Beverly Hills Maasai (10 page)

“My assistant, Jarrett, gave me some information about what happened,” Dakota said. “That was quite the scene out there.”

“It was,” I agreed.

“Jarrett is very upset.”

“I think we’re all upset.”

“First off, I want to let you know that I have discussed things with him, and while he has been urging me to get the police involved, I am certain that I can convince him to simply ignore the whole incident.”

“Really?” I said.

“Certainly. This is very much a courtesy to you, Alexandria, and the relationship I have with your Newport cousins. We’ll simply forget that any of this happened, and you and your friends are free to leave.”

“That’s so generous,” I offered, and he smiled, “but I’m afraid I can’t simply forget what happened. I’m afraid I will have to press charges against Jarrett for assaulting me.”

“What?” Dakota gasped. For a split second he looked confused and panicked, but then that look of cool returned. “I’m sorry. I am not sure what you mean.”

“He grabbed me by the arm, trying to take away these forms.” I held them up. “Thank goodness that Koyati was present and stopped him from assaulting me further.”

“That certainly isn’t the way that Jarrett reported
the incident,” Dakota said. “And other employees have corroborated his story.”

“And I have witnesses who can corroborate mine. Isn’t that right, Olivia?”

“I’m not exactly sure what ‘corroborate’ means, but whatever Alexandria says is the truth.”

“Perhaps we
should
let the police settle this,” Dakota said. He smiled again, but it wasn’t the charming smile. It was more smug.

“Perhaps we
should.”
I pulled out my phone. “Do you have the number of the Beverly Hills Police Department?” I asked.

“Umm … no, I don’t.” His smug little smile was gone.

“And while I’m at it, I should also call the newspaper and tell them about the assault on a young girl by an employee of the—”

“Perhaps we should all take a moment to pause,” he said. “It might be in the best interests of all parties if we simply dealt with this in this room.”

“That would be better,” I said. “So we’re in agreement that nobody is going to contact the police … correct?”

“Correct,” he agreed.

I tried not to smile because I knew it would be my turn to look smug and self-satisfied. This guy had tried to bluff me into backing down, and he was the one who’d just turned and run with his tail between his legs.

“You have to appreciate that this is the first year of the event,” Dakota said. “As with all new events, there
is a certain learning curve, and mistakes will be made.”

“And I’m sure that under your leadership, they will also be corrected.”

“Very kind of you,” he said.

Now that I’d threatened him with a stick it was time to use a carrot. There was hardly a male alive who couldn’t be manipulated through food, flattery, or flirtation.

“It is so unfortunate,” I said, “that we are meeting under these conditions rather than while sipping a cool drink on the veranda of my cousins’ beach house.”

“That would be a better first meeting.”

“Sadly, we can’t change the circumstances of our first meeting, but perhaps we can, at some time in the future, arrange for a more pleasant second meeting.”

He flashed me that beautiful smile and his cheeks dimpled, and I could have sworn that there was a little twinkle in his eyes.

“We can only hope. Regardless, I am pleased to be dealing with one of these minor problems with an individual such as you,” he said sweetly.

“Thank you.”

“Someone with such obvious style and taste. If I have to have a disagreement—even such a minor one—it is a pleasure to have that disagreement with a person such as you.”

“Again, thank you.”

“This is a very important year for the marathon, being its inaugural year. A good first impression is so important.”

“My mother always says that,” I said.

“A wise woman.” He paused. “We are competing against the established races. When you think of marathons, what cities come to mind?”

I really couldn’t think of any.

“New York and Boston,” Olivia chimed in.

“Exactly!” Dakota exclaimed.

Points for Olivia. She was always surprising me.

“They have history and tradition, and more important, brand recognition. I’m sure you can appreciate the value of brand recognition,” he said to me.

I nodded my head. To a lot of people, the quality of the name on the label was often more important than the quality of the product itself—although I tried to think a little differently these days.

“But we have higher standards. Someone such as you would realize just exactly what we’re trying to do here. We really are trying to be a cut above.”

He gestured to the banner that occupied the wall to my right. It read:
“Beverly Hills Marathon … A Cut Above the Rest.”

“That is more than just a motto. That is our goal. We want the Beverly Hills Marathon to represent what this community is about. Style, taste, class, elegance—qualities I know you can truly appreciate.”

“Well …” I said. There was no point in arguing with that.

“And that is why we set our standards so high. Higher than anybody else’s. Our qualifying time is faster than either the Boston or the New York marathon. You have to be more qualified and a better runner to compete in Beverly Hills than in either of
those two races.” He paused. “I’m sure you can understand our need to have such high standards.”

“Of course.”

“I’m so glad. So you understand why your friends cannot compete.”

“That makes perfect—What?” I exclaimed.

“Why your friends cannot compete. They not only haven’t met the qualifying time, but in fact have no race results at all. This is not a beginner’s race. This is
the
Beverly Hills Marathon …
a cut above.”

He had taken me so much by surprise that I didn’t even know what to say. Who had been playing who, here?

“But as an act of good faith, we will provide special passes for all of you! You can go to the party tonight, have full access to the VIP tent during the race, be part of the after-party, and partake, free of charge, of course, of all food and refreshments. There will be lobster flown in from the East Coast, caviar, champagne—”

“Excuse me,” I said, cutting him off.

I flipped open my phone again and pushed 2 on the speed-dial. It rang once, then twice, and then I pushed the button to put it on speakerphone.

“Hello,” came a voice after the third ring.

“Daddy.”

“Hello, angel.”

“Daddy, I have a problem,” I said in my best little-girl voice.

“We can’t have that. Tell me what I can do to take care of that problem.”

“I need you to come down here right now.”

“Down where?”

I turned to Dakota. “Where exactly are we?”

“Um … 158 Wilshire Boulevard.”

“Did you get that, Daddy?”

“Yes. But, Alexandria, are you in trouble?”

“Not me, but my friends. They need your help.”

“What sort of help?” he asked.

“They need you to
sue
somebody. Please come quickly.”

Before he could say anything I hung up the phone.

I looked over at Dakota. “This is going to be messy …
very
messy.”

“Okay, is that everything?” my father asked.

“Everything.”

It had taken just over an hour for my father to get down to Wilshire Boulevard, and then less than ten minutes for me to explain things to him, sitting in the lounge area outside Dakota’s office. That was pretty fast talking, since I’d also had to explain why I was sitting in a fancy Beverly Hills office building with three fierce-looking Maasai warriors.

Periodically, while we were talking, Dakota stuck his head out of his office and glared at us. I didn’t look directly back, but I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He had become progressively less happy and more angry-looking. I was glad that the Maasai were the only ones with weapons.

“You’re sure there’s nothing else?” my father
asked again. “I need to have all the information.”

“I’ve told you everything.”

He gave me a look, as though he was still questioning me.

“I don’t do that anymore,” I said. “I don’t lie, and I don’t leave anything out.”

I used to do both to get my way. But this time I’d told him everything.

“I wasn’t really doubting you,” he said.

“Yes, you were, but that’s okay … You have good reason not to trust me.”

“I
had
good reason. Not anymore.”

Things
had
changed, partly thanks to our once-a-week therapy nights. No matter what my parents were doing—even my super-busy businessman father—they came and they talked. Funny, my parents got along better now than they ever had when they were “happily married.” I couldn’t help thinking that if we’d started therapy years ago maybe they never would have got divorced. No point in thinking about that, though. “Happily divorced” seemed to agree with both of them.

“Then let’s meet with this man. And, Alexandria, let me do the talking.”

I pulled a pretend zipper across my lips.

He got up, and the five of us also rose to our feet.

“You know,” my father said, “it might be better if not
all
of us took part in this meeting.”

Instantly I understood what my father meant. Having Nebala in there might be okay, but I could just see Koyati pulling out his
konga
and taking a swing at the guy.

“Perhaps it would be best if it was just me,” he said.

“No,” Nebala said forcefully.

“I think it really would be better,” my father insisted.

“No, not by yourself,” Nebala said again.

Arguing with him wasn’t going to do much good. I knew that. I just didn’t know if my father understood.

“Dad, maybe you could take Nebala in with—”

“No!” Nebala said, cutting me off. “Not me. Take Alexandria.”

“Me?”

He nodded, and turned to my father. “Alexandria will speak of what happened.”

“Certainly. That would be fine … good … of course.”

“Great. I’ll go along.”

My father started off, and I went to follow him but skidded to a stop. I turned around, bent down, and whispered in Olivia’s ear, “Watch them.”

She chuckled and nodded.

Just as my father was going to knock on the office door it opened. Dakota was there, and he let out a little yelp, surprised at my father’s unexpected appearance right in front of his face. Then he just looked embarrassed.

My father introduced himself, and we walked into the office. Dakota closed the door behind him. I think he was relieved that it was just the two of us.

“So, Mr. Rivers,” my father began.

“Please, please, Mr. Hyatt, call me Dakota.”

My father smiled. “Of course, Dakota.”

I knew my father was supposed to then say, “Just call me James,” but he didn’t. He was establishing the hierarchy—making it clear that he was top dog. My father was older, had bags of money, and was dressed in a suit that cost more than most people paid for a car. Not to mention his Rolex watch. That was worth another couple of cars. For most people, this would have set an intimidating tone, but I knew Dakota came from money. Maybe it would have been more intimidating if my father had been dressed like a biker … or a Maasai.

“Thank you for coming down so quickly,” Dakota said. “We could certainly use help in resolving our situation.”

“Resolving situations is how I earned my first million dollars—and the second and the third and the fourth …” He let the sentence tail off. “But first, I was told that we have some mutual acquaintances.”

“Yes, your cousin Evan and his charming wife.”

“Evan’s a good egg. Never had much success in business, but a good fellow nevertheless. Just seems to coast on the old man’s money … trust fund. I’m sure that summering in Newport, you must have run into more than a few fellows like that,” my father said, and he chuckled.

Dakota gave a nervous laugh, a little smile, and nodded his head. I think my father may have hit the nail on the head. That was probably what Dakota was—some rich kid with a “hobby job” living off his father’s money.

“Now, Alexandria tells me that a sticking point is that our three friends have failed to post any qualifying times.”

“Exactly! It is necessary for all entrants to prove that they are qualified. It certainly wouldn’t be fair to our other racers if they had to dodge around or be tripped up by hordes of unqualified runners.”

“That would be a problem. So how many unqualified runners have applied?” my father asked.

“Well … only the three of them.”

“Three could hardly be described as a horde,” my father said. “But still, you do have standards. Standards that are a cut above the others’.”

“Yes, yes we do.”

“But we also know that there’s more to it than that,” my father said. He got up and perched on the edge of Dakota’s desk. “Dakota, you are obviously a person of, shall we say, a certain station in life … a man of the world.”

Dakota didn’t answer, but I could see by his expression that he agreed.

“As two men of the world, we know that the issue of standards goes beyond technicalities such as race times … if you understand what I mean.”

Dakota shrugged and gave a small nod of agreement.

“You are trying to run an event that speaks of money, success, and style.”

“We are certainly trying to present and preserve those elements.”

“And our three friends,” my father said, gesturing to the closed door, “have many fine qualities, but they
certainly do not represent, even by our generous assessment, any of those things.” My father paused. “We understand.”

Dakota looked relieved.

“I’m so glad you see my point.”

“We do,” my father said. “You’re here to run a world-class marathon and not some sort of circus or sideshow. Really!” my father went on. “Did you see how they’re dressed? For goodness’ sake, they’re wearing blankets! It’s like they’re here for some sort of—I don’t know—almost like they’re going to a … to a …”