Beach Lawyer (Beach Lawyer Series)

by Avery Duff

  “Good seeing you, anyway,” she said.

  They walked back to the table. A bottle of champagne arrived, and Leslie waved thanks to a group of men a few tables over. They waved back. Robert watched the men talking among themselves, wondering who the fuck he was, this guy sitting down with their women.

  “So, Robert,” Leslie said, right off the bat, “you about ready to buy a house?” Before he could answer, she opened her blazer to reveal I Heart Banking printed boldly at chest level on her T-shirt.

  “Not really. Not right now,” he said, looking at Gia when he said it.

  Leslie said, “Beach property is on fire, right, and we’ve got superlow rates now, right? We’re super, supercompetitive.”

  “Leslie works at a bank,” Gia told him. “Can you tell?”

  He smiled. Reached for their champagne.

  “Venice, right?” Gia asked him.

  “Santa Monica,” he said, popping the cork. “A block north of the Venice–Santa Monica line.”

  “Venice used to be cool and hip,” Gia said. “Until Google decided it was cool and hip. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Stay away from the coffee shops, you’ll miss ninety percent of ’em,” he said.

  She smiled, watched Robert pour champagne into two flutes.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while. Been on vacation?” Leslie asked him.

  “Kind of,” Robert said, looking at Gia again.

  Then Leslie waved to a man down in the cheap seats. He waved back. About thirty, he wore a short-sleeve shirt, unbuttoned to show off a wifebeater featuring Che Guevara’s silk-screened face and raised fist.

  “Viva la revolución,” Gia said about the shirt. “Dougie. What a douche bag.”

  “No, he’s not,” Leslie said. “He’s a little—”

  “A little douche bag.” Then to Robert about the guy. “Dougie wants to meet us here. I finally say okay, but he runs out of gas.”

  “His gauge is broken,” Leslie offered.

  “Gets towed, leaves his wallet in the car, and walks here,” Gia said.

  “Let him sit with us, please? I’ll pay for him.”

  “See this guy right here, Les,” Gia said, talking about Robert. “That’s how a man dresses, not wearing a mass-murderer guinea T. You’re not, are you, Mr. Worth?”

  “Not today, Ms. Marquez,” he said, finding that no matter what, it was hard for him not to dig Gia.

  “Shows up with his very own wallet,” Gia said. “Pours our drinks without being asked, doesn’t spill a drop. Good-looking, too, if you go for the garlic-farmer-turned-lawyer type.”

  “Gia hates Doug,” Leslie added, taking no offense to Gia dogging him so hard.

  Gia nodded at the other table of men. “One of those guys buying the champagne comes over. Dougie’s sitting here, know what he does? Gets in his face and says, ‘You blind, dude? They’re with me, dude! But thanks, anyhow, for the bubbly, biatch!’” Telling it, she’s throwing gang signs like Dougie would. “But our boy here?”—meaning Robert—“He keeps his seat and tells the guy, ‘Listen, man, the girls really appreciate the champagne.’ And Mr. Worth, he’d look at us, see if we were interested in him; we’d shake our heads no, so he’d tell the guy, ‘Hard to believe it myself—they’re both with me.’ Then everybody shakes hands and that’s that.”

  Leslie loved Gia’s rap, turned to Robert. “That what you’d do, Mr. Farmer Man?”

  “Almost,” he said. “But I’d stand up first.”

  “Why?” Gia asked.

  “Show the guy a little respect—he bought champagne, right? Smile at him like I mean it,” he said. “Same time, standing up, I’m sayin’, ‘This is as close as you get to the girls, Horace. Any closer, you need to get around me.’”

  Leslie whispered something to Gia. Gia smiled at whatever it was. Then they looked at him so he’d know their secret was about him.

  Finally, Gia asked, “We need to talk?”

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said.

  Leslie stood up. “Gotta go anyway.” She held out her hand. “C’mon, I love your Healey. I have a real date tonight.”

  Gia dug into her purse, handed Leslie a set of car keys. “Don’t let Dougie drive. Don’t let Dougie stop for a tattoo and make you pay for it, and don’t let Dougie shoot up in the car.”

  “I won’t! I swear.”

  They were both laughing. Robert wasn’t sure where the kidding ended and the truth began with these two. Even though they were the same age, he could tell Gia was protective of Leslie. He heard Leslie ask, “Call you later?” and Gia saying, “Maybe. Careful with my car.”

  He noticed a betting slip on the table. When Gia sat down, he handed it to her. “Hers?” he asked.

  Gia tore it up. “She always bets the superfecta, wants to win big.”

  “Bankers? Who knew?”

  Her eyes stayed on the horses at the starting gate when she asked, “Thought you might be in the market for a house.”

  “Not for the foreseeable future,” he said.

  “Something happen?”

  “Same as you,” he said.

  Looking at him now. “Fired?” she asked.

  “And they’re off!” the loudspeaker screamed.

  In the parking lot, Leslie opened the driver’s door of Gia’s roadster. Dougie took shotgun but didn’t like doing it.

  “You gonna let me drive or what?” he asked once they were inside.

  “Told you no twice, didn’t I?”

  “C’mon, Les.” He tried to snag the keys, and she slapped his hand away.

  “Stop. She’s probably looking at us.”

  He stuck his feet out the car window and lay down, his head in her lap.

  “Dude, stop fucking around, okay?”

  Undoing her belt buckle, he said, “Oops” and tried reaching inside her pants.

  She grabbed one of his earrings, started pulling on it.

  “Fuck. Okay, okay, leggo, leggo.”

  He was upright now, but she was still holding on.

  “Be a good boy, and west of Lincoln, I might let you drive.”

  “Dig,” he said. “I’m jonesin’ for Fatburger, babe.”

  “Fuck Fatburger. Buckle up, Che.”

  “What’s Che?” he asked as she mashed the accelerator and flew across the parking lot.

  Back inside the racetrack, the last horses streamed across the finish line. Gia tore up her ticket. “You changing my luck, Mr. Worth?”

  “Hope not,” he said. “I still have a horse in the race.”

  He gave her the bare minimum about Alison’s situation without using her name. Only that a former firm client might have some kind of claim against Jack. That it would be helpful if Gia told him what happened when Jack fired her.

  “Who says he fired me?” she asked.

  “I saw you that night in your office. You were in tears.”

  “There’s nothing I can say. Too bad about your client—whatever that’s about—but I can’t help.”

  “Come on, you were office manager, paid the bills. You knew everything going on at that firm. What’s the problem, us talking?”

  She went quiet at the question.

  “That night in the building’s garage,” he said, “I was standing beside Dorothy Pierce when you came out of the stairwell. You were office manager for years. You’ve been to the mansion for how many firm parties? Eight? Nine? More than me, for sure, and she almost put Jack in an arm bar when she saw you.”

  Gia dropped a hundred-dollar tip on the table, signaled her waiter.

  “Something happened between you and Jack. His wife knows about it, right?”

  “A simple parting of the ways, Mr. Worth.”

  “Really? Then why’s he yelling at you in his office that night?”

  Hearing that item from Robert surprised her. Still, she didn’t respond.

  “Yeah, I was on that end of the firm, and I heard his voice through his office door. What was that all about?”

  �
�I don’t like being yelled at, so I quit. That work for you?”

  “Look, the guy pops amyl nitrites and freaks out on women. You know about that, too, don’t you?”

  “Gimme a break. You’re saying your client told you that?”

  Evading her question, he said, “That’s what he was up to, later the same night he fired you. C’mon, all those years at the firm, you gotta know what he’s like.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, standing. “In this town, you never know anybody.”

  Not much happened on their drive from Santa Anita back to the Westside. Robert found a fifteen-minute oldie set of Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers on the Bronco’s radio. Gia rolled down the window and eased back in her seat, kicking it on the 101 to “Refugee.” They wound up taking Sunset off the 405, and she pointed lefts and rights for him after they reached Brentwood.

  On the way, he looked at her a couple of times. Hard not to. Beautiful, exotic—Asian and Hispanic—but there was something dancing around behind those dark eyes. Something telling him: Stay away if you’re smart. Still, she was so much fun, so easy and intelligent, it was hard to believe her something was anything serious.

  “Funny, after working together,” she said, “how it’s not the same afterward.”

  “Not exactly the same.”

  “Before, everybody walks through the same office doors, sees those two paintings on the walls, and then there’s all the work things in common. All the gossip, who’s killing it, who’s not.”

  He thought about it, too. “The big case, the big merger, payday.” He switched gears. “What’d Leslie whisper to you back there?”

  “Girl stuff.”

  “C’mon,” he said.

  “Said if I don’t sleep with you tonight, she was gonna kill me. Not her exact words.”

  He smiled. “Think she’s gonna kill you?”

  “Definitely,” she said. “Stop here.”

  He pulled to the curb. They were north of Montana in front of a ten-unit condo, a high wall around all of it. Not far from where O.J. Simpson didn’t murder Nicole and her friend, Ron Goldman. The neighborhood was exclusive, dark and deserted this time of night, same as witnesses said at O.J.’s trial.

  “What’s the deal with you and Leslie?” he asked.

  “Oh, she puts up with me playing hard-ass. I put up with her playing dumb, and every once in a while, we get lonely.”

  She came right at him with it. He tried to look like he was taking it in stride as he went around the car and opened her door. She liked him doing that, making the effort, he could tell. Then she got out.

  “Really need an answer, don’t you?” she asked.

  “More than you know, Ms. Marquez.”

  “So, here you go,” she said. “I had an affair with Jack Pierce. Years ago, a serious affair, before he married Dorothy Brightwell. Guess she figured it out, huh?”

  “An affair?”

  “Grown-ups doing what grown-ups do, Mr. Worth. And sometimes women cry in their offices about stupid things.”

  “What about his office? Door’s closed, he’s screaming at you?”

  “You mean losing my job, right? ‘Throw in a dozen toner cartridges, Ace, and you got yourself a deal. Get those time sheets in, Mr. Worth.’ Hey, I got sloppy at work and he chewed me out. Made him so mad, he fired me. Now I draw unemployment, but I put in for head groundskeeper at the track.” Holding up crossed fingers, kidding around. “Wish me luck.”

  Before he could speak, she moved closer to him. “Look, Jack makes people crazy, so do yourself a favor. Put him away. Put him way behind you, and move on.”

  “And do what? Wait five more years to hear I’m not partnership material somewhere else?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she surprised him with a kiss. Slow at first, then wrapping both her arms around his neck, getting the feel of his body with hers before pulling away.

  “I’d invite you in for a drink, Mr. Worth, but you deserve better.”

  Cryptic as she often was, she turned away. No point in trying to discuss it anymore. When he drove past her, she stood in the condo unit’s dark, gated entrance, keys in hand, reading her mail. Around the next corner, he pulled to the curb. Sat there in the dark and thought about what she’d told him. That Jack didn’t harass her. Bored with her job, she messed up. Her onetime boyfriend yelled at her, fired her, and now she was drawing unemployment and chilling out.

  Still, something bothered him. Something else. Her roses.

  He opened his door, jogging back the way he came.

  Ten minutes later. Six long Brentwood blocks away from Robert’s parked car, Gia strolled up the walk of a Craftsman bungalow. She crossed to a large bed of roses in her front yard. After deadheading a few bushes, she clipped off several lavender Karl Lagerfelds. From the shadows across the street, Robert watched her unlock the door and walk inside the bungalow.

  Ten minutes earlier. He figured out why her roses bothered him. For years, he knew Gia grew roses at home. Not a few bushes, a ton of roses, and she brought them to work. He seriously doubted any condo owner’s association would let her fertilize roses in its small common area.

  When he first made it to the condos from his car, Gia was already two blocks away from where she’d been reading junk mail, pretending it was her personal mail. So he followed her four more blocks.

  Now, he watched the lights come on inside her Brentwood home. A nice place. The small Brentwood home she’d just lied to him about.

  CHAPTER 14

  An hour later, those Karl Lagerfelds soaked in a vase on Gia’s living room coffee table. Her iPhone rested beside a second, cheap mobile phone. When her iPhone started ringing, she hurried out of the bedroom in a T-shirt and checked the caller. Seeing Leslie’s photo on the screen, Gia answered.

  Right off, Leslie said: “You better not be alone.”

  “He dropped me off and split, sorry to bum you out. What’s up?”

  “I think Dougie’s using again,” Leslie said. “I dropped him off in trouble town, some sketchy guy he knows over there.”

  “Using again, yay . . . You owe me a hundred bucks.”

  “That’s so mean,” Leslie said. “He wants to go to rehab in Mexico.”

  “Yeah, right. Bet’s a bet, and once a junkie always a junkie,” Gia said. “How was your date?”

  “Fast and furious. Yours?”

  “Wasn’t a date, I told you,” Gia said.

  “What’d he want to talk about?”

  “Nothing much. Got fired, same as me, and wanted to compare notes.”

  “Fired? You kidding? Him?”

  “It happens,” Gia said.

  “Tell me about it—I lost a corporate client Friday. A big one and they complained directly to Jerome—said they didn’t feel like I was there for them like our ads are always saying.”

  “Were you?”

  “Kinda,” Leslie said. Then she asked, “Is everything still, you know, okay?”

  “Want to get together?” Gia said, changing gears.

  “Not tonight, but yeah.”

  After hanging up, Gia went over to an alcove with built-in drawers. The alcove had been turned into a wet bar with framed photographs and memorabilia hanging on its walls. There was an old photo of her maternal grandparents: Chinese immigrants, the men in black suits standing on a black Ford’s running board in the desert. Another old one: a Latino sailor in US Navy dress whites, her father. Then one of her Asian mother in a waitress uniform, posing with young Tony Bennett at the Beverly Hills Hotel coffee shop.

  She poured a glass of water, stared at a framed Hollywood Park betting slip from December 22, 2013. The day Hollywood Park shut down. Last race ever, she picked Depreciable to win and lost by a nose to Woodman’s Luck. And she made it with Leslie the first time at a run-down motel outside the track.

  A framed postcard hung beside that old betting slip. That one she took back to the couch. Lying down, she lit a pinner joint. On the postcard: rustic cabins by the sea
. Across its face in red script: Seahorse Inn, Capitola, CA, Come Back And Sea Us!

  She stared at the cabins, grabbed a serious hit off that joint, and sleeved a tear from her cheek.

  CHAPTER 15

  Late the next day, Robert sat in a white Escort rental up the street from Gia’s house. In daylight, he could see her bungalow, an outlier in a neighborhood of large, newer homes. The dirt alone in this neighborhood went for close to a million five. That much he knew. But not Gia’s lot. Between a title report, Google maps, Zillow, and cruising her neighborhood, he learned quite a bit about her house and her finances.

  Her home, she inherited from her parents, who bought back in the seventies. The lot had been carved out from large, deep lots on either side. No garage or alley access in back. That made street parking Gia’s only option. Even if she wanted to petition for a driveway variance in front, her neighbors would surely fight that kind of nonconforming use.

  To Robert, all this mattered because Gia owed $750,000 on the house and was delinquent on her property taxes. A real estate agent told him her property was worth about what Gia owed on it.

  Big mortgage, no job, Gia still managed to hit the track and live a chill life. That’s what Robert was thinking about when Gia walked down to her roadster and took off, heading away from him. He pulled out in the Escort and followed, laying a few cars back as she made Bundy, headed south.

  Ten minutes later, Gia valeted her Healey and went inside Water Grill. Then she and Leslie appeared inside at the open window. He lucked into meter parking and watched them from across the street in Palisades Park.

  Thinking about Gia’s property again, he agreed with that agent and believed the property’s highest and best use was resale to a next-door neighbor as a teardown for a pool or tennis court. Her house, then, wasn’t the reason Gia had so much financial breathing room.

  Gia didn’t appear to have a care in the world. That made him even more curious why she’d lied to him about where she lived. That lie reinforced his belief she was hiding something from him and that her secret was tied to Jack Pierce.

  Every few days, he’d met up with Alison to buy a book, have a cup of coffee, take a swim, and he had to admit that he liked hanging out with her. Quick, clever, and it seemed to him that every day she put between herself and Jack Pierce was a better day. To her credit, she hardly ever asked about her case. The only time she did, she asked how long before it was over.