by Avery Duff
He wondered if she had lost touch with reality. Guilty of bank fraud, and she’s pitching him like a Better Banking Bureau rep.
He told her, “If I ever had a client with money to place, I could recommend, but I couldn’t tell them where their money should go.”
“Really?” she asked, looking to Gia for help.
“I’m right here, Leslie,” he told her. She turned back to him. “I can’t promise that, but I’ll do what I can.”
“You do it, G,” Leslie said. “You’re better at this stuff.”
Leslie dove in the pool, swam underwater to the other end. Gia eased out of the pool, took his arm again, and started walking him out. “She could grow a conscience one day, Mr. Worth, burn me down at her bank. And that would be bad for you, too. You thought all of it through yet?”
“Not quite,” he said.
But he’d thought about it on the fly. He’d go along with what they were asking, but there was no point in them knowing he had Alison’s power of attorney.
“My cut of a settlement, I could put with her. My client’s share? All I can do is ask.”
“Sue the firm, Mr. Worth. We each go down to her bank, you and your client open new accounts with my girl, Leslie, and keep our money there for a month. All of us. For one month. She gets credit for bringing in new business, keeps her job, her benefits, and there you go.”
Or, he was thinking, Gia tells Jack she won’t help me, and my client gets next to nothing. If that. An easy call for him—his obligation to his client controlled the situation.
“See what I can do,” he said as they reached the stairs. “Who knows? Maybe Leslie will kill it and earn my banking business.”
“You never know,” Gia said.
“I hear you. But sometimes you do,” he said.
She smiled at that, then hugged him and whispered, “I care about the bad things I did, Mr. Worth, but after a while, I got used to it.”
That sad look on her face again. Behind her who-gives-a-fuck front, he believed there was something normal about her she was trying to hide.
Now he heard Leslie saying, “Me ’n’ Gia still need to finish our deal, you mind?” Leslie was near them now, talking from the water.
Gia smiled. “You know, Mr. Worth. Girl talk?”
Walking away into the exotic landscape, he heard a giggle behind him. Only human, he looked back. Gia sat on the pool’s edge now, legs dangling down, gazing down at Leslie’s face moving slowly through the water till it came to rest between Gia’s thighs.
CHAPTER 22
An Amber Alert for a missing child was in effect on the jammed-up 405, everyone slowing down, on the lookout for a kidnapper’s beige Toyota pickup. Easing ahead in crawling traffic, Robert had time to think over what had just happened.
Back at the hotel, going after the firm sounded easy. Clinical, almost, like civilian casualties. If Jack was too strapped to pay the freight alone, suing the firm was the only way to go. Suing Philip, too. Doing it for his client. He had no other viable choice.
Suing Philip Fanelli. He was suing Philip Fanelli.
He said it to himself several times, inching forward in the jam. If he didn’t go that route and Jack was strapped? Maybe Alison pocketed a few hundred thousand, a hundred grand or so still coming his way. After that: no job and no prospects. No point lying to himself about it anymore. Retribution, revenge—that’s what he wanted for his client and for himself. Pierce—berating him in the meeting, in his own office, insulting him every way he could think of. Pierce—upending his life and giving him a bullshit recommendation. All of it unnecessary, driven by whatever wanton need burned inside that man.
Traffic opened a bit, and as he jumped over to the I-10 West exit, he realized there was no one he could talk to about his own situation. About his anger. Not his parents, not really. Not Philip—that ship was getting ready to sail. Erik? He would get it, but he had real problems—don’t-get-killed-at-work-Daddy problems.
That left Alison. Opening up to her was crazy-wrong. That didn’t stop him from thinking about her. Not as a client. He wanted to talk to her about his bizarre day at the Bel-Air.
Instead, when he got home, he grabbed his fourteen-ounce Cleto Reyes gloves, jogged to the gym, and beat the heavy bag till he couldn’t raise his arms anymore. That squared him away, cleared his brain.
At home that night, he calmly stepped back from it all, tried to make sure he took the right approach. Lawyers, he knew, typically negotiated a settlement by starting with a big number and negotiating against the prospect of expensive, protracted litigation. You don’t like my last offer? Okay, see you in court. But serious litigation was an idle threat coming from him, and everyone on the other side knew it. Sure, if they rejected his number, told him to get lost, he could hire real litigators to try the case. But that firm would wind up with half the money after taking huge litigation costs right off the top. And once all of Philip’s partners found their dirty laundry exposed in open court? They would have no choice but to deny everything—deny, deny, deny—and fight Alison Maxwell’s case for years.
Given all that, better that he came up with a reasonable settlement number now, then promise secrecy forever to all of them. Better that he stick hard on his reasonable number and put a short fuse on the negotiation. Bring them to heel, and do it fast. And as he drifted off to sleep that night, a settlement number floated into his mind. A number that came from an impeccable source: Jack Pierce himself.
CHAPTER 23
VENICE PIER CLOSES AT MIDNIGHT. The next night, Robert passed that sign with his iPad folder at 11:15 p.m., headed to the end of it to meet Jack.
As he moved farther out into the ocean, a few fishermen drifted back his way, Latinos and Asians, mostly. A rising tide sent good-size waves rolling beneath him. Pier pilings shook underfoot, mollusk-crusted concrete pulsing that raw energy up to him.
End of the pier, he took a seat on a bench. From here, it was a straight shot to shore, a 722-foot runway. At 11:25 p.m. Jack walked onto it, headed his way.
His mind turned to trial lawyers and their hand in this pier’s past. Before he moved here, Venice Pier had been shut down indefinitely. A 150-pound chunk of concrete fell off Manhattan Beach Pier, twenty miles south, and paralyzed a jogger. Same kind of thing had happened once before, and that jogger deserved every nickel he’d recovered. Afterward, piers up and down the coast, including this one, closed to avoid the trial-lawyer feeding frenzy. All that, when the only thing each pier really needed was a big sign: DANGER! YOU COULD DIE WALKING UNDER PIER!
And there was trial-lawyer Jack, playing games. Stopping to read that Pablo Neruda poem posted on the railing, something about the peaceful sea and the sky, sealed under Plexiglas for its own protection.
Robert walked behind the bench and leaned over the railing. The water was dark and smelled like stale brine, dead fish, and crankcase oil.
Could be Jack had a check for a million-eight on him—Robert seriously doubted it—but ready-to-sign hard copies of a $1.8 million settlement agreement rested in his iPad folder. E-mails to Jack about a new deal were also ready to fly if need be. Either way Jack played it, Robert was good to go, confident that wireless reception way out here was good because he’d checked coverage again, three hours ago.
When he turned around, Jack stepped into the concrete circle, facing him. Gladiatorial at night, the circle was illuminated by lights atop four sets of concrete poles, each pole capped by aluminum coolie hats and tagged by somebody called El Tigre.
Robert stayed at the railing. Jack stopped fifteen feet away.
“Let’s see your money,” Robert said.
“Your check. The one-eight. I don’t have it. Why I wanted to talk tonight, face-to-face.”
“Sure,” Robert said. “Man-to-man.”
Putting him off. Right then, he knew Gia’s version of Jack’s finances was true. Dealing with only Jack was a thing of the past. Still, he wanted to hear Jack’s explanation. Why not? It cost nothing to hear it.
“I need till middle of next week,” Jack told him.
“Why’s that? Today was your deadline, and it’s pushing midnight.”
“I’m liquidating funds in an overseas account, a hedge fund that allows only quarterly withdrawals, so you’ll have to bear with me.”
“A hedge fund?” was all Robert said. But he was thinking, Hedge funds are for rich guys like you. No dinero, and Pierce is still talking down to me.
“Sorry to hear that,” Robert said. At the same time, he hit Send on his iPad and let that e-mail go flying.
“Check your e-mails, your personal account,” he told Jack.
“Why? I just checked in my car.”
Robert didn’t answer. He looked at Jack until Jack checked his phone and found an e-mail that said:
I reject your offer of $1,800,000 to settle our lawsuit.
“That was your last extension,” Robert said.
“What extension?”
“Oh, that’s right. I didn’t give you one.” He sent the next e-mail to the same address. Watched his screen till it was delivered.
“But I’m telling you—” Jack started to say.
“Forget it, new ball game. Read what I just sent.”
“Read what? We have a deal. We agreed on every deal point, every word of it!”
“Read it,” Robert said. “Hey, maybe you’ll like it.”
Jack started reading. Wasn’t long before he looked up. Clearly, he didn’t like it.
“You’re suing my firm? For five million dollars?”
“Five million was your number. How much you said you’d be damaged if this got out. And that was for you, solo. For the whole firm? Way I see it, they’re getting a deal.”
“You and me—we had a deal. The firm stays out of it.”
“No can do. This is the direction my client decided to go.”
“Fuck you. This is where you want to go.”
“Work it out with Fanelli or I file suit against the firm in one week. You don’t, it’ll be the top news item of the day. Bet anything it plays way bigger than your story would have played.”
“Don’t you fucking deny it—it’s you doing this. You and that blackmailing piece of garbage, Gia.”
Again, Robert kept his cool. “It’s me and whoever makes you pay, Jack.”
“Goddamn you! You and your whore client both.”
“You know, Jack, you called her whore and trailer trash and bitch and cunt. That stops now, got it?”
“Got it, Worth. You and that Maxwell slag can go fuck yourselves.”
Jack kept talking. Robert heard more insults flying at him, set down his iPad on the bench, already knowing Jack wanted to get it on. Even as he spoke, Jack’s fists were rising, his knees bending, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet. Same thing Robert was doing, a beat behind Jack, but this time, a beat behind on purpose. That delay let Jack get off first with the same move that worked for him before. Feinting his left jab—all set to throw his big right cross and put Robert on the ground again.
Before Jack could get off his money shot, Robert cut loose with his own right lead, fast and powerful, catching what he wanted to catch: Jack’s unguarded chin. Turning his fist over, he followed through till he was past the plane of the other man’s body, his own body halfway to the ground and out of harm’s way. Same punch Juan Manuel Márquez threw putting out Manny Pacquiao’s lights. To be fair, Manny walked into it and Jack didn’t, but either way, he caught Jack on the button, even as Robert rose and pivoted right on his left foot, getting his guard back up.
Turned out, there was no need for the guard. Jack went down in the pigeon shit. Onto the fish guts and spit-covered ground, and he stayed there. Robert knelt beside him and could tell from Jack’s eyes that he was shook up, trying to get his bearings. More than that, he looked humiliated.
Robert said, “You’re the whore, Jack, not her. Got it? And you fucked the wrong people this time. Five million dollars. Five million from your firm. And I’m done talking to you. From now on, I deal only with Fanelli.”
Robert walked away. Behind him, Jack struggled to one knee. “What goes around comes around!” he shouted.
Robert stopped inside the lit circle. “Tell you what. If it ever comes around, I’ll give you a call. Meantime, pull up your pantyhose, Jack. Pier closes at midnight.”
Then Robert headed for shore. Jack stood and steadied himself on the nearest bench, staring at his adversary. If Robert had decided to stick around another sixty seconds, he would have had a question. It would have been this: after all that just went down, why was Jack Pierce smiling?
CHAPTER 24
Six days after Robert decked Jack on the pier, the Cy Twombly painting was gone from firm reception. So was Philip’s California landscape. Gia noticed their absence before Robert did, because he was still thinking about the firm foyer: the name Jack Pierce no longer appeared beside the door.
Robert and Gia sat in reception with Leslie, each of them here to settle with the firm.
The day after Robert decked Jack, Philip promptly called him, asked him to send over whatever was already drafted for Jack. Robert agreed to it.
Fortunately, Philip told him, the firm did no business with Leslie’s bank. If it did, all bets were off because the firm must disclose possible banking irregularities, as Philip called them, to its client. Robert hated to admit it—that thought never crossed his own mind.
His conversations with Philip bordered on surreal. Philip didn’t bring up why they were talking or their recent past. Same thing during the days that followed as they went back and forth on deal points. Civilized, productive, and surreal.
Two days ago, the only remaining issue material to Robert came up. He had asked for certified funds from the firm at closing. That way, the firm’s total payment was good the day the certified check was deposited. But Philip asked Robert to accept a firm check. That way, they could still close on Robert’s deadline. Philip explained that in the hurry to closing, the firm had trouble coming up with $5 million. Two partners were actually considering fighting the lawsuit, but Philip had kept them in line.
“In line so far,” Philip told him.
Robert knew that six lawyers agreeing on anything was a freak of nature. Knew, too, that Jack was strapped for his share. And Chase? He was a brand-new partner but still on the hook for his own share. Chase couldn’t shoulder that load. Not with dual Range Rovers, a house in Brentwood, and bespoke suits like his idol, Jack. And the other partners? Fat mortgages, kids in the best schools, Bel-Air and Riviera Country Clubs, high-maintenance, top-drawer everything. No doubt about it to Robert: Philip had real-world problems coming up with that much cash so quick.
Thinking it through, he also knew that once Philip signed the agreement, he bound the firm. If its check was bad, the firm had to pay Alison’s attorney’s fees to collect. And that meant Robert would collect on the check by hiring real trial lawyers, no longer using a one-man band: himself. Serious legal firepower suing on a simple bounced firm check, not suing on the intricacies of a settlement agreement. More than that, all bets would be off keeping the scandal confidential because the firm was in breach of contract. That, plus the firm still had to pay the bounced check.
“Yes to noncertified funds,” he told Philip, comfortable with his enormous leverage.
So there they were. Robert, Leslie, and Gia in the firm’s lobby. Leslie leaned over and asked him, “You worked here?” almost prim in her business suit. He nodded.
“Wow,” she said. “Where is she?” meaning Alison.
Gia nudged Leslie and said, “Hey, Les, c’mon.”
Robert was impressed with Gia. She handled the contracts for Leslie and herself. Not him. He knew she’d been around the firm long enough to know that hiring a new lawyer could unravel any deal. Another lawyer trying to show her what a hotshot he was. All she wanted from Robert had been his Word file for his own final agreement. The dollar amount and party names, he’d left blank, so she typed in the b
lanks consistent with Leslie’s and her situation. As long as Robert was willing to sign it, Gia told him, she and Leslie were, too.
Smart woman, he thought in the lobby, eyeing a high-end suede folder in her lap.
On his end, Robert needed Alison’s witnessed signature on the settlement agreement, so he met Erik and her that morning at Rae’s on Pico. He opened two hard copies of the settlement agreement to the signature page, folding the rest of it under. The only part of the contract visible to her was a paragraph about California law governing the agreement. He told her the bare-bones truth: she needed to sign to move forward with her case. So she signed two sets of documents at Rae’s. So did he, right below her name.
Erik witnessed both signatures and started in on how Rae’s was where Tony Scott shot the breakfast scene in True Romance, as if Rae’s were really in Detroit for the movie. Next, Erik told Alison about his novelty item, Natural Gas, a handheld elastomeric cylinder with the uncanny ability to mimic a wide variety of human flatulence. About that time, Erik waved to his Thai wife and two kids, rumbling through the door for pancakes. That’s when Robert excused himself, hugged Erik’s wife, and headed over to the firm.
In the firm’s lobby, Philip’s assistant appeared and escorted Robert, Gia, and Leslie down the hall to a conference room. No game playing with Philip, no cooling their heels. Within ten minutes of arriving, they were seated in a conference room on the corporate end of the firm.
When Philip came in, Robert stood and shook his hand. The handshake was firm, Philip’s hand dry, and Robert could see Philip was energized. A new man, as they say, the two of them speaking in person for the first time since he’d been fired.
“Everything in order?” he asked Robert.
He placed all the signed papers opened to their signature pages on the conference room table. “Far as I know, Mr. Fanelli. You are aware that Ms. Marquez and Ms. DeRider represent themselves?”
“I am aware,” Philip said. He looked at Leslie, who chewed gum nervously. “You, I don’t know.” Then he looked at Gia. “Ms. Marquez. All of this business? I was disappointed.”
