The Drucker Proxy

by Lior Samson

  It took several minutes of introductions for the meander over to the umbrella-topped table where Aileen was nursing a tall something and nibbling on blue corn chips from a hand-thrown pottery bowl the size of Utah. “Look who’s here, sweetheart,” Freddy announced.

  “I got eyes, Freddy, I got eyes. And ears. Here, sit a spell, Sunflower, make yourself at home.”

  “It’s Dana, now, Dana Carmody.”

  “You call yourself whatever you feel like, baby. You’ll always be my little Sunflower, my sunny flower.”

  “It’s not what I call myself, it’s who I am. Wanna see my driver’s license? I can prove it.”

  Freddy put his hand on her back as his head bounced in an exaggerated nod. “Sure, sure. We know that. We read your stuff, even. No need to bring heavy vibes with you, though. You just arrived.”

  “You read my stuff? Here? How? It’s all online, nothing’s in print, not anymore.”

  “El Rancho has everything now. Only thing we don’t have is one of them wall-size TV screens. Hell, we have a dedicated fiber optic right to the door. Well, side of the house. Hell, our Wi-Fi is so fast it’ll blow-dry your hair.”

  “I don’t expect to make much use of it. I’m really here to lay low and retreat from all that.”

  His face scrunched up. “You okay, baby?”

  “I’m okay. I’m here, aren’t I. What did it take to get fiber way the hell out here?”

  “Same grease as gets anything.” He rubbed his fingers together.

  Aileen waved a finger at him. “Now don’t you go start talking money so soon. The girl just arrived. Here, honey, sit some with your mother. And try one of these.” She held up a tall, fat glass that, close up, turned out to be a wine bottle cut off at the shoulder and flamed polished. “I don’t know what’s in it, but it sure tastes and feels good.” She shook it, rattling the ice cubes.

  “You never were particularly picky about ingredients, were you. For me, water will do. For now.”

  “Suit yourself, sunshine. You know where the pumps at, side o’ the house. That’s one well that never runs dry, let me tell you. Grab yourself a cup and come back. You know where to find me after.”

  Freddy took Dana’s arm. “She’s kidding. We don’t use the pump anymore. Everything’s electrified, solar and wind, our own. ’Cept for the internet, we’re still off the grid, but we’re civilized, gone soft. There’s even a cell tower on the hill this side of the town. Gives us one bar when the wind is right. Hell, nobody else here”—he took in the assembled group with a sweep of his hand—“none of them even remembers when this place didn’t have indoor toilets.”

  “You’re right there—nobody. I certainly don’t remember. Had to be before I came along.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Sometimes I get the chronology cockeyed. Anyway, here we are. Kitchen’s been redone since you left. Hell, everything’s been redone since you left. Tumblers are in the cabinet left of the sink. If you need to use the facilities, they’re still straight down the hall, across from your old room, but we got one of them high-tech composting recycling toilets now.

  “Take your time. I’ll be out sittin’ with Aileen. I wanna hear all about you, what you been up to, and what brings you back.”

  “Just getting away, feeling the need for some sunshine and down time.”

  “Well, we have plenty of both, if that’s what really brings you here.” He lowered his head to peer expectantly over his sunglasses, but Dana said nothing. “Okay, then, see you outside.”

  — —

  Over the following weeks Dana learned names and settled into the timeless routine of life at the ranch. Vista Caliente made it easy to talk without saying anything and to just be without being very busy. On the surface, it was still a communal effort, with everybody expected to pitch in for chores and the occasional work party organized by Freddy, but beneath the surface, it was clear that some of the longer-term residents had slacked off to token contributions and others acted as if they were paid staff on union hours. Dana busied herself slotting in wherever she might be useful, relishing weeding in the kitchen garden and the routine of cleaning up after communal meals. Then, just as she had finally reached a point of mindless detachment, her burner phone buzzed in her pocket. She was being subpoenaed.

  Freddy walked her out to her car. “It’s fully charged. I ran an extension from the light pole. Aileen packed a lunch for you. It’s in a little cooler on the passenger seat. So, you’re going, for real.”

  “For real. I have to.”

  “Have to?”

  “Look, I have to testify in a lawsuit. I assume by now you’ve figured out what this is all about. The trial is starting, and I’m a key witness. I’m scared, but I gotta do this. No need to worry. I can take care of myself.”

  “You been threatened?”

  “Symbolically, yes.” She told him about finding Geraldo in the parking garage and the disappearance of the body without a trace. “And there’s been no mention since, nothing in the media.”

  “That doesn’t sound like anyone I know of, not even the Carullo gang, not their MO. Do you have any idea who’s behind it?”

  “Some. Well, a pretty good idea, but I don’t have anything I can use. Once I’m back, there will be no point pretending I don’t exist anymore, so I figure I can pick up again with my investigation.”

  Freddy reached in his back pocket and pulled out a thick business envelope. “Here, this is for you, a little walkin’-around money.”

  She took the envelope, opened it, and riffled through a stack of twenties and fifties. “Don’t these really old bills draw attention? I mean, how long ago was it that you pulled the job?”

  “I pulled a lotta jobs, but only one that counts. But those ain’t old bills; they’re new, straight from the nearest ATM.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Sitting on the back porch. Eddie.”

  “Eddie? You mean the little bald guy?”

  “Yeah, that’s Eddie Landaro—Eddie ‘The Laundromat’ Landaro. You can guess what he does.”

  “So you mean it’s not all sitting in some lockbox tucked under your bed or something?”

  “Not for a long, long time. It’s stashed in so many offshore accounts and invested in so many layers of holding companies and shell corporations that it takes a really big spreadsheet to keep track of it all. Which is good, ’cause if it’s that hard for me to track it, even knowing everything, it’s gotta be im-fuckin’-possible for the feds to ever find. Eddie’s back and forth across the border all the time and connects with old contacts who meet others who … dot, dot, dot. Lotsa dots, way too many to connect.”

  “I always thought there was this one big score, and you just kept peeling Benjamins off a very fat roll.”

  “If I’d done that, the roll would have been long gone. No, the only smart thing is to invest and build wealth. I’m into all sorts of stuff, all legit—well, most of it. And the final connections that keep the tax man at bay and me and Aileen invisible are a few guys like The Laundromat, people shadier then the north side of the mountain, as the song goes.”

  “You are such a phony, always putting on this hippy, country-boy front, spouting communal crap, and quoting folksongs nobody ever heard of. All the time you’re just a mob boss.”

  “Hardly. I’m just a businessman, takin’ care of business, keeping my honey and my daughter and my extended family in the style of life they all grew accustomed to. Never was and never pretended to be anything else. Hell, this is a real commune, maybe one of the oldest and most successful in the whole damn country. Why? Because we got the resources for whatever. Mind you, other than Eddie—and Manuel, who is away most of the year—none of the regulars know what makes it work. They think we just live off the land and the little donations they plunk in the basket by the door when they can. And do you know why they do that? Guilt. There’s always a fair amount of crumpled cash already in that basket, obviously contributed by others, so they get guilt-tripp
ed into donating, maybe more than they planned. But, of course, it would never be enough to run the place or even buy groceries for the eighteen or twenty regulars. Whenever someone is sent off to the store, we make a show of having them grab what’s needed from the basket, and if there isn’t enough for whatever, we make a show of taking up a collection, with us emptying our wallets to make up the difference. ‘Oh, Freddy and Aileen, you are always so generous. Here, I’ve got another twenty I can put in.’ It works, the informal economy, all cash, with nothing traceable. We may not be completely off the grid, but we do stay off the radar. Secret to not bein’ needy is not to be greedy. As the song goes.”

  “Yeah. The song, the ever-lovin’ song. But what about the big ticket items, the expensive improvements like the solar panels?”

  “Oh, we get grants”—he made finger quotes—“now and then, like from the International Sense and Sustainability Foundation or the Margaret Carmody Fund or … Like I said, it’s a very big spreadsheet. Sometimes it’s, like, ‘Yeah, we had this guy stay a week last year, and he liked us so much, he just gave us a wind turbine his company makes. Just like that. One day it shows up and the next day there’s this construction crew, and voila, we got us wind power.’ Course, I own controlling interest in that particular turbine manufacturer by way of some company in Panama or whatever. That’s how we roll at Vista Caliente.”

  “Yeah, I see. Still the big con. And I gotta roll. Really.”

  “I know, Sunf … Dana. I’m proud of you—we’re proud of you—but I gotta say I’m worried. You be careful.”

  “You, too. Don’t get caught, don’t get taken advantage of, and go easy on the mushrooms. As the song goes.” She hugged him and held on.

  “Don’t you worry about me and Aileen. We’re survivors.”

  Dana reluctantly pulled away and got in her car, backed around the tree shading the Kia, and drove back down the dirt driveway.

  Freddy ambled back to the Big House, where he retrieved a burner phone from a drawer full of them and punched in a number memorized years earlier.

  — 35 —

  Weary from the two-day drive back to LA, Dana slowly pulled the Kia into her spot at the end of the row in the underground parking, a spot that had been empty since she moved into the building. She tugged the door handle and was about to climb out when she looked up to see a man walking down the ramp, pulling something from his coat pocket as he approached. By the time he was standing next to the car, he had the business end of a suppressor-fitted handgun pointed at her. Acting on instinct, she dove, flattening herself across the front seats as she kicked open the door with both feet, slamming it into the shooter just as he fired.

  The first shot went wild, turning the side window into glass confetti but missing her completely. The second shot, louder and from a different direction, shot through the man’s skull and sent a red spray against the gray concrete of the garage wall. Another man, in a loden-green L.L.Bean jacket with his handgun held two-handed before him, rushed toward them. He knelt to check the body before turning to Dana. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Who the hell are you? And what just happened.”

  “Just doing my job, keeping you off the ice. Your father sends his regards. Look, give me the key fob. I’ll get your car fixed and back in a couple of days. Meanwhile, we got cleaners who will take care of this mess. They’re already on the way. If you got any stuff in the car, grab it and get out of here. Okay?”

  “Are you saying my father hired you?”

  “This is no time for exchanging résumés, lady. Just get your stuff and go.” The screech of tires echoed in the parking garage. “That’s the cleaners. Now get.”

  Dana pulled her two bags from the back seat and jogged toward the exit. When she looked back, two men were already rolling the body into a plastic tarp, as another man was spraying some kind of foam cleaner over the splattered blood. Her Kia was being backed into the exit lane; with squealing tires, it spun around, turned up the exit ramp, and shot out of the building.

  As she trotted up the stairs to the lobby, Dana was thinking of Freddy. Good instincts, Pop, she thought. She grinned. That’s what I’ll call you: Pop. And maybe you are more of a father than I gave you credit. She tried to calm the shaking in her hand as she pressed the button for the elevator. As the hydraulic lift kicked in, she started calculating. Her father’s emissary could be explained, but someone else seemed to have had some pretty good idea of just when she would be arriving. If her every move was being followed that closely, it was time she made some unexpected moves.

  At Dana’s floor, Geneva, the chain-toking woman in the apartment down the hall, was standing by her door, smartphone in one hand, joint in the other. “Did you hear that? It sounded like gunshots. Do you think we should call the police?” It was said with the curious indifference of the chronically stoned.

  Dana shook her head. “I wouldn’t bother.” She thought fast. “Sounded to me like the kids across the way taking a baseball bat to the dumpster.”

  “Really? Kids?”

  “Yeah, and if the police ever do come, chances are they’ll either find nothing or they’ll take it out on those boys. They’re just kids letting off steam. I’d let it go.”

  “You think so?”

  “I think so. Look, I’ve worked with the police, and I know how they work. I also know what gunfire sounds like, and that was no gunfire. And see? Not another sound from anywhere. All’s quiet on the downstairs front.” She gave Geneva a big grin as she let herself into her apartment.

  As she reached for the light switch, her hand started shaking again. At least three people were dead. What had started out as journalism was morphing into a deadly game. The question now was how to play the game to win.

  She tossed her bags on the couch and headed for the kitchenette, where she pulled a screw-top bottle of chenin blanc from the fridge and poured herself a glass. She started thinking back to her hacking days, when she had fantasied herself as some kind of clandestine operative. She knew she had to seize the initiative, and to do that she would need a defensible space from which to work. The apartment was not it—definitely not. Where? Barbra’s beach house? It was isolated, walled off, and Barbra had the resources to hire whatever security resources might be needed. There was no point waiting for the Kia to be repaired, she should get to Barbra’s but try not to leave a trail. No need to unpack, even. Just haul out the floppy hats and the stage makeup and once more slip out the back entrance.

  — —

  The newly acquired rent-a-cop detail stopped Dana at the gate of the beach house and checked her ID against a guest list before letting her pass. She palmed the lock by the double front doors and let herself in. Becca, wearing an open man’s dress shirt over flowered bikini bottoms, greeted her in the foyer. “Wow, you’re back. I mean …”

  “Don’t I even get a hug?”

  “I mean, sure. I’m just, like, a little wet from, ah, the hot tub.”

  “You’ve got a boy here, am I right?”

  Becca shifted her eyes back and forth. “Yeah. Mom’s not here, see, and she, well, she isn’t exactly enthusiastic about Ramón.”

  “Should I ask if there’s anything behind her lack of enthusiasm for this … this Ramón?”

  “It’s not like she’s racist or anything, if that’s what you were thinking. It’s … well, Ramón is at UCLA, and …”

  “Uh huh. And you just turned thirteen. This is not good, not good.”

  “You know, it’s not like I’m a virgin or anything. Besides, studies have shown that by my age the capacity for informed judgement is already fully developed. Plus, I’m a girl, and girl’s mature ahead of boys.”

  “Yes, and the adolescent brain is still developing and doesn’t reach full maturity until well into the twenties. Spare me the pop neuro-psych. I know how … well, how sophisticated you are, Becca, but you know what could happen to your boyfriend who is no longer a boy. Would you want to wait for him to get out of prison for
your next date?”

  “That is not going to happen. I would never, like, press charges. It’s been my choice all along.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You don’t have to bring a complaint. You’re under eighteen, and, unless he’s some kind of wunderkind, I’m guessing he must be more than three years older than you since he’s already in college, which makes it a felony here in California, rather than just a misdemeanor. Not good kid, not good. If you actually care for this dude, I’d break it off for his sake. If your mother doesn’t approve, one phone call could …”

  “You wouldn’t tell her, would you?”

  “Tell her what? I haven’t seen anything and never met the guy. I’m going up to the bedroom to unpack and take a much needed shower. That should be enough time for you to tidy up a bit.” She cocked her head. “Capiche?”

  “What?”

  “Do you understand? Or, in the lingo de jour, you feel me?”

  “Um, you really think …?”

  “If you gotta be foolin’ around, pick guys no older than sixteen. Your mother will feel better, and if the whole relationship sours or they get caught out, it’s a misdemeanor and likely you’d both be let off with a wrist slap and a talking to.”

  “Wait, both of us?”

  “Yeah, that’s the way it works in the great state of California. Anyone who has sex with a minor under eighteen, dot, dot, dot. It’s the final fallout from Title IX thinking: equal rights, missy, equal responsibility.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know, like … I mean, at camp we … Are you saying even two girls?”

  “If you get caught or one of them complains or a parent jumps in, yes. I know it doesn’t always make sense or seem fair, what with so many teens being sexually active, but that is still the law.”