Man in the Middle (4 page)

After a few minutes of brutal overview—in which Peter learned more than he cared to about red ink—Smitham informed him, “I advised your mother to declare personal bankruptcy,” as if explaining why he shouldn’t be sued for malpractice.

“No way she’d do that,” Peter said. He didn’t bother to explain about the Neil family pride. His father had laid it on the line: pay your debts, and meet all your obligations, no matter what.

“You’re right,” Smitham said. “The suggestion of bankruptcy offended her. I’ve been advising Hanna
pro bono
off and on for the last five years at the request of Jason Ayers. He sends substantial referral business my way, so I was happy to do him a little
quid pro quo
. That means—”

“I know what
quid pro quo
means, Mr. Smitham. I also know
pro bono
means you’ve been working for free.” Peter immediately regretted his tone of voice. “Mr. Smitham, I appreciate what you did for my mother.”

Smitham nodded.

Peter looked over the ledger pages lying on the table and tried to make sense of the lines and rows of numerical entries. “Excuse me if I sound stupid,” he said, “but it looks as if Mom still owed money from Dad’s hospitalization.”

Smitham gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“How could there still be debts after more than ten years?”

The attorney explained about the medical costs associated with Matthew Neil’s illness. “They were gigantic,” he said. “Peter,” he continued, “if Hannah were still alive, I wouldn’t say anything.”

“About what?” Peter asked the question, despite knowing he didn’t really want to hear the answer.

“Your schooling was another drain on her finances. In your junior year, a tuition check bounced. Jason Ayers picked up the shortfall.”

Peter’s guts sank. “That can’t be. She and Dad set up a trust. She said everything was paid for.”

“Saying it didn’t make it true. Hannah had nothing—as I already implied, her entire income went to pay bills and debt service.”

Peter surveyed the attorney’s office while he absorbed all this new information. Diplomas and pictures of Smitham’s family hung in precise rows: a son, a daughter, several grandchildren, a plump wife. A picture of him in a fishing outfit, a bass flapping in a net, was blown up into a three-foot by four-foot glass-fronted frame, and made the centerpiece of an entire wall.

Despite its cavernous dimensions, the office felt confining. Overstuffed furniture, standing lamps, pine filing cabinets, and over-filled bookshelves shared the room with billowy live plants whose broad leaves selfishly demanded space.

Worse, the room felt jungle hot.

Peter removed his jacket and slung it over the arm of the leather chair. His knees bent into his chest. He felt like a leaf-eater waiting for the next predator to take a bite.

“I need to know what you intend to do about your mother’s mortgage,” Smitham said.

“Mortgage?” Peter had no notion his mother still owed money on the house. He quickly came to a new understanding: he didn’t just have nothing, he had less than nothing. No make that
substantially
less than nothing. “How much?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, your mother secured loans against her property. Little or no equity remains. If you don’t repay approximately fifty thousand dollars, creditors will force sale.”

“I grew up in that house, Mr. Smitham. Mom would never have wanted me to give it up.”

“If you can manage the payments, I should be able to convince the creditors to let you keep the place.”

“Fat chance of that. I’ve got no job, and, because I opened my big fat mouth when I quit, I’ve got a former boss who hates my guts and won’t give me a reference worth shit.”

The phone rang. On the third ring, Smitham said, “Excuse me. I must take this call.”

The desk separated the older man from Peter by ten feet. Smitham spun in his swivel and began to speak in a low voice. Over the high-backed chair, Peter saw only the top of the attorney’s head. As he waited, Peter continued to eye the numbers on the ledger. His parents, it seemed from the lines of debits and credits, never had a dime of savings. He wondered: was being poor an inherited trait? While he pondered his financial morass, Peter thought he heard Smitham say, “Jason” and a moment later, “debts.” Less than three minutes after picking up, Smitham spun and again faced Peter. “Excuse me, where were we?”

For the next few minutes, they reviewed Peter’s options. Smitham then asked, “Do you have any assets?”

“Squat. Owe money on my car. Rent’s due. I have maybe a grand in accrued salary and commission, and that’s more than spoken for. Basically, I’m tap-city.” Peter reflected inwardly long enough to blame himself for getting into this mess. If stupid were smart, he told himself, he’d be Einstein.

The attorney nodded as if he’d heard those thoughts and agreed with them. “I understand you have a standing offer from Jason Ayers.”

“That was Mr. Ayers who just called?” Peter asked.

“Yes. He wanted me to reiterate—in the face of what you’ve learned about your mother’s financial situation—his offer to set up a job interview. Stenman Partners is a prestigious and potentially lucrative place to work.”

“I know nothing about the capital markets beyond what I learned in Econ 101, and I couldn’t pick Stenman from a police lineup if someone helped me.”

“They prefer to train their own traders. Commitment, loyalty, intelligence, and hard work are what Stenman seeks in an employee.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pound pavement. See if lightning can strike. Can you keep the creditors at bay for a couple of weeks?”

“Under the circumstances? Yes. Perhaps you have other relatives who might loan you some money. An aunt or an uncle? A grandparent?”

“Nope, but even if I did, I wouldn’t ask.”

“Don’t forget Mr. Ayers’ offer,” Smitham said. “He sounds sincere.”

“Yeah. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“He cares, Peter. Like . . . well, perhaps like a father.”

Peter recalled Ayers’ own son. Curtis had died just after their families stopped seeing each other. Maybe Ayers
was
reaching out to him as he might a son. Peter was skeptical, but it might explain some of his bizarre interest. The thought also brought to mind Ayers’ daughter. Peter wondered what had happened to skinny, freckle-faced Kate.

“I recommend you call Mr. Ayers and talk it over.”

“As I said,” Peter answered, “I’ll keep it in mind while I see what I can manage on my own. Thanks again, Mr. Smitham.”

The attorney offered a painful smile as Peter stumbled from his office.

When the elevator arrived and Peter stepped in, his eyes roamed to the acoustic panels in the ceiling. He spoke to the tiny holes: “Hey, God, if you haven’t heard, I need a job.”

 
S
TANLEY
D
RUCKER TOOK A DEEP SWALLOW
. The alcohol burned its way down his throat, warmed his stomach, and began the daylong process of numbing his brain. He enjoyed the solitude of Saturday mornings—his ex had left a year ago, and he didn’t miss the bitch, not for a nanosecond. And since she had no idea he had offshore money in the low seven figures, he reveled in the knowledge that he paid her next to nothing, despite California’s Community Property laws. Fuck her. She went back to Iowa and good riddance.

He stretched and yawned, then took another sip. Drucker liked his house—half an acre, two master bedrooms, and view of the ocean from above the beaches near Malibu. Secluded, too—thick oleander and two dozen pepper trees sheltered the main house from nosy neighbors. He had a satellite dish that got him a couple hundred stations and twelve pro football games on Sundays. Wolfgang Puck’s latest hot spot attracted the in-crowd, only a mile or two away, and, in a weekly show, Drucker liked to waltz in and order fifty bucks’ worth of gourmet-to-go as if he were at Mickey D’s. He drank only expensive booze, Starbucks’ double tall cappuccinos from the nearest joint two blocks away, and got laid at least twice a week, even if he had to pay for it. Los Angeles wasn’t such a bad place to live so long as you had enough dough to afford the good life, and he did. And he planned to have a lot more as he began to publicize his investment success to some of the rich cats in Beverly Hills. With almost no overhead—a small office, some equipment paid for by the brokers he sent business to, and a secretary who made minimum wage plus a buck—he would be raking in a couple mil per year in the not too distant future. Not bad, he thought, for a guy who went to J. C., and then to Chico State, where he amassed a whopping C-minus GPA. No sir, not bad at all. He deserved to feel like king of the damn hill.

And he lived such an easy life. Except for the inquisition by that anal compulsive government prick last week, there were few problems. Managing a portion of Stenman Partners’ money was a godsend. Most of the time, Morgan Stenman’s people even told him what to buy and what to sell. Money flowed in, Stanley put it to work, and charged the partnership 1% of assets under management per year. Stenman, in turn, charged back to clients that 1%
and
a hefty percent of profits. Since Stenman had near perfect insight and returned ungodly profits to investors, nobody minded the big fees. Everybody felt happy as pigs in shit, especially Stanley “King-of-the-Damn-Hill
”
Drucker.

A heavy knock on his front door shook Drucker back to the present. He rose from his chair and stood six feet from the solid wood door. He reflexively looked to the clock on the wall: five minutes after nine. Since the bitch had left him, he never had uninvited guests on Saturdays. This was his time to sit back, drink, watch a day of sports, and go bar hopping at night, looking to get lucky. That was the routine. If this was a door-to-door salesman, maybe he’d just kick the damn salesman’s ass.

Drucker took a quick shot of scotch, then grunted, “Who’s there?”

Instead of an answer, the door slammed open. The bolt ripped from its screws and wood splinters flew like darts. In a reflex, Drucker flung his hands over his face at the same moment his kidneys weakened.

An enormous man, six-foot-two and at least two hundred and fifty dense pounds, cast an impressive shadow. He wore his hair in a thin ponytail and had a flattened nose, seemingly without cartilage. After he stepped in, a much smaller man with the face of a damaged ferret followed. An ugly grimace pulled the second man’s upper lip into a sneer, revealing polished, even teeth. Drucker guessed he was Mexican. Both wore tailored suits with open jackets and handguns strapped to their chests. Behind them a woman followed. The two men parted, looking like uneven pillars, allowing her to take center stage.

Through full lips, she said, “My name is Sarah Guzman. These two gentlemen are my associates. You are a loose end.”

Loose end?
Her words made no sense. Neither did the name Guzman—no way this woman was Spanish or Mexican. If she had a single feature that wasn’t Anglo-Saxon, Drucker couldn’t find it, and he stared hard enough to notice. For once, Drucker wished his house had fewer trees and less brush. In fact, he’d have happily allowed every one of LA’s four million miserable losers to see into his yard, to witness this criminal act of breaking and entering. While his mind raced to figure things out, he kept asking himself
what if
. What if these men elected to pull their guns and use his head as a bull’s eye? Nobody would care. In LA, people minded their own business. What a horse-shit city.
Help
, he wanted to scream, but the word had no voice.

“I am from Ensenada Partners. You know us?” the woman asked, seeming to feast on his confusion.

Unfortunately, Drucker knew quite a bit about Ensenada—none of it good. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, humble and contrite. “You’re the Mexican connection—the one that funnels funds—”

“You talk too much, Mr. Drucker.” She nodded and the small man struck Drucker’s jaw with the back of his hardened knuckles. Drucker recoiled, acting the part of a whimpering dog.

“Huh,” he said, rubbing his cheek. “Talk too much?” Adding to everything else, the steel edge in her voice cut through to his spine, making it difficult for him to remain erect.