Read Online SSC (2011) The Road to Hell by Paul Levine - Free Book Online Page B

had therapy,” she said proudly. “My next-to-last ex-husband was a big believer in self-growth.”
    “ C’mon now, tell me more about Tupton.”
    She sighed and rolled off me, her hair trailing across my chest. Her back toward me, I admired the twin dimples at the base of her spine. Then she turned to face me, her full lips pouting. “We invited him to the pool party to soften him up. Nicky’s bright idea. Why fight the guy, waste thousands on legal fees—”
    “ What better use for your money?”
    “… when maybe we could reason with him, show him the good life, serve him some grilled pompano—”
    “ And chilled champagne.”
    “ Jake, stop it! If you don’t want to fool around anymore, treat me like a client.”
    “ You want me to pad the bill?”
    “ No, I want you to screw me.”
    “ Gina!”
    “ Okay, okay. Fire away.”
    “ So you invited Tupton to a pool party.”
    “ Along with a bunch of stuffed shirts, Friends of the Philharmonic, the opera and ballet groups. I haven’t seen so many bobbed noses and tummy tucks since the Mount Sinai Founders Ball.”
    “ A society crowd.”
    “ Business, too. With Nicky, a party can’t just be a party. We had some of the big growers plus a Micanopy chief or two. Nicky always says if you want to do business in the Everglades, you’ve got to make friends with the Indians and the sugar barons. And, of course, we invited Tupton, the turd.”
    Dropping all Gables Estates pretenses now. More like Star Hampton, who once shared a two-bedroom Miami Springs apartment with five stewardesses, none of whom could scrub a pot.
    “ I’ve seen his name in the paper,” I said. “What did they call him, an ‘environmental activist’?”
    “ A turd!”
    “ The Journal said he was executive director of the Everglades Society. A pretty nice obituary.”
    “ A shithead.”
    “ I assume he wasn’t fond of real estate developers the likes of Nicholas Florio,” I said.
    She placed a hand on my stomach. “All Nicky did was send some surveyors onto the Micanopy Reservation. He’s been doing business with the Indians for years.”
    “ The reservation’s in the Big Cypress Swamp, so Tupton was probably concerned that—
    “ Who cares! I mean, the Indians have something like seventy thousand acres out there. It’s all mucky. Yuk! Who would want it?”
    “ Nicky, I guess. He’s probably going to improve the environment by draining the groundwater, chasing out the birds and alligators, and building ticky-tacky condos on rotten pilings.”
    “ Jake, that’s not fair. He’s got a planned community on the drawing board. Something that would enhance the environment. That’s what the brochures say.”
    “ Maybe the buildings would even last until the first hurricane.”
    “ Don’t let your feelings about Nicky interfere with your good judgment, Jake.” She let her fingers do the walking, or maybe it was a slow dance under the sheet, a soft stroking of me farther south. “Anyway, Tupton files a suit against Nicky’s company for not having all the right permits. But Nicky wasn’t dredging or anything, just surveying, for crying out loud! I gotta tell you, Jake, these bird-watchers and gator-loving econuts are real wackos. They’ve protested against the oil companies for making seismic tests and the airboat tours for disturbing the tadpoles. And Tupton, talk about holier than thou, he comes to our house wearing jeans and a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like some urban fucking cowboy. I’ll bet the dipshit makes thirty-five K a year, tops.”
    “ Made ,” I said. “He’s not cashing any more checks. And I remember when you shook your booty for fifteen bucks a game at the Orange Bowl.”
    She withdrew her hand and studied me. “You disapprove of me, don’t you, Jake? You never say it, but I disappoint you.”
    I listened to fat raindrops plopping against the window. The wind whistled through gaps in the barrel-tile roof. “Nothing and nobody ever