Sweetie's Diamonds (7 page)

“Too bad they couldn't charge him with the murder rap,” said the large man sitting next to Marshall.

“There was no evidence,” Marshall replied.
 
“Just conjecture.”

“You think he did it?”

“I think he
ordered
it.
 
A guy like Aaron Valentine doesn't get his own hands dirty.
 
He thinks he's above it all.
 
The way his mind works, he believes he's innocent because he doesn't actually do the deeds.”
 

“What are you, his shrink?” the large man asked.

Marshall chuckled.
 
There he was, psychoanalyzing again.
 
The large man said goodbye and got up.
 
Marshall stood and watched Valentine light a big cigar.
 
One of the bailiffs told him that he couldn't smoke in the courtroom, so Valentine stubbed it out on the mahogany table surface.
 
He walked out with his lawyer, laughing.
 
Another large and scary-looking man with shoulder-length blonde hair and a black eye patch joined them.
 
Marshall knew who he was.
 
The guy's name was Emo Tuff, Valentine's right hand man.
 
It was rumored that Emo Tuff was the muscle behind Valentine's organization and wasn't afraid of doing the dirty work.
 
Marshall had heard that Tuff could crush a skull with the thumb and third finger of one hand.

Marshall squeezed through the crowd and chased them to the elevator.
 

“Mister Valentine!
 
Mister Valentine!” he shouted over the cries of other reporters.
 
His voice must have carried because Valentine turned and looked at him.

“How does it feel to be cleared of these charges?” Marshall asked, breathlessly.

“These charges were ridiculous,” Valentine said in the soft, yet menacing voice that the world had come to know in the last few weeks.
 
“Thank God for the American justice system.
 
I knew a jury of my peers wouldn't convict me.
 
My business provides a service to the public.
 
Some people may not agree with everything I do, but you can't argue with its popularity.
 
My business sold four point three billion dollars worth of merchandise last year.
 
That means that most of the American public likes what I do for a living.”

“By that, sir, you mean you sold four point three billion dollars worth of pornography?” Marshall asked.

“Call it what you like, young man,” Valentine replied.
 
“This is a free country, and tonight's verdict proves it.”

“What do you plan to do now?” Marshall asked as the elevator doors opened.
 
“And can I get an interview for the
Weekly
?”

“I'm going home, where I'll open a nice bottle of champagne and share it with my girlfriends.
 
As for the interview, call my office.
 
Good night.”
 
With that, he and his entourage stepped into the elevator.
 
Emo Tuff kept the reporters out of the car and the doors closed.
 

Marshall was satisfied.
 
He got a scoop.
 
Now he had to get home, write the story, and have it on the editor's desk before dawn.
 

Then maybe Ellie would have breakfast with him.

A
s the limo pulled into the gates of Paradise, Aaron Valentine felt a rare surge of emotion.
 
It had been too long since he had been to his beloved estate in Woodland Hills.
 
The exterior lights illuminated the three-story Tudor mansion with the gold and white color scheme, signifying an important event.
 
Valentine had wanted the lighting on the property to reflect his moods.
 
Some nights the house was blue and peaceful.
 
Other nights it was red and passionate.
 
The gold and white scheme was reserved for special nights like this one—Valentine was coming home after seven months in prison.
 
And it felt good.
 
Very good.

“I still don't understand why your lawyer couldn't get you bail,” Emo Tuff said.
 
He sat across from Valentine, facing the back of the limo.
 

“Baxter didn't do shit for me,” Valentine said.
 
“First thing tomorrow morning, I'm going to fire him.”

“You
did
get off,” Tuff reminded him.

“No thanks to Baxter.”

Tuff laughed.

“So which juror did you get to?” Valentine asked.

“Make that plural, boss,” Tuff answered.
 
“There were three.
 
We picked the ones we thought would have the most influence on the rest of the jury.
 
Hell, we were just hoping for a mistrial, but you got away with the jackpot.”

“I wasn't worried,” Valentine said.
 
He looked out the window and smiled.
 
“Ahh, Paradise.
 
Long time no see.”

The car pulled up to the front of the mansion and stopped.
 
A security guard and Charlie, the black manservant who had worked for Valentine since 1967, opened the door for him.
 

“Welcome back, boss,” Charlie said.

Valentine got out and smelled the air.
 
“Lavender is the most wonderful scent in the world,” he said, referring to his favorite flower that grew in abundance on the property.
 
“Thank you, Charlie.
 
It's good to be back.”

He went inside the house, where the staff stood waiting for him.
 
As soon as he was through the door, they all applauded.
 
Everyone was there—the cook, the maids, the groundskeepers, the security guards, his assistants, and his girlfriends.
 

Valentine bowed dramatically and laughed boisterously.
 
“Hello friends!” he shouted.
 
“Charlie, break out the finest champagne.
 
I believe it's time to celebrate.”

The three women—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead—snaked over to him and draped themselves around his massive girth.
 
He kissed each one deeply, fondling their behinds as he did so.
 

Emo Tuff stood in the doorway and smiled.
 

The boss was home.

V
alentine stepped into his office but the redhead stuck her head through the open door behind him.

“Aaron!
 
What are you doing?” she asked.

“I'll be out in a minute, baby,” he said.
 
He kissed her on the forehead and gently shoved her out.
 
“I have to talk to Emo for a minute.
 
Go dance with the other girls, will ya?”

He shut the door and locked it.
 
Tuff was at Valentine's large desk, eyeing the computer monitor.

“Enjoying yourself, boss?” Tuff asked.

“Emo, before I go upstairs and get the living daylights fucked out of me, tell me something good,” Valentine said.
 

Tuff rolled back in the chair and put his hands behind his head.
 
“The company's doing fine, boss.
 
ESF made a shitload of money this quarter.
 
Forty-six million.”

Valentine's eyes moved to the framed poster on the wall behind the desk.
 
It had been Erotica Selecta Films' first feature, back in 1975.
 
Hot Fruit
, starring Jack Devlin and Terri Tremble.

“That's better than last quarter,” he said.

“You're telling me.
 
Suzy Slick is turning out to be a major star.
 
We've got her headlining seven titles this month.
 
Nancy Melons is still selling.
 
Dirk Everwood is at the top of the gay list.
 
We're doing okay.”

“How about Sheila?” Valentine asked.
 
He sat on the sofa, beneath the expansive Jackson Pollock that adorned the wall.
 

“Sheila Rivers is getting old,” Tuff said.
 

“She's thirty-two.”

“You know what I mean.
 
She looks fifteen years older.
 
I think the junk has made a mess of her.”

Valentine shook his head.
 
“That happens to some of them, doesn't it.”

“She nearly screwed up production of one of our gang bang titles.
 
She flipped out on the set and was impossible to handle.”

“Guess it's time she retires.”

“Yeah.
 
At least her old titles still sell.”

The two men sat in silence for a moment.
 
Finally Valentine said, “So, I guess you handled things pretty well while I was gone.”

Tuff shrugged.
 
“I did my best.
 
Rudy did his part at the office.”
 
Rudy Alfredo, although he was vice president of Erotica Selecta, was basically a figurehead.
 

“Well, I guess I'll get back to my girls.”
 
Valentine started to rise but Tuff held up a hand.

“Wait a sec.
 
I got a surprise for you, boss.”

Valentine relaxed back into the sofa.
 
“Yeah?”

Tuff took a small jewelry box out of a desk drawer, stood, and walked to the sofa.
 
He held the box out to Valentine.

“What, are you asking me to marry you?” Valentine asked.

“Open it, boss.”

Valentine took the box and flipped the lid.
 
The brilliance of the gem nearly made him choke.
 

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked in a whisper.

Tuff nodded.
 

Valentine picked up the diamond and held it to the light.
 
“It is, isn't it!
 
Where the hell did you get it?”

“It surfaced in New York, boss.
 
We think there are more where this came from.
 
There's a dealer there, some Jewish guy who owns a shop in the diamond district.
 
He's getting them from somewhere.”

Valentine looked at Tuff.
 
“That means the bitch is alive.”

Tuff nodded.

“Find her.”
 
Valentine replaced the diamond and shut the box.
 
“Find her and bring her to me.”

G
reg Boston made it a point never to miss the golf course on Sundays.
 
He usually played at the Ivanhoe Country Club, where he, like his father before him, was a member.
 
Being one of the most successful automobile dealers in the county, Greg was treated like royalty.
 
Sam, the golf pro, normally attempted to put together a foursome that included Greg's lawyer, Mark Spencer, but some days it didn't work out.
 
In those cases, Greg usually played alone with Spencer.
 
This Sunday was one of those days.

Spencer drove his ball down the fairway of the 7
^th
hole and looked back at Greg.
 
“What's eating you?”

Greg waved him away.
 
“Aw, nothing.
 
Just the usual stuff.”

“Diane?”

“Yeah.”

“What's up?”

Greg put his ball on the tee.
 
He didn't speak as he prepared to knock it farther and straighter than Spencer's.
 
He drew his favorite driver from the bag, assumed the stance, and concentrated.
 
He lifted the club back and swung.