big as boulders. No one had to dig for them. In fact, the doubt had to be crawled over and ignored. His attention inadvertently focused on the whispers of the security personnel standing behind him at the courthouse door. They had followed him outside for a closer look. It was Sam, the veteran guard, muttering under his breath to the rookie.
“He used to be a criminal defense lawyer.
Damned good one, too.”
Jake started down the steps, weary now, and headed down the street toward the bar. He didn’t care to hear the rest. He had overheard it a thousand times before.
Yes, it had been several years since Jacob was a licensed, practicing attorney. It seemed like it was another life. Perhaps someone else’s life, not his.
People looked at him differently now. The realization struck him suddenly! People now called him “Jake”, not Jacob Stern, attorney at law, trial lawyer elite, or excellent “litigator” in the more conservative circles.
Now it was “Jake, the investigator.” People knew he was good at what he did. But things were different now. Jake knew that whenever he left a conversation at a cocktail party or even after leaving the clerk’s office at the courthouse, if he turned he would catch a lot of whispering behind his back. He knew this because he had done it before, but now, he was tired of turning.
“He used to be a lawyer,” they would say. The looks on the faces when he would catch them were priceless. As if to say, “Oh shit! Jake caught me saying that!”
For a while, it had become a game with Jake. There was a time when the looks, the whispers really bothered him. Now, he liked comparing the “deer in the headlight” looks, one to another, when he would suddenly turn.
Jake knew people were sometimes two faced. After all, he had mastered the technique himself; he had been a lawyer. Still, the sweetness with which one of the courthouse clerks would present herself was so diametric to what he saw, when he would unexpectedly turn upon leaving.
Jake left the courthouse and went down the street to his favorite watering hole, Allen’s Bar. Allen was there; he always was. Jake sat down across from him at the bar. Allen dried a bar glass.
“The usual?” Allen asked.
“Chivas on the rocks, water back. It’s not too early, is it?”
“You know, Allen, I get damn tired with people talking behind my back!”
“Oh yeah? We’re not gonna go there again, are we Jake? Just let it be.”
“You know, I always expected people to be a bit two faced. I always figured it was just because a person wanted to escape confrontation, so they would just go with the flow of conversation and opinion at hand. You know, it’s like when some person is lambasting about Jesus or looking to argue about politics, you agree but when you get away from it, you go ‘that was a crock’.”
“Jake, get off it. Remember when you bugged your own lawyer’s phone in your disbarment proceedings? He would tell you he was there to fight for you, and he was there to support and help you in every way. Not exactly what he was saying to the State Bar prosecutor, now was it? He was describing you as a sorry louse that shouldn’t be part of that fine professional community.”
“Yeah, Allen, I know. Still, it always bothers me. I can’t help it. I guess I should have understood what that law professor was saying to me way back when he said, ‘Stern, if you can’t stand rejection, you can’t be a trial lawyer.”
“Jake, you ever hear Pedro’s story?”
“No. Who’s Pedro?”
“Pedro and Jose are sitting on top of a hill, overlooking the valley and the little town nestled there. It is a pristine setting, cobblestone streets, red tiled roof houses, palm trees.
Pedro says:
“You see those beautiful houses down there?
I built those houses.
But do you think they call me Pedro, the house builder? Nooo……….
You see the nice trees planted along the via?
I planted those trees.
But do you think they call me Pedro, the tree planter? Nooo……….
You see the paved walkways?
I poured those walkways.
But do you think they call me Pedro, the walk way designer? Nooo……….
See the beautiful blue swimming pools for the people to swim in?
I made those swimming pools.
But do you think they call me Pedro, the swimming pool maker? Nooo……….
But you fuck one goat………”
“Yeah, I know.” Jake responded. “It’s like Ted Kennedy and that girl that drowned when he drove off that bridge drunk. That’s all people remember. They don’t remember how he defended the right to vote. No matter what good you do, all they will remember is the one screw-up."
“Jake, you just need to get laid. That always gives me a feeling of acceptance. When was the last time, anyway?”
“Now, you get off it, Allen! Remember that lawyer, Mickey Jones, that used to come in here once in awhile!”
“Yeah!”
“Well, he contacted me last week and wants to hire me to secretly investigate why his client Marlene Malone and her hubby, Rod Malone, fired him and accused him of stealing.”
“You talking about that rich old bag, the Merry Widow? I saw it in the newspapers when she married that guy. That’s what the society page called her. The Merry Widow. The old woman was up there in her 70’s. And he was like 50.
“That’s right, but Mickey believes her gigolo, Rod had something to do with his being fired and that the Merry Widow didn’t even know about it.”
“Some gigolo,” Allen said. “The dude wasn’t even heterosexual.”
“Yeah, I know, but that’s a whole ‘nuther’ story,” Jake responded.
“Mickey has had a cob up his ass ever since losing that account to that Philly lawyer, Killman.
He thinks Roddie and Killman had a conspiracy going.”
“How did this high society Merry Widow get all of her riches anyway, Jake?”
“It’s an interesting story from what I hear. You probably saw part of that in the Society section, too.”
“Probably, but tell me again,” Allen requested.
“Well, Marlene, AKA the Merry Widow, married an heir of one of the founders of The Wall Street Journal and the Dow Jones back in the early 40’s. He was your typical trust baby, and this trust was worth bajillions. Its massive size accumulated before there was income tax.
“No shit! I thought there was always income tax.” Allen interjected.
“Marlene married this old boy. Has three kids in five years by him, and he up and dies with a brain tumor.” Jake continued.
“So she inherits all of this money and becomes the Merry Widow.” Allen concludes.
“Well, not so fast. She actually doesn’t get on this Merry Widow kick until she is in her 70’s. This is when she meets Roddie, the gigolo interior decorator. Gay Roddie has a way with old widow women I understand. Especially when it comes to separating them from their money. Anyway, Marlene and Roddie get married, and for a couple of years it is a story book of travel, spending money and letting the devil take the hindmost.” Jake says as he finishes his drink.
“Want another? Allen said.
“Yeah, one more, but this time give me a bottled water for my water back, instead of that muddy Mississippi tap water crap. I’ve got to keep my pipes clean. Never can tell, I might get laid someday.”
“Jake,” Allen said as he served up another Chivas. This time bottled water back. “I don’t like the way this sounds. This is a whole different type of investigation than what you are used to. The rich are powerful people, and they have a vested interest in keeping things just the way they are. So, Mickey got fired. So what! I hear that she wasn’t as much of a saint as the P.R. people she hired made her out to be.”
“Yeah, well, Mickey is pissed off because Roddy and the Philly lawyer set him up for a fall and are now suing him.”
“Yeah, do you really think that was the way it was?”
“Well, Mickey thinks that, and he’s one of the few lawyers that didn’t think I had some kind of leprosy in my time of trouble, so I’m kind of prejudiced in his favor.”
“You know years ago when you were trying murder cases and getting personal injury verdicts, I would never have thought it would come to this,” Allen said.
“Well, it has. Besides helping Mickey out and maybe getting a little justice back against Killman who was against me on my disbarment, I could use the money.” Jake responded.
“I’m telling you Jake, you fuck with rich people and they’ll show you what fuckins all about.
“May be, Allen, but it’s all a puzzle to me right now. Why did she marry that gigolo? Why did Rod talk her into marrying him. He’ll never inherit that Dow Jones money. And how does the lawyer Killman keep playing this game of making false accusations against people and getting away with it. Hell, I was clean. Mickey is clean and Killman put the professional black eye on both of us.” Jake explained.
“Ah! Now we get to the thrust of it, do we? You’ve had your stinger out for Killman ever since he got you disbarred haven’t you?” Allen surmised.
“Well, there’s no love lost between us. That’s for sure, but in some ways, he did me a favor. I was sick and tired of the law game and the hypocrisy that goes with it; you know, blame and retribution over and over again. Plus, he got rid of a wife that loved the money, not me.”
‘Looks like your mind is made up, Jake.”
“Yeah, I guess so. It ought to be a hell of a ride.” Jake responded. “See ya tomorrow.”
“Same time, same place?” Allen asks.
“Same place. If I get started on Marlene Malone who is apparently in the Atlantic on a cruise ship off the coast of Africa, I don’t know about the time.”
CHAPTER 4
SNAKE TRACKS
It had been a week since Mickey hired Jake. A week of isolation, holed up in a small office. Jake looked around at the separate stacks of files, notepads and miscellaneous papers placed around him on the floor as if awakening for the first time to this den of disjointed information.
With computer investigative detective ware, newspaper archives and hundreds of telephone interviews, Jake felt that he had come to know Roddie and Marlene pretty well. He sensed that the only way he would understand their respective devious minds was to come to know them almost as well as he knew that knarly wart on the back of his hand.
Jake knew from a week of day and night study that Marlene was an elderly rich widow, spoiled and demanding. But why would she want a homosexual non-lover gigolo and even go to the extent of marrying him?
Then there was Rod. It was clear that he had a pathological lust for wealth and the gaudiness that it could provide. But was that all there was?
It could be said Jake’s investigative processes were archaic. Never mind that it was tried and true through labor intensive experience, it had proven successful in case after case.
You wouldn’t call it a modern spy shop, say like CIA headquarters. There was no software to allow Jake to build matrices. He had to do it the old fashioned way. He called it his activity map. On one wall of his inner four square twenty by twenty office was a large world map. Red pins were for Roddie. Blue ones were for Marlene and black pins, if needed, were for Killman. There were other colors for players should they arise, and each pin had a flagged number on it which corresponded to a journal entry description of that event for that particular player.
“Matrices” are the webs of data that make up a smart investigation or operation. Intelligence analysts in a modern spy shop use computers to create visual “maps” of known facts and reasonable assumptions; maps that fill computer monitors or are projected onto screens to reveal connections, possible lines of cause and effect, characters who may be more than they seem because they are so interwoven in a matrix web.
Aside from this, government spy shops such as the FBI or CIA have on board psychological profilers. Brilliant psychologists who contemplate what makes a certain psyche tick in a certain way.
Jake had none of these modern conveniences for usurping the private lives of others. He did have the background check software used by most private investigators and a few other James Bond type toys. For the most part, however, it was just hard work and hours of detailed study of the target and his or her actions. Actions and the mapping of those actions told a lot that was just below the surface.
It was midnight and it was time to call in a report to Mickey. There had been a right turn on Roddie’s action map.
A startled Mickey answered the phone. “Hello, hello, uh, hello?”
“Sorry to wake you up. This is Jake. The time has come to give you a report before I leave town tomorrow.
“Oh. Okay. What time is it? Let me get my glasses.”
Jake began. “Three years ago Marlene Malone, a recent widow, married Rod Spence, a homosexual who was twenty plus years her junior. They married at a private ceremony in Indian Hills, California, at the posh Ritz Carlton.”
“Damn, Jake, you wake me up to tell me that? Hell, I was there.” Mickey growled.
“Hold on, Mickey. I want to start at the beginning, as I know it. Marlene and Rod move back to Ruidoso, New Mexico, after a brief stay at her mansion at the Century Club in Indian Hills. The next year is spent decorating the Spencer Theater at Ruidoso with six million plus dollars of Chihully glass by Rod at Marlene’s expense and the development of a new mansion for the two of them near the theatre. In between, Rod is running back and forth to El Paso to see his significant other, a young Hispanic gay fellow by the name or Lorenzo Villa.”
“I know all that, Jake. Are you charging me for this?” Mickey asks.
“The point is that life rocks along for the happily married high society couple for a year with Rod happily spending Marlene’s money and Marlene enjoying her handsome gigolo.”
“Hell I know all that too. We gave Marlene a trust distribution of a million dollars each quarter and by the end of sixty days Rod had spent it all and they were screaming for more money.” Mickey responded.
“Okay, the second year of marriage the happy couple took to taking voyages on a ship built only for the wealthy, the Radisson High Seas. These are five month cruises and Roddie is buying stuff from all over the world and shipping it back to his warehouse in El Paso.”
“Yeah. I know that too, Jake. Most of the bills of lading were sent to me.” Mickey grunted.
“Okay now I’m going to tell you what you don’t know. By the third year of the marriage, the happy couple begins to argue a lot. Marlene is tired of spending money until she is broke every sixty days. The Ruidoso mansion excavation isn’t going so well and Roddie keeps running off to Brazil for a week at a time, and Marlene has no earthly idea why.”
“Brazil? Why Brazil?” Mickey asks.
“Well, if you could see my time line on my action map you would see that this correlates in time to your getting fired and Rod and Killman suing you.” Jake responded.
“I don’t get it. I don’t see how it fits.” Mickey said.
“I don’t either, Mickey, but I’m leaving on the red eye flight to Rio to see what I can uncover. My gut tells me that Rod’s flights to Rio, you getting fired, Killman suing you and the bloom coming off the rose of marriage isn’t just all coincidence, particularly since this all occurs in such a short space in time, last year.” Jake said.
“Okay I don’t see it, but do what you have to do. That’s what I hired you for. G’night.” And Mickey hung up. As Mickey hung up, Jake felt that familiar cinching of the gut telling him something was wrong. There was an odd clicking on the telephone line during that conversation. Jake wondered if “holier than thou” estate lawyers ever had their lines swept for bugs.
What Jake sensed but couldn’t have seen was a closed van sitting down the street from Mickey’s up scale house in the Tulane district of New Orleans. In it was a big man with strong, large knotted hands lying on a cot. Louie Knarland of Creole mafia fame and most recently, Blackwater Security. By his cot was a small speaker and recorder monitoring Jake and Mickey’s every word. Louie smiled. Finally the conversation he wanted to hear. His boss, Killman, would be happy that he finally got a tap on Mickey Jones.
Boarding the Continental flight for Rio at the Louis Armstrong International Airport, Jake could not help but laugh within himself. Aside from disorienting Mickey out of a deep sleep, Jake had seemingly plucked the issue of Rio out of thin air to the consternation and confusion of the awakening Mickey. Jake all but giggled out loud. He loved abusing his lawyer clients when he got a chance. The arrogant bastards deserved it. What he had not told Mickey on the phone last night was he had intercepted a rumor Rod had bought a hacienda and a nightclub in Brazil last year.
Waiting for his flight at the Louie Armstrong International Airport, Jake sat in the employee cafeteria located next to the tarmac. The best Cajun food in all of Louisiana was cooked in this cafeteria. Most employees were Cajun, and the cooks certainly were. The airport administrator had given Jake a pass to eat there years ago in return for a personal favor that Jake did for him. Jake was probably the only non-employee allowed in the cafeteria.
As he supped on his gumbo, Jake bemused that in every investigation of a person or “spy job” as they called it in the “biz” you followed the same pattern. Seek out those who will talk about the target. Force a secretary or loyal employee with some element of blackmail or perceived paranoia in order to get them to talk. Press the right button with a disgruntled employee or ex-lover.
Jake had initiated probably a hundred interviews over the last week. Finding former disgruntled employees of Rod in the interior decorating business had not been difficult. Even though their statements were slanted with hate and dislike occasionally Jake would hit upon something for his action map.
The rumor had it Rod had bought an exclusive hacienda just outside of Rio and an extravagant gay bar called “Think Positive” in Ipanema. It was pretty clear Marlene had not accompanied Rod on these trips and probably didn’t know her money was being spent for such things.
It was a puzzlement. What was dear Roddie up to? Did it have anything to do with the simultaneous firing of Mickey? Did it have anything to do with the Philly lawyer, Killman?
CHAPTER 5
THINK POSITIVE
Upon landing, Jake caught a cab to the Hyatt Rio. It was still early and the day had yet to be consumed with humidity. At the concierge desk, he arranged for an interpreter to be available to him at eight o’clock that evening.
In the meantime, he began to organize his thoughts and come up with a game plan for answering his insatiable questions. What was Rod up to? Why a nightclub in Rio? Why a hacienda? Where did he get all the money for such a venture? That one he could guess at. Was there a connection between buying this nightclub and Mickey getting fired and sued? It all seemed to happen in close sequence. What did that mean? Jake knew the work was just beginning, but it wasn’t going to begin until he had a little rest, a solid steak dinner and a couple of Chivas for the road.
A young, small and seemingly very nervous office type of individual was introduced to Jake that evening as his interpreter. The young man’s English was good and Jake was assured by the concierge that his Portuguese was impeccable.
Rod’s club in Ipanema was called “Think Positive.” As it turned out, it was a series of clubs under one roof; each with a different suggestive name, décor and ambiance.
The taxi drove Jake and his interpreter right up to the front door under the portico just like they knew what they were doing. Inside the foyer, there was a lighted pedestal that reminded one of the Washington monument in D.C. though each side sparkled with a different color, pink, purple and red. The pedestal served as a marquee for four separately themed clubs with an arrow indicating the direction of each. There was the Dama de Ferro, Le Boy, B.I.T.C.H. Party and Cabaret Casanova. The idea was clearly take your pick for pleasure for the gay subculture.
The foyer was decorated in elegant art deco, and not surprisingly, glitzy Chihully glass. No doubt stolen from the Spencer Theater in Ruidoso, New Mexico, Marlene’s fine arts theater foundation. “Oh, the webs we weave,” thought Jake as he looked beyond the smoked glass wall at the back of the foyer. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he realized that there was a fitness center, pool and saunas as well as chaise lounges around the pool. There was a chimera over the entrance. There were men embracing, one couple kissing, others just relaxing by themselves.
Jake felt a sensation of uneasiness, and he noticed that his little interpreter apparently felt the same. Jake had never thought of himself as a homophobic, and even though he had been pretty much celibate since his wife left him, this just wasn’t his turf. He wanted to get his questions answered as quickly as possible and get back to home ground.