Timothy by Greg Herren Read Free Book Online Page A

what the call would be like when I finally reached Carlo Romaniello:
    â€œMr. Romaniello? Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but Valerie Franklin has to cancel lunch. She’s not feeling well.”
    â€œHow unfortunate, please give her my best wishes. Is this the handsome young man who was with her yesterday in the café?”
    â€œYes, sir, it is.”
    â€œPlease call me Carlo. I was serious, of course, when I told you I wanted you to join us for our lunch date today. I would be most appreciative if you would still join me. Please don’t leave me to lunch alone.”
    â€œI would like that very much, Carlo.”
    It was an enjoyable little fantasy to indulge in over breakfast.
    Around eight, I started calling hotels. But after trying three with no luck, I conceded defeat. He’d never said he was staying on South Beach. He could be in a hotel on the mainland—he could be in a hotel in Fort Lauderdale or Palm Beach, for that matter. I didn’t want to waste my free morning making futile phone calls to every hotel in southeastern Florida. I knew where he would be at one o’clock—La Mirada restaurant—so I would just show up there at twelve thirty and wait for him outside. Valerie wouldn’t like it, of course—I could already hear her screaming “I told you to call him!” once she found out—but it wouldn’t be the first time she screamed at me, nor would it be the last.
    So, I took care of the e-mails and other business I needed to do for her, and at ten o’clock I walked out the front doors of the hotel onto Ocean Drive. I crossed over and walked through the dunes and stood there, watching the green foamy waves coming ashore on the beautiful beach. It wasn’t very crowded—it was a midweek morning in mid-May, after all—but there were some people taking advantage of the sun and the heat. I decided to buy a swimsuit and spend the afternoon in the water. I crossed back over to Ocean Drive and spent the morning haunting shops looking for an affordable bathing suit—one that wasn’t too immodest. Some of the guys on the beach I’d seen had been in bikinis or square-cut trunks—but I didn’t have the kind of body that could pull off something skimpy or sexy. I wanted something that would cover me up and hide my lack of tan and muscles, like board shorts. I wasted some time going into expensive shops, where I was completely ignored by the sales clerks—who apparently had some kind of radar or sixth sense that let them know I couldn’t possibly afford anything in their store—before finally finding a discount shop with something I could afford—a fifteen-dollar pair of navy blue board shorts.
    It was exactly twelve thirty when I made it to La Mirada.
    It was getting hotter, and I was damp with sweat from all the walking around. I finished the large iced mocha I’d gotten at a ubiquitous Starbucks and tossed it into a garbage can.
    La Mirada wasn’t that expensive, actually, according to the menu mounted under glass on the wall to the left of the glass doors. The food seemed to be some kind of funky fusion of American staples and Caribbean food, and the smells wafting out made my stomach growl. I was starving, so I made up my mind. If Carlo Romaniello’s invitation the day before had merely been politeness, I would go ahead and treat myself to lunch there.
    It was about five minutes before one when a town car with darkened windows pulled up in front of the restaurant. The back door opened, and Carlo Romaniello got out. He was wearing white linen pants and a lemon yellow pullover shirt. He smiled at me, lifting up his sunglasses as he looked around. “I see you, church mouse, but I don’t see Valerie.” His tone was light and jocular, and his smile got broader. “Has Lady Luck smiled on me this fine May day in south Florida? Does this mean the Dragon Lady won’t be joining