by Avery Duff
Next, an incoming call from a 310 number—that brush-clearing job in Malibu, Robert guessed. After that, several other calls to and from the same number, setting up that job and hauling the brush out to County Line.
After that, Teo had called him—Teo explaining why he’d been late for their meeting.
Then ten other calls to and from Delfina’s number.
Among all those calls back and forth with Delfina, he noted paired calls—not to Delfina—between the time after Teo had left Carlos’ house and the time he was struck by the car.
He looked up the unexplained number online—registered to Benjamin Smartt—wondered whether to call so late, and decided: Why not?
A generic machine-voice told him to leave a message. He identified himself, referenced Teo Famosa, and asked this outlier to call him back ASAP.
As the phone began dying for real, Robert was fading, too. Leaning back in the La-Z-Boy, he thought over his day. Recalling how Teo had bolted out of the study and gone straight into the truck cube. Whatever he’d found inside his personal drawer, he’d put it in his backpack and left for AA about a minute later.
And whatever it was hadn’t been his phone or wallet—those he had on him. But whatever it was, was gone.
Something worth killing him for? That didn’t seem possible. Not impossible, but very unlikely.
In bed later, Gia rolled into him, half-asleep.
“Refrigerator . . . framed?” she mumbled.
She must be dreaming, he decided, turning off the light. Lying there, he thought about Delfina’s drawing. The man and woman had to be Teo and Bee. The child, Delfina, stood between them, holding their hands. That was him up in the sky, looking out for them. Magna Carta Man, protecting her.
It came to him now what Gia had mumbled just now. Should he put Delfina’s drawing on the refrigerator or frame it?
No contest. Frame it. He’d never have another client like Delfina Famosa.
CHAPTER 22
The Greek father and son at Sonny’s Gyros looked to Robert like they’d argue over whether water was wet. The next morning, he and Erik had shown up before Sonny’s opened. Now they waited at the counter while the pair argued about whether a tray of refrigerated food should be thrown out or saved.
The boy had turned his back on his father by this time, so Sonny peeled back the Saran wrap from a stainless-steel serving dish—cucumbers and onions—and held it out to Robert and Erik.
“Smell it. Still good, right?” Not the best question for customers.
Erik gave it a shot anyway. “Good enough for me. Not good enough for my wife.”
“I’m onion intolerant,” Robert said.
From experience, Robert knew the problem wasn’t food. The son didn’t want to be here, and the father dreamed of the whole family working the counter, just like in the old country.
Sonny’s Gyros showed up in the police report Erik had picked up this morning. In it, Sonny had given a statement to police about the hit and run. Once he’d handed each of them buy-ten-gyros-get-one-free cards, he tried to help out.
First off, his parking lot camera didn’t archive video. It simply spotted trouble in back in real time and let whoever was behind the counter deal with it.
“Lots of trouble, bars, especially,” Sonny said. “Customers come out drunk, urinate, use my dumpster for trash. I say something, they tell me go eff off, so I show them thees.”
His silver baseball bat came out from behind the counter; it was plastic, spray-painted silver.
“See, last night, I’m closing up, and I see him back there.” Meaning Teo. “Walking slow, then he stop, and I say to myself, ‘Uh-oh, here we go.’”
Now, Sonny headed outside with the bat. Sonny’s boy, texting, looked like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world.
Robert held back and asked him, “Business any good?”
Beyond caring, the kid said, “It sucks. He’s gonna lose all his money. Mom’s gonna kill him.”
Outside, Robert walked up on Sonny asking Erik what he thought about renaming the place Sunny’s or Mr. Sunny’s.
“A new sign,” Sonny said. “I would put a bright sun on it, then have a new grand opening.”
The desperation of a failing business.
Erik said, “Don’t ask me, Mr. Sonny. Ask the Beach Lawyer.”
Sonny turned to Robert. “You are the Beach Lawyer? I see the article. My daughter thinks you are very handsome.”
Robert shrugged off the compliment. “How’s this, Sonny? Tell me everything you remember about last night, and I’ll give you some free legal advice.”
Hearing that, Sonny got with it: “Last night, that man in the alley, the man they run over, he stopped. Carrying a bag in his hand, I can see that from inside, so I think he will use my dumpster. Every single month, each and every year, my dumpster fees cost my restaurant at least—”
Robert stopped him. “The man in back, Sonny.”
“So the man, he stopped, and he leaned against my dumpster.” Sonny bent his arm and put his forearm on his forehead. “Put his face on his arm like this, and when I get closer, I shout at him, wave my bat, and he looks up, and—I see he is smiling. Crying and smiling, and then he waves to me and walks away. Then the woman drives by, and I hear it.”
“The woman driving the Lexus?”
Sonny nodded. “Black Lexus hit him, and I run out to the alley. The woman, she hit that poor man and never stopped.” Picturing it again, Sonny said, “But before that? The man, he was happy. I am sure of it.”
Sonny’s son called him back inside, so Robert and Erik searched the area. Looking for whatever Teo had put in his backpack the day before. After rolling Sonny’s two dumpsters out of the way, they still came up empty-handed.
They walked back inside. Sonny and his boy were going at it again, so Robert and Erik each ordered two falafels, loaded, to go.
“No onions,” Robert said, servicing his earlier lie. “Ready for that free legal advice?”
Sonny said, “From Beach Lawyer, sure.”
At a nearby table, Robert talked to Sonny about his family for a few minutes. Learned Sonny wanted to shut down the business but felt trapped. Five years ago, Sonny’s corporation had signed a ten-year lease with the landlord. Sonny had started the business with his brother as an investor, took a small salary. His son and daughter worked for minimum wage. The son enrolled at Santa Monica College; his wife and married daughter worked for the city, helped out on weekends and took their pay mostly in free Greek food.
“Did you personally guarantee the lease?” Robert asked.
“No, but my brother signed. Put his name on the line. When we started out, he had very good assets.”
“I see.” Sonny was a good guy, worried about protecting his brother. “Where’s your brother now?”
“Moved back home. We all miss him very much.”
“Where’s home?”
“Athens.”
“Athens, Greece?”
“Of course.”
“Where are his assets now?”
“His house in Pomona, he sell it. Stocks and bonds, all go to Europe. Please, I do not want landlord to find out about any of this.”
“When’s the last time you talked to your landlord?”
“Two, three years ago. We are still current with rent,” Sonny said with pride.
“Think about trying this,” Robert said. “Give him a call. Tell him you want out of your lease, and tell him you’ll leave the equipment here. If he doesn’t like it, tell him to sue your corporation. If he threatens to sue your brother, tell him to go ahead, but he won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Your brother has nothing in America the landlord can collect, and—no offense, Sonny—I gotta believe your company’s in the same boat as your brother.”
“Sadly, that is true,” Sonny said.
“Over the past five years, rents in Santa Monica have done nothing but go up. He’ll jump at the chance to get you out and get mo
re money out of this place. Matter of fact, he should pay you to turn the lease over to him.”
Sonny beamed, hearing that news. “Pay me how much?”
A few more minutes batting numbers around, and they settled on $20,000. Robert said, “But wait twenty-four hours, all right? Promise me you won’t do anything till you talk it over with your wife and family.”
Sonny stood and extended his hand: “Beach Lawyer. You have my word . . .”
As they stepped outside, Erik went into Don Corleone mode, the Don talking to the undertaker about his dead son: “Someday, Mr. Sonny, and that day may never come, Beach Lawyer will call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day, accept this justice as a gift from the Beach Lawyer.”
“Gonna be a Godfather day?”
“My man, every day’s a Godfather day . . .”
Driving toward the beach afterward, Erik passed Sonny’s falafels off to three guys hanging out in the Seventh Street park. Then they hit Shoop’s delicatessen.
“A Swedish chow paradise. You’re gonna love it,” Erik said as Robert parked the Bronco.
The menu was mostly variations of salmon: salmon wraps, salmon smoked, salmon in Caesar and spinach salads.
“Can’t go wrong with gravlax,” Erik said. Salmon raw but cured.
They ordered a couple of salmon wraps to go and grabbed a table looking out onto Main Street. Then Gia phoned. She and Delfina had stopped by the hospital early—no change in Teo’s condition, but none had been expected. Gia had used Delfina’s padlock key, checked inside Teo’s truck but didn’t find a charger for Teo’s off-brand phone.
Gia said, “The ICU nurses know Delfina now, and she’s being real good.”
“You going by Aunt Gia?” Like Evelyn had suggested last night.
“Tell Evelyn that was a great idea. Delfina likes it, and we’re both mutts, so nobody thinks twice about us being there together . . . not yet.”
Delfina came on next and asked, “Hi, Robert, how are you today?”
“Good, Delfina. Sorry I missed you this morning. I had to get up early and go to work with my friend, Erik . . . Right, he’s a very big man . . . Yes. I’ll tell him.”
Erik had been giving him a look as he talked. After he clicked off, Robert said, “What? Go ahead.”
Erik asked, “What happens if Teo doesn’t come out of it?”
“What if he does?” Robert asked.
“You ready?” Erik asked.
“I’m not sure, not at all. Gia and I haven’t gotten that far, even talking about it, and—”
Erik stopped him, nodded at the counter. “Wraps are ready. Let’s book?”
Oh, he thought. Not ready to adopt—ready to leave.
As Robert drove north to Calabasas, home of Vegas Rail, he went over his to-do list with Erik. First thing was, find Teo’s last AA meeting. Erik had already downloaded the AA app onto Robert’s iPhone; the problem was manageable. Backtracking to yesterday afternoon, they’d used Carlos’ house as Teo’s starting point and Sonny’s Gyros as the end point. Only two meetings made sense: one in Ocean Park, another on Pico near the 405. Neither met again until the next day.
“Catch both meetings tomorrow?” Robert asked Erik.
“Yep. So tell me about these two knucklehead investments we’re checking out.”
Meaning Carlos’ investments as trustee. Evelyn doubted Robert would learn anything, but he felt that looking into them was obligatory due diligence. He had read both offering circulars—forty-page legal documents describing the investments, their risks, and rewards—and had a decent grasp of them.
The first, a real estate deal called Vegas Rail, had an office halfway to Santa Barbara in Westlake Village, where they headed now. The second office in Playa Vista was for a technology investment: SoccMom.
Robert told Erik, “Both companies gave the investor notes and a first lien on each company’s assets till the notes were paid off. SoccMom started paying heavy interest right away, but the real estate deal was more a long-term play on escalating real estate values.”
“A first lien,” Erik said. “Same as the bank has on my house.”
“Close enough,” Robert said. “And the company actually filed the right papers with the secretary of state and the county, so the trust’s first lien looks good.
“On the real estate deal,” he continued, “the investment would score on land optioned up in the high desert, around Victorville, one of the station sites for high-speed rail connecting LA to Las Vegas. Pretty straightforward.”
“Eventually connecting to Vegas, maybe,” Erik said.
“Right, and if high-speed rail doesn’t happen in three years, they’ll sell the land and return the investors’ money. Starting in one year, they’ll use rental income from the properties to pay fifteen percent interest to the investors. Worst case—according to Vegas Rail—Carlos clears thirty percent in interest over three years. The circular has notarized deeds of the properties they were buying, contracts with owners, and phone numbers to talk things over with management.”
“You call?”
“Yeah. Disconnected.”
Erik said, “Up thirty percent, long as land value holds up in Victorville.”
Robert nodded. “Up front in the circular, they give you all the rosy financial projections—how big the numbers can get if high-speed rail comes through Victorville. But when you read the Risks section near the end, it discloses that high-speed rail might not happen at all, plus California requires the train’s manufacturer to be American—and so far, there’s not an American manufacturer in existence.”
Erik said, “I get it. Invest in this deal, you’re an idiot or a baller.”
“Yeah, risky,” Robert said.
Just then, a lawyer named Frederick Baker returned Robert’s call. A partner in a big Century City firm, Frederick’s name had appeared on the offering circular for the SoccMom deal.
After Robert explained why he’d called yesterday, Frederick got right down to business.
“Yes, this firm drafted the offering circular, but drafting’s all we did. We made no attempt to verify any information—all of it was furnished by our client—and if any money was eventually raised pursuant to this offering circular, we had no contact with investors, before, during, or after the offering circular was prepared.”
“Did you know your firm’s name appeared on the circular?”
“No, I did not. If that happened, and I’m not saying it did, it happened without the firm’s permission. So look, Robert, I called Philip Fanelli off your Martindale listing, and he said you’re a straight shooter, not some shakedown artist. So again, this firm did not participate in the deal, and that’s all you’re getting out of me. Any more and it’ll be pursuant to a subpoena, and this firm will fight you every step of the way.”
“I hear you,” Robert said, then clicked off.
Robert took the Westlake Boulevard exit; he’d heard Frederick loud and clear. By did not participate, Frederick meant their firm didn’t lie to or mislead investors about the deal. Could be Frederick had been lying just now—Robert doubted it. There wasn’t a single scrap of paper in the trust’s files between Carlos and this firm. That meant Robert needed Carlos to fill in the blanks, but the talking-to-Carlos door had slammed shut forever.
A quarter mile off the freeway, Robert parked the Bronco in a visitor’s slot at a two-story, modern office complex.
As they got out of the car, he prepped Erik: “Same as with Vegas Rail, we’re in real estate . . .”
Robert had called ahead and set up an appointment with the office complex’s leasing agent, Lauren Cairo. On another call to the building’s receptionist, he’d learned Vegas Rail’s office was on the second floor; that was all he could get out of her. Once he and Erik made the lobby—Receptionist on Break, a placard said—Lauren introduced herself.
Robert headed to the sign-in book, hoping to catch a few Vegas Rail names.
Lauren stopped him. “No need for sign-in. Yo
u’re with me.”
She led them past the shared reception area. It was the usual setup: individual offices, a shared conference room and kitchen on the ground floor. According to the complex’s web page, these temporary offices were superb if you wanted a month-to-month lease with no need for giving a personal guarantee.
“What is it you’re looking for?” Lauren asked him.
“A two-office suite,” Robert said. “Something with a view. Upstairs if at all possible.”
“We do have one on the second floor, end of the hall, decent view. Do you have a business card?” she asked.
“Not yet. We’re still trying to decide on our logo.”
“We’re in real estate,” Erik added. “I like the name Fault Line. My partner doesn’t. What do you think?”
“Are you serious?” Lauren asked.
“Hell, no, Lauren. It’s rare I’m serious.”
Robert had no idea why Erik said the things he said, or where this was going, if anywhere, as they took an elevator to the second floor and headed down the hall. Robert stopped halfway to the end, at what had been Vegas Rail’s door. Two painters had put down a drop cloth inside, and Robert walked into the suite.
“Love this,” Robert said, walking over to the window. It offered a canyon view and looked down onto the complex’s delivery area. A few guys on break kicked back on the loading dock.
“This office isn’t available for another month,” Lauren said.
Erik said, “I was told we’d have a view of Wayne Gretsky’s estate. Needless to say, I’m disappointed as all get-out.”
“Mr. Gretsky’s estate is nowhere nearby,” Lauren said.
“Looked at Gretsky’s pad online. Has a fountain and a pool—that cool or what?”
Robert stepped in. “Looks like the tenants are done with this office. Why not let me call them? See if I can buy them out of that last month.”
“Can’t reach them. I’ve tried,” she said.
“Mind if I try?” he asked.
“Let me show you this other space up the hall,” she said.
Erik said, “How about I grab a bottle of water downstairs?”
