Movie Mogul Mama

by Connie Shelton

  It didn’t happen.

  He leisurely ate his sandwich, nursed a second beer at the bar, and strolled back to his vehicle. No side excursions, and by three o’clock he was again lying in the sun at the pool.

  “I can’t stand this,” Gracie said. “What’s the purpose of his trip, anyway? And how many hours do we have to watch as his lily-white body turns all glowy pink in the sun?”

  Amber, too, had been pacing the room with impatience. “I agree. Gracie, come with me. I’m going back in his room. I need you to waylay him on the ground floor level if he starts to go up.” She tamed her hair back into a bun and headed for the door.

  Chapter 60

  Rob let the sun bake his body for the third day in a row. He’d discovered that finding a place in the sunshine and out of the breeze was the secret to comfort here, even in January. Jose, the guy who’d begun to think of himself as Rob’s own waiter, kept bringing the drinks.

  Interesting morning at the malecon. He’d discovered Jose’s brother to be quite the dealer in “glassware” and even though Chuey verbally denied selling any drugs through his shop, the look was in his eye. He would hook Rob up with anything he wanted. Rob shook his head. No thanks. He was likely one of the few in the Hollywood scene who didn’t regularly use the stronger stuff, but he didn’t care for most of it. Booze was fine with him.

  Conversation with the bar owner where he’d eaten lunch had been interesting, too. The guy was an American expat who claimed he’d settled in Peñasco more than twenty years ago. He had the sandy, shaggy look of a beach bum—weathered brown skin, fried gray hair that hadn’t had a real haircut in years, baggy shorts, and an oversized t-shirt with the restaurant’s logo front and back. Rob remembered the conversation.

  “How long you here for?”

  “At least a week, maybe more. Thinking of moving to Mexico but I was looking farther south—maybe Mazatlán or Acapulco.”

  The guy—Butch, he’d said his name was—shook his head. “Nah, don’t get yourself in the middle of the Sinaloa cartel. Bad shit goes down around those guys.”

  “They don’t operate around here? I saw the newspaper headline—”

  “Nah, you know, Sonora’s pretty safe, as the Mexican states go. Keep out of Caborca at night, don’t take that road unless you really have to … Otherwise, you know, it’s a really nice place to live.”

  “I was hoping to find something with some privacy. All I’ve seen in town are condos and blocky little plain places with an occasional nice one thrown in.”

  “You speak Spanish? Didn’t think so. Stick with the beach communities where it’s mostly Americans and Canadians. You don’t wanna be in town. Next door neighbor sees you got a nice place, next thing you know, you’re gettin’ ripped off.” Butch eyed Rob up and down. “Nah, you’d have a hard time living in town.”

  He handed Rob a little touristy newspaper. “Lots of real estate listings in there. But if you really want to look at the good stuff … I’m talking how there’s some million dollar homes around here … call my friend.” A business card landed next to Rob’s basket of fries.

  “Thanks—good advice.” He’d finished his meal and left a generous tip, stuck the card into the same back pocket with the other printed listings he’d picked up outside Chuey’s shop.

  Rolling over onto his stomach to let the sun have a chance at his back, he thought about his plans. It didn’t sound like going farther south was a good idea, although he had to admit maybe Butch was only looking out for his real estate friend here in town. He thought of what awaited back home.

  They’ll catch up with you someday, Tyler Chisholm had warned.

  That prosecutor in court had looked pretty angry over the judge’s decision. Tyler had avoided commenting when Rob asked whether they could get more evidence and arrest him again. Plus, he’d now walked out owing rent on the office and his house, and there was a disgruntled employee who might come looking for her back pay.

  But those things were small potatoes compared to the millions he’d collected from investors. A twinge of almost-guilt stabbed at him. Pop would be full of disdain for his son’s actions; Mom would be rolling in her grave. He forced those thoughts aside, dampening them with another long swig of his mojito.

  Hell, no one in the U.S. even knew he was gone yet.

  Okay, worst case scenario—the authorities did decide to come after him. It would take them a long time to put a case together over the unpaid bills, even longer to come up with the names of all his investors. Then they’d have to figure out where he’d gone. So far, his only tracks led to Europe. As slow and ineffective as government worked, it would take years for them to get him.

  He needed more cash to live outside of the electronic network. Tomorrow, he’d better transfer money from one of the business accounts no one knew was connected to him. He’d see about opening an account here in Mexico. He could use a business name for that, too.

  Chapter 61

  Amber raided the maintenance closet once again and let herself into Rob’s condo. This time, she decided, she would keep the uniform and passkey. One of these trips, she might find the closet locked, and then what would she do?

  She peered over the balcony railing to be sure he was still on his lounger below. Good. She had a few minutes, so she did a cursory search of the whole place. Rob’s personal stuff was strewn about this time—an open suitcase on the bedroom floor spilled shirts and boxer shorts like colorful scraps in the bargain bin at the fabric store. Toiletries all over the tiled bathroom vanity showed his taste ran to Ralph Lauren and musky scents.

  She didn’t spot anything of interest among the scattered mess. In the other room, bags of chips lying open on the kitchen counter had already attracted ants. Ants—on the fourth floor. She marveled at their ingenuity.

  His computer sat on the living room coffee table, tempting her to check his recent browsing history. She sat on the sofa, and her fingers practically itched as she raised the lid of the laptop. Then she noticed the papers nearby. She reached for those instead.

  Each of the four sheets was a printout of a real estate listing with a couple of photos, data on the property, and prices. She remembered the rolled up papers in his back pocket when he’d walked down the malecon. And after he left the restaurant, he’d been carrying a tabloid style newspaper. It lay on one of the sofa cushions, open to a full page of real estate ads.

  So, he’s thinking of relocating here … She took the single sheets, folded them twice and stuck them in the front of her uniform. A plan was beginning to hatch.

  She got up and headed for the door, eager to share her idea with the gang.

  Had she actually turned the computer on? She turned back to check, closed the cover, and a small white square on the floor caught her eye. A business card. She picked it up and looked at it, smiled, and stuck it in her pocket. Back at the maintenance closet, she took off the uniform and tucked her collection of papers into the waistband of her shorts. Folding the uniform so the logo didn’t show, she casually walked into the lobby.

  “Paydirt,” Amber said to Gracie when she caught up with her. “We now know the purpose of his trip.”

  Back at their own condo, the five women gathered in the open living area. Sandy had offered to make her so-called ‘famous chicken enchiladas’ and Mary had produced a pitcher of margaritas. While Sandy stirred the sauce, Amber told them what she had discovered in Rob’s rooms.

  “He’s definitely looking at real estate to purchase,” she said, smoothing out the flyers and setting them on the counter. “I don’t see anything in the price range of that villa in France, but these are all definitely high-end properties. And,” presenting the business card, “he may have already spoken with someone. A Lisa Fineman-Cardoza.”

  “American, or a local?” Sandy asked.

  Amber looked at the card again and shrugged. “Maybe an American married to a Mexican? Anyway, here’s what I thought we could do. It’ll take some research …”

  C
hapter 62

  Rob walked into the branch office of Banorte, the bank on Fremont Street, and approached the customer service desk. A cute young lady smiled up at him.

  “Hola, buenos dias, señor.”

  He returned the greeting, hearing his own spin on the accent and knowing she immediately pegged him as American. “Do you speak English?”

  “Some.”

  He started to explain what he wanted, to open an account with money he would transfer from his bank in Europe, but the girl’s expression froze in a polite smile. She wasn’t getting it. He tried shorter, less complicated sentences. Still, the smile. Then she pulled out a pamphlet and pushed it across the desk to him.

  “The policy of the bank,” she said.

  The document was a six-page folder, in densely packed type, all in Spanish. “Is there someone else who could explain …?” He glanced around the lobby toward the three other desks in the room.

  “No hablo español,” he tried, adding a shrug.

  A twenty-something man rose from his chair at another desk and walked over. The girl sped through an explanation so rapidly that Rob didn’t catch a single word.

  “I want to open an account,” he said to the man.

  “Are you a Mexican citizen?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have permanent resident status?”

  Another negative.

  The man gave a faint smile and shrugged his shoulders. “Then, I am sorry. You cannot open an account.” He glanced at the brochure in Rob’s hand. “It is due to the strict new money laundering laws.”

  “I’m not laun—” Although in a way, he was.

  “I am sorry, sir. It is the law.”

  Rob walked out, feet dragging a little. What was he going to do for money? If he used the ATM beside the bank to draw money from his personal accounts, the US authorities would instantly know where he was. His only hope had been the Fearless Filmmaking account, which had his name nowhere on it. Hidden away in Switzerland, it couldn’t be traced by American agencies.

  He walked the half-block to his vehicle, silently cursing the stupid bank for not having adequate parking. Right behind his car, a woman with spiky short hair got out of a blue Mazda. She smiled and he immediately knew she was another American. The blond hair, trendy style, plus she looked like she worked out. She was looking intently at his Land Rover.

  “Are you Rob, by any chance?”

  “Um, yeah. How—?”

  She held out her hand. “Mary. Mary Fineman. I’m Lisa’s sister … Beachside Realty. Our friend at the restaurant on the malecon said he’d given you Lisa’s card yesterday. Isn’t that just the greatest location, cute bar and all?”

  “Oh, Butch? Yeah he’s a character. He said he had a friend in real estate.”

  “He mentioned you’re looking for a place down here,” Mary said, stepping in close as a car came down the street. “Look, Lisa’s out for a couple weeks, did something to her back … but we work out of the same office and I’d be happy to show you around. Could we talk about your plans over lunch?”

  Rob thought about the few pesos he had left in his pocket and how he didn’t really want to use his credit cards.

  “My treat, of course,” Mary said. “You can ride with me if you want.”

  “My car will be okay here?”

  “Sure. And we’re not going far.”

  He got into the small sedan. She was right about the distance. She drove about two blocks, made a left turn and a quick right, and they arrived at a squat cinderblock building with a dirt parking lot with about a dozen cars in it. The sign had a picture of a mermaid, and brilliantly blooming bougainvillea covered the porch and filled two raised flowerbeds.

  They stepped into a low-ceilinged room with stained acoustic tiles above and garish linoleum on the floor. The tables and chairs were a curious mixture of Formica and wood, modern and rustic styles, and the crowd seemed a mix of Mexicans and Americans. A stocky waiter invited them to sit wherever they wanted and immediately asked if he could bring margaritas or the house special drink. Mary asked for water and Rob followed suit.

  “So, Rob, tell me what sort of house you have in mind. How many bedrooms? I’m assuming beachfront—everyone wants beachfront here.”

  “Yeah, well, if the price is right. I was in Europe recently, looking at properties in the south of France.” He preened a little. “I’m still considering one, but the asking price of thirty-three million seemed out of line for what it was.” No way I’ll admit I would have given my eye teeth for that villa.

  Mary actually laughed. “You’re joking about that price, aren’t you? Seriously? I can show you some gorgeous places around here, right on the beach, huge floorplans, and they’ll be worth every penny.”

  “I saw some brochures,” he said. “The best one listed was only about three mil. It has to be a fixer-upper for that, right?”

  Mary paused to gauge her answer. “There are all types around here. Just tell me—is something around thirty million what you want to spend?”

  “Mexico’s a lot cheaper than France,” he said. “Let’s say twenty. What can you show me for twenty million?”

  Mary smiled. “I’ve got just the place in mind. It’s an exclusive listing that I haven’t even shared details with anyone else in the office. It’s in an exclusive gated community, a little way out of town, very private, very elegant.”

  “Can I see it today?”

  “Let me make a call,” she said. “Oh, here comes our waiter. Order me the seafood enchiladas—they are fantastic.”

  She pulled out her cell phone and stepped outside the noisy room to make the call.

  Chapter 63

  “Help!” Mary said. “I’ve got Rob on the hook and he wants to see a twenty million dollar property today. What shall I do?”

  Sandy had to think fast. “Gracie and Pen went out to scout around. Last call from them, they’d found a great beach community. Touch base with them and see if there’s a house they can get you into, and make sure you tell them it needs to look like it’s worth the money. Meanwhile, Amber’s online researching Mexican real estate laws to find out what kind of story to tell our ‘customer.’ I’ll be in touch and update you on that.”

  “Okay, but hurry. I can only stretch out the lunch hour just so long.”

  Mary hung up, immediately called Gracie’s number, and repeated her plight. Pen, ever the voice of calm, took over. “Gracie is driving at the moment. I think we can come up with something. But twenty million, you say? Doesn’t he realize nothing in this area sells for that kind of money?”

  “I know. But who am I to argue—we want him to part with as much money as possible, right? Otherwise, how do we reimburse all his victims?”

  “Oh, absolutely. The key will be to keep him isolated so he can’t do any comparison shopping.”

  Gracie’s voice gave a little squeal in the background.

  “Oh, yes—that really is a nice one,” Pen said. “All right, Mary, we have our eye on something. I’ll send you a photo so you can describe it to Rob. Meanwhile, we shall figure out if it’s possible to get inside. Linger over your lunch, and I shall call you once we have an answer.”

  Mary walked back into the restaurant where Rob was munching at a platter of tortilla chips covered in a creamy looking sauce.

  “You know, I’ve changed my mind about having a drink,” she said. “It’s a warm afternoon. I’m debating between the margaritas, which are fabulous here, or just a beer. What would you like?”

  Apparently, he’d heard people at the next table raving about the margaritas because that’s what he chose. Mary had a Dos Equis, figuring it was easier to disguise how slowly she was consuming it.

  Steaming plates arrived with their seafood enchiladas. Mary breathed deeply. She’d had the same dish at dinner Saturday night, the main reason she knew of the restaurant and the recommendation. The recipe truly was addictive.

  “I love to savor this in small bites so I can relish every
morsel,” she told Rob. “Listen to me—I sound like a commercial, don’t I?”

  He laughed a little louder than necessary—the strong margarita was already having its effect. But he agreed with her; the enchiladas were delicious.

  Down in her pocket, her phone buzzed. She took a look at the message and picture Pen had sent. “Oh, good. My office. Apparently, we can go out to the house I had in mind. I think you’ll love this one. Five thousand square feet, and it’s on three hundred feet of beachfront property. I can’t tell you how rare that is out here. Most of these beaches, the houses are jammed together. Well, you’ll see.”

  Pen had said they could get into the house. Mary wondered how they’d managed, but knew better than to raise questions at this point. Instead, she offered to buy Rob another margarita. By the time they walked out to the car, he was slightly unsteady and had a huge grin on his face.

  “I love this place!” he announced to a Mexican family walking toward the front door. They gave him a funny look and put protective arms around each of the children.

  “Come on, Rob, let’s get going.” Mary had used the opportunity while Rob went into the men’s room a few minutes earlier to phone Pen and get directions to the house they were to view.

  “Hurry,” Pen urged, “we don’t know when the owners might turn up. Gracie and I are sitting on the beach in front, keeping an eye.”

  Mary pulled away from the restaurant and made two or three extra turns before heading south out of town. The goal was to keep Rob confused about where they were going, and judging by the fact he was practically dozing in his seat, she thought she’d succeeded.

  He roused when she turned off the paved two-lane highway onto a dirt road that looked as if it had been recently graded.

  “Wow, this is really taking us away from town,” he said.