Material Things, page 28
As Claudia took Matthew by the arm and led him outside, they were met by a round of applause and some unfavorable murmurs from the crowd. Needless to say, this was the last Matthew Street ever saw of Taylor Renfro.
“That was ugly,” Claudia says. “But worth it to defend my friend Karen.”
With this incident, Matthew had gained a new respect for Claudia Mancuso. Good relations are built on trust, and she had just proven to him she was courageous and loyal.
§
Work. Matthew needed a job. He was going stir-crazy and his bank account was getting dangerously low. He had no idea where to turn next. He actually looked in the classified ads. Lots of openings for truck drivers, short order cooks, and nurses. Nothing in there about anyone looking for an experienced clothing store manager who recently got fucked in the ass by his partner.
He was planning to take a trip downtown to the clothing mart. Maybe rep a line. He got as far as Alvarado Street before he turned back, already knowing the end result—go away kid, you’re bad news. Most of these apparel guys knew about his connection with Jon Lewis and were probably afraid they’d somehow be caught in Mafia crossfire.
He was lost. He had no place to turn. No sudden inspiration. No eureka moment, which was unusual for him. What’s left? Death? Suicide? Jump off the Golden Gate Bridge like Selig Levy? (He still had no recollection of who he was.) He half seriously planned his demise: leaping off the California Apparel Building on Mart Wednesday. He’d be making a profound statement about how the clothing industry can steal your self-respect just by being honest. Honesty was your worst adversary, not your competitors. You had to lie and cheat and make frivolous promises to be successful. All he needed was the guts to jump. In this absurd delusion, he didn’t even have that going for him. So he abandoned that foolish idea and went back to making himself sick worrying.
Things really looked bleak and he was seriously considering selling his blood for cash. A few days had passed when he found an unexpected delivery waiting for him in his mailbox. No, it wasn’t white lilies, thank you very much—although, he was extremely cautious removing the plain brown envelope, in case it was a letter bomb. To his delight and surprise the parcel was postmarked Hawaii and contained Tom Sparks’ return address. He opened it frantically, discovering a business class airline ticket. A note was attached inviting him to spend an open-ended amount of time with him and his wife Gina, and that he might have a design gig that was right up Matthew’s alley. Matthew was blown away and jumped at the opportunity.
§
Claudia and him weren’t exactly in a mutually exclusive relationship, so leaving wasn’t a big deal for either of them. It didn’t draw any tears. They said their goodbyes over the phone. It was mild and unemotional.
“It’s probably for the best,” she says bluntly. “I need to move on with my life anyway, and not get stuck in a rut seeing people who I’m not compatible with. Nothing personal.”
“Right. Understood. Compatible. I get the message. Moving on.”
“I gotta jump,” she says. “I was in the middle of entertaining a friend when you called.” Entertaining was code for blow job.
Matthew expunged Claudia Mancuso from his mind and his Rolodex. He would never admit it to anyone, but he never really convinced himself she wasn’t linked to Longo. Even if she were, so what? Her being an assassin and actually taking out Jon Lewis was a ridiculous notion. Or was it?
§
After a five-hour flight Matthew touched down in Hawaii. Tom kept his promise and got him a job redesigning the lobby of one of the big island hotels where he had scored a big advertising gig. Some place like the Maui Kai, Mauna Kea, Mauna Lani. Who knows? They all sounded the same, and they were all amazing accommodations promising the ultimate Hawaiian getaway charging an arm, a leg, and a thigh. Before undertaking the lobby project Matthew altered Tom’s office space in the same Old West flavor as Jon’s Drawer. That alone improved his skills and showed that he could be a creative force. When he completed the job on the hotel lobby, they were so thrilled with his work and design choices, he got a personal thank-you visit from the hotel’s public relations officer. Her name was Sydney. Hawaiian. Beautiful. Green eyes. Dark complexion. No more than twenty-four years old.
Matthew is lying on the beach catching some rays in front of Tom’s house when she approaches. And this is where it gets freaky to the point of being, well—just freaky. She’s wearing a pair of his jeans—the Wear Outs, the ones with the yellow piping. He asks where she got them and if she knew they were his pants. Mail order from Los Angeles, she says. And yes, she knows who he is through Tom.
She sits down next to him in the sand and hands him a can of Big Swell IPA beer. “Ke aloha,” she says, which was some sort of non-traditional Hawaiian toast. He is so hoping this isn’t just another Anne Fraser fantasy because he likes her. She asks if he wants to take a walk.
“Sure, a walk. Who wouldn’t like to walk on the beach in Hawaii with an attractive girl?” he says.
“You’re sweet,” she says.
“I like to think so.”
The beach is almost desolate. Void of activity, only random birds and gulls searching for scraps of food left behind by previous beachgoers.
“Can I trust that you’re not a narc posing as a PR person?” he remarks casually.
“Uh-oh. Why do I sense you’re going to make a joint appear out of thin air?”
“Very intuitive of you.”
As promised, he pulls a joint from his pants pocket and shares it with Sydney. The ocean is relatively quiet, no sailboats or surfers in sight. Another half mile and they finally run into life—a couple of old Hawaiian fishermen on the edge of the shore, loafing and drinking beer. Sydney gives them an aloha and says something else in Hawaiian, because they said something to her in Hawaiian. This goes on for a few back-and-forth exchanges before she interprets.
The fishermen ask if they’re a couple. Sydney tells them no. The fishermen say they should be. She then explains how they just met and are sharing some weed together, and maybe after they get thoroughly stoned they’ll be a couple.
It’s a long explanation but Matthew likes how it ends. He smiles inside because he doesn’t want to appear overanxious.
§
That night Matthew and Sydney go out to dinner with Tom and Gina. It started out as a remarkably pleasant evening, just spending time with new friends. It was a treat for Matthew to get away from the noise and hugger-mugger of LA and everything that made his life there so uneven.
On a high note, Sydney’s company gave her the go-ahead to offer Matthew another design job—if he wanted it. But before he could answer a guy who looked out of place interrupted him. Wearing a dark suit. Looking stern and unfriendly. Nobody wears a suit and tie on the island, unless they’re a chauffeur or a funeral director. And even then an aloha shirt and sandals was fitting attire. He speaks in a deep, gravelly voice, and tells Matthew that Mr. Longo needs to talk in private and apologizes for the interruption. But it’s urgent. The idea that Vince Longo was in Hawaii looking over his shoulder was the ultimate slap in the face. These guys obviously counted on Matthew to bring Jon Lewis’s head to them on a plate. There was nothing he could do or say to convince them that as a fount of information, he was all dried up.
Sydney looked worried. Matthew assured her this was a routine matter that shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. He excuses himself, and then is led outside to a Lincoln town car with tinted windows. He stands and waits as the back passenger window begins to roll down slowly. Sitting in the backseat, smoking a cigar, is a man he’s never seen before. If he tried to crack a smile his whole face would probably shatter. He speaks with authority.
“Street, I’m Vince’s father, Paul Longo. You heard of me?”
“Of course. I watch the news. I read the papers. Saw your face on Time magazine’s July cover naming you, what was it?—oh, yeah, disappointment of the year.”
“I heard you were a smart mouth.”
“Harassment does that to some people. Look, sir, this is not a good time for me. I’m having dinner with friends. Intimidate me after dessert.”
Matthew starts to leave but is stopped by the limo driver’s beefy hand pressed against his chest. “Is that considered assault? Do I have a court case here?”
“Look, kid, relax. I’m just here to talk about Jon Lewis and how critical it is that we get a hold of him.”
“By the ankles to secure a block of cement?”
“Old school, kid. Look, the Palm Springs story about him at his mother’s funeral was not nice. You had us all chasing after our tails. No more games. We have to be a team, understand? I can’t end this if you don’t share information. The truth. Not on wild goose chases that send me to hot desert communities. I don’t do well in heat.”
The window rolls up and the town car drives off. Matthew now understood why he got the surprise visit. When a guy like Jon witnesses a gangland hit, they step up their game and run on nervous energy. They bring in the big boys to make idle threats.
Later, at Sydney’s place, she and Matthew drank to loosen up, then talked about their respective pasts. About everything from Matthew’s recent nerve-racking encounter with the Mob and the Longo family, to him being ousted from his clothing company by a pathetic creature named Logan Alexander. He finds out she attended the University of Hawaii and got a degree in business. Her mother was native Hawaiian, her father an Irish American who left when she was three years old. On a low note, she was abused by an alcoholic stepfather who, while driving drunk, died in a car crash when his truck skidded out of control and wrapped around a palm tree. It was very cathartic for both of them to open up. Sex with her, by the way, was insanely crazy great and helped distance himself from his ongoing stress.
§
They got an early start and headed for the Hawaii Kai model home project on the eastern tip of the island. The hotel was owned by the majority stockholders. They waited in the courtyard, landscaped in the traditional Hawaiian flavor—waterfall, birds of paradise, lipstick palms, a Macaw parrot squawking mindlessly on its perch—for the developers to arrive. Three men in their mid-thirties approached in traditional aloha shirts, tan pants, and loafers without socks. Matthew knew these rather staid dudes would never go in for bell-bottoms and English tees. They exchanged a friendly but business-like aloha with Sydney. The developers were looking for someone to design the interior of one of their model homes, from the furniture down to the kitchen faucets. Sydney introduced Matthew as the perfect designer for the job. She couldn’t have been more gracious, giving him high marks for his recent job on the hotel lobby of the Mona Lani.
That was all the résumé these guys needed. He had the gig. They shook hands, then had him sign a standard contract. This was to be Matthew’s defining moment. He could not fuck this up.
The developers showed Sydney and Matthew the model home. He stared at the blank walls. They seemed to look back at him, stark naked, in need of color, shape, and design, desperately crying “help!” He displayed nothing but confidence, even though perspiration was forming on his upper lip.
A month later, job complete. The Hawaiian developers in the fancy silk aloha shirts appraised Matthew’s work—overstuffed sofas, leather nailhead club chairs, bamboo wood flooring, gooseneck kitchen faucet, farmhouse sink, linen drapes. The list goes on. He brought in the full complement of furnishings, fabrics, and decorative accessories, all shipped over from the mainland. They were ecstatically pleased by the results. Covered him in leis up to his chin. Even offered another model home.
But it was time for Matthew Street to get the hell out of Dodge. He’d been gone for nearly a year, and even though Hawaii had acted as a powerful balm to his psychic wounds, and his new friends had helped him overcome his problems, going home seemed like the right thing to do. For one thing, he wanted to walk his dog again; funny how one misses the simple pleasures in life the most. Plus he was still paying rent on the duplex. And finally, he needed to face his own personal challenges and whatever demons he had left behind.
Shortly after eight the next morning, Sydney sees Matthew off at Honolulu International Airport. It’s another picture-perfect day in paradise, tarnished only by the tears in Sydney’s eyes and the look of pure sadness on her sweet face. As they walk through the terminal, hand and hand, she again tries to talk him out of going, promising him countless design jobs and more of the wonderful moments they shared during his stay on Oahu. She thought they made a terrific team and that they could fulfill greatness together. He didn’t disagree. If not for her, he would’ve been just a no-nothing decorator seeking small jobs from do-it-yourselfers at home improvement centers.
She detours and slides inside the airport gift shop. After a quick scan, she buys him a black puka shell necklace as a reminder of their time together.
“You don’t have to do this. I don’t need a necklace to remember you,” he says.
“Yes you do,” she says. “Put it in your sock drawer. Every time you put on your shoes, you’ll smile.”
Sydney was something he hadn’t counted on. It was very tough for him to leave her behind.
CHAPTER 47
Chris picks up Matthew at LAX. They’re on the 405 Freeway headed back to the Valley. It was good to see Chris. He looked healthy. He’d stopped smoking and was able to lay off those damn Pepsis—which was harder to kick than the cigarettes.
Having a keen eye, Chris instantly notices the black puka shell necklace around Matthew’s neck. He knows he wouldn’t buy that for himself. He nods subtly towards the necklace.
“A gift from a sexy wahine surfer, I’m guessing,” he says.
“Not even close,” Matthew says, then gives him a detailed account of meeting Sydney, who captured his heart. He adds how both she and Tom gave him a platform to prove himself as a serious interior designer.
“Finally finding and cultivating a creative outlet that was missing from my life is a big deal,” Matthew says, hoping he doesn’t sound vainglorious.
“I’m glad for you,” Chris says with sincerity. “It’s hard to believe you’ve been away for nearly a year.”
“Yeah? Fill me in.”
A lot has happened. Chris gives Matthew a summary of events, starting with Claudia getting married to some guy named Juan José Ortega, and how Logan got drunk and ran his father’s luxurious Italian boat aground on the rocks off the coast of San Diego. Punishment came in the form of forcing him to finally join AA. He suffered through two and half meetings before he went MIA. Needless to say, he’d never get the keys to the boat or any of the fancy cars for a long time. He was, however, allowed to use the damaged boat as his place of residence, since he got evicted from the Marina Del Rey Yacht Club apartments for harassing women in the laundry room.
Matthew asks, “Were you invited to Claudia’s wedding?”
“I passed. It was a destination wedding, being held in Mexicali, in an abandoned bullfighting arena.”
“What?”
“I know,” Chris says, shaking his head. “Makes no sense.”
Maybe there was some deep meaning behind it. Matthew wasn’t knocking it, but such a barbaric venue just didn’t seem like something Claudia would be attracted to. Then again, she was the same woman who had no qualms about smacking Taylor Renfro around in a public place. Later they would discover that this Juan José Ortega was an amateur matador, whose task is to actually kill the bull in front of a bloodthirsty crowd. Where do you meet a guy like this? Or better yet, who introduces you to a dilettante matador? And why in God’s name would you marry a person who kills animals for a living?
§
Chris drops Matthew off at his duplex at around eight o’clock. As he enters the darkened room, he smells the distinct odor of cigarette smoke and pungent men’s cologne. He can barely see but detects the silhouette of a person sitting in a chair in the corner of the room.
“Safe flight, I hope,” a familiar voice says.
A click is heard as a lamp is switched on, spotlighting Vince Longo sucking on a cigarette.
Matthew nearly jumps out of his pants. “Jesus, you scared the piss out of me! What the fuck are you doing here? How’d you get in, anyway? Never mind—get the fuck out before I call a cop.”
“Settle down, this won’t take long,” Longo says as he blows a smoke ring that hovers above his head like a cheap halo. “By the way, I heard you met my father. Said he found you gritty and thoroughly unlikable.”
“Coming from a man who hurts people for a living, I’ll take that as a compliment. Now say what you gotta say, then go. I’m exhausted and want to go to bed.”
“I came to give you a message.” He pauses a beat before continuing. “He’s dead. It’s over. He’s taking a dirt nap.” Matthew didn’t have to ask who. It was evident he was referring to Jon Lewis. He suddenly felt weak and nauseous and had to sit down. Yes, it was upsetting, but he was glad this merry-go-round of a soap opera had ended. He didn’t want to know how Jon died but Longo obviously felt the need to elaborate There’s a strong note of pride in his voice as he provides the graphic details.
“He met with an unfortunate accident while vacationing in Zurich. Seems the brakes went out on his Saab rental car as he was driving down a treacherous road. He lost control. The car hurtled off the mountain like an Olympic ski jumper.”
Matthew puts two and two together and surmises someone cut the brake fluid line. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out this callous act was Longo’s handiwork.
“He was alone,” Longo goes on. “No one else was hurt, except for the Saab—it was totaled.” Longo then rises from the chair and walks across the room towards the door. “Oh, and one other thing. That senseless pursuit in Russian—we weren’t fooled. No one flees to Russia to live a secure life.”
“So I guess we can close the file on this source of annoyance in our lives, huh, Vince?” Matthew says.
