by Dianne Emley
“Herb and his wife are old Easterners who never settled into the lifestyle out here. He feels he’s accomplished what he came out here to do in terms of putting the L.A. office back on track and is looking for a new challenge. There’s a position opening up in Manhattan that’ll be a good move for him.” He laced his fingers on the tablecloth. His eyes were intense and the message was brief. “How do you feel about managing the L.A. office?”
“Wow.” She rubbed her forehead and looked out of the window. The homeless man was quickly washing a client’s windshield before the light changed.
“You don’t have to decide now.” He studied her eyes.
“I want it,” she blurted, as if she thought he might withdraw the offer. She ran her fingers up and down her pearls, caught herself, and folded her hands on the table. “I mean, I’d be really honored. I think I have a lot to contribute.”
“Excellent. Herb and I already started discussing the transition earlier today.”
Iris thought about Amber and smiled wryly to herself.
“You’ll be sorry to know that you’ll experience a significant salary increase.” His eyes sparkled. “Iris, I’m suggesting you for this job because I believe you’re absolutely the best person for it. It has nothing to do with any personal feelings I have toward you. After all, I still have a responsibility for the bottom line.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run.”
They walked across the dining room’s polished wood floor through spots of sunlight that shone through the sparkling windows, descended the elevator, and left the Edward Club for the rude noise and activity of the street. Iris watched the hustle and bustle and today found it to be the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. They stood on the sidewalk in front of the club.
“That was quite a lunch,” she commented.
“Big changes ahead for both of us.”
“Funny. You go along, feeling like you’re in a rut, then there’s an earthquake and all sorts of things start to happen.” She held her hand out to shake his.
He took it and didn’t let go. They were standing close together, close enough for him easily to kiss her, which she hoped he wouldn’t attempt to do. He was still her boss’s boss, soon to be her direct boss, and until that relationship changed, she told herself, they had to play it cool. With that decided, she impulsively brushed his lips with hers, spun on her heel, and began walking to the office, looking back to shoot a smile at him over her shoulder. He stood where she’d left him, looking as if he could be knocked over with a feather.
In a second-floor restaurant across the street, Amber Ambrose urgently jabbered to the women friends with whom she was having lunch. They all leaned close to the window to watch Iris, who was virtually skipping down the street. After she had passed beyond their view, Amber dropped heavily back into her chair.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Iris parked the Triumph in a lot near 200 North Spring Street. She walked up a long cement walkway that crossed the broad lawn in front of Los Angeles City Hall past scattered panhandlers who emitted a steady chorus of “Help me out? Spare some change?”
The thirty-story landmark, built in 1927, had long ago lost its status as the tallest building in Los Angeles. Since it now stood virtually empty, it was the seat of city government in concept only. The city bureaucracy that hadn’t already relocated due to lack of room had been forced out to clear the way for a three-year seismic strengthening project. The building’s most visible denizens, the mayor and the City Council, were the only ones remaining through the renovations, the official reason being that their offices were on the lower floors, making it easier to effect a rescue in the event of a quake. Unofficially, the top brass refused to be moved.
Iris walked into the tall, domed lobby, past the long fresco depicting the history of California, from the time of the Spanish occupation, to the era when missions were built by Franciscan priests to convert the Native Americans, to when the land was turned over to the Mexicans, and, finally, when it became part of the United States of America. Her heels clicked on the terra-cotta colored fired tile floor, and she questioned the wisdom of making a sales call in her snug knit suit.
She approached a guard at an information desk on one side of the lobby and asked for directions. He gave her what she interpreted as a knowing look; self-consciously she fiddled with the buttons on the front of her jacket. With a crooked smile pasted on his face, he directed her to a bank of wood-paneled elevators against a wall.
She thanked him and took the stairs instead. It was just one floor and it would be her luck to have an aftershock knock out the power, trapping her between floors when she had other places she was supposed to be. She exited the stairwell on the second floor and walked on old linoleum past people bustling to and fro, some engaged in urgent conversation.
The corridor was lined with doors, all inset with frosted glass embossed with thumbprint-sized depressions. At the end of the corridor was a door with GILBERT ALVAREZ, COUNCILMAN 14TH DISTRICT stenciled in black paint on the glass. She turned the polished brass doorknob and entered a front office furnished in masculine dark green leathers and plaid fabrics. A secretary sat at a large wood desk in one corner. Another glassed door led to an inner office from which muted voices emanated and dark shadows passed behind the glass. The musky low odor of cigar smoke hung in the air.
The secretary was young and pretty. She was a Latina and wore her dark hair, which was probably long, neatly coiled and pinned at the back of her head. She asked, “May I help you?” in a gentle voice that seemed modulated to please, that seemed to suggest that she was soft and accommodating and here to soothe and comfort. She dialed the inner office with the tips of her long acrylic fingernails and watched her hand as she did so, as if she were one of her favorite admirers. “He’ll be with you shortly.”
Iris sat on a leather couch and distractedly flipped through a magazine. Before long, the door to the inner office opened and a man poked out his head. He smiled broadly and crossed the small room with his hand extended. “Iris.”
Iris stood and took his hand across the magazine-strewn coffee table that separated them. “Hi, Jeff. Good to see you.”
“Good to see you too. I’m glad you were able to meet with Gil on such short notice.”
“Have to strike while the iron’s hot.”
“That’s exactly the attitude I like to see in my money manager.” Jeff Rosen was in his late thirties but looked much younger, with unkempt dark hair that fell over his eyes. He was one of those men who would continue to look young until his hair began to turn gray or fall out. He exuded energy. Dressed in a suit and tie that looked out of place on him as if he were a schoolboy dressed up for a special occasion, he grabbed his tie as if to straighten it but left it with the tongue jutting out even more than it had before. “Come in and meet Gil.”
Iris walked into the councilman’s office. The wood-paneled walls were covered with awards, proclamations, and framed photos of Alvarez with the famous and the powerful, side by side with tempera paint-on-butcher-paper paintings from school children. Bronze trophies were scattered around the office along with objects that appeared to be handmade gifts from constituents.
A man rose from a leather desk chair and stepped from behind a large desk. He held a half-burnt cigar between his fingers.
“Iris Thorne, I’d like you to meet Gil Alvarez, councilman of the great Fourteenth District for the past twelve years.”
Alvarez had been watching Iris or, more accurately, appraising her since she’d entered his office. He switched his cigar to the other hand and extended his now-empty right hand to shake hers. It was a warm, firm handshake, the handshake of a man who’d made a profession of it.
Rosen added, “We’re bound to win a fourth term in a few weeks.”
“So this is the great investment counselor, Iris Thorne.” Alvarez’s hairline receded far back on his forehead but he brushed his dark, wavy hair straight back anyway as if he had nothing to hide. He was of medium
height, rotund, and wore a neat narrow moustache on his upper lip, which called attention to his easy broad smile. He appeared to be in his fifties.
“I don’t know, Jeff. I don’t know how comfortable I am trusting my money to such an attractive woman. I’ve had bad experiences with that before. You’ve probably read about it in the papers, Iris.” He was still holding her hand.
As a matter of policy, Iris waited for him to release first—it was his office, his turf, his handshake, and she wanted his business—but it was reaching the point of ridiculousness. The gesture was entering the realm of flirtation. “No, I haven’t.”
Alvarez finally let go. Iris resisted expelling a sigh of relief.
“Gil’s referring to his divorce,” Rosen explained. “Frankly, I’m relieved to know there’s someone in the city who hasn’t heard about it. It even appeared on Hard Copy last night.”
“I missed it,” Iris said.
“Gil, I told you that Iris and I went to business school together. She’s managed my money for years, brilliantly I might add, and recently we set up college funds for my two kids. I trust her implicitly.”
“That’s quite an endorsement,” Alvarez responded. “My campaign manager doesn’t give praise like that easily. Have a seat.”
Iris and Rosen sat in matched well-worn leather club chairs. Her snug skirt rode up and she discreetly tugged on it, a gesture that didn’t go past Alvarez.
Rosen squinted at something across the room, then snapped his fingers. “Iris, come to think of it, you might be from Gil’s district. Aren’t you from East L.A.?”
“El Sereno,” Iris answered.
Alvarez spread his arms in an encompassing gesture, the burning cigar still stuck between his fingers. “A local girl. Where did you live?”
“On Lombardy Boulevard, beneath Las Mariposas.”
“Las Mariposas?” He sucked on his cigar, then slowly blew out thick white smoke. “Then you must have known the DeLaceys.”
Iris held her breath as the smoke wafted past her and tried to disguise her restricted voice. “I practically lived at their house.”
“You know that Thomas DeLacey is running against me. Oh!” He made an overly dramatic apologetic gesture, putting his hand on his cheek and contritely looking toward heaven. “Excuse me. Thomas Gaytan DeLacey.”
“He was Thomas DeLacey when I knew him. Gaytan was his mother’s maiden name.”
Alvarez said, “He doesn’t want the voters in our predominately Latino district to forget his noble heritage as the descendant of one of the original Mexican landowners.”
Iris smiled. “How ironic. Bill DeLacey wasn’t proud that his kids were half Mexican and now Thomas is capitalizing on it.”
“We’re convinced that Gaytan DeLacey will stop at nothing to get elected,” Rosen said. “Changing his name is the least of it. He sold his house in Brentwood and bought in the district. He changed his party affiliation from Republican to Democrat. Even though the City Council is nonpartisan, he knew the citizens of the Fourteenth would never elect a Republican. He’s made it clear that he wants a career in politics and sees the Fourteenth District City Council seat as his first step.”
Alvarez shook his head vehemently, “I’ve done everything within my power to get money for my district, to get projects, to do whatever it takes to improve the lives of the citizens of the great Fourteenth.” His eyes teared. “I love the people of the Fourteenth. I am one of the people of the Fourteenth.” He balled his hand into a fist. “I am the best candidate for this job. I won’t be run out of office by some Johnny-come-lately who only sees the Fourteenth as a stepping stone to the mayor’s office and a way to gain approval for his father’s real estate development projects.” He pounded his fist on the desk.
“You mean DeLacey Gardens?” Iris asked.
Alvarez’s fist was still balled. “Bill DeLacey has pushed that low-income housing project to the City Council every year since I’ve been elected. It’s rumored that he’s tried to bribe members of the Planning Committee and that he’s submitted falsified environmental impact reports. Now he thinks he can put his son in office and ram the damn thing through.”
Rosen held his hand out to indicate Alvarez. “No one is better at forging compromises than this man. He tried to get DeLacey to modify the project to be a better fit with the neighborhood, but the man won’t budge.”
Alvarez added, “He says he can’t scale it back. That he’s lost too much money on it as it is. I don’t know how he keeps finding investors for it. I think he might have a Ponzi scheme going where he gets money from this guy to pay the other and so on.”
“Gil’s platform has always been ideology free—potholes and police, no bull—and it’s served him and his constituents well,” Rosen said. “When Thomas Gaytan DeLacey came along with his blow-dried hair, Yale law degree—”
“People in the barrio aren’t impressed by Yale Law School,” Alvarez sniffed.
“—and no political experience, we weren’t concerned. Frankly, we were caught with our pants down when Gaytan DeLacey did well enough in the primary election to force a runoff.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Iris began, “but why did Gaytan DeLacey do so well in the primary if the citizens are happy with their current representation?”
Alvarez’s expression grew stern. “Simple. By conducting the lowest, most vile smear campaign I’ve seen in all my years of public service.”
Rosen turned to Iris. “Gil’s alluding to his divorce. Long story short, it’s been an ugly situation. Sure, there’ve been indiscretions on both sides, but the whole thing’s been blown out of proportion by the press.”
Alvarez leaned across the desk. “Look, I’m willing to own up to the fact that my personal life’s been a mess lately. I’ve made my share of mistakes, but I’ve always put my constituents first. I welcome a good old-fashioned knock-down political fight, but I will not have my character assassinated in the press. Mr. Gaytan DeLacey is in for a surprise if he thinks I’m just going to lie down so he can roll over me. We have our own bag of tricks.” He smiled knowingly at Rosen.
“The DeLaceys should learn that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” Rosen added.
“There’s something I learned early in my political career. Help your friends and screw your enemies, then people will always know where you stand.” Alvarez pressed his palm, still holding the cigar, against his chest. A large diamond ring sparkled on his pinky finger. “This whole situation breaks my heart. I hope I’m not offending you by discussing your old friend this way.”
Iris shrugged. “I haven’t seen the DeLaceys in over twenty years. Been at least that long since I’ve been back to the old neighborhood. I don’t know if you’re aware that Dolores DeLacey, Thomas’s mother, passed away. Her funeral’s today.”
“Hanged herself,” Alvarez said. “You’d think Gaytan DeLacey would try to keep something like that out of the press, but he’s used it for all it’s worth.” He shook his head. “Poor Dolly DeLacey. She had a hell of a life, didn’t she?”
“Did you know her?” Iris asked.
He nodded slowly. “Oh yes. Her father was murdered, you know.” He gave Iris that appraising look again. “I thought I remembered a family by the name of Thorne. Was your father employed by Bill DeLacey?”
“Yes, he was.”
“I interviewed him about the murder.”
“Interviewed him?”
“I was a police officer. LAPD. Ten years before I quit to take a job as an aide to my predecessor in the Fourteenth. My partner and I were the first cops on the scene.” He gazed at nothing and began to laugh. “Poor Gabriel met his demise sometime before the San Fernando earthquake. When we got there, stuff had fallen all over the crime scene. Never seen anything like it.” He shook his head at the same point across the room. “Never seen anything like it in a lot of ways.”
Iris gaped at Alvarez.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
/> “No, I was just…That was a nasty situation.”
Alvarez stroked his moustache and nodded solemnly.
“Tell me”—Iris nervously tugged at her skirt—“what happened to your partner? What was his name?”
“Ron Cole. Still with the force. He’s a detective now. Homicide. Due to retire soon.” He shook his head wistfully. “Real tough guy, but a heart of gold.” He tapped his fingers over his heart. His ring glittered.
Iris made a broad gesture of looking at her watch. “Is it that late already? I’m sorry, but I have to be going.” She abruptly stood and breathlessly said, “Why don’t you call me and we’ll set up a time to discuss your financial situation? Here’s my card.”
Alvarez tossed the card carelessly on his desk. “Nothing to discuss.” He began moving files and papers around, looking for something. He picked up a manila folder and handed it to her. “That’s what the guy I’ve got now has gotten me into. None of it’s worth a damn. Just put me into whatever Jeff’s got.”
“But…but Jeff’s in a different stage in life than you are. He’s planning to put kids through college, you’re probably thinking about retirement. He’s looking for growth, you probably want income.”
“You work out whatever you think is best and we’ll talk.”
“I’m not the best person to handle your situation.”
Rosen winced at her in disbelief.
She stammered, “My specialty is smaller, I mean, larger portfolios. Pension funds and such. I’m not skilled at…I mean I don’t know…”
Alvarez spread his arms and bellowed, “Means nothing to me.”
She opened the folder and glanced at the documents. “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t really have any high-profile individuals among my…” She paused. The portfolio was worth several million. “Clients.”
“What’s more important is that I know where you came from,” Alvarez said. “You’re a girl from the Fourteenth. I know all about you.”
She closed the folder, set her briefcase on the chair, snapped it open, slipped the folder inside, and snapped it closed. “I’ll put something together and call you.”
