FLORIDA (Chapter 2)

I met many of my uncle’s and aunt’s social contacts. Most of them were Italian Americans, like Celestino, but they knew people all across the social landscape. The most interesting person turned out to be Marcel, an Italian businessman who owned the flower concession at the Fontainbleau hotel, the ritziest in Miami Beach at that time.

Marcel was a great admirer of my aunt and uncle and took me immediately under his wing. He would ask me over for dinner at the hotel where he was considered royalty, he would summon the chef at our table and ask me to order anything I wanted directly from the chef, who almost genuflexed in front of us.

Marcel had a certain authority over the hotel staff, I found out, probably from what I suspected was underworld connections. He could not read or write and wore only linen cream colored suits with slight silver stripes that ran down his pant sides. He chain smoked with a gold and ivory cigarette holder.

He had left home in Italy at twelve, because his parents could not feed him, and had worked as a hand in merchant ships. He had landed in Venezuela and made contact with flower growers there, to then settle in Miami and muscle his way into flower concessions for hotels.

Marcel was very tanned and suffered from leg arterial disease, a condition that was irreversible and that forced him to shuffle slowly around. He spoke a mixture of bad English and bad Italian, punctuated by Ligurian dialect terms.

He lived in a swanky suite at the hotel, where a modern kitchen allowed him to cook Italian food the way he liked. An enormous bed with satin sheets and silk bedspread showed prominently in his bedroom, the bathroom was all Italian marble, Jacuzzi bathroom and bidet. Near the kitchen there was a drawing room that served as dining room as well.

I asked his help to sell the jewelry and he said he was interested personally, but first we should have them appraised. He arranged an appointment with a jeweler downtown Miami for the next day. In the morning he showed up at my hotel, but he was not alone; a muscular gentleman in his forty accompanied him.

He was introduced as Frank Tranquillini, head of security at the Fontaibleau. He had light hair and blue eyes, he took my hand in his enormous paw and crushed me. “Alberto, I really admired your aunt and uncle. Your aunt would come to have dinner at our hotel and I would ask her to take that rock off her finger. It was attracting too much attention.

Now we will drive into Miami together. When we get out of the car, I want you to walk just a few steps in front of me. There are characters around that will kill you to get this stuff. I will watch you from behind. OK?” He tapped lightly the side of his coat, where something was bulging. I felt like I was living an episode of Dragnet.

We drove to Miami and walked to a strip mall where the jeweler was waiting. When the jeweler saw the ring he let out a gasp, then said:”Let’s weigh this baby!”

He bent open the prongs that held the stone with a small pair of pliers. He removed the stone from the setting but Tranquillini barked: “ Hold it! I will take it to the scale!” He explained later that swictharoos were not uncommon.

The stone weighed 19.6 carats. The value and offer from the jeweler was $50,000. Marcel motioned to me: “All right, we’ll think about it! Let’s go!!”
Outside the shop he added: “Hey, I will pay you 65 grand. If that chiseler will give you 50, I know it’s worth a lot more!” I replied: “What about the other jewels?” “Don’t worry about it, I will buy them myself!

We will show them to the jeweler at your hotel and I will give you 10 percent more than he will” I asked: “What are you going to do with the ring?” “I will keep it for a while, then who knows, I’ll sell it to Sinatra. He likes big stuff like that”.

We drove to his bank. He got keys for his safety deposit box and we all entered the inner sanctum.

He got a couple of boxes out, opened them, they were stuffed with $100 bills, neatly packed in $1000 bundles. He counted out sixty five $1000 packets, put them in a large envelope and we left, Tranquillini behind us, still caressing his left side. Again cash flowed like water in front of my eyes.

Back at the hotel, I disgorged the cash to my lady friends. The money piled obscenely on the coffee table. I could not avoid thinking that I had transformed a love token into greed. I met Marcel back at his suite at the Fontainbleau.

He was cooking some marinara sauce and stirring an enourmous sainless steel pot. He threw in some porcini mushrooms and added a glass of red wine, quipping: “ Nobody can make this but me, Welcome to heaven”. He opened a large can of Beluga caviar that probably cost more than my monthly salary check, and ladled out large spoons of it on a couple of small china plates.

He added toast slices and then popped a bottle of Dom Perignon. We spent the evening quietly enjoying the small feast. I was living the life of the rich and famous and I had these strange conflicting emotions grasping me alternatively: the sadness for the recent tragedy and the excitement of the immediate experiences. I never would have guessed that Florida would offer me this.

-- To be continued

 

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