Case of Lucy Bending (12 page)

At that point, Santangelo withdrew two folded letters from an inside pocket and handed them to Empt. Luther read the pages and passed them on to Bending and Holloway.

They were "To Whom It May Concern" letters of recommendation from the presidents of commercial banks in New York and Miami. They stated that the bearer, Mr. Rocco Santangelo, and associates, were personally known to the signatories as trustworthy men of financial probity.

Both letters also stated that the undersigned would welcome personal inquiries into the credit rating of the aforesaid Mr. Rocco Santangelo, and associates.

William Holloway read these paeans with some bemuse-ment. He recognized the name of the New York banker, although he didn't know him personally.

But he had played golf occasionally with the Miami man at state banking conventions. He remembered him as a frosty, somewhat remote character. Not at all the type he would have suspected of dealing with Rocco Santangelo.

Empt said that the bankers' letters were welcome, and he hoped that as soon as the corporation's charter was granted, Mr. Santangelo would be willing to sign a sales contract.

Mr. Santangelo then looked inquiringly at his associate.

Jimmy Stone said, "No," in a voice so low it could hardly be heard.

Whereupon Santangelo turned back to the three partners and explained that, because of the nature of the business, a signed contract would not be necessary.

"If we stiff you," he said earnestly, "what are you going to do—call in the law and tell the judge we haven't paid you for this wet pussy shit? He'll kick your ass out of court."

They saw the logic of that.

Santangelo said there would be no signed contracts, letters of intent, or business correspondence. All orders, agreements, complaints, and inquiries would be made verbally.

In addition, Santangelo said, the initial quarter-of-a-mil-lion-dollar loan, and all subsequent payments for merchandise, would be made in cash.

"It's simpler that way," he explained.

He must have seen something in their expressions, because he went on to say that what they chose to reveal of their income to the IRS was their decision to make. But, he said, there were to be no invoices, bills of lading, statements, or any other written documents indicating the nature or scope of the business.

"You see," he said in his rich, assured voice, "our relationship must be based on mutual trust. You treat us right; we treat you right. One hand scratches the other. We're willing to show our good faith by handing over a quarter-mil, bingo, like that. This could be a very nice little deal for you, so it's silly to argue about signed contracts and all that bullshit."

Luther Empt said well, perhaps a signed contract would not be absolutely necessary, but he would feel a lot better if the loan was made available before the new factory was contracted for and equipment ordered.

Santangelo said of course, the money could be handed over at once. Tomorrow, if Empt desired.

"And we won't even ask for a receipt," he said, showing his teeth.

Luther said that sounded good to him, and everyone had another drink.

Then Luther said that as soon as the corporation charter came through, and an office was established, they would get rolling on the physical plant in west Broward County.

Santangelo asked whom Empt had in mind as architect and general contractor for the factory.

Luther replied that there were several good local firms he had dealt with before. Rocco Santangelo said that he would like to recommend a Miami-based builder with whose work he was familiar. His prices were reasonable, and he always met schedules.

Luther said he would prefer to give the work to contractors he knew in Palm Beach County.

Santangelo said he really would consider it a personal favor if Empt would agree to use the Miami builder.

Empt said that was out of the question. He said that he and his partners were risking three times the amount being loaned by Santangelo, and associates, and they had to be allowed to make business decisions they felt to be in their own best interests.

Santangelo said that was true, but in this particular case, he had to insist that Empt and his partners defer to his wishes. There were reasons he could not go into, but employing the Miami builder was essential.

Empt, beginning to bristle, said no, absolutely not. They would select their own builder.

Then there was silence. At that point Holloway thought the whole deal was about to fall apart. Santangelo's eyes were, if possible, colder and emptier than before. And Empt's face was bright with his stubborn anger.

But then Ronald Bending spoke up boldly. If he wasn't nerveless and amused, that was the impression he gave.

"Gentlemen, I really don't believe you appreciate what is at stake here."

The two visitors slowly turned to him.

"South Florida is not New York," he told them. "It's a lot of little towns, and the counties are just as important. Everyone knows everyone else. We all take in each other's laundry. All the money people know one another or have mutual friends. Now you go to build something—a house, a factory, a swimming pool, whatever—you go to local people. A friend, or a friend of a friend. That's how you buy your car and insurance. That's how you spend your money. You understand? It's all local. Then not too many questions are asked. No one gets too curious. No one gets envious. You're paying your dues. Bill, am I right?"

"That is correct," Holloway said.

"Now then," Turk Bending went on smoothly, "we bring in a Miami builder and all the local people get sore. 'What's wrong, we're not good enough for you guys?' That's what they'll say. Then they'll start ^asking, 'What the hell are you building out there anyway?' And a lot of these guys are in local politics. We'll need favors—you know? Permits and variances and so forth. So what's the sense of getting their balls in an uproar? Let's face it: we're not building a public library; we're going to process porn. So doesn't it make sense to keep a low profile? And we do that by spreading the bucks around locally. We don't want to get our neighbors sore at us before we even get started."

The three partners looked at Rocco Santangelo. He turned his head to his companion.

"Okay," Jimmy Stone said in his low, lifeless voice.

After that, they all relaxed and had another drink. Arrangements were made for delivery of the $250,000 in cash to Empt. They were given a Miami telephone number where messages for Santangelo could be left. He promised to return their calls promptly.

Empt suggested that while the new factory was being erected, and equipment ordered, he could start processing porn films in his existing facility. This would, he said, serve as a trial run and provide valuable experience for the time when they would go into full production.

"We'll start with cassettes," he said. "Then, if the new disk players catch on, we'll add disk processors. The important thing is to stay on top of the market, but not put all our eggs in one basket."

Santangelo approved of this cautious approach and said he'd have a print of a new porn movie delivered next week. It was a twenty-minute film in color, called
Teenage Honeypots.

The meeting ended soon after that. Everyone shook hands genially and promised to stay in touch. It was only a few minutes after eleven o'clock.

They had a final drink after the visitors left. Empt clapped a meaty hand on Bending's shoulder, called him "old buddy," and said he had handled the matter of the local builder in masterful fashion.

"Like I told you," he said, laughing, "Bullshit Baffles Brains."

"Luther," Bending said, "what I told them was true. We want to keep a low profile on this thing, and the easiest way to keep everyone happy is to spread the loot around so none of the locals start asking questions."

"Ahh," Empt said roughly, "who gives a good goddamn what those turd-kickers think?"

William Holloway drove Bending home. Again, both men were silent with their own thoughts.

It was a balmy night, cool enough to turn off the air conditioner and run the windows down. As they drove eastward, they lost the moist, humid land odors and smelled the pungent freshness of the sea. It came into view molten and heaving, rippled mercury in the nightglow.

William Jasper Holloway felt a vague distaste for this melodramatic scene. It was all, land and sea, too exuberant. It offended his New England sensibilities. In all the State of Florida, there was no decent restraint.

He longed for order and tradition. He would have welcomed limits. Discipline, punishment, and guilt. But he found himself loose, a man involved with
Teenage Honeypots,
and he could not puzzle out the path that had brought him to this place.

It was said that in a new Ice Age, all of Florida would be submerged. Holloway found sour satisfaction in that prediction. He didn't want to think that the same catastrophe would drown his beloved Boston. It was enough to wish for the day when all this dreamy indolence would disappear.

All of Luther Empt's women, wives and whores alike, were as brassy as he. They all haggled. He was not an introspective man; it never occurred to him that he sought out such women. But he was happy with the cost-counters, the women who could work a deal. He respected them.

It simplified things. It saved him from such intangibles as affection, responsibility, love. It brought his personal relations down to the bottom line. Numbers. Profit or loss. Something he could understand.

He was smirky after the meeting with the mob guys. It was going to be a sweet deal. And it ended before midnight. Plenty of time . . .

He carried the unused whiskey down to his white Cadillac Seville. Then paid the bill at the motel desk with a credit card. It would all be billed to the new corporation. No fool he. Shortly before twelve, he was heading south on Federal Highway, windows down, a tape playing soft rock. He loosened his tie, opened his collar.

"Tomorrow
der vurld!"
he shouted in a thick German accent, and laughed uproariously.

He had, he figured, been to every raunchy pickup joint in Palm Beach and Broward counties. And sometimes as far south as Dade. He was heading for one of his favorite haunts now: a nude dancing dive west of 1-95 on Atlantic Boulevard. He usually scored there.

It was traditional Florida Honky-Tonk. Splintered wood floors. Topless barmaids. Neon beer signs. Plastic tables. Crashing jukebox. Waitresses with black net opera hose. A rough crowd of rednecks, tourists, hustlers, drug pushers— the lot. Luther Empt loved it: the smoke, noise, the smell— everything.

He was smart enough to know he was a man of crass tastes and vulgar appetites. The fancy Palm Beach cocktail lounges were bullshit. His home—the "Gold Coast villa"—was bullshit. This place, where men came to find women they could fuck, was the real thing. Everything else was bullshit.

He shouldered his way to the bar. He ordered a double Cutty from a barmaid whose naked breasts looked like underdone flapjacks. Then he stared around to check the action. He didn't even glance at the nude go-go dancer who was stroking her appendicitis scar in rhythm to "I Want to Love You, Baby."

There were creamers at tables and at the bar. Some he had bought before. When they caught his eye, he waved negligently. He rarely purchased the same body twice. If Luther Empt had known that his wife considered south Florida a paradise, he would have agreed with her—but for a different reason.

There were two well-dressed women sitting alone at a table. Middle-thirties, he guessed. Out-of-towners. All gus-sied up, stiff in brocaded, off-the-shoulder gowns. Plenty of gold and pearls. Money there, he reckoned; they were trying to appear amused and superior.

Empt had been to a cocktail party following a jai alai match at Dania. There was a buck-toothed Britisher holding forth at the bar. He was a tall, gawky man, not sober, who seemed to have an endless store of anecdotes, most of them pointless to Luther. But he remembered one of them . . .

The Englishman had said that, years ago, there was a fine, haughty duchess in Britain who, at a grand ball, was approached by a well-known and very wealthy rake. The libertine, quite seriously, asked the titled lady if she would go to bed with him for a million pounds.

She considered a moment, flushing, then said, "Yes."

⁴
'Will you do it for two pounds?" the man asked.

⁴
'Sir!" she cried, drawing herself up. "What do you take me for?"

"We have already established that, ma'am," the rake said.
⁴
'Now we're trying to determine the price."

Luther Empt thought that was one of the funniest, truest stories he had ever heard. He believed it implicitly, since it confirmed what he already knew. All women had their price. Marriage or cash—what difference did it make?

Now, looking at the two elegantly clad tourists, he wondered what their price was. He suspected it was the other way around; they were looking for beachboys, for young cock, and they would pay. Well—why not? Money, money, money. Was there anything else?

He turned back to the bar. Down toward the end, making her way slowly toward him, was a young woman, a girl, really. Limping on one withered leg. Not a creamer, oh no, but a broken bird, wistful and hopeful.

He looked in the back bar mirror. He saw his hulking figure, brutishly handsome, and was not displeased with the image. His eyes moved to the reflection of the crippled girl.

She was dragging herself slowly along, stopping at each man or group of men at the crowded bar. Most of them were drinking beer on ice. She spoke repeatedly with a determined smile, and was answered with a hard laugh, a shake of the head, or blank-faced silence.