After Last Call

Chapter 1

~

Cruel Summer

Bananarama – 1984

~

Boston, Massachusetts – 1985

He slipped on a plush bathrobe, running his manicured fingers through his still-thick hair. A few new grey strands caught his eye, and he turned his head from side to side, searching for more. He licked his index fingers and smoothed his eyebrows, tugging the skin on his temples up a little. When did his eyelids get so droopy?

An insistent knocking startled him out of his self-absorption. He went to the door and looked through the peephole to see a uniformed man standing in the hallway, hitching up his pants while he waited. He tightened the sash on his robe and opened the door a crack, revealing a single bloodshot eye.

Mister Harmon? the security guard asked. You okay, boss? What’s goin’ on?

Are you alone? the man in the room asked tersely. He glanced up and down the deserted hotel corridor. Satisfied that there were no witnesses, he stepped back to open the door.

Get in here. Quick.

The security guard squeezed his portly frame into the plush suite, surprised by his normally dapper employer’s appearance. The older man’s hair was wet, his feet bare, and his face was grim and pale with shock.

You have to help me clean up this mess, Frank Harmon demanded.

For Christ’s sake! The guard gasped at the sight of a nude girl sprawled out on the bed. She was lying face up with her lifeless eyes fixed on the ceiling. A trickle of vomit ran out of her mouth and down the side of her face, pooling on the pillow. Her lips were blue.

He looked back at his boss, speechless.

I didn’t do anything! the older man protested, rushing to explain. We were partying, drinking … having a good time. I–I went to take a shower and when I got out she was—she was like this. He shuddered with revulsion. I swear to God I didn’t do anything to her!

Okay, okay, Mister Harmon. Calm down, the guard said. He went to the bedside to feel the girl’s neck for a pulse, his eyes surveying the scene. A nearby table held two empty bottles of expensive French champagne, alongside several lines of white powder and a tightly rolled hundred-dollar bill.

The fat man looked up to announce the obvious. She’s dead.

You gotta help me, Mel! We have to get rid of her!

Melvin started pacing, a surge of excitement running through his body. He had idolized the man for years, and now his boss needed help—Frank Harmon was counting on him. He wanted more than anything else to be able to come up with a plan, but try as he might, he couldn’t think of a good solution. There was really only one way, and he steeled himself to deliver the bad news.

Mel? Frank asked hopefully.

We have to call the old man, Mel said apologetically. There’s no other way.

The last bit of color drained from Frank’s once-handsome face. Jeannie’s gonna kill me!

Listen, Mel rushed to explain. This kind of thing is way out of my league. I can’t handle it on my own. I know the old man has a fixer. Remember that thing that happened at the meeting in Vegas? Rumor has it this guy can clean anything up—make it all go away. It’s what he does.

Frank staggered over to a bedside chair and sat down heavily, covering his face with his hands. The thought of facing his father-in-law filled him with dread. Oh God. His moans were muffled. Why did this have to happen to me?

Mel glanced towards the girl on the bed one last time before he picked up the phone and dialed. I need to talk to Mr. Genarro personally. It’s an emergency. He shifted on his feet, pulling a greasy handkerchief out of his pocket to mop his brow. Yes. It’s Mel. Melvin Wallace… hotel security. Yes sir. I’m afraid we have a situation here.

~

Frank Harmon strutted into the office, deftly unbuttoning his suit coat before gliding into the seat opposite a rheumy-eyed old man sporting a polyester tracksuit and a bad toupee. You wanted to see me?

Fausto Genarro knew he was not as refined as his son-in-law, but he had nothing but contempt for the pretty boy his daughter had insisted on marrying. The man was a gambler, a womanizer, and a liar. All of that would be forgivable if he wasn’t so goddamned arrogant.

Fausto opened his desk drawer and pulled out a Tiparillo, rolling it between his fingers. He clenched the plastic tip between his teeth as his ropy-veined, spotted hands fished a solid gold lighter out of his breast pocket, taking his time to ignite it.

Frank Harmon shifted uncomfortably in his chair, unable to conceal his impatience.

Well? he asked.

Fausto drew on his cigar, spewing a thick cloud of smoke across the desk. Someone has been sniffing around … asking questions about you and the dead girl.

Frank sat up in his chair in alarm. Who?

A boyfriend. He’s trying to get the cops to open an investigation.

Frank’s carefully tanned face blanched. What does he know?

Fausto waved his hand in the air dismissively. Rumors. Gossip. Fugedabout it. Friends on the force tell me it’s gone down in the books as an accident. Just some junkie chick who took a long drive off a short pier. I can make sure that the case stays closed.

What about… Frank leaned in closer and lowered his voice, the body? Can it be connected to me?

The old man eyed his son-in-law maliciously. Not unless I say so.

Frank swallowed hard, a sheen of moisture rising on his upper lip. Fausto—Mr. Genarro—Sir, I swear to God it was an accident. It was only that one time! Ask Mel—He’ll back me up! The girl was dead when I found her, and I didn’t know anything about the drugs. She was the one who came on to me–

Fausto took another long pull of his cigar, his cold eyes watching his daughter’s pathetic husband babbling away. I’m moving you out of the state.

What?

I have a property in California. I’m sending you and Jeannie out to run the place.

Frank’s eyes darted around, calculating. Los Angeles? he asked hopefully.

Fausto shook his head, relishing the power he held over the younger man. San Jose.

San Jose? Frank reached into his elegant coat pocket for a handkerchief and mopped his brow. What’s in San Jose?"

You and Jeannie will be. It’s a good property. First class airport hotel. It needs a remodel and that’ll give Jeannie something to do. Might as well put those fancy interior design classes to good use.

But what if she doesn’t want to move?

She’s ready to make a new start. Thinks it’ll be good for your marriage.

Oh, Frank said, realizing that his wife had already decided for him.

Melvin and the brain will be going out with you to run things. The boys are packing up your suite as we speak.

But… But…

Jeannie always wanted a house with a pool. Real California style. You’ll be sure to find a nice place for her, won’t you Frankie-boy?

He nodded, resigned to his fate. Yes.

The old man’s voice was low and dangerous. You take good care of my little girl, do you understand? Or I’ll take care of you.

Yes sir, Frank’s voice came out a whisper, with a barely detectable shake.

The old man paused for a moment to study him. He liked watching him suffer, liked making his daughter’s sorry excuse for a husband squirm. He smiled with satisfaction, holding out his hand across the desk, palm down.

Frankie? he asked, wiggling his fingers. He watched with amusement as Frank Harmon leaned forward awkwardly to kiss the gaudy signet ring on the old man’s hand. Fausto nodded, making a show of wiping the ring on his shirt with a look of disgust.

Fully emasculated, Frank Martin stood up to gather what was left of his dignity and walk out of the room, defeat in every step.

The old man picked up the telephone on his desk, Send him in now.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, waiting until another man entered the room. This time he stood up to greet his guest. Thank you for coming.

What’s on your mind? the man asked.

The dead girl … Are you certain that she can’t be tied to my son-in-law?

I made it look like an accident. The room has been scrubbed. The security guard has agreed to provide him with an alibi, but it won’t be necessary. The police won’t be looking into it.

So it’s done?

It’s done.

The old man nodded, relieved. I knew that you’d handle it. That stupid sonofabitch doesn’t know how lucky he is.

Just say the word and I’ll eliminate him.

Fausto was tempted, and he knew better than anyone what the fixer was capable of. The man was ruthless, a cold-blooded killer who would willingly dispatch anyone at all for a price. He worked alone, on the condition that he was only known to a select few in the higher echelons of the organization. He’d made more than one problem disappear for Fausto, and while his services were expensive, he was worth every penny.

The old man exhaled with regret. Naw. It’d break my Jeannie’s heart. I’m sending the two of them out of town. I got a low key property out in California that I can run a whole lot of cash through.

The man stood up, offering his hand in a gentlemanly fashion. It’s always a pleasure doing business with the family. Do call me if you need anything else taken care of.

Chapter 2

~

Tainted Love

Soft Cell – 1982

~

Lola lifted the corner of the mattress, pausing when something shiny caught her eye. She dropped the sheet, letting the elastic snap it back across the bed as she reached down to pick up the biggest, flashiest, most god-awful ugly earring she’d ever seen.

Her stomach took a sickening lurch and she groped for the padded bedframe, bracing herself before sinking down to perch on the edge. She opened her hand to inspect the rhinestone-studded plastic, proof positive of Randy’s infidelity sparkling in the palm of her hand. She closed her eyes and heaved a weary sigh.

She already knew how the argument would go. He’d claim that his former housekeeper must have left it behind, or swear on all that was holy that it predated her arrival. He would protest his innocence with the well-practiced sincerity of a masterful liar, all the while turning the argument around to make her seem unreasonably paranoid.

His cheating probably shouldn’t come as much of a surprise, Lola thought. She found his constant sniffing and teeth-grinding disgusting, and for the past few weeks she’d been rolling over and pretending to be asleep when he came to bed, increasingly unable to bear his touch.

She sat numbly for a few minutes, finally admitting to herself that she’d made a monumental mistake. Lola had moved clear across the country to be with Randy, thinking that she was leaving her past—and all of her problems—far behind her. Now, perched on the edge of the bed they shared, she was forced to finally face the truth she’d been willfully ignoring.

A bitter wave of shame engulfed her when she recalled all of the good advice she’d failed to heed.

Randy had spotted her first, while she was working at a high-end Miami nightclub that hired the cocktail waitresses for their looks. He was lounging in the elevated VIP section, drinking the finest champagne with the kind of newly minted millionaires who paid cash for their sports cars and speedboats. His gaze skimmed the crowd, following her progress as she dipped and twirled with a tray full of drinks, moving with more grace than any of the writhing bodies on the dance floor. She smiled politely at a customer’s joke, tossed her dark mane of hair aside noncommittally and artfully dodged a stumbling drunk.

He decided right then and there that he was going to have her.

When she paused at the bar to wait for an order he sauntered over to introduce himself. Hello, beautiful, he’d said, holding out his smooth hand. I’m Randy.

Tall, elegantly slim and tanned, his tawny hazel eyes sparkled with confidence. From his expertly feathered hair down to his snakeskin loafers, he was flawlessly dressed, wearing an expensive suit and flashing an even more expensive watch. He looked her up and down as a broad smile slowly raised his bushy blonde mustache.

I heard the chicks in Florida were hot, but I didn’t believe it until I saw you.

She rolled her dark eyes at his ridiculous come-on, but he persisted, lurking at the bar by the waitress station to flirt with her in between her rounds.

Do you like to party? he’d asked, sliding a tiny paper envelope across the bar. It’s good stuff.

Another waitress nudged her arm, hissing, Take the bindle!

Drugs were everywhere in Miami, and a pretty lady never had to pay for her cocaine. The two girls slipped away to the restroom where Lola’s co-worker commandeered the packet, dumping some white powder onto the mirrored half of her compact before snorting it up with a bar straw.

This is totally good blow! she exclaimed before she passed it to Lola. And that guy’s totally hot! Did you see his Rolex? If you don’t jump his bones I totally will.

He’s totally yours, Lola teased her, but she really meant it.

She’d recently broken off a fling with yet another good-looking but arrogant jerk she’d met at the club, and swore to stop wasting her time fooling around with the kinds of guys that frequented the place. One look at Randy’s silk shirt and gold chain identified him as exactly the sort of trouble she’d be better off avoiding.

The girls returned to find him still lurking at the end of the bar. Lola nodded her thanks and set about purposefully ignoring him. The other waitress started chatting up her benefactor, striking a series of sexy poses and twirling her hair suggestively. Randy listened to her politely, but it was Lola he was interested in, and he made it obvious that nobody else would do.

So what’s your name? he asked her, looking over the head of the other waitress, who pouted to no avail.

Her coffee-colored eyes flashed at him warily, so dark they were nearly black. Lola.

Lola. He smiled, instantly enchanted. What are you doing after work, Lola?

Nothing with you, she retorted, spinning away to deliver a round of drinks.

He was still waiting when she returned. Do you have a boyfriend?

None of your business, she replied sharply, telling him everything he needed to know. Do you?

He laughed, flashing a set of blindingly white teeth. You’re feisty. I like that.

Lola scoffed and continued working, pretending that he wasn’t there. She did her best to ignore the handsome stranger, but he simply refused to budge, not even remotely discouraged by her indifference. He wasn’t used to being treated with such contempt, and it only made him want her even more.

He turned on the charm, steadily chipping away at her resistance with a barrage of friendly banter. Maybe it was the euphoric buzz from the coke or the fact that she was newly single, but before Lola’s shift was over he had somehow managed to completely disarm her.

You’re not from around here, are you? she asked him.

I’m from California.

Los Angeles? she asked, thinking that he looked like an actor she’d seen somewhere.

No, Los Gatos.

The cats? She laughed. What kind of place is that?

It’s near San Francisco, Randy told her, flashing a wolfish grin with gleaming eyes that were quickly becoming disconcerting. It’s nice there.

He slipped her a business card that stated his occupation as a luxury automobile consultant, inviting her to bring the other waitresses to an after-hours party at a waterfront palace in the richest section of town.

Maybe. She was noncommittal.

He leaned in close. I’ll be waiting for you, he murmured in her ear, leaving behind a whiff of his cologne.

Are you crazy? her co-workers all said after she voiced her reluctance to go. Please don’t screw this up for us!

All right, all right, she agreed, and her fate was sealed.

The girls had arrived to find a private disco packed with beautiful people and free-flowing champagne. Lola ended up having a good time, dancing the night away in a frenzy of forgetfulness. All of the girls vied for Randy’s attention but he never strayed from her side, pulling her out onto a balcony to steal a kiss in the pink light of dawn.

I can’t believe we’ve been dancing all night. She caught her breath, surprised to see the sun peeking over the watery horizon.

You look good in the morning, he said.

By the time she’d gathered her friends to leave, Randy had extracted from her a telephone number and a promise to see him again. Their second date took place at the most expensive restaurant in town, kicking off a whirlwind three-week courtship that consisted of him spending extravagant amounts of money to impress her while voicing fervent but much-too-soon declarations of love.

Stay with me, he begged when she tried to leave his hotel room. I want to wake up with you every morning.

Randy worked for a California car dealer who specialized in importing the finest rare vehicles the world had to offer. He’d been sent to service a group of buyers so rich and reclusive that the dealership jumped at the chance to stock their expansive garages, dispatching their most charming and persuasive salesman to do the job.

Miami was a major port of entry for drug smugglers, flooding the city with massive amounts of cash just itching to be spent. The compromised virtue of easy money set the tone, and it was prosperous times for dealers of luxury goods. Miami’s nouveau riche lived a glamorous life funded by their ill-gotten gains, competing to one-up each other with their extravagant spending, and Randy was perfectly happy to collect the huge sales commissions.

He took Lola out shopping, buying her beautiful dresses to wear at flamboyant parties held in beachfront villas and luxury yachts. The two of them were ushered into the private lounges that were the inner sanctum of the Miami party scene, ornate palaces where chic, whippet-thin women served up an endless stream of cocaine on silver platters.

Nobody was much troubled by the illegality of it—cocaine had recently surged to popularity with a reputation for being posh, fashionable, and non-addicting. Most of Hollywood was using it, their delusions of grandeur heightened by the sheer power and feeling of invincibility supplied by the cocaine high.

From coast to coast, every exclusive party featured select groups of guests disappearing into the bathroom, only to return as more animated, confident, and euphoric versions of themselves. It all seemed perfectly harmless, and up until now Lola had never known anybody who had the kind of money required to develop a nasty habit.

These people are crazy, Randy moaned, waking up in his hotel room with a pounding head after yet another all-nighter. I need to get back home to California.

Lola had a coughing fit, reaching for a glass of water on the bedside table. I need to quit smoking, she rasped. Ugh. And I have to work tonight.

He pulled her back down beside him and brushed the hair from her face, looking into her eyes. Call in sick. We’ll stay in and order room service.

She feebly nodded her agreement, but it didn’t much matter, because after spending most of the day in bed Randy convinced her to accompany him on a sales call, saying he needed his good luck charm. Before too long they were right back at it, dancing the night away in the most lavishly decorated house either one of them had ever set foot in before.

When Randy’s business in Miami was concluded he begged Lola to leave Florida and come back to California with him. Come on baby, he’d pleaded. You can move in with me. I’ll take care of you.

She wavered, uncertain about putting her fate into one person’s hands. Randy countered her every objection with the convincing pitch of a master salesman. He told her how great things would be once they were in California, painting an idyllic image of their future together. She finally succumbed, worn down by his persistence and her inability to conjure up a good reason not to simply go along with his plan.

Ever since she’d finished high school Lola had been spinning her wheels, waiting for something to happen that she couldn’t quite put a name to. She spent her nights working and her days lounging on the beach, smoking cheap Mexican weed with her high school friends who were mainly interested in partying and shopping at the local mall. She’d been drifting aimlessly, dating one jerk after another, always feeling like she should be somewhere else.

Randy had come out of nowhere to throw her a lifeline, presenting her with an easy way out