Last Call For Caviar (15 page)

I put the car in neutral but left the engine running. I took a deep breath and cleared my mind. Using the car door as a shield, I stepped outside.

It felt like time stretched, everything happening in slow motion as my arm swept up. I braced my gun hand on the rim of the open window and sighted down the barrel. The back tire on the right filled my vision. I told myself, “Steady on, you can do this… It’s no different than shooting at a target at the range.

In the last second before I gently squeezed the trigger, I thought to myself:

“Surprise! Bet you’re not expecting this, you twisted freak!”

I heard the satisfying thud of the bullet striking home. I put a second slug in the same tire before putting two more bullets into the back tire on the left.

I was back in the car in a flash, and put the car into gear. I accelerated by him. Everything had happened so fast—less than twenty seconds had elapsed—he was caught with his pants down. I was pleased by his stunned look of incomprehension as he tried to absorb the fact that his prey had sprung the trap.

I doubted he had two spare tires in the trunk. Even the time it would take to change one tire would give me plenty of time to escape.

I decelerated just before the curve and stuck my clenched fist out the window, the middle finger upright in a farewell salute.

I fiddled with the car’s radio, looking for some tunes. It must have been serendipity as I heard the opening refrain.

I turned up the volume and sang along, “Once I was afraid. I was petrified…”

I knew it was a reaction to the fight-or-flight reflex, and I would be a shaking, blubbering mess when the adrenaline rush wore off in a few hours and I crashed from the shock of my narrow escape, but now, I felt giddy.

A bubble of laughter burst from my lips when I pictured the pervert, stuck by the side of the road with two bullet-ridden tires, his dick limp, gnashing his teeth in impotent fury.

I cranked the volume as high as it would go and sang at the top of my lungs.

When I got up this morning…who wudda thought?

I settled back in the driver’s seat and sped for home.

The adrenaline had worn off, and I was drained by the time I turned into the rutted lane that led to the Astrarama. It was a couple of hours before sunset, and the dome was bathed in a golden glow. I parked the Land Rover in the garage and locked up. Every muscle in my body ached, and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep round the clock. But I needed to get home and see if there was any damage caused by the storm.

I whistled for Buddy and then called his name. But he didn’t come trotting around the corner with a tennis ball in his mouth. I had just enough time to make it down the hill before night fell. Stiff and muscle-sore, I limped down the trail home.

Buddy met me halfway down the path, tail wagging, and as I imagined, a tennis ball clenched between his teeth. We played fetch all the way back to the center.

Buddy escorted me to where the trail turned downward, and we parted ways. I felt sad, leaving him to climb up on his rock perch alone. I felt his eyes watching over me until I disappeared around the bend from view.

It was after crossing the Moyenne Corniche that the first signs of destruction from the storm started to appear. The winds had stripped rooftops bare of tiles, and trees bent at crazy angles. One tall pine crushed a string of cars and blocked the road. I scrambled over the trunk to get to the other side. Shards of glass from exploded windows sparkled in the last rays of the sunset and crunched underfoot.

As I turned into my street, I was met by a chorus of alarms wailing in the neighborhood.

My alarm, too, was shrieking to wake the dead as I hurried through my front door. No windows were broken and the stone walls had withstood the winds, but shattered roof tiles and branches torn from the parasol pines were strewn about the terrace. The garden was a shambles, the fruit trees stripped bare, and all the potted palms along the terrace railing had been knocked over like bowling pins. The laundry room was flooded.

The sea in the cove boiled and churned. Breakers larger than I’d ever seen swelled in ranks, beating against the cliff. Spumes clawed up the rock face, drenching the lower terrace in a fine mist.

I got out a broom and garbage bags and set to work. It could have been worse, but sheltered in a crook of the cove with the headlands protecting it from the violence of the open sea, my villa, like its owner, had withstood the storm.

.

CHAPTER 18

T
HE
L
EOPARD’S
D
EN

It had been a week since the storm and the road trip into the high country. I’d put this day off for weeks, but now, Giovanni was waiting for me outside the wrought iron gates of the four-story mansion.

Bilal parked on the quiet, tree-shaded cul-de-sac. Most of the stately private homes that once lined the streets of the Principality had been razed in the name of profit and progress, replaced with the towering blocks of cement and marble that now dominated Monaco’s skyline. But this architectural jewel from an era long past had survived. A bronze plaque affixed to the stone pillar at the entrance read, “Chapter House of the Sun Center, Monaco.”

Giovanni and Bilal waited with me in the marbled-floored entrance hall, the ceiling soaring two stories overhead, while an attendant went to announce our arrival to Anjuli.

She kept us waiting for ten minutes, and then she appeared from an archway, her bare feet silent as she glided across the hall. The sheer silk of her orange-tipped purple sari caressed the curves of her body. The rich color of her robes offered a perfect contrast to the fire opals that burned at her throat and wrists. Today, she wore her hair down, and it fell in a curtain of jet almost to her waist.

She greeted Giovanni first, her lilting voice warm and welcoming. “What a nice surprise. I didn’t expect you to be coming today. You’re most welcome, and it would be a pleasure if you want to stay.”

Anjuli radiated graciousness, and I had to admire her poise. She didn’t betray her annoyance at Giovanni’s presence.

“I wish I could, Anjuli, but I have an appointment in a half hour. I just wanted an excuse to see your beautiful face once again. But Bilal will wait here for Maya until you are done with your visit, if you don’t mind.”

I could see Anjuli hesitate for a moment while she registered the hidden meaning of my de facto body guard, Bilal. She weighed her options, reviewing and discarding them one by one. If she had been planning any mischief, it would have to wait for another day.

“Of course, that will be fine. I’ll have one of my assistants show you to a room where you can wait comfortably, and bring you something to drink.” She pushed a button on the wall, and a second later, an attendant appeared and led Bilal through a door that opened onto the hall.

Then, she turned towards me and took both of my hands in her own and pressed a kiss to each of my cheeks. “You’ve finally come. I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to our visit today.”

Anjuli kept hold of one of my hands, her countenance serene. Anyone watching would have thought we were long-lost chums reunited after years apart, though I was certain we made an odd couple, standing there holding hands. Although Anjuli was barefoot and I was wearing sandals with a four-inch heel, she towered over me like a rare bloom transplanted from an exotic land.

I’d given some thought to my appearance and chose a sleeveless silk dress in pale ivory. The dress was elegant in its cut and simplicity; the only jewelry I wore was a gold half-moon pendant with a small diamond floating inside the lunar curve, symbolizing the astronomical phenomenon known as the Kiss of Venus. It was a gift from Julian. I wore the barest hint of make-up. Everything was calculated to make me fade into the background and convince her I wasn’t in any way a rival to her, or a threat to her new persona.

“Maya, I’ll see you in a couple of hours at my office. Don’t let the time get away from you. We have to meet Abdul at the Emirati Embassy before the reception,” Giovanni warned as he kissed me goodbye.

“Don’t worry, Giovanni, I’ll take good care of Maya Jade and make sure she’s not late.” Anjuli laughed at him, one eyebrow raised in gentle mockery.

Then we were alone, and I hoped my acting skills would match her own.

“I thought we could have tea in my quarters and talk before I give you the tour,” Anjuli said as she led me through an archway into the inner sanctuary.

“That sounds lovely,” I replied, hoping my voice sounded natural as we passed through a large, flower-filled inner courtyard. The sound of water tinkling from a fountain in its center harmonized with the chirping of birds in gilded cages and transformed the garden into an oasis of contemplation and peace. It was like stepping into another world, a long way from the noise and pollution of the city outside the mansion’s imposing walls.

Soft carpets muffled our footsteps in the dimly lit hallways that led towards Anjuli’s private rooms. The only décor on the honey-colored walls was of temple carvings from Buddhist monasteries and silk hangings depicting scenes from Hindu mythology. Lotus flowers floated in crystal bowls placed on teak tables. The whisper of voices chanting and the scent of incense wafted from shadowy rooms we passed.

“This is such a beautiful retreat you’ve created here,” I murmured, in genuine admiration. “It’s an island of peace in the midst of the city.”

“Thank you,” Anjuli responded. I could see she was pleased. “We’ve tried to create a harmonious environment where our disciples can contemplate and meditate without distraction or the chaos you find on the other side of our walls. Most people find it very soothing here and never want to leave.”

I glanced at her face out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge if that last bit about “people never wanting to leave the center” was a veiled threat. I knew that once in the clutches of a cult, there wasn’t any gracious or easy way to say, “You know, I’ve been thinking about it. Gee, thanks for the memories and all, but this isn’t really me.”

I couldn’t read Anjuli’s face. Her serene smile was still in place as we entered her private suite.

Anjuli’s rooms were opulently done in shades of ivory and bronze. Priceless artwork covered the walls, and silk-covered cushions gleamed like jewels against the muted background. Anjuli reclined on a leopard skin-covered divan that I hoped was just an extremely good imitation. But as I ran my hand over it, I realized with a feeling of dismay that nothing man-made could be woven into such velvety softness; it was real.

More than anything, the thought of how many gorgeous beasts had been slaughtered to cover this six-foot divan so Anjuli’s delicate derriere could have such a luxurious pillow, made me determined not to be intimidated. I kept silent and waited for her to make her opening move.

Anjuli waited as porcelain cups and a pot of fragrant tea were set on a low table in front of us. After serving plates of sliced fruits, dates, and honey-filled pastries, her maid finally withdrew.

The scent of pineapple and mango made my mouth water; it had been so long since I’d tasted either. But I waited to see if Anjuli ate anything first. I knew my borrowed bodyguard Bilal was a deterrent to foul play; still, I decided to err on the side of caution while I was in her walls.

“I guess there was always a risk I would cross paths with someone who’d recognize me from the past. I thought Monaco was far enough from my old haunts to be safe. I’d never hung out here in those days. Tell me, what gave me away?” Anjuli asked as she handed me a plate.

I think she hoped to catch me off-balance with the directness of her attack—the same attack she was famous for in her ball—playing days, when she would drive relentlessly through any defense and inside the paint to score.

I thought to myself, “Girl… you don’t think your height—six foot two—might have been my first clue?”

Instead, I said, “Lucy, I was always a big fan. I saw you play in the NCAA semi- finals against the University of Connecticut back in ’93. That three-pointer you hit at the buzzer to go into overtime was classic. What a heartbreaker. Girl… you used to play fierce ball. If you hadn’t injured your knee in the last minutes of the game…you might have gone all the way.”

I silently thanked Mama for watching basketball games when I was growing up. In my family, during the season, we watched b-ball at dinner time. NBA, NCAA, men’s ball, women’s ball—it didn’t matter. Hell, Mama loved basketball so much, she’d pull over by the side of the road to watch two kids playing one on one in a playground.

She knew every player in the NBA and their career stats. And not just the obvious ones like Kobe and LeBron. I thought that if they ever had a game show called “Who’s That Baller?” in which headshots of pro ballers were flashed on a giant screen and the contestants had three seconds to hit the buzzer and correctly identify the mystery player, she’d clean up.

“Don’t you know it… those were fine days. I still miss it.”

“Lucy, you were one of the best.”

A wistful look came into her eyes as she was transported back to her glory days. I could see the girl she used to be—the top athlete with a career stretching in front of her—shining through the patina of pseudo Eastern mysticism, the hair extensions and fake boobs. I suddenly realized there was a lot more to this narrative—and Anjuli-Lucy as the public face of this cult—than just plain old avarice and vanity.

She seemed to come to a decision and said, “You know what, Maya? Let’s blow off this tea shit. I have a special reserve bottle of Cacique 500 Extra Anjou Rum from Venezuela I’ve been saving… I feel like having a drink…How ‘bout you?”

She filled two crystal tumblers with the amber liquid and handed me one. The first taste was smoky and mellow as the finest whiskey; next, I felt the warm glow spreading out from my belly button. I kicked off my shoes, bit into a slice of pineapple, took a sip of the heavenly rum and settled back in for a long afternoon.

I’d met Lucy more than fifteen years earlier, when we were both house guests of Beatrizinha Burnier Azviedo, the widow of a fabulously wealthy Brazilian industrialist, Alberto Azviedo, at her palm-lined waterfront estate in Miami.

Kai’s architectural design firm had been hired to design and oversee the two-year renovation of Beatrizinha’s family compound in Saint Jean Cap Ferrat. I was Kai’s right hand during the renovations and worked on all aspects of the project. This had been a big opportunity for me, and the successful completion of this project gave me the confidence to later take on small projects on my own.

I’d grown close to the flamboyant widow during the two years overseeing the renovations on Beatrizinha’s estate. She’d been widowed for six years and was in her early fifties. A glamorous figure to my unsophisticated eyes, still beautiful and sensuous, with her dark almond eyes and the soft lilting Brazilian accent, she never remarried. Why would she want to take on another elderly husband and nurse him on his death bed? She’d already done that with her much-older husband. Alberto had left her in control of an immense fortune, and although she played the proper matriarch when she was in Brazil, in front of her sons and her grandchildren, here on the Riviera and elsewhere outside Brazil, Beatrizinha was fond of the company of bronzed, smooth-skinned young men.

The invitation to visit her in Miami was a reward for a job completed and well-done. My relationship with Beatrizinha had grown into more than just dependency on the hired help; she had a generous heart and enjoyed being surrounded by younger friends and dancing the night away. For Beatrizinha, Lucy was like the daughter she never had. Lucy’s father had been a chum of the late Alberto, and their families had always been close.

I spent a week there: the days lounging by the waterfront pool, girls’ lunches and shopping in South Beach. The nights learning how to salsa and samba with other South American houseguests. I remember how fascinated I was hearing them speaking together; the melodious rhythm of Brasiliero-Portuguese flowing from their lips like a samba mixed with the susurrations of the sea. There was something so graceful, so feminine about these two women. The way their hips naturally swayed as they walked, as though always listening to La Chica de Ipanema on some inner iPod. I remember thinking it must be in the blood; this isn’t something you can fake or learn.

Lucy only stayed three nights. I’d overheard a fierce disagreement between them in Portuguese. I later learned Beatrizinha didn’t approve of the fast company Lucy was keeping. The next day, Lucy packed her bags and left. I saw, from an upstairs window, Lucy getting into a white Maserati. The driver had slicked-back dark blonde hair, a white linen jacket and gold chains and was putting her Louis Vuitton bag into the trunk. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored shades.

I decided it was time to get down to business and made my opening move.

“I was so sad to hear about Beatrizinha passing away. She was such a wonderful woman.”

“She was like a mother to me. In some ways, I felt even closer to Beatrizinha growing up than my own mom. I wish so much I could have been there, but I was in India when she died.” Lucy’s voice broke, and tears welled up in her eyes. “I’ve been racking my brain, trying to remember where I met you. I didn’t recognize you at first at the party. I remember now. It was at Bea’s house in Miami.”

“You were only there for a couple of days. You had to leave early on business, or something?”

Lucy was quiet for a couple of beats, her mind roaming through her past. “I remember… Bea was so worried about me and we fought. I went off the rails after I got injured. I was young, headstrong, and I couldn’t play basketball anymore, after all those years of training for a dream that died because of a fucked-up knee… I went wild. She and I fought because of the fast crowd I was running with in Miami. She tried to warn me. She knew their money came from drugs. She was right… if only I’d listened to her. I saw Beatrizinha occasionally over the years after that, but I locked her out. I wouldn’t let her get close anymore. I knew it hurt her, but I didn’t want anyone telling me what to do. I thought I knew what I was doing. I turned away from her. I miss her so much. If only I had listened to her, but I was a stubborn, pig-headed fool.”

Lucy knocked back her rum and poured another shot into her tumbler—almost to the rim.

“I’m sorry, Lucy. I know what it’s like to have to live with the regret of not making peace with someone before they die. It haunts you for the rest of your life. But if it’s any consolation, even an outsider like me could see…she loved you and was so proud of you. And no matter what you did, or didn’t do, I’m certain she loved you till the end.”