The Little Death (9 page)

This was where Reggie Kent’s home was, up on the far part of the island where the “real people” lived. The people who ran the bookstore, the florist, the dry cleaner, the people who might not have inherited their millions but had socked away enough to stake a small lot in one of the modest neighborhoods of older bungalows that made up the north end.

Two days ago, Louis might not have been attuned to the difference. To his eye, the homes they were passing now as the Mustang drove along North Ocean Boulevard were pretty damn nice. But after being in Sam’s bedroom last night—lying in her soft Egyptian cotton sheets, sated and sticky with salt spray, listening to the ocean hiss in the blackness—Louis understood with a sensory clarity that there were two worlds within this larger Palm Beach one.

“I heard you banging around in the dark last night,” Mel said. “Where did you go?”

Louis glanced over at Mel, then back at the road. “I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk on the beach.”

“At four in the morning?”

“Yup.”

Louis was glad Mel let it go. He didn’t want to have to tell him about Sam. Or about the phone call with Joe. He didn’t even want to think about it too much, because he knew if he did, he would overthink it and overanalyze
it. He would maybe start listening a little too closely to that voice gnawing at his ear.

You cheated on Joe.

Screw that. She’s the one who ended it.

You love her.

I’m not a fucking monk
.

None of this had been in his head last night. Sex with Sam had been just a white heat of need, not just of physical desire but to cauterize the wound Joe had left.

“What road am I looking for?” Louis asked.

“Reef Road,” Mel said. “Reggie said to look for a white house with portholes.”

Louis spotted the white house on the corner by the small round windows. He pulled into the circular drive and cut the engine. Reggie came out through the front door. He was wearing crumpled white linen pants and a loose shirt the color of the ocean. He was barefoot and holding a tumbler of what looked like lemonade.

“Welcome to my humble little castle,” he said with a smile. “Come on in. I hope you haven’t eaten lunch yet. I’ve set out a little snack.”

Louis followed Mel inside. It wasn’t a big house by any Palm Beach standard, and though it had none of the overwrought luxury of Sam’s guesthouse, it was a place designed for comfort and with great taste. The living room of white tile and walls opened up to a small dining room with a rattan dining table and chairs. Beyond that, the open sliding-glass doors offered a view of the ocean. The furnishings looked slightly dated—a light blue sectional sofa and Danish modern chairs and teak tables. The place smelled of salt spray, mustiness, and French
cigarettes. The walls were covered with paintings, gaudy Technicolor tropical landscapes.

Reggie noticed Louis staring at a painting of two panthers surrounded by fruit trees.

“Do you like it?” Reggie asked.

“Yeah, it’s very… colorful,” Louis said.

“It’s by Jean-Claude Paul,” Reggie said. “He’s Haitian. These are all Haitian. I’ve been collecting them for years.”

Mel was standing close to a painting of a nude, squinting. “Nice,” he said, turning back to Reggie.

Reggie shrugged. “People here wouldn’t be caught dead with this sort of thing on their walls. But I love them.” His eyes lingered on the panthers for a moment, then he smiled. “Let’s go out on the lanai, shall we?”

Reggie led the way out onto a small patio. It was surrounded by orange bougainvillea hedges and crowded with potted flowering plants. Over the top of one hedge, Louis could see a construction crane and the skeleton of a three-story mansion.

“What are they building over there, a bank?” Louis asked.

Reggie turned back from the buffet table, a pitcher of lemonade in his hand. “Oh, that,” he said. “It’s my new neighbors. I think they are Russian. They bought four lots, tore down the houses, and are putting up that monstrosity. What can you do? Some people have all the money but absolutely no taste.”

Louis thought that it didn’t look any worse than some of the other places he had seen on the south end of the island last night, but he kept quiet.

“What can I get you to drink?” Reggie asked.

“A beer?” Louis asked.

Reggie grimaced. “I’ll have to check. I might have—”

“Lemonade’s fine,” Louis said.

“Same here,” Mel said from the chaise in the corner where he had stretched out.

Reggie handed them each a slender tumbler, and they took seats near Mel. Louis took a drink of the lemonade. It was heavy with vodka.

Reggie’s mini-buffet was set up on the table between them. The centerpiece was a glass bowl set in ice and filled with what looked like mud. Also on the table were tiny cups of minced onion and chopped egg and a carefully arranged assortment of toast wedges.

“Please, help yourself,” Reggie said.

Mel sat forward and picked up one of the tiny pearl-handled spoons and began to heap some caviar onto a toast wedge. Louis watched him, surprised. Louis had never seen him eat anything but bloody steaks, grouper sandwiches, and tacos.

“Is this osetra?” Mel asked.

Reggie’s face reddened slightly. “Yes. I’m sorry, but beluga is a bit out of my price range these days.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mel said, helping himself to another toast wedge. “It’s good. Tastes like nuts.”

Reggie smiled. “I’m glad you like it. This one is from Iran. I first tasted it at a birthday party for—”

“Excuse me,” Louis interrupted. “If you two are done comparing culinary experiences, can we talk about the problem at hand?”

Reggie stared at him for a moment, tiny spoon in midair. “Yes, you’re right, of course,” he said. He carefully spread some caviar on a toast wedge. “Where do we start?”

Louis leaned forward. “We start, Mr. Kent, with you. You’re not exactly leveling with us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we aren’t going to take your case if you don’t start telling us the truth.”

Louis felt Mel’s eyes on him but didn’t look at him. They hadn’t talked any more since yesterday in the cattle pen, and Louis had decided he needed to push Kent before he agreed to take this on.

Reggie looked at Mel, as if he expected him to intervene on his behalf.

“Louis is right, Reg,” Mel said. “I want to help you, but if you don’t tell us what we need to know, we’re out of here.”

Reggie sighed. “Okay, ask me what you must.”

“Let’s start with your relationship with Mark Durand and why you lied about that,” Louis said.

Reggie shifted in his chair, an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers. “I didn’t really lie,” he said.

“Were you lovers or not?” Mel asked.

“We were,” Reggie said softly. “But it ended months ago.”

“How and when did it start?” Louis asked.

“I used to occasionally go to a club over in West Palm,” Reggie said. “I had been alone for quite some time, and when I saw Mark that night at Kashmir’s, I knew he was someone I could fall in love with.”

Reggie stared out at the ocean, a sad wistfulness in his eyes. Louis let him have a few more seconds, then prodded him.

“He felt the same?”

“No,” Reggie said. “Like I told you, he was a lot
younger. And at the time he was seeing this rich lawyer from Fort Lauderdale. The man was married and used to drive up to West Palm looking for anonymous, one-night encounters. He was paying Mark money for seeing him on a regular basis.”

“So Durand was a prostitute,” Louis said.

Reggie cringed. “Well, he was arrested in Miami for that once,” he said. “But to me he was simply a beautiful young man in need of direction.”

“How did you convince him to leave the other guy and hook up with you? You’re not rich, are you?”

“Heavens no,” Reggie said. “In fact, I usually rent this place out during the season to make money.” When he saw the look on Louis’s face, he went on. “I rent it out, pocket twenty grand a month, and go live in someone’s guesthouse until Easter.”

Louis glanced at Mel, who shrugged.

“But when this whole thing hit the newspapers, my tenant backed out,” Reggie said. He looked around, shaking his head. “I mean, between the lawn man, the pool, the maid, the taxes, I have no idea how I’m going to get by if I don’t find someone—”

“Mr. Kent, please,” Louis said. “You were talking about how you and Durand got together.”

Reggie nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry. Well, Mark wanted to leave the lawyer, so I told him he could come stay with me. He was living in a ratty little efficiency by the turnpike, so you can imagine how excited he was when he saw Palm Beach.”

“So what went wrong?” Mel asked.

Reggie was silent for a long time. “The age thing, of course,” he said softly. “That, and Mark realized I wasn’t
really rich. At least, not rich enough. But I didn’t want him to leave.” He gave a wry smile. “No fool like an old fool, they say.”

He drew deeply on the cigarette and blew out a slow stream of smoke. “I knew I couldn’t afford to keep him happy, and I had no illusions about him being faithful. So we struck a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Louis asked when Reggie didn’t go on.

“I need a refill,” Reggie said. He rose, picking up his tumbler. “Anyone else?”

Mel held out his glass. Louis hadn’t touched his. Reggie went to the bar and returned with two more lemonades, handing one to Mel. Reggie sat down, staring glumly into his drink.

“What was the deal?” Louis pressed.

“This is so sordid,” Reggie muttered.

“So is prison,” Mel said.

Reggie took a big drink before he went on. “The deal was that if Mark stayed with me, I would leave him alone. And I would help him become a walker.”

“He agreed?”

“Not at first. But I was able to convince him it was an easy way for him to have the kind of lifestyle he wanted, and that he could be a great walker if he tried.”

“So you trained him?” Louis asked.

“You don’t train to be a walker,” Reggie said. “You either have it or you don’t. Mark was very handsome, and he had a certain
avoir la gueule.
” When he saw their blank looks, he added, “A certain animal appeal.”

He snuffed out the Gauloise. “All I did was help him round off the rough edges. I got him to a good tailor,
taught him how to order wine. Then I started introducing him to my ladies. I was determined to transform him into the kind of gentleman who could escort the richest women in the world. I didn’t want him to have to depend on men to pay him for sex anymore.”

“You’re a regular Pygmalion, Reg,” Mel said.

Reggie’s gaze drifted out toward the ocean. The sunlight was making his eyes water and in them Louis could see both grief and love. But there was something else stewing in them, too. Betrayal?

Reggie seemed to feel Louis’s eyes on him and he reached for a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on.

“What happened?” Louis asked.

“Well, things were good at first,” Reggie said. “He was starting to get some requests for functions. As I watched him blossom, I took great solace in the idea that, if nothing else, I saved him from the awful life he had before.”

Louis couldn’t see Reggie’s eyes behind the sunglasses but he could tell the man was having trouble not breaking down.

“But after a few months I knew something was wrong,” Reggie said. “Mark started drinking heavily and disappearing for days at a time. He was moody and restless, like he was looking for something that he couldn’t find here on the island. God knows what that was. There isn’t anything you can’t get here.”

“Did you talk to him about it?”

Reggie nodded. “One night I got a call from Rusty Newsome. Mark didn’t show up to take her to a party. When he finally came home the next day I asked him what was wrong. He wouldn’t talk about it. And he
wouldn’t call Rusty to apologize. It was so embarrassing.”

“That was it? He broke one date?” Louis asked.

Reggie shook his head. “There were others. And he just kept pulling further away from me. I was desperate to keep him, so I started smothering him, nagging him about where he was and who he was seeing. I started buying him all these gifts. For his birthday, I gave him a beautiful monogrammed robe from Kassatly’s. I found it the next day wadded up in the bottom of his closet.”

Reggie fell quiet. The silence was broken by the screech of wild parrots taking flight from a palm tree, streaks of acid green against the vivid blue sky.

“Tell us about the fight at Testa’s,” Mel said. “What started it?”

Reggie took another drink. The ice cubes tinkled against the crystal as he set the glass down. “I found a Patek Philippe in Mark’s bedroom,” he said.

“What’s that?” Louis asked.

“A watch,” Mel said.

“Not just a watch,” Reggie said. “It was a brand-new Calibre anniversary model made just this year. I could only imagine the price.”

“So what? You said you got gifts as a walker,” Louis said.

“Not like that,” Reggie said. “God, even low-end Pateks are twenty grand.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“I was afraid to tell him because he’d know I had been snooping in his room. So I asked him to meet me at Testa’s for dinner. I was hoping that in a public setting, Mark would be civil and calm.”

“How did he explain the watch?”

“Well, when he showed up I could tell he had been drinking.” Reggie shook his head slowly. “When I showed him the watch, he got very angry. He grabbed it and put it on, saying he had worked hard for it.”

“He was prostituting again?” Louis asked.

Reggie looked miserable. “That’s what I thought, so I asked him. But then he told me that he wasn’t even gay.”

“What?” Louis said.

Reggie put up a hand. “I know, it sounds crazy. He told me he was really straight and only did it to make some easy money. Like I said, he was obsessed with money.”

Louis’s mind churned with questions—all of them too delicate and, hell, maybe too stupid—to ask someone like Reggie. But he had to admit that he didn’t understand a man like Mark Durand. Either you were straight or you weren’t, and if Mark was straight, Louis couldn’t imagine any amount of money that would entice him into a man’s bed.