Tales of Greed and Redemption in Five Short Stories

By Beverly A. Mile

In her stories, Beverly touches on our human weakness of greed, jealousy, envy hiding and lurking within us. In most, these emotions rarely rise to malicious level. Nevertheless, the inclination is there. It can be from the "simple" act of cheating on one's college exam, to a merchant overcharging his customers, or may be even killing a person for his wealth. These can be all committed by seemingly normal people, as you will see in some of these stories. The motive for them is almost always greed, envy or jealousy.On the sunnier side of life, the author shows us how one's seemingly uneventful, unfulfilled existence can turn into something worth living for.These stories take place in various locations, some in the United States and others in Europe. Each location was visited by the author, and reflects her impressions and experiences. All references to customs, sights, or scenes are historically accurate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098063405

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Tales of Greed and Redemption in Five Short Stories

Beverly A. Mile

Copyright © 2020 by Beverly A. Mile

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Alligator Pink

Before You Die, Aloha

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Bittersweet Melody

Pepper and the Old Salt

The Final Vow

PART 2

Alligator Pink

Muffy St. Clair sat on her over-stuffed parrot-green sofa and contemplated the living room in her beachfront Ocean Drive home. These walls would have to go! How could she live with this hideous eggshell color that Walter had loved? It was ridiculous. Why, it only made her complexion look more sallow than ever! And what would the other Palm Beachers say if they were to see this shade! She shuddered at the thought, but only briefly for she was primarily concerned with the fact that the color did not enhance her skin tone, rather than what the others might think. If she had friends, that might make a difference—what they thought, that is—but she and Walter had not cultivated too many bosom buddies after their marriage. Her vanity was more important.

After several hours on the beach and three or four more in a tanning salon, just for good measure, Muffy had attained the perfect tan that her northern counterparts would have killed for. Now, this horrid color on the living room walls was wreaking havoc with her coloring! How could Walter have chosen such a sickly yellowish-white? Well, she couldn’t reprimand him now, poor dear. He was under six feet of dirt, decomposing nicely at the family plot in upstate New York. How convenient for her that Walter’s family was buried there and not here in beautiful Palm Beach. She could never stand to have him this close—even in death. In life, he was a dreadful bore, as well as being a terrible lover, but when Muffy was introduced to the near-seventy Walter four and a half years ago, she saw the dollar signs sparkle in his grey eyes and the fortune he amassed over the past thirty years spread out before her like a picnic blanket laden with exotic delicacies. It hadn’t been easy snagging the sickly old creep. She was careful not to upset him and careful to do everything he had wished. The first time she let him make love to her—on their second date—she almost threw up, but she clenched her teeth and made moaning and groaning sounds of enjoyment. How stupid Walter had been! After three months of dating and submitting to Walter’s physical molestations he believed was lovemaking, he proposed marriage. It was well worth it for Muffy had gotten what she wanted. Walter, in love like a sick puppy, had been talked out of a prenuptial agreement by his conniving bride-to-be and went ahead with the vows, knowing quite well that if any divorce were to occur, Muffy could take him to the cleaners. But he was too much in love to care. How could this sexy thirty-three-year old blonde fall for him. He knew that she genuinely cared. Who else would come into his bedroom semi-naked, prance around like some captive harem slave, and then, provoke him into doing things he hadn’t done in years; not to mention the things that she would do to him! Yes, she truly loved him and would make him a good wife. His first wife, Elise, had died twenty-five years prior after being hit by a drunk driver. She had suffered miserably and spent three days lying in the hospital before finally succumbing to massive internal injuries. He had missed her terribly and vowed to remain single and true to her memory until he died. That was changed, however, upon meeting Muffy Farrow at the track.

Walter St. Clair had loved the dog races in Palm Beach and attended them religiously. Sure, he had money to burn, and what was the big deal if he lost a few hundred—or even a thousand. One humid Saturday afternoon, Walter became bored at the track, left his seat, and headed for the refreshment stand. Seated at a small table and sipping on a frosted lime concoction, Muffy smiled her thousand-dollar smile at one of the most eligible bachelors Palm Beach could offer. Sure, it didn’t hurt that Walter was worth a few million. His home had been a steal thirty years ago, but now, it was worth a fortune. Property values—especially those on the south end of the island—had increased immensely.

Hello, Walter said firmly, as he stood by her table. He assessed the woman who was still smiling and asked whether he could join her. Muffy nodded and Walter strolled over to the concession stand, ordered two frosted lime coolers, and slipped surreptitious glances at the girl who was waiting for him. She has to be in her twenties, he thought. Even though an air of cheapness hung about her like stale cigar smoke, something about her excited him. Her legs were long, tan, and lean, and the short red mini she wore did wonders for them. Following the line from her foot to her waist, Walter gasped. Above the white cinch belt that encircled her curves, Walter devoured the huge breasts that were held captive by the tight white V-necked sweater. He was amazed at their size and roundness and wondered if she had had breast augmentation. Hell, he didn’t care whether she did or not; he was a hot, red-blooded sixty-nine-year-old man, and he loved buxom women! Elise had been only an A cup, and he had accepted that. Twenty-five years ago, people didn’t really think of augmenting their bust measurements, and he suffered silently each time he caressed the small mounds on his wife. When he was away from Elise, however, he visually enjoyed the sights of the bikini-clad crowd that roamed the island. No harm in looking, he thought. Once or twice, he even stopped for a drink at one of West Palm Beach’s topless clubs. It caused no harm, Walter thought. But he began to resent his wife’s nude body each time he saw it.

After chatting for a half hour, Walter had invited Muffy to dinner then tried to paw his way into her sweater. Finally, at the end of the evening, she permitted him to rest his head on her chest. That was it! He was hers forever! Muffy knew that she had Walter in the palm of her hands. It wasn’t an accident that she happened to be at the dog track that Saturday. After reading the society pages of the local papers religiously, Muffy—after several strikeouts—finally bagged a big one!

Imagine—Muffy Farrow, greedy little kid from the Bronx, on the arm of a Palm Beach millionaire! It was too much! Muffy deserved it, though. Being on her own since fifteen and hooking on and off until she was twenty-eight, Muffy felt that her ship had come in.

She finally got what was coming to her after all those years of succumbing to those lecherous bastards who used her like an old auto rag. At the time, it was money, but it was tough. She couldn’t do anything else. Oh, she tried waitressing, but that fell flat after the short-order cook squealed on her for skimming out of the till. He was piqued because she hadn’t performed sex with him in the back storage closet. Even though she had slept with him in his trailer after one steamy beer-filled Friday night, Muffy had principles about sleeping with guys in front of the boss. She flatly told him, No, and his revenge was intense. After being canned, Muffy went back to hooking but decided that it had to be better elsewhere. She left New York disappointed and wended her way toward Miami. A girlfriend some years back had written and told her that the rich Cubans would pay anything for a really good romp. So she ended up in Miami, selling herself and putting away a nest egg.

On a weekend trip to Palm Beach with a client, Muffy saw what she finally wanted more than anything else in the world—real wealth and respectability. She just had to live in Palm Beach. She saw the manicured lawns and pastel-colored mansions lining the boulevards. She saw the lunching matrons dressed smartly, carrying Chanel handbags and wearing Armani until dusk. In the evening, the dowagers of the Old Guard and the nouveau riche had changed into Versace or de La Renta or Valentino. It would be wonderful to be able to live like that! And why shouldn’t she! They were no better than she was. Rich bitches! Her particular client, that weekend, had been a polo-playing South American who had connections in Palm Beach. They spent three days there—she ogling at the scenery, the monied, and the local gentry; he ogling at her body and doing everything imaginable sexually that he could do to a woman. She really didn’t mind, however, since she’d be two-thousand dollars richer at the end of their stay.

Damn, Muffy thought, I must get here. I must find a way to live here, meet someone, and get married. I can’t do tricks forever.

Fortunately for Muffy, the gods of the street must have been smiling. She left Miami, rented a room in West Palm Beach, finally secured a job as a cocktail waitress in a second-rate bar and grill, and began her quest for Mr. Bank Account. It only took eleven months! Muffy was quite proud of herself. Sure, in the meantime, she had to put up with a few nasty tricks; she was short on cash, but in the long run, it was well worth it. Someday, her patience and stamina would pay off.

* * * * *

Hello, Muffy said into the pearl-white phone, as she scanned the walls of the living room once again. Is this Sal’s Painting?

Yeah, what can I do for you? A thick Brooklynese accent roared into the telephone. Well, she thought, that’s what I get for choosing the cheapest painter in town! Sal’s ad had been neatly stacked in a pile of papers along with other painting contractors which the St. Clairs’ butler, James Jerome Watley, had provided. James had circled Sal’s number and had penciled in the margin, good, reasonable prices. This was the result of Muffy’s absentminded chattering to James while being served breakfast one morning two weeks ago that she was thinking of having the living room repainted but didn’t want to put out a lot of money. Surprised that James took the time to gather names, Muffy reviewed the recommendations, although she scanned the phonebook for more reliable, reputable painters. That idea was short lived, however, when she discovered that they could be quite pricey. Hell, if she could cut corners and keep more cash for herself, so be it! Besides, painting was painting. Why pay someone double or triple when you could find a sucker like this to work for practically peanuts.

I’d like to have my living room painted, Muffy purred into the phone, and I’d like to have a quote, if I may.

How big is the room? the voice snarled, unfazed by the cooing voice on the other end.

Muffy gave the measurements and waited for the quote.

The gruff voice gave her a verbal rough estimate but told her that he’d have to see the place to get a better feel for the prices. Were there fixtures, moldings, any special structural amenities that would have to be considered?

Muffy asked whether he could come by that afternoon and bring with him some color charts or chips or whatever the lingo was these days. She giggled the latter to him which annoyed him considerably, but he said that he could come at three o’clock.

Muffy gave him the address and waited. She knew what type of an effect this would have.

You’re on the south end of the island, then? he queried, surprised that this Palm Beach rich bitch had phoned him for a paint job. He could milk the hell out of her, he supposed, but damn! He had already given a tentative estimate on the phone! Stupid! He could kick himself for being so dumb! How did he know she lived in one of those mansions on the beach! No one from Palm Beach had ever called him. He prided himself that he could get some jobs in West Palm Beach and the surrounding cities, but this—it was too much! Maybe, he could steal something from the cow’s place. Why not? He had done it before and gotten away with it. What about that nice place in Delray Beach? Sure, the bitch was semi-senile and stayed at the pool while he was painting. It wasn’t his fault that she left a diamond bracelet in the top drawer of her dresser, was it? Careless of her, the cow! After she phoned him and asked whether he had seen the piece, he convinced her of his innocence and her misplacement of the jewelry. It was easy. She was very feeble and fell for his line. However, this one today hadn’t sounded old. Some of them didn’t, he thought. It was hard to tell. Oh well, he thought, what the hell. Maybe, his ship was finally coming in. He had been waiting a long time.

Sal delBuono, small-time hood, had waited for his turn. Although he skirted the fringes of the law, Sal was never convicted of anything. Sure, he was involved in a couple of shady deals, but nothing that couldn’t be unraveled. Loan-sharking, illegal gambling, and a couple of other infractions he thought stupid were just the tip of the iceberg. Sal, however, never thought of the man he had fingered five years ago in New York—the man who eventually was found with cement booties around his thick ankles in the East River. God, did they still do things like this? Sal was sickened when the body was discovered a month after it was reported missing, but he dismissed the idea coolly that he was involved. After all, this bastard was a cheater at cards, had been part of several shady real-estate deals, and was an enemy of one of Sal’s second cousins, Joey Graciano, a newcomer to one of New Jersey’s smaller organized crime families. After the heat disappeared surrounding the murder, Sal decided that he had better lie low for a while. He headed south and ended up in North Carolina for a year, doing odd jobs and driving the single women—as well as the married ones—wild. Sal knew this and capitalized on his good looks immensely. Being half Italian and named after his great-great-grandfather, Sal was naturally dark-skinned and dark-haired—a replica of an ancient Roman athlete. His bronzed look captured the attention of the ladies, and his pearly-white grin, as well as his handsome, rugged face turned them into putty. Sal should have been an actor or a model. He was approached several times in New York City but turned down the offers when the males offering him the job propositioned him openly. Sal was 100 percent male and was not interested in the same sex, only the opposite. After Carolina, he headed for Daytona, then Boca Raton, where, he heard, the broads were younger than the Palm Beach crowd. He didn’t want to go to Miami because he was basically only high-school educated and couldn’t compete