The Attorneys: part one Beverly Hills 1978


Mr. Rinaldi: A short story ca.1978


I  looked up to see Martin Roberts in front of my desk.


“Yes, Mr. Roberts?”


“Samantha dear, Mr. Rinaldi is arriving tomorrow afternoon. Would you please order a special lunch for the two of us?”  


“Would you like it set up in your office, sir?”


He squinched up his furry gray eyebrows. I understood his meaning. He doesn’t like it when I call him sir. Our relationship had evolved to a more friendly level since our luncheon date at his estate.


“Yes, yes, Samantha, use the large mahogany table, just remove the lamps. There should be room for four chairs, that’s fine.  Thank you, sweetheart,” as he moved down the long corridor toward his well-appointed office.


I dialed up our caterer and ordered the lobster salad with grilled lamb chops for four because  I interpreted that with four chairs his two partners, Setterling and Levin would be in attendance. Mr. Roberts liked it when I filled in the blanks.

The following morning, just before noon, two men arrived in my reception area. One was Franco Rinaldi and the other he introduced as his son Andre. I had not planned on a fifth for lunch and asked the young Mr. Rinaldi if he was planning on staying.

He was sauntering around admiring the art,  and fondling the sculptures when he turned casually, “No, I was just delivering my father, and there’s no need to entertain me,” he said. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers he rocked back on his heels, and explained with a devious smile, “I plan to do some shopping on Rodeo Drive.”

I was thinking I wouldn’t mind entertaining Andre at all. He was about twenty-five years old and carried himself like a GQ male. Slicked back hair, skin carved into his bone structure, with black eyebrows that lent him the image of Al Pacino playing the role of Michael in Godfather II.

I couldn’t imagine him sitting still for any length of time. Too bad.

His father gave a tug on his trousers and in a dignified manner took a seat smoothing his silk tie.

Andre wore a shiny navy European cut sports coat with slender trousers and a loud trendy tie. I was positive he wasn’t kidding about shopping on Rodeo drive. And it was obvious he wouldn’t be buying disco boots. His shoes were Italian leather. It made me wonder why American men were so narrow about their fashion choices. Andre was beautiful to look at and I preferred him to stay and saunter around in front of me all afternoon.

I buzzed Mr. Roberts to announce Mr. Rinaldi’s arrival and his secretary came out to fetch him.

Which left me alone with Andre. I was glad I wore my new body-hugging vintage Dior chic white suit I’d found it in a little shop on Melrose.
I stood and strolled from behind my desk showing off my good taste in shoes.
Andre noticed, and commented slyly, “Aren’t we gorgeous!”
I smiled my best smile and turned my back to let him watch my backside while I crossed the room. I paused to fiddle with the flowers on my desk for a moment, but my phone buzzed.

After jotting a note, I stood back up again, but Mr. Lawrence came in all needy asking me to hold his messages. By the time we were done, Andre was gone!


I pouted, then picked up my Chanel bag, determined to enjoy my usual lunch-time stroll to Brentano’s, my favorite bookstore on Wilshire. And, oh well, I sighed, after lunch, I  would most likely see Andre again when he came back up to fetch his father.

Sadly, when I returned I was surprised to find that both Mr. Rinaldis were gone! I plopped down behind my antique desk, pulled out my sketchbook, lazily drawing the lines of the glass vase and pretty white tulips sent me by one of the attorneys. It was actually an apology that didn’t even touch the enormity of his error.

In turning my head, I found a handwritten note on my desk. Of course, the secretary who took over for me during my lunch had written, “A Mr. Rinaldi would like the pleasure of taking you to dinner this evening. I gave him your address, damn it! Why is it you have all the luck?” Ann hated me because I had access to all the available males, but she was a good friend and I trusted her. “PS”,  she wrote, “He said he’s sending a car for you at eight PM.”

“There is a god,” I sighed.

I dressed carefully in a tight very fashionable little black sheath dress and pulled my long red hair up in a knot with a rhinestone pin.  Andre would be impressed. I wore my prettiest, sexiest sheer black underwear just in case.

At five minutes till eight, I spritzed myself with Chanel no.5 and walked out to the veranda in front of my  Deco apartment building to wait for Andre.

When the luxurious shiny black limousine pulled up in front, on cue, I began to descend the steps like Audrey in Paris. As I approached the automobile, the driver came around and opened the back door of the limo for me. I peered in to say hello to Andre, except it wasn’t Andre. It was his father!

It took a great deal of stealth to prevent myself from revealing how shocked I was, and I was trying to remember his name while I climbed in. Was it Franco? Yes, it was Franco. He was smiling and putting his hand out to me gentlemanly,  “Good evening, mio caro.”

I’m trying to keep my composure and at the same time wondering how this could have happened. I supposed I just wanted it to be Andre and I couldn’t possibly risk hurting Franco’s feelings, so decided I would make the best of it and just go to dinner and be Mr. Rinaldi’s date for the night. What did I have to lose?

We arrived at the Palm restaurant in West Hollywood a few minutes later. It was a popular new restaurant I had been dying to go to but was way over my head financially. I had developed a selective taste for the bon vivant, and this was the place to go to find it and receive fine service.

The maitre ‘d led us to a table next to a graceful palm tree. Mr. Rinaldi sat across from me with his back to the door. He was wearing a different suit tonight, more relaxed in a black sports coat, a pale blue dress shirt, and paisley tie.

He leaned forward and placed his arm across the table touching my fingers, “Cosi’ carina, carina!”

I understood his meaning and smiled a thank you.  He held my eyes in a moment of intimacy that embarrassed me,  and so I looked down at his huge ruby ring instead.

This sort of restaurant was not new to me, I had been wined and dined by worse than him. Franco was a man I should be proud to be in the company of, and so I decided to enjoy every moment, even though I felt more like his daughter than his date. What was he, at least forty? Forty-five? Probably years younger than Mr. Roberts though.  I did, however, notice his closely groomed facial hair that gave him the sort of dashing impression I admired.

He encouraged me to order all my favorites; oysters on the half shell, classic caesar salad, veal ala parmigiana with wild mushrooms. Mr. Rinaldi ordered the swordfish since he’d had lamb for lunch.

“Do you have a preference, or would you prefer I order the wine?”

I’m a sensualist when it comes to wine. “I adore a full-bodied red,” I said.

He raised his dark eyebrows that were threaded with gray and grinning, he ordered a 1969 Chateau Lafite Rothschild.

The Sommelier decanted it.

     I sipped,  “It tastes like roses.”

Mr. Rinaldi seemed pleased because he had just spent at least a hundred dollars on a bottle of wine!

“What is it like to be surrounded by all that precious art?” He asked.

I  wanted to bring up Andre, and said brazenly,

      “I noticed  that Andre  was very taken with it.”  

      “Yes, of course,” Mr Rinaldi responded. “My son is a collector of beautiful objects and spends my money as though it were a bottomless gold mine.”

I quickly changed the subject. “I’ve been involved with assisting Mr. Roberts’ curator, hosting the exhibitions at Barnsdale Park. I hope to be an artist one day myself.”

I felt embarrassed,  like a child being asked what I want to be when I grew up.

But he was very interested in my hopes and dreams. I’d never had the experience of a father who was interested in my future.  I didn’t know how to ask him about his life, or even if he was married. He wasn’t wearing a gold band, but still, it just didn’t seem appropriate. After all, we are only spending one evening having a dinner together.

I liked him very much. He was attentive and kind. I began to see him as an equal, and he became more handsome as we talked. I found myself enjoying his laugh and his way with words. He was an old-school Italian born in Italy and had at one time studied to be an opera singer.

We were laughing over dessert at a story he told me about his son, Andre. Then it hit me. I had forgotten all about Andre.

When we finished dinner he walked me back to the limo.

“I know you don’t have any interest in an old man like me, but I wonder if you  wouldn’t mind spending a little more time with me this evening?”

I wasn’t ready to go home yet, but I was cautious after what happened with Mr. Levin,  “What do you have in mind?”

He smiled and leaned forward. “Please, Harry, drop us in front of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.”

The bar was crowded but we found a little table in a corner. Mr. Rinaldi ordered an espresso, a cognac for me, and a grappa for himself. It was smoky in the bar and dark in our corner. I was a little worried. I wondered if he had a room in this hotel. My mind was reeling, feeling stupid for allowing him to make this pit-stop.

“Have you  ever tasted grappa?” He said.

I shook my head. And he explained, “This is the way it’s done in Italy.”

He took a sip from his glass and leaned forward, putting his mouth on mine and transferred the liquid from his mouth to mine. I was shocked by his boldness.

Here we go, I thought.

But I licked my lips.

“Now you have had a little taste of Tuscany.”

I honestly liked the feel of his lips on mine,  and craving more, I turned my face to  him sweetly,

      “More please.”

      “Would you like a glass of your own?”

I shook my head shyly,

“I will never drink it any other way”.

I giggled as he transferred more of the gorgeous liquid from his mouth to mine. I felt very sexy and a little tipsy as well.

“My darling, we must get you home to bed.”

On the drive back to my apartment I was leaning against his body, my head on his shoulder. I felt his head turn when he kissed me on the cheek gently.  I encourage him to find his way to my lips.  He kissed me deeply using his tongue.  I felt my body responding to the revelation of the deep yearning inside me that wanted him.

I took his large hand and placed it on my thigh, my hand on top of his, and I guided him, sliding his warm fingers up against my skin to my panty line. I pressed his fingers against the silk between my legs so he could feel my wetness. He was breathing heavily when he turned to me and pushed his fingers deeper. I took my hand away and rested it between his legs. He was hard and bulging.

I’ll never forget how sexy it was, us in the back of the limo with the lights of the city flashing intermittently like a strobe across our faces.  

When we arrived at my apartment I put my hands on his face and kissed his lips. His dark eyes grew bright when I said softly, “You are going to escort me up aren’t you?”