Buying Time (8 page)

The Chief of Staff led the way out. Walking two abreast in soldier-like formation, they made their way to a conference room, not far from the Oval Office. Already seated around a circular table were two men and a woman. All three looked to be in their late thirties. Too young, Erickson thought, to have presidential ties.

“This is your team,” Wrigley said. “They will be your primary contact throughout this process. And if you are indeed the nominee, they’ll be preparing you for your Senate confirmation hearing.”

Erickson walked around the table and greeted each person, only half-listening as Wrigley made the introductions.

His mind had wandered back to Wrigley’s pointed question in the Oval Office.
Is there anything we don’t know about you, your family or your background that might cause embarrassment for the President?

Yes there is
, Erickson answered in thought only.
But don’t worry. I’m about to take care of it.

T
here could only be one explanation for the incredible turn of events in Waverly Sloan’s life. God loved him.

In three short weeks, Waverly had successfully completed the registration process and had a nice, new viatical broker’s license, complete with the official seal of the state of California. To top that off, the State Bar website still had him listed as an attorney in good standing. Thank goodness the wheels of justice turned at a snail’s pace.

Waverly spent the bulk of his days glued to the telephone, scouring his personal contacts and making presentations to the ones supplied by Vincent. Only two days after getting his license, he was having lunch with an old friend who mentioned that his sister was in the latter stages of breast cancer. By seven that night, Waverly was at her house signing her up. Her policy was only worth ninety thousand, but his nine grand off the top wasn’t a bad take for a few hours’ work. After paying Vincent back, he still pocketed four grand.

Just days after that, a bigger payoff literally fell into his lap. Lawrence Erickson, a hotshot partner from Jankowski, Parkins, contacted him about selling his wife’s policy. The referral came from a prominent probate attorney who handled the estate of one of Waverly’s clients who’d died days after he’d settled her case. Waverly had mailed the lawyer a slick-looking Live Now brochure, but never dreamed the guy would actually refer someone so quickly.

Erickson’s wife was dying of pancreatic cancer and the couple wanted to sell her five hundred thousand dollar insurance policy to pay for an experimental operation. Erickson was deeply concerned about keeping the transaction confidential. Waverly assured him that wouldn’t be a problem. Not with a fifty grand commission coming his way.

Waverly actually whistled as he walked up the driveway to Erickson’s stately Hancock Park home. Erickson greeted him at the door and led him inside.

Claire Erickson appeared to be minutes, not months away from death. She sat quietly in a pink dress, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes downcast. Waverly gathered that something more than her illness lay behind her defeated demeanor. She reminded him of Deidra’s mother. A woman who obediently bowed to her husband’s every command.

“Why don’t you explain to Claire how this all works?” Erickson began.

They were seated in the family room around a massive oak table that looked out on a colorful garden.

“It’s actually pretty simple,” Waverly said. “We find an investor who’s willing to pay you a portion of the face value of your policy. The investor then becomes the beneficiary.”

Claire turned to face her husband. “Sounds like a strange way to make money. But, of course, you know all about making money.”

Waverly wasn’t exactly sure what was going on between the pair and didn’t know how to respond. As an uncomfortable hush fell over the room, he continued his presentation, meticulously explaining each step of the process, emphasizing the importance of obtaining Mrs. Erickson’s medical records as soon as possible.

When Erickson reached over and stroked his wife’s forearm, Waverly was certain he saw Claire recoil.

“We’ve completed the paperwork you sent over,” Erickson said, handing him a folder.

Erickson didn’t seem the least bit broken up over his wife’s impending death. Considering the circumstances, he was far too businesslike.

Waverly browsed the papers Erickson had given him. “Are there any questions I can answer for you?” He directed his question to Mrs. Erickson.

She wrung her hands, then quietly shook her head.

Erickson took both of Claire’s hands in his. “This is your decision, honey. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to ask?”

“No,” Claire said, her voice both softer and kinder than before. “Everything sounds fine.”

“What’s the next step?” Erickson was really rushing things along. He had explained on the phone that Claire’s sister and daughter hadn’t been told about the surgery yet. It was imperative that Waverly be gone by the time they returned from dinner and a movie.

“I have a few more documents for you to sign,” Waverly said. “Some of them need to be notarized.”

“We’ll get them done right away. Here’s the name of my wife’s oncologist.” He handed Waverly a business card. “I’ve let Claire’s doctors know you’ll be requesting her medical records. How long will it take before we get the payout? We really want to move forward with the surgery as soon as possible.”

“Six to eight weeks is typical, but I’ve cleared the way to expedite processing since I understand time is of the essence. If there’s no delay in getting the medical records, I think we may be able to complete the entire process in three to four weeks, maybe less.”

Erickson smiled as if Waverly had just told him he’d won SuperLotto. Mrs. Erickson stared off toward the garden.

Something isn’t right here,
Waverly thought. Whatever it was, he hoped it didn’t derail his forthcoming commission.

“Thank you,” Erickson said, reaching out to shake his hand.

No,
Waverly thought, as he envisioned his biggest commission check yet,
thank you.

A
ngela eased off the exercise bike, wiped her forehead with a towel and tried to pretend she wasn’t aching all over.

“Good job,” Dre said, walking up to her. “You kept up for almost the whole class.”

Angela pressed the towel to her face again. “Let’s just hope I’ve lost a pound or two.”

“Exactly how much you tryin’ to lose?”

“Twenty pounds would about do it.”

“That’s way too much. I like women with—” Dre stopped, then smiled. “A woman needs to have a little meat on her bones.”

Dre’s slip of the tongue intrigued her. Maybe he was feeling the same attraction she was trying to deny. When she’d pulled into the parking structure earlier, she’d found herself excited about the prospect of seeing him.

Angela chuckled and slapped the side of her thigh. “I assure you, there will still be plenty of meat left to spare.”

They both headed into the workout room next door and grabbed floor mats to stretch. As she crouched next to him, Angela noticed a horseshoe symbol branded on his upper right arm.

“So you’re a Q-dog?” she asked, referring to the fraternity, Omega Psi Phi.

Dre glanced down at his arm. “Yep.”

“Where’d you pledge?”

“Long Beach State,” Dre replied. “What about you? Delta or AKA?”

“Neither. Too busy studying. I regret not pledging, though.”

Dre leaned forward, grabbed his toes and held the pose for way longer than Angela could have. “Where’d you go to college?” he asked.

“Stanford.”

Dre arched a brow, obviously impressed.

“So what do you do for fun?” Angela asked.

“I read a lot, work out, hang out with my son. He’s seven. That’s about it. My regular gig is fixin’ up foreclosures and flippin’ ’em.

So he had a son.
Angela wondered if that also meant he had a wife. A lot of men didn’t wear wedding rings.

“And what’s
your
gig?” Dre asked.

“I’m a government lawyer,” she said, trying to sound matter of fact. Many men wilted with intimidation the minute they heard the word lawyer. She saw no need to add that she was a federal prosecutor.

“That’s tight,” he said.

“What do you like to read?” Angela asked.

“Mostly business books, biographies and political stuff. If I read any fiction, it’s usually street lit. Lately, I’ve been readin’ some interesting psychology books.”

“Yeah, right,” Angela said teasingly. “Name the last psychology book you read.”

Dre cocked his head and stroked his goatee. “I can’t believe you’re dissin’ me. I just finished
Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking
by Malcolm Gladwell. You read it?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You should check it out. He talks about how people make decisions and judgments in the blink of an eye. It’s pretty heavy.”

“How long have you been married?” The question was out before Angela could assess the propriety of asking it.

“Who said I was married?” Dre stroked his goatee again.

He had the cutest dimples.
“Well, are you?”

“You must be pretty good in court ’cuz you sure know how to jam a brother up. No, I’m not married.” Dre leaned forward for a final stretch, then stood.

He extended his hand and helped Angela to her feet. They walked downstairs and just as they were about to part, Dre slowed. “Since you’ve been all up in my Kool-Aid, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Angela said.

“Where’s the dude who gave you that big ass rock? Why don’t he ever work out with you?”

Angela made an exaggerated show of glancing at the clock on the wall behind them. “Let’s see, eight-thirty on a weeknight? Unfortunately, my fiancé is probably still at work. And he doesn’t like gyms. Too many germs.”

“Tell him I said he needs to keep closer tabs on his woman.” Dre treated her to his killer smile. “Somebody might move in on him.”

Angela smiled back. “I’ll be sure to give him the message.”

The next morning, Dre stood shirtless in front of his bathroom mirror, his head lathered with foam, carefully shaving his scalp with a razor. The daily task was a hassle, but the look worked for him.

After leaving the gym the night before, Dre found himself thinking about Angela. He really liked her vibe. It was strange how you could tell so much about a woman from the way she carried herself. Not only was she fine as hell, the sistah had class. Normally, a ring on a woman’s finger would have detoured him, especially the kind of bling Angela was rockin’. This time, it didn’t.

Dre threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and made a call to make sure the contractors rehabbing a duplex he’d just bought off Western Avenue were on the job. He’d drive by later to check things out.

For his primary source of income, Dre had the luxury of working from home, a one-bedroom apartment behind the Arco station on the corner of La Brea and Slauson. As he made his way to the kitchen, he had to step over stacks of books scattered about the living room floor.

In the last month, he’d read
The Covenant with Black America
by Tavis Smiley,
True to the Game
by Teri Woods, and
The
Essays of Warren Buffet
.

Dre’s body tensed in anticipation of the long, tedious day ahead of him. He filled a six-quart pot with water, set it on the stove and turned the burner up high. Once the water came to a boil, he retrieved a kilo of cocaine from a duffel bag stashed in a hidden compartment underneath the sink. He carefully measured two ounces of the powder and dumped it into a glass beaker. To that, he added boiling water and baking soda. Using a butter knife, he rapidly stirred the concoction until the liquid began to crystallize, ultimately crumbling and separating into rocks.

For most people in his profession, this was the end of the process. But Dre always took the time to re-rock his product. He placed the beaker inside the microwave and let it cook for one minute, which transformed the rocks into a liquid the consistency of vegetable oil. Next, he held the base of the beaker underneath a stream of cold water, swirling it around, allowing a few drops of water to get inside.

Dre watched with pride as the concoction hardened into a flat, solid cookie. He removed the cookie from the bottom of the beaker, set it aside and started the process all over again.

At eleven, Dre took a break to make himself a turkey sandwich and watch
The Young and the Restless
, which he TiVo’d every day. Dre identified with Victor, the Newman family patriarch. Victor didn’t take shit from nobody.

Like Victor, Dre prided himself on always taking care of business. He didn’t indulge in drugs—not even weed—rarely drank anything other than wine or beer and didn’t see a need to floss. His ride was a beat-up Volkswagen Jetta and he didn’t have or need an entourage. He owned a .38 revolver, but had never fired it.

Dre had done prison time, but only once. His two-year sentence for possession with intent to sell was reduced to eight months of actual time, thanks to prison overcrowding. For Dre, prison time was simply a cost of doing business. Losing a kilo and thirty grand in cash had pissed him off way more than being on lockdown.

After finishing his sandwich, Dre returned to work. His next break wasn’t until four, when he stopped to watch Dr. Phil, one of the few cats on TV with something to say. Dre had a whole list of Dr. Phil-isms. His favorite:
You can either wallow in your history or you can walk out of it.
Dre was just months away from walking out of his.

Once the entire kilo had been converted into cookies, Dre cut them into pieces with a razorblade and put them into plastic bags after weighing them on a digital scale. A rock weighing 0.1 grams would sell for five dollars, 0.3 grams for ten dollars. He’d collect twenty bucks for a rock weighing 0.6 grams, while an eight ball—3.5 grams—went for a hundred and twenty-five dollars. A kilo cost him twenty-three grand and he made a profit of just over five thousand dollars on each one.