FLORIDA (Chapter 1)

As the Pan American jetliner taxied towards the gate, that evening in January 1975, I felt a wave of excitement rushing over me. I was about to see the state that so many describe as heaven on earth, sunshine and beaches, wealthy resort hotels and a lay-back comfortable life, Florida.

I was flying in from Rome and I was to see my aunt Mado’. She had spent her winters in Miami Beach for a number of years, with my uncle who had passed away just six months before, and moving to Monte Carlo and Rome in the summer months. Now, alone and in declining health, she had moved back to the hotel suite at the Seasons’ Hotel in Miami Beach, and had asked me to spend a couple of weeks with her.

I walked briskly to the passport check point and got through quickly, I proceeded to the exit where people were huddled awaiting for their friends, relatives and contacts. An older woman waived at me, I did not recognized her immediately, a younger woman was standing along side of her, and as I approached them I realized the older one was my aunt’s companion, Tinina.

I had seen a picture of her a year before, when Mado’ had pointed her out to me from a picture album:” This one is Tinina, we went to elementary school together”. Now Tinina had flown from Italy to Miami to take care of her old friend. They waved at me: “ Are you Alberto”? “ Yes, that’s me”! Their faces were grave. I embraced them both. “I am Tinina, I was told of your arrival, this is Nancy your aunt’s doctor’s wife. Your aunt is an a coma in the hospital. We are sorry to give you such horrible news, but she took a turn for the worst this morning and she was rushed to the ICU. Do you want to see her”?

All enthusiasm and excitement drained away from me and were replaced by a mixture of panic and concern. We drove to the hospital, in the center of Miami. My aunt was clearly dying. Grotesquely puffed and ranting, the doctor at her side told me they had to sew off her wedding ring.

“She is dying, will not last the night. Go to the hotel and we will call you in the morning.” We drove to Collins Ave. and entered her suite. One bedroom was Tinina’s retreat, a second bedroom had been set up for me. The master bedroom was very large and had been totally redone by the maids. Large pictures of my uncle Nino, alone and with Mado’ adorned the mahogany dresser. A large digital clock cast a sinister glow unto the room.

At 5:00am the doctor called. My aunt had passed away. I embraced Tinina and we cried softly together. In the morning Tinina pointed to a solid stack of medical bills that had to be paid. She also mentioned that my aunt had a safety deposit box at the hotel containing cash, jewelry and a letter of disposition of wealth in case of death. I took the elevator and went to the main office where Mr. Katz, the hotel manager, received me with courteous demeanor. I told him of my aunt’s death and received his sincere condolences.

When I mentioned the safety deposit box, his brow furrowed and he informed me that only my aunt’s and uncle’s signature where on the roster and that the box could only be opened after the will had been probated, a lengthy procedure. For what seemed a very long time we kept arguing back and forth, he would not relent, then at last he shrugged his shoulders, opened his arms, looked up at the ceiling, exhaled a long sigh and finally said: “Oh God, you win! It is against the rules, but what the heck! Let us put your name on the roster and that will be the end of it!”

I got the box and took it upstairs, where a nervous and anxiously curious Tinina hovered over it until I opened it. Forty thousand dollars in cash, in $100 bill denominations, but unfortunately in American Express traveler’s checks, signed at the top by Mado’ but not countersigned. A diamond bracelet with enormous diamonds on it, a 19 carat diamond ring, ruby and topaz pendants, diamond earrings, and of course, the testament letter, addressed to Mado’s sister. Tinina explained that the large bulk of Mado’s and departed uncle Nino’s money was in a Swiss bank, and that of course could not be accessed unless the testament was probated. I had to handle the medical bills with the traveler’s checks, but how could I cash them without the proper signature?

We looked through the address book that laid in my aunt’s bureau drawer. Scanning all their acquaintances, all prominent society figures in the States and in Europe, my attention stopped on the name Celestino Leone, retired owner of the famous Mamma Leone Restaurant in New York, where president Eisenhower loved to dine. I called him, he seemed truly disturbed at the news that my aunt had passed, he and his wife were close friends of Mado’ and my uncle’s. “ Oh, Lord, first your uncle and then the dear Mado’!!”

He came over almost immediately from his villa in Golden Beach and embraced us with tears in his eyes. His wife had come along. Celestino was about eighty and his wife about fifty. I learned she had been his hat girl at the restaurant. Celestino asked me to go down to his bank where the manager would gladly turn the traveler’s checks into cash, and we did, the manger asked me to countersign them myself and that was that!

I managed to pay all of the medical bills, and then proceeded to begin the complex task of handling the situation. There was the letter to be opened by the sister, who was on her way from Italy, arrangements were to be made to either ship the body to Rome or cremate my aunt. I had to inform all their contacts in Florida, outside of the States, etc.

Their belonging, once determined who would take them, were to be shipped, the lease had to be terminated, and so on. When Mado’s sister arrived in Miami, she immediately opened the letter and the mandate became clear. She had inherited the whole enchilada, with some minor exceptions. She asked me with great insistence to sell the jewelry right there in Miami Beach, she was quite pessimistic about the money she could get in Italy from the sale of such precious items. So now began for me a real unusual series of events that got me acquainted with the world of the rich and famous in that exceptional place.

First of all I soon realized that Miami Beach is a place where cash circulates rapidly and constantly. Everyone carried enormous rolls of cash in their pockets. Businessmen kept large numbers of safety deposit boxes in banks literally overstuffed with large denomination bills. Everyone I knew paid restaurants, shops, limos and tips in cash. At the Seasons hotel for example, where we were staying, you were not allowed to park or retrieve your car, fast Cuban teenagers would handle that for you, and every time they moved they would receive 5, 10 or 20 bucks. I figured that on an average shift, a fourteen year old Cuban car attendant was making more money than a bank manager.

-- To be continued

 

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