CHAPTER
ONE
Florida,
2014
Sometimes life throws you a life
line, sometimes a lead sinker…
No one watching Marisa Lopez
emerge from the medical center in downtown Miami would have guessed that she’d
just been delivered a death blow. Not for herself, but for her five-year-old
daughter Isobel.
Marisa had become a master at
hiding her emotions. When she’d found out she was pregnant midway through her
junior year at Florida State and her scumbag boyfriend Chip Dougherty skipped
campus faster than his two hundred dollar running shoes could carry him. When
her hopes for a career in physical therapy went down the tubes. When she’d
found out two years ago that her sweet baby girl had an inoperable brain tumor.
When the blasted tumor kept growing, and Izzie got sicker and sicker. When
Marisa had lost her third job in a row because of missing so many days for
Izzie’s appointments. And now…well, she refused to break down now either, not
where others could see.
And there were people watching.
Looking like a young Sophia Loren, not to mention being five-ten in her
three-inch heels, she often got double takes, and the occasional wolf whistle.
And she knew how to work it, especially when tips were involved at The Palms
Health Spa where she was now employed as a certified massage therapist, as well
as the Salsa bar where she worked nights at a second job. Was she burning the
candle at both ends? Hell, yes. She wished she could do more.
Slinging her knock-off Coach bag
over one shoulder, she donned a pair of oversized, fake Dior sunglasses. Her
scoop-necked, white silk blouse was tucked into a black pencil skirt, belted at
her small waist with a counterfeit, red Gucci belt. Walking briskly on pleather
Jimmy Choos, she made her way down the street to her car parked on a side
street…a ten-year-old Ford Focus. Not quite the vehicle to go with her
seemingly expensive attire, a carefully manufactured image. Little did folks
know that hidden in her parents’ garage was a fortune in counterfeit and
knock-off items, from Rolex watches to Victoria’s Secret lingerie, thanks to
her jailbird brother Steve. A fortune that could not be tapped because someone
besides her brother would end up in jail. Probably me, considering the bad luck
cloud that seems to be hanging over my head.
It wasn’t against the law to wear
the stuff, just so long as she didn’t sell it. To her shame, she’d been tempted
on more than one occasion this past year to do just that. Desperation trumps
morality. So far, she hadn’t succumbed, though all her friends knew where to
come when they needed something “special.”
Her parents had no idea what was
in the green-lidded bins that had been taped shut with duct tape. They probably
thought it was Steve’s clothes and other worldly goods. Hah!
Once inside her car, with the air
conditioner on full blast, Marisa put her forehead on the steering wheel and
wept. Soul searing sobs and gasps for breath as she cried out her misery.
Marisa knew that she had to get it all out before she went home where she would
have to pretend optimism before Izzie, who was way too perceptive for her age.
Marisa’s parents, on the other hand, would need to know the prognosis. They
would be crushed, as she was.
A short time later, by mid
afternoon, with her emotions under control and her makeup retouched, Marisa
walked up the sidewalk to her parents’ house. She noticed that the Lopez
Plumbing van wasn’t in the driveway; so, her father must still be at work.
Good. Marisa didn’t need the double whammy of both parents’ reaction to the
latest news. One at a time would be easier.
Marisa had moved into her
parents’ house, actually the apartment over the infamous garage, after Izzie’s
initial diagnosis two years ago…to save money and take advantage of her
parents’ generous offer to baby sit while Marisa worked. Her older brother
Steve, who had been the apartment’s prior occupant, was already in jail by that
time, serving a two to six for armed robbery. The idiot had carried an old boy
scout knife in his pocket when he’d stolen the cash register receipts at the
Seven Eleven. Ironically, he’d never been nabbed for selling counterfeit
goods…his side job, so to speak.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t
Steve’s first stint in the slammer, although it was his first felony. She hoped
he learned something this time, but she was doubtful.
Marisa used her key to enter the
thankfully air-conditioned house. Immediately, her mood lightened somewhat in
the home’s cozy atmosphere. Overstuffed sofa and chair. Her dad’s worn leather
recliner that bore the imprint of his behind from long years of use. And the
smell…ah! The air was permeated with the scent of spicy browned beef and
tomatoes and fresh baked bread. It was Monday; so, it must be Vaca Vieja, or
shredded beef, her father’s favorite, which would be served over rice with a
fresh salad. No bagged salads here. No store bought bread.
Izzie was asleep on the couch
where she’d been watching cartoons on the television that had been turned to a
low volume. The pretty, soft, pink and lavender afghan her grandmother had
knitted covered her from shoulders to bare feet, but even so, her thin frame
was apparent. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes. Even so, she was cute
as a button with her ski-jump nose and rosebud mouth, thanks to her father. But
then, she’d inherited a Latin complexion, dark dancing eyes, and a frame that promised
to be tall from Marisa, who was no slouch in the good looks department, if she
did say so herself. No doubt about it, Izzie was destined to be a beauty when
she grew up. If she ever did.
Marisa put her bag on the coffee
table and leaned down to kiss the black curls that capped her little girl’s
head. She and her daughter shared the same coal black hair, but Marisa’s was
thick and straight as a pin. At one time, Izzie had sported a wild mass of dark
corkscrew curls, all of which had been lost in her first bout of radiation. A
wasted effort, the radiation had turned out. To everyone’s surprise, especially
Izzie, the shorter hairdo suited her better.
With a deep sigh, Marisa entered
the kitchen.
Her mother was standing at the
counter washing lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and radishes that she must have
just picked from the small garden in the back yard. She wore her standard
daytime “uniform.” A blouse tucked into stretchy waist slacks, and curlers on
her head. Soon she would shower and change to a dress and medium pumps, her
black hair all fluffed out, lipstick and a little makeup applied, to greet
Daddy when he got home. It was a ritual she had followed every single day since
her marriage thirty-two years ago. Just as she maintained her trim, attractive
figure at fifty-nine. To please Daddy, as much as herself.
As for her father…even with the
little paunch he’d put on a few years back and a receding hairline, when he
walked into the house wearing his plumbing coveralls, Marisa’s mother had been
known to sigh and murmur, “Men in uniform!”
Marisa’s mother must have sensed
her presence because she turned abruptly. At first glance, she gasped and put a
hand to her heart. No hiding anything from a mother.
“Oh, Marisa, honey!” her mother
said. Making the sign of the cross, she sat down at the kitchen table and
motioned for Marisa to sit, too.
First-generation Cuban-Americans,
they’d named their first-born child Estefan Lopez. He became known as Steve.
Marisa Angelica, who came five years later…a “miracle baby” for the couple
who’d been told there would be no more children…was named after Grandma Lopez
“back home,” and Aunt Angelica who was a nun serving some special order in the
Philippines.
“Tell me,” her mother insisted.
“Doctor Stern says the tumor has grown,
only slightly, in the past two months, but her brain and other tissue are
increasing like any normal growing child and pressing against…” Tears welled in
her eyes, despite her best efforts, and she took several of the tissues her
mother handed her. “Oh, Mom! He says, without that experimental surgery, she
only has a year to live. And even with the surgery, it might not work.”
Izzie’s only hope, and it was a
slim one at best, was some new procedure being tried in Switzerland. Because it
was experimental and in a foreign country, insurance would not cover the
expense. Marisa had managed to raise an amazing hundred thousand dollars
through various charitable endeavors, but she still needed another seventy
thousand dollars. That seventy thou might just as well be a hundred million,
considering Marisa’s empty bank account, as well as her parents, who’d
second-mortgaged their house when Steve got into so much trouble.
She and her mother both bawled
then. What else could they do? Well, her mother had ideas, of course.
Her mother stood and poured them
both cups of her special brewed coffee from an old metal coffee pot on the
stove. No fancy pancy (her mother’s words) Keurig or other modern devices for
the old-fashioned lady. They both put one packet of diet sugar and a dollop of
milk in their cups before taking the first sip.
“First off, we will pray,” her
mother declared. “And we will ask Angelica to pray for Izzie, too.”
“Mom! With the hurricane that hit
the Philippines last year, Aunt Angelica has way too much on her prayer
schedule.”
“Tsk-tsk!” Her mother said. “A
nun always has time for more prayers. And I will ask my Rosary, Altar Society
ladies to start a novena. A miracle, that is what we need.”
Marisa rolled her eyes before she
could catch herself.
Her mother wagged a forefinger at
her. “Nothing is impossible with prayer.”
It couldn’t hurt, Marisa
supposed, although she was beginning to lose faith, despite being raised in a
strict Catholic household. Hah! Look how much good that moral upbringing had
done Steve.
That wasn’t fair, she immediately
chastised herself. Steve brought on his problems, and was not the issue today.
Izzie was. Besides, who was she to talk. Having a baby without marriage. “Okay,
Mom, we’ll pray,” she conceded. If I still can.
She let the peaceful ambiance of
the kitchen fill her then. To Cubans, the kitchen was the heart of the home,
and this little portion of the fifty-year-old ranch style house was indeed
that. The oak kitchen cabinets were original to the house, but the way her
mother cleaned, they gleamed with a golden patina, like new. Curtains with
embroidered roses framed the double-window over the sink. In the middle of the
room was an old aluminum table that could seat six, in the center of which was
a single red rose in a slim crystal vase, the sentimental weekly gift from her
father to her mother. The red leather on the chair seats had been reupholstered
twice now by her father’s hands in his tool room in the basement. A
Tiffany-style fruited lamp hung over the table.
A shuffling sound alerted them to
Izzie coming toward the kitchen. Trailing the afghan in one hand and her
favorite stuffed animal, a ratty, floppy eared rabbit named Lucky in the other,
she didn’t notice at first that her mother was home.
Marisa stood. “Well, if it isn’t
Sleeping Beauty?”
“Mommy!” Dropping the afghan and
Lucky, she raced into Marisa’s open arms. Marisa twirled Izzie around in her
arms until they were both dizzy. She dropped down to the chair again, with
Izzie on her lap, both of them laughing. “Dizzy Izzie!” her daughter squealed,
like she always did.
“For you, Isobella.” Her mother
placed before Izzie a plastic Barbie plate of chocolate-sprinkled sugar cookies
and a matching teacup of chocolate milk. Her mother would have already crushed
some of the hated pills into the milk.
“I’m not hungry, Nana,” Izzie
whined, burying her face against Marisa’s chest.
“You have to eat something,
honey. At least drink the milk,” Marisa coaxed.
After a good half hour of
bribing, teasing, singing, and game playing, she and her mother got Izzie to
eat two of the cookies and drink all of the milk.
“What did the doctor say?” Izzie
asked suddenly.
Uh-oh! Izzie knew that Marisa had
gone to the medical center to discuss her latest test results. “Doctor Stern
said you are growing like a weed. No, he said you are growing faster than Jack
and the Beanstalk’s magic beans.” At least that was true. She was growing,
despite her loss of weight.
Izzie giggled. “I’m a big girl
now.”
“Yes, you are, sweetie,” Marisa
said, hugging her little girl warmly.
Somehow, someway, I am going to
get the money for Izzie, Marisa vowed silently. It might take one of my
mother’s miracles, but I am not going to let my precious little girl die. But
how? That is the question.
The answer came to her that
evening when she was at La Cucaracha, the Salsa bar where she worked a second
job as a waitress and occasional bartender. Well, a possible answer.
“A porno convention?” she
exclaimed, at first disbelieving that her best friend Inga Johanssen would make
such a suggestion.
“More than that. The first ever
International Conference on Freedom of Expression,” Inga told her.
“Bull!” Marisa opined.
They were in a back room of the
restaurant, talking a break. They wore the one-shouldered, knee-length, black
Salsa dresses with ragged hems, La Cucharacha’s uniform for women (the men wore
slim black pants and white shirts). They were both roughly five foot eight, but
otherwise completely different. Where Marisa was dark and olive skinned, Inga
was blond and Nordic. Where Marisa’s figure was what might be called
voluptuous, Inga’s was slim and boylike, except for the boobs she bought last
year. The garments they wore were not meant to be revealing but to accommodate
the restaurant’s grueling heat due to the energetic dancing. They needed a
break occasionally just to cool off.
Inga waved a newspaper article at
her and read aloud , “All the movers and shakers in the Freedom of Expression
industry will be there. Multi-billion dollar investors, movie producers,
Internet gurus, actors and actresses, store owners, franchisees—”
“Franchisees of what?” Marisa
interrupted. “Smut?”
Inga made a tsking sound and
continued, “—sex toy manufacturers, instructors on DIY home videos—”
“What’s DIY?” Marisa interrupted
again.
“Do It Yourself.”
“Oh, good Lord!”
“Martin Vanderfelt—”
“A made-up name if I ever heard
one.”
“Please, Marisa, give me a
chance.”
Marisa made a motion of zipping
her lips.
“Martin Vanderfelt, the
conference organizer, told the Daily Buzz reporter, “Our aim is to remove the
sleaze factor from pornography and gain recognition as a legitimate
professional enterprise serving the public. Freedom of Expresson. FOE.”
Marisa rolled her eyes but said
nothing.
“This is the best part. It’s being
held for one week on a tropical island off the Florida Keys. Grand Keys, a
plush special events convention center, offers all the amenities of a four-star
hotel, including indoor and outdoor pools, snorkeling and boating services,
beauty salons and health spas, numerous restaurants with world class cuisines,
nightclubs, tennis courts—”
“I’d like to see some of those
over-endowed porno queens bouncing around on a tennis court,” Marisa had to
interject.
Inga smiled.
“I thought they always held the
pornography thing every year in Las Vegas.”
“The Expo is held there, but
that’s more for public show. They have booths and stuff and even an awards show
like the Oscars. This is more for industry insiders.”
“Inside, all right,” she said
with lame humor.
“So cynical! Becky Bliss will be
there. You know who she is, don’t you?”
Even Marisa knew Becky Bliss. She
was the porno princess famous for being able to twerk while on top, having sex.
“Are you suggesting we might learn how to do that?”
“It wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it would
enhance your non-existent sex life.”
“Not like that!”
“Okay. Besides, Lance Rocket will
be there, too.”
Marisa had no idea who Lance
Rocket was, but she could guess.
“Anyhow, this conference isn’t
for your everyday Joe, the porn aficionado. It costs five thousand dollars to
attend. The only access to the island is by water. You can’t drive there, of
course. They expect to see lots of yachts and seaplanes.”
Marisa was vaguely aware of the
private islands comprising the Florida Keys. An unbelievable seventeen hundred
islands, some inhabited, others little more than mangrove and limestone masses.
The islands lie along the Florida Straits dividing the Atlantic Ocean from the
Gulf of Mexico.
“Okay, I give up. Why would you
or I even consider something like this? Oh, my God! You’re not suggesting I
make porno films to raise money for Izzie, are you?”
“Of course not. Look. This
article says they’re looking to hire employees for up to two weeks at above
scale wages, all expenses paid, including transportation. Everything from
waiters and waitresses to beauticians to diving instructors…even a doctor and
nurse. Waiters and waitresses can expect to earn at least ten thousand dollars,
and that doesn’t include tips, which could add another twenty K or more. Upper
scale professions, much more.”
“Why would a hotel have to hire
so many employees for just one event? Wouldn’t they have a staff in place.”
“The company that owns the island
went bankrupt last year, and the property is in foreclosure. In the meantime,
until it is sold, the bank rents it out at an exorbitant amount. You know how
abandoned properties deteriorate or get vandalized. Plus, the bank probably
hopes one of the wealthy dudes or dudettes who attend this thing might fall in
love with the place.”
“You know an awful lot about
Grand Keys Island.”
Inga shrugged. “I checked it out
on the Internet. Hey, here’s an idea. You could even work as a massage
therapist. Betcha lots of these porno stars need to work out the kinks. The big
ones would leave hundred dollar tips.” She grinned impishly at Marisa.
Marisa couldn’t be offended at
Inga’s teasing her about the popular misconception of professional masseurs and
masseuses. “Kinks…that about says it all. Pfff! Can you imagine what they would
expect of a massage therapist at one of these events?” She lowered her voice to
a deep baritone and added, ‘My shoulders are really tight, honey, and while
you’re at it, check out down yonder.’”
Inga laughed. “I’m just saying.
If you worked as many hours there, let’s say double shifting between
waitressing and therapy, you might very well earn close to thirty thousand
dollars. In less than two weeks! When opportunity comes down the street, honey,
jump on the bus.”
“You say opportunity, I say bad
idea. Honestly, Inga, I can’t see us doing something like this.”
“Why not? We don’t have to like
all the people that come to the Salsa bar, but we still serve them food and
drinks.”
“I don’t know,” Marisa said.
“There’s something else to
consider.”
“If you’re going to suggest that
I might find a sugar daddy to pay for Izzie’s operation, forget about it.” But
don’t think that idea hasn’t occurred to me.
“No, but there will be lots of
Internet types there. Maybe you could find someone with the technical ability
to set up a website for Izzie to raise funds.”
“I already tried that, but every
company I contacted said it has been overdone. There’s no profit for them.”
“Maybe you’ve made the wrong
contacts. Maybe if you met someone one on one…I don’t know, Marisa, isn’t it
worth a try?” Inga was serious now.
“I’ll think about it,” Marisa
said, to her own surprise.
“Applications and interviews for
employment are being held at the Purple Palm Hotel in Key West next Friday,”
Inga pointed out. “Don’t think too long.”
“Don’t push.”
They heard the Salsa band break
out in a lively instrumental with a rich Latin American beat. A prelude to the
beginning of another set of dance music.
As they headed back to work, Inga
said, “I’ll drive.”
