Unsafe Harbor (14 page)

I
sat and stared at the phone number in my hand. Giancarlo Giamonte, or Ralph Goldberg. I didn’t much care which persona I met, as long as one of them coughed up the information that I was after. I figured anyone owning two hundred shahtoosh shawls was bound to know the name of the supplier.

I quickly conjured my own cover story and then punched in Giamonte’s number.

“Giancarlo Giamonte Designs. This is Giancarlo speaking. Who is calling, please?” demanded a man with an Italian accent as thick as pesto sauce.

“This is Miss Rachel Bush Porter. I was referred by Mrs. Muffy Carson Ellsworth,” I replied in my best Texas drawl.

If Ralph was into playing name games with accents, so be it. I was more than happy to comply.

“I have a big affair coming up and I’ll be needing a very special gown. Muffy said that you were the man for the job,” I told him.

“Dear, dear Muffy. How is she?” he asked, his tone instantly transforming from that of abrupt to obsequious.

“Aunt Muffy is just fine,” I replied.

“Ah? Then Muffy is a relative of yours?” he questioned.

“Well, no. Not legally. But she’s a very close friend of my Auntie Barbara’s, and I’ve known her since I was a child. When I told her about this event, she insisted I call you,” I improvised.

“Is she finally back home from her trip?” Giancarlo asked. “I haven’t heard from her for a while. Perhaps I should give her a ring.”

“No, don’t do that,” I replied, consumed by a momentary rush of panic. “Aunt Muffy’s out of town again for a few days. Auntie Barbara thought they could both use a rest, so they packed up and went off to a spa. But don’t worry. She’ll be back sometime next week. In fact, she mentioned there’s a party coming up to which she’d like you to escort her.”

“Of course. I’d be delighted as always,” Giancarlo said, nearly purring over the phone.

“In the meantime, I know this is short notice. But do you suppose I could stop by and discuss some designs for a gown with you?” I inquired.

“Please, there’s no need to ask. It would be my greatest pleasure,” Giancarlo fawned.

It was amazing what money and social status could do. Giancarlo gave me his address and I promptly made a bee-line for it.

I went from the East to the West Side. My Trailblazer traveled south along the Henry Hudson past the West 79th Street Boat Basin, where New Yorkers too hip to live on land bobbed on the river in their houseboats. Soon after, pier after pier of cruise ships popped into view, each preparing to set sail for an exotic location. I had a momentary hallucination. What would it be like to chuck my old life and simply
begin anew? The thought of taking on a different identity and starting all over again was surprisingly tempting.

What the hell’s going on with you, anyway?
my inner Mini-Me scolded.

My restlessness had brought me all the way home. Even so, I was still feeling antsy. It was as if I had yet to make peace with the demons that chased me.

I continued down along the river, and then swung left onto Fourteenth Street. From there I entered the Meat Packing District. Once the stomping grounds solely of butchers, transvestite hookers, and truckers, the area had now become
très chic,
transformed into the fashionistas’ latest casualty.

Not only had the neighborhood been prominently featured on
Sex and the City,
but Stella McCartney even set up shop there. Her sleek clothing boutique shared the same block with other avant-garde designers and modern home stores, too hot to dream of opening anywhere else.

I parked and navigated my way down the street, the uneven cobblestones turning my gait into that of a tipsy drunk. It was heartening to find that the area hadn’t yet totally changed. Sure, there were upscale galleries and French bistros where toothpick thin models posed like so much window dressing; but there were also burly meat packers taking a break outside in their bloodstained smocks.

Exclusive nightclubs and bars had been lured to the spot by the neighborhood’s Old World charm. But the stench of decaying meat still wafted in the air, where it mingled with the scent of expensive pastry.

I headed over to Gansevoort Street, where a few trannies huddled together in the cold. A blast of winter wind whipped at their vinyl knee-high boots, black fishnet stockings, and excessively short miniskirts. They howled with laughter as a woman in designer spike heels stepped into discarded en-
trails lying outside a wholesale meat market. I dodged a small pile myself, while jumping across a gutter. No question but that this area had yet to lose the grittiness of New York’s good old, bad old days.

I continued on to a warehouse that boasted a steel awning over its abandoned loading dock. Sharp meat hooks hung from the rafters above me. A check of the address verified that this was the abode of society’s latest darling.

A static voice burst from the intercom after I rang the bell.

“Take the elevator up to the third floor,” it instructed, as I was buzzed inside.

I stepped into the hallway, where my gaze was drawn to the concrete floor. Dried bloodstains formed a gruesome variety of abstract patterns. Either this had once been a meat market, or I needed to call in CSI.

I struggled with an accordion steel gate and entered what appeared to be the elevator. Actually, it was more of a death trap. It rose three excruciatingly slow flights accompanied by a disgruntled chorus of creaks, groans, and moans.

I was beginning to wonder if I was about to enter a designer house of horrors when the lift roughly jerked to a halt. It felt like forever before the elevator finally settled. Only then could the door be opened. I found myself faced with a combo of all four men from
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
rolled into one.

Giancarlo Giamonte stood in purple satin pajama bottoms and a tight white T-shirt, complete with plunging neckline, over which he’d thrown a long, flowing robe. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought that Ralph Goldberg was a bad movie version of an Italian gigolo.

“Please come in,” he said and, taking hold of my hand, guided me over the threshold.

Giamonte’s voice was as smooth and sensuously warm as
a bowl of macerated cherries; his hair, richly dark as a slick of premium motor oil. Giancarlo’s eyes never left mine as he brought my hand to his lips and seductively kissed it. This guy had acquired more than just an accent. He’d also learned all the right moves to make.

Entwining his arm through mine, he led me down the hallway. Photos of Giancarlo, accompanying an array of New York socialites, lined his walls. We entered a spacious room in which every piece of furniture, every exquisite accessory, had been ever so carefully placed. All the while, Giancarlo whispered a stream of sweet nothings into my ear.

How nice my figure was, what lovely hair I had, and how much I resembled a younger, more vibrant version of Muffy.

“No, truly. The two of you
must
be related,” he insisted, and gently squeezed my hand.

For a moment, I wondered if Terri had gotten it wrong and Giancarlo might actually be straight. Anyone looking on would have thought we were not only the best of friends, but possibly even lovers.

Then it hit me. Of course he was gay. No straight man would ever have been so thoughtful and attentive.

Giancarlo ushered me to a large chair, where I sank into leather as luxuriously soft as butter. Then, sitting across from me, he poured two cups of ginger tea sweetened with honey.

“Now tell me how it is that your aunt knows Muffy,” he quizzed, as if preparing me for an exam.

“Auntie Barbara and Muffy were roommates in college,” I fibbed. “They stayed in touch afterward and Muffy occasionally came and spent time at the ranch.”

“The ranch?” he asked, obviously yearning to know more.

“Yes, the ranch,” I teased. “It belongs to Auntie Barbara and Uncle George.”

“You aren’t referring to
the
Bushes by any chance, are you?” he eagerly questioned, and intently leaned forward.

I opened my mouth to speak and then shook my head, as if suddenly thinking better of it.

“Auntie Barbara doesn’t like it when I brag,” I responded, knowing the less I said, the more Giamonte would gobble it up.

“Of course. And we wouldn’t want her to be mad at us, now would we?” he replied with glee. “Not when you’re planning to order a fabulous new gown. So tell me. Exactly what sort of event it is that you’ll be attending?”

“A gala in support of domestic oil exploration,” I said, figuring the Bushes, Texas—it made sense.

“And will it be coming up soon?” he asked.

I watched as his eyes discreetly took note of my riffraff outfit. But he was smart enough not to say a word. That’s another thing about having money. You can get away with wearing whatever you like.

“In about four months,” I replied, and took a sip of my ginger tea.

“That’s odd. I know all the comings and goings in this city and I haven’t heard a thing about it,” he remarked, sounding slightly perplexed.

“That’s because it’s in Austin,” I swiftly responded, neatly saving my rear end. “I’m just here for a visit and to do a quick bit of shopping.”

“What a shame. You’d make such a lovely addition to our social scene,” Giancarlo oozed. “But I suppose we’ll just have to enjoy your company whenever we can. Here, let me show you my designs and see what you think.”

Giancarlo loosened the ribbon on a portfolio and began to show me page after page of drawings. I thought they all looked terrific.

“I particularly like this one,” I said and pointed to a sleek, strapless gown.

“Of course you would. What marvelous taste! That design is brand new. You’ll look absolutely exquisite,” Giancarlo gushed.

“The only problem is that Austin gets rather chilly at night. What kind of wrap could I possibly wear?” I asked, allowing the slightest hint of frustration to slip into my voice.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, my dear. I have the perfect thing,” he said with a wink. “Just follow me.”

My pretty little head and I brought up the rear.

We entered Giancarlo’s bedroom, where I was instantly transported into an exotic new world. An explosion of shahtoosh shawls lay draped over every square inch of space, transforming the room into an Indian bazaar. Rainbow-colored clouds of fluff were tossed about everywhere.

“My goodness. What is all this?” I asked.

“The king of wools; the most exquisite material in the world. Here, feel it.” Giancarlo picked up a pure white shawl and gently rubbed the fabric against my skin. “See? It’s as soft as a lover’s touch, as light as an angel’s wings.”

“Is this pashmina?” I asked.

“Oh, my dear. Please, don’t ever mention that word again. Pashmina is so
out
that the mere whisper of it will get you thrown off the best-dressed list. No, this is something far superior. It’s shahtoosh,” he said, in near reverence.

Gotcha,
I thought.

“Anyone can buy pashmina. But only the truly elite can afford shahtoosh,” he continued. “It’s like a fine work of art.”

Hmm. Now where had I heard those words before?

“You mean it’s rather like a Lamborghini as compared to a Mini Cooper?” I ventured.

“Precisely. In fact, I’m a surprised that you don’t know about them yet. Everyone from Bel Aire to Belgravia is wearing shahtoosh,” he remarked, and looked at me somewhat perplexed. “Really, you must start spending more time in New York. It’s all the rage among the most fashionable women in the world.”

He leaned toward me, ever the trusted confidante.

“Truth be told, I know one society matron that takes her shawl to bed with her every night. Though, of course, even shahtoosh is no substitute for good sex.”

I quickly glanced over to see if he was serious. Giancarlo maintained a straight poker face.

“You’re right. They truly are gorgeous. But will it keep me warm in winter?” I inquired, doing my best to appear naive.

“Absolutely. I’ve heard that an egg wrapped in one of these, and left in the sun, will cook in a matter of hours. In fact, the very best fashion magazines have declared shahtoosh to be
the
survival tactic of the season for getting through one’s holiday parties. Here. Why don’t you try it on?” he suggested, and placed a shawl over my shoulders.

Then he guided me toward a mirror.

“See how wonderful it looks? They drape in this special way that’s extremely luxe,” he said, ever the perfect salesman.

I was once more on the verge of being seduced as I gazed at myself wrapped in something so exquisite. I couldn’t help but wonder what my life might have been like had I been born a different person—one raised with tons of money. Would I also have felt that my wealth placed me above the law?

I’d never know as I glanced in the mirror again and this time saw the bloody pelts of five Tibetan antelopes slung across my back. I quickly removed the shawl.

“Do you own any of these yourself?” I asked, curious if what Muffy had told me were true.

“I’ll let you in on secret since we’re becoming fast friends. It may seem a bit obsessive, but I own over two hundred of these scrumptious beauties. Each is specially dyed to match an article of my clothing. There’s mauve, and cream, and periwinkle,” he said, and began to prance around the room.

I watched in bizarre fascination as, with each color named, Giancarlo plucked a corresponding shawl from off a chair, the bed, a bureau as if it were a flower. But it was as he removed a loden green shawl that I stared in disbelief. Revealed was a stool that had been made from a severed elephant’s foot. I continued to gaze at the amputated appendage in horror.

However, the revelation didn’t end there. Giancarlo lifted shawls off what I’d thought were two poles on either side of his bed. Instead, they turned out to be enormous ivory tusks that looked to be six feet in length. Each was intricately carved from its base up to its tip and must have weighed close to eighty pounds apiece. The tusks stood lifeless as a pair of Egyptian mummies.

I now realized that my first instinct had been correct. I was indeed inside a little shop of horrors. Still, I couldn’t help but walk over and run a hand along one of the ivory tusks.