by Avery Duff
“One of the Dracula countries. Don’t know which one. For some reason, she didn’t like the handle, came right out and told me so. I just gave her a new one: Basic Instinct, and shortened it to Basic. Jury’s still out on that one.”
“That movie with Sharon Stone,” Robert said. “Keep ’em coming, Killer.”
“Like I said, we don’t get much excitement down here.”
Robert shook Bruce’s hand again, all the while thinking: Draganov. One of those Dracula countries. Bulgaria?
Four doors down from Bruce’s Madonna tickets, Robert found Sharon Sloan’s door, posted with keepsakes, too. First, a picnic photo of her family at a wooden table: Her husband, a nice-looking white guy, and two dark-haired girls, three or four years old. Sharon sat beside her husband, serving some kind of chicken, wearing glasses. Actress Mila Kunis, minus Mila Kunis’ looks. Nothing like Sharon Stone, which added, Robert guessed, to the excellence of Sharon’s Basic handle.
Also posted on her door: a small print of Christ’s crucifixion. Definitely not European. Orthodox Christian, Robert believed. The Orthodox cross had three bars intersecting it, not two, like the Protestant cross. It was that third bar, a footrest, that was odd. The short bar for Jesus’ feet tilted from Jesus’ left to his right.
Very cool of the Romans, he decided. A footrest in case he was uncomfortable.
He snapped a few quick shots of her door, headed down the hall, took the escalator to the parking garage, and found an attendant.
“I’m supposed to meet Mr. Keller by his car. Know where his slot is?”
“Killer’s on second floor. It’s marked.”
Backtracking to that level, Robert found Bruce’s name on a slot. Several cars down from Bruce’s, he saw a sign on the wall: This Space Reserved for Sharon Sloan.
Her silver license-plate holder read: Glendale Lincoln. He photographed her slot and tag number; once he made it out of the concrete into sunlight, he called Reyes.
“What’re you up to right now?”
“Hitting a bucket of balls over in Koreatown.”
“You’re a golfer?” Robert asked.
“Estoy el Tigre de East LA. Working on my short game. S’up?”
Robert asked if they could get together, coming up.
“Sure, homes,” Reyes said. “Where’s the meet at?”
On the rear patio at Café Pinot, Robert found Erik already seated, waiting in Robert’s favorite cityscape. Skyscrapers towered all around them, the heart of downtown, but somehow it felt like an oasis. Besides that, he’d had good luck here before—this being the spot where he’d decided to take on Jack Pierce.
Robert took a seat. “Think I just landed on something that matters.”
“Same here,” Erik said.
Erik went first. He had wanted to check LAPD’s main office downtown and look into those three guys who’d sued the trust.
“Nothing unusual registered,” Erik said. “None of ’em career criminals or on anyone’s radar. But the old Polack in records started laughing when I gave him the three names. Said, ‘Who was it who pissed off all the Slavs?’ And I’m clueless, so he tells me, ‘Stanley Novak? C’mon, that one’s Slav, front and back.’ Stanley’s from Stanislav, he said, and Novak, that’s Slavic as it sits—means new man, if I remember right.”
“What about the other two?”
“Not necessarily Slavic but could be, easy. Take Anton Peterson. Anton could definitely be Bulgarian, and Peterson means son of Petrov. Third name’s the same—Martin Daniels. You and me, we’d say Martin, but if you say it like MarTEEN, you’re in downtown Sofia. And Daniels, think he said that could be Americanized from Danielov.”
Robert said, “So that’s one home run and two doubles. Think I stumbled into a grand slam. Draganov. That name mean anything to you?”
“Nothing, but it sounds . . . you know . . . Bulgarian.”
Robert explained Sharon Draganov Sloan’s courthouse role and the Dragon Lady’s visibility into the Famosa trust by way of Bruce Keller.
“Not that she’d need Keller,” Robert said. “These probate attorneys have access to every file in the system.”
“How long’s Sharon worked there?” Erik asked.
“Seven years. Definitely working there when the trust’s lawsuit troubles started. She’s the Draganov link to the trust, and those three assault-and-battery lawsuits—I’m betting they were drummed up. Using Sharon on the inside, the Draganovs coulda been screwing the trust for years. Taking most of the settlement payments away from the lawyers but giving them a cut.”
“Sham lawsuits, a piece of the action for Sharon, too. Sounds plausible,” Erik said.
“How many Bulgarians you ever meet in LA?” Robert asked.
“On the force twenty years, a handful, and a small one at that.”
“A handful more than me,” Robert said. “You know, I’m starting to think Carlos’ trust could’ve been some sort of test run. A template for scamming other trusts down the line.”
“A trial run,” Erik said, nodding. “I think we’re getting a handle on this beast.”
“Closer,” Robert said, grinning. “Much closer.”
The waitress came to take their orders. Robert went with the scallops. While Erik quizzed her about fish and chips versus the hamburger, Robert recalled that Evelyn had settled with Novak, Peterson, and Daniels for thirty cents on the dollar. Knowing what she knew then, hers had been skillful lawyering—bluffing, actually. But this new information meant the lawsuits against Teo had been shams—Teo drugged and framed for bogus drunken beatdowns. From the time Teo had tried to walk away from that boardwalk fight, Robert had never seen him as violent. Underneath, he saw a gentle man, even though he knew it was a sucker’s bet, rooting for clients.
So what? As Philip once told him: “The best lawyers always get emotional about certain clients.”
“What’s dickhead doing here?” Erik asked, glaring at Reyes inside the restaurant through its rear floor-to-ceiling windows.
“I might’ve mentioned it to him,” Robert said. “I want him to follow Sharon Sloan.”
Inside, Reyes exchanged elaborate dap with the bartender. After that, he headed their way.
“Maybe he’s one of the owners,” Robert said, messing with Erik.
“Don’t start up with me. Guy owes me three grand on his fairy-tale after-party.”
Reyes grabbed a seat at their four-top, still wearing his golf glove. Robert was pretty sure the glove was left on for Erik’s benefit.
“Sorry I’m late, homes, had to find a newsstand. Try ya some of the scallops, Roberto. They’re elite.”
“That’s what I ordered. How’s the fish and chips here?” Erik’s dish.
“So-so,” Reyes said. “Why come to an upscale joint, go pedestrian?”
“Guess you know this place?” Erik asked, eyeing that golf glove. Robert kept hoping Erik could ignore it.
“Cousin waited tables here five years. I ate here lots. First timer, Oso?”
“Where’s my money, Ray-Ray? Or as you’d say, Where’s my money at?”
“Let’s let that one go sayonara, a’ight? Your wife, she kill you she find out you lost them two boys’ college funds.”
“Prove it, Ray-Ray,” Erik said. “Prove it happened, that was the bet.”
As Erik recapped the exact terms of their bet, Reyes undid the golf glove’s Velcro strap, taking his time like a stripper. Then from inside Reyes’ leather jacket came a Hollywood Reporter.
Reyes folded it flat on the table. The headline: “Santa Monica Pier Gets Street Cred.” Under that, an article and shots of the party.
“My man, Peter Paul Dickerson,” Reyes said.
Billionaire Peter Paul Dickerson. According to the article, Peter Paul had bought all rights to the Street Cred franchise. Just to be in the biz, Robert guessed. In a photograph, a Ferris wheel behind them, Peter Paul had his silk-encased arm draped around Raymundo Reyes, both flashing gang signs, acting tough for the came
ra.
“My homeboy, PPD,” Reyes said. “Gonna hit me some gof baws wit’ him later, bat around some of my movie script ideas over at Bel-Air CC.”
Erik looked whiter than usual as the waitress set down the plates.
“Careful, plate’s hot,” she said.
“You, too, chica,” Reyes said.
She started sucking up to Reyes, asking him about a scoring part in the next Street Cred.
Erik stood up and looked at Robert. “Take your time. See you outside when you’re done.” Then he headed inside.
“Think Oso’d mind if I pillaged that fish and chips?”
“I wouldn’t,” Robert said, signaling their waitress for a doggie bag.
He showed Reyes Sharon’s online courthouse photograph and gave him her license plate number.
“She parks inside the courthouse, Level B Two, drives a red Lincoln MKZ hybrid. License plate frame’s out of Glendale.”
“Home of Bob’s Big Boy.”
“You say so. I’m thinking she might live there or in Silver Lake.”
“Yeah, close in to work. What am I looking for?”
“Who she meets, where she goes. She works at the courthouse nine to four or five. A lawyer, white-boy husband, and two kids, so if she does something that doesn’t make sense. Anything . . . you know . . . noteworthy.”
“Noteworthy,” Reyes said. “Only mi abogado gets away with sayin’ that. I see anything noteworthy for this upscale chica abogada, I let you know.”
“How’s the event coming along?” Meaning the sale of Carlos’ furnishings.
“Want you to go Ethan Hunt on the event.”
“Ethan . . . ?”
“Mission: Impossible, baby. You might need to disavow all knowledge.”
Reyes was right—he didn’t want details.
“So you and me are clear. Erik’s a good man, all right?” Robert said.
“How you know that, Roberto?”
“Because I know it.” He left it at that.
Twenty minutes later, Robert and Reyes walked out of Pinot. Erik’s Prius was parked at the curb. Taking Robert’s advice, Reyes didn’t burn Erik about his ride, just headed up the street, where an UberBLACK pulled up for him.
Erik squeezed out of his Prius, caught up with Reyes. Robert had a good idea what was coming next: Erik handing a white bank envelope to Reyes, shaking Reyes’ hand. Then Erik came back to the Prius.
“What a d-bag. Let’s book,” he told Robert.
Robert handed Erik his doggie bag.
“Hey, Erik? Reyes, he’s a good man.”
“You say so,” Erik said.
“I do say so,” and he looked at his friend till Erik said, “Got it.”
They squeezed back inside the Prius and took off toward the Westside.
“You free for a run to the desert tomorrow?” Robert asked.
“Mojave?”
“Joshua Tree National Park.”
“Twelve hundred square miles,” Erik said. “Can you be a little more specific?”
He’d spent more time with Carlos’ gibberish on the way downtown. So he felt pretty good saying, “Don’t worry, I’m all over it . . .”
Maybe Robert hadn’t thought it through when he called Gia from the Prius, telling her he planned to leave town. Delfina was listening and got upset about it. Then Robert thought it through; then it made sense. Her father was asleep in the hospital, meaning that part of her life wasn’t caving in. Now she heard Robert would be leaving, and in her world, leaving could turn into never coming back, same as with her mother.
A half hour later, Gia put Delfina on the phone; Robert still heard upset in her voice.
“Just for a couple of days,” he told her. “Maybe less.”
“Mr. Jacobson is going with you?” she asked.
“Both of us are going, and he’s going to take care of me.”
“Gia already said.”
“Want me to bring you something from the desert?” Robert asked.
“Nothing, I’m okay.”
“I’m coming back to see you and Gia. You know that, right?”
Erik whispered, “See her now.”
He caught Erik’s clue: “Why don’t I come see you now?”
“Okay,” Delfina said. Funny how her voice brightened, just like that.
Now Gia told him: “We’re headed to that camping store on Pico. Delfina wants Evelyn to come, so we’re picking her up on the way.”
“We on speaker?” Robert asked.
“Not at present, no.”
“You’re so smart,” he told her.
“I keep hearing that,” she said. “But only from you, baby.”
“Would you two rutting animals cut it out?” Erik said. “Seriously, my wife’s out of the country.”
Gia said, “Feel you, dude. But not really . . .”
Erik dropped Robert off at Wilderness Camping. He spotted Evelyn sitting in a camo chair in the first of three large rooms. On the way here, he’d decided to bring her up to speed on the bogus lawsuits, along with the meaning of Carlos’ nonsensical work notes and bogus e-mails.
But as he drew closer, she looked drawn, wrung out, and he hesitated. She took pride in the quality of her legal work—would it seem like he wanted to take her down a peg if he revealed that she’d been manipulated by her client?
She managed a weak smile when Robert approached her. Seeing that, his better angels prevailed, and he decided against pointing out her mistakes.
“How you coming along?” he asked.
“This chemo’s rocking my world,” she said.
“Much longer to go?” he asked.
“A month, they say. You know, Robert, I neglected to tell you something that’s been weighing on me. Carlos called me about a week before he died, left a message, and I deleted it without even listening. What kind of person does that?”
“You didn’t know he was going to have a heart attack.”
“Even so,” she said. Pointing over at the second room, she said, “There they are. Better hurry. Delfina’s very concerned about your well-being in the desert.”
Robert joined them. Delfina had been shopping for helpful desert gear. He checked the contents of her basket: a Suunto A-30 compass—made in Finland, Delfina told him; three pounds of trail mix; a strobing emergency light; a USB-powered light set; Ultrathon insect repellent; a snakebite kit; Aloe Gator sunscreen; four emergency road flares; heavy-duty crampons for mountain climbing; two long coils of climbing rope; a How to Tie Rope Knots kit; two Yeti-brand, eighteen-ounce, stainless-steel beverage tumblers with black plastic handles; and a red Swiss Army knife.
“Basic desert necessities,” Gia told him.
Then Gia clued him in—Delfina planned to pay for it from the $300 in Teo’s drawer. They couldn’t let that happen, so Robert explained to Delfina they had no mountain-climbing plans and no need for crampons; that Robert already owned a Swiss Army knife; and that the compass, expensive, too, wasn’t needed because his iPhone compass worked great.
“All this other stuff, let’s see. I already wanted to buy rope for Gia’s house.”
“Rope for what?” Delfina asked.
“Well, in back, there could be a rope swing—”
He stopped. Wished he could take back his words that implied her future with them. Gia picked up on it.
“I asked Robert to make me a rope swing, Delfina. When you come visit us after your daddy wakes up, we can all swing on it.”
“Will you take the rope with you tomorrow?” she asked Robert. “You might need it in the desert.”
“You’re right. I’ll probably need it, but I’m paying for it. And I’m buying the road flares, too,” he said, putting them in his basket. “Gia and I worry about each other having car trouble at night, so these are perfect.”
A half hour later in the checkout line, Evelyn joined them. Robert and Gia had whittled down Delfina’s buys to less than forty dollars, including a Joshua Tree National Park guidebook. If Ro
bert paid for any more of it, Delfina would’ve seen through him.
In the parking lot, Delfina handed Evelyn a small bag. A package of trail mix and cherry-flavored ChapStick.
“To make you feel better from your medicine,” she said.
Evelyn seemed moved to tears by Delfina’s gesture.
“Thank you, sweetie,” Evelyn said, spreading ChapStick on her lips. “You know, I feel better already.”
As they neared her car, Evelyn whispered something to Gia. Then Evelyn gave Delfina a long hug and took Robert aside.
“I’ll have a first draft of her trust by next week. Would you mind taking a look at it?”
“You know my limitations. Not sure what I can add.”
“I learned early on how thorough you are. I always welcome your gimlet eye. Should I start calling you Joshua Tree Lawyer?”
“No way, Evelyn, I’m still a big deal down at the beach.”
“I’ve never been to Joshua Tree. Palm Springs, yes. Two Bunch Palms, many times. You and Erik take some shots, all right? I hear it’s magnificent, like another planet.”
“Will do.”
“See to it, then. Delfina’s not the only one who’ll miss you around here.”
On their drive home in Gia’s sedan, Delfina said, “Show him what’s in your bag, Gia.”
“I can’t, sweetie. It’s a secret.”
“What bag?” he asked.
Gia said, “Something I bought before Erik dropped you off.”
“More rope?” he asked, taking Gia’s hand.
Delfina was laughing. “That’s silly. You already bought rope. Guess again.”
Gia whispered to Robert, “Not that silly . . .”
That night, Robert and Delfina practiced knot tying in Gia’s living room. Using a how-to picture and the kit’s pieces of rope, Robert showed her a bowline knot. First, he made a loop in the palm of his hand. Then he grabbed the end of the rope closest to his body and brought it back through the loop, then around the free section of rope. Finally, he stuck the end down through his loop.
“The rabbit comes out of the hole, goes around the tree, then dives back down the hole. Nailed it!” he said.
Looking for a high five, he got one from Delfina.
