Hardboiled Crime Four-Pack

by Jack Bunker

  “I don’t know about acutely compelling, but I’ll grant you she might be a sympathetic figure.”

  “Well, now, you do know Wanda’s maiden name, right?”

  “No, and I’m not sure I understand what that’s got to do with anything.”

  “I should have thought it obvious that given the Riverside County demographic, that Wanda Maria Ortega-McMahon,” said J.T., enunciating the t in Ortega like he’d just hopped over the fence from Sonora, “newly widowed, sole support of her wheelchair-bound mother…do you really think the rich gringo resort is going to get off scot-free?”

  J.T. leaned back in his chair. Shit, when he said it like that, it didn’t sound like such a dog after all.

  “J.T.,” said Hector, “you sound like you have a number in mind.”

  J.T. held the phone against his stomach, bit down on his lip, and pumped his fist three times. He wanted to throw something, but in a good way this time, like a spike after a touchdown. He relaxed and smiled. “You don’t expect me to bid against myself, Hector.”

  “You called me, J.T. Maybe you have more free time than I do. If you don’t have a number I can take back to my client, I’m afraid I have a bunch of deposition transcripts I have to read for my upcoming trial.”

  “Fair enough, Hector. Fair enough. Our complaint asked for nine million.” J.T. sat up in his chair now. “I appreciate that this was predicated on a worst-case scenario, with actuarial tables projecting a lifespan of roughly eighty-seven years…impotence, etc.” J.T. cleared his throat. “Given that some, but not all, of the damages have been extinguished along with Mr. McMahon, I think a one-point-nine-million-dollar settlement would make you an absolute hero at GSAC.”

  J.T. heard Hector laughing on the other end.

  “That sounds like a cry for help, J.T.” Hector chuckled again. “Listen, I played the Westin PGA with a therapist from Betty Ford. Gave him at least six putts. I can’t make any promises, but maybe he could get you an urgent admission.”

  Now J.T. laughed. “Too bad we couldn’t have played together. A guy who gives away that many putts…” J.T. leaned back in his chair again. “So you’re not impressed with one-point-nine.”

  “No sale.”

  “So what did you have in mind?”

  “Gosh, J.T., I hate to throw a wet blanket on things, but I’m afraid when I think about the strength of your case, only one number flashes in my mind.”

  “What number’s that?”

  “Eight-five-oh.”

  “Eight hundred and fifty grand? For that kind of injury? With a Latina widow going against a resort where a glass of room-service orange juice is thirty bucks? I don’t think there’s any way she’ll go for it, Hector, if we’re being candid. I’ll take it to her, but frankly, I will not be recommending settling at that figure.”

  J.T. was ready to jump up on his desk and start beating off like a chimp.

  “No, no, I think you misunderstood. I didn’t mean eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I meant eight-five-zero.” Hector paused a beat. “You know what that is, right?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Eight-five-oh. It’s the area code for Jackson County, Florida. I suppose technically I should say Two Egg, but I think they’re pretty liberal about geography down there.”

  “What?”

  “Buddy. You know his mother lives down there, right? She was so excited about how they got the Internet—she calls it the inner nets—but I knew what she meant. Anyway, this might surprise you, but did you know she likes to Skype?”

  J.T. closed his eyes in the tightest squint he could stand and bounced his head on the back of his chair.

  “J.T.?”

  “No. No, I didn’t.”

  “Now, as you said, as long as we’re being candid with each other…As an officer of the court, I’m not going to misrepresent that I know where Buddy is at this very moment. I will, however, submit to you that his permanent unavailability is not something I would tell your client to count on.”

  “I don’t know why she would count on that, or why she would even care.”

  “Well, great. So that’s where we are.”

  “So you’ll take my one-point-nine offer back to your client.”

  “I promise it will receive all the deliberation it deserves,” said Hector.

  “Very well. I’ll wait to hear back from you then.”

  Fuck.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Marino Vargas caught Al as he was shuffling toward his desk from the elevator. “Jesus, are you okay?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “You hear the news? Roger Ellis? That dude we shit-canned? He got blown up in a car bomb with some Mob guy!”

  Al blinked. “What?”

  “I knew there was something about that guy.”

  “Ellis was killed? You sure?”

  “Yep. It’s been flying all over the office. I told you he was a dick.”

  “I think he was stalking me.”

  “What? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I wasn’t a hundred percent sure.” Al was breathing easier now. He felt almost relaxed. “Did he drive a white BMW?”

  “Fuck yeah, he did! That son of a bitch!”

  “Figures.”

  “You know he tried to pin that shit on you about the data breach.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I told you. I knew there was something wrong about that guy.” Vargas seemed genuinely pissed off.

  Al felt like he’d downed a dozen Vicodin. “So you think he was working for the Mob? Like a mole or something?”

  “All fits together now, doesn’t it? Get inside. Get proprietary information. Feed it to the Mob. Finger you when it goes south.” Vargas covered his mouth. “You don’t think it was him torched your house, do you?”

  “You know, the cops said they were running a meth lab in the empty house next door, but Jesus, who knows what to think now.” Al almost giggled he was so relieved.

  “Listen, man. Everybody here really feels bad. The guys upstairs are going to go batshit when they find out Ellis was stalking you.”

  “Let’s just let it go.”

  “See, that’s what I mean. I don’t think the company, even SAICO, should lose a guy like you. A guy with your experience, you know?” Vargas looked around to see if anyone might be listening. He leaned in toward Al. “I had to post that job in Weed, but I know for a fact we haven’t hired anyone yet. If you were serious about the house being the only thing holding you back, I’m telling you, I’ll make this shit happen.”

  After batting away the offer again and again over the past weeks, Al thought about how two hours earlier he’d have sold his soul to get to Weed and away from Frankie Fresh. He hadn’t come through this fiasco without learning something.

  “That would be terrific, thanks, Marino.”

  Weed had begun to grow on Alvin Boyle.

  J.T. had been so despondent over the crumbling of his case, he’d all but forgotten about his flanking movement on GSAC and El Fuente Dorado. As soon as he got the pictures of Mack’s fractured penis, including stills of the surgery itself, he’d used an e-mail account from one of the dozen dummy web domains he bought every year and had sent the complaint and photos to the Smoking Gun. El Fuente Dorado Resort and Spa had been inundated with calls from Tokyo, Shanghai, Dubai, and London. The board duly relayed these inquiries to GSAC’s general counsel, Joel Neuman, who kicked them downstairs to Sid Stewart.

  Hector had expected Sid would laugh in his face when he called him with J.T.’s one-point-nine offer. When Sid said he’d have to get back to him, Hector had been shocked. When Sid did get back to him and told him to settle the thing for 350 grand and a gag agreement, Hector was floored.

  Mindful of not wanting to discourage repeat business, Hector nonetheless insisted to Sid it was a mistake. The suit was not only winnable for GSAC, the dollars were nuts.

  “This is coming from upstairs,” said Stewart. �
�They’re getting pressured from the resort. The publicity’s horrible. The policyholder wants this over, and the board wants this out of the reserve before SAICO takes over.”

  Hector Aza’s jaw felt as heavy as a beer keg. He reached for the wastebasket and swallowed hard, trying not to vomit. Not since his own divorce had he felt so defeated, even though he knew this time it wasn’t his fault. The client insisted he settle the claim. An asinine waste of money. He sighed and dialed J.T. Edwards.

  “Hello, Hector,” said J.T. “Let me guess: you’re calling with a settlement offer.”

  Hector felt another reflux bubbling up. “Against my advice, GSAC’s willing to settle the case. One-time offer.” He spat in the wastebasket and set the can back on the threadbare carpet. “Take it or leave it.”

  “What’s the number?”

  “Three fifty.”

  “Are you kidding? Three hundred and fifty K for that—”

  Hector cut him off. “One-time offer, J.T. No negotiation.” At least on that one point, GSAC had listened to him. “Take it or leave it.” Hector loosened his tie. “You should leave it, J.T. Please. I’m begging you. Please take this to trial.”

  J.T. chuckled on the other end of the line. “As much as I’d look forward to that combat, Hector, in the interest of judicial economy, I know I speak for my client when I say we will, with no little regret, accept your offer of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars and just try to get on with our lives as best we can.”

  Hector reached for the wastebasket again. He really thought he might yak this time. He could practically feel J.T.’s grin oozing through the phone. “I’ll get you the paperwork next week.”

  “You have a nice weekend, Hector.”

  “Yeah.”

  Reclining on his couch with a glass of scotch, J.T. watched Shari walk in and out of his office with her volleyball ass. First thing he was going to do was fly that out to Kauai. Second thing he was going to do was get another Mercedes.

  J.T. Edwards was back.

  FORTY-SIX

  Her skin a perfect crème brûlée, Shari glided topless across the lanai with a spliff the size of a rolling pin in her fingers. A hibiscus-print batik sarong wrapped around her waist just above where her hips would’ve been if she’d had an ounce of fat below her breasts.

  J.T. relaxed, his head resting against the top of the bungalow’s Jacuzzi as the early-afternoon breeze freshened off the Pacific. He took a slow drag on the Montecristo No. 2 the concierge in the grand lodge had procured for him. Swirling three fingers of Green Label in his sweating glass, the soft tinkle of the ice cubes punctured the dull hum of the tub’s motor. Given the occasion he’d have popped for the Blue Label, but Jesus, as it was, these guys were already getting an 800 percent markup on the Green in this clip-joint.

  With his credit cards either maxed out or in collection, Shari had had to book the trip on her card. He’d scrounged what remained of his Mercedes proceeds to reimburse her with cash. Fortunately, his gold status on Delta wouldn’t expire for another month, so they were able to upgrade for the flight to Honolulu.

  The cheap flip phone vibrated on the edge of the tub. Before Mack’s death, things had gotten so bad that AT&T suspended his smartphone data plan. He had his office line forwarded to one of the shitty disposables left over from the scam. He’d get that sorted and back onto his iPhone as soon as he returned to Riverside.

  Ordinarily, he’d have had Shari answer it, but she was now sitting on the edge of a hammock, smiling at him as she took a long unhurried toke. She raised her eyebrows, an unmistakable invitation to what would be their third go in the past twelve hours. He was so hard he could see the end of his cock for the first time in months. Thanks, Cialis.

  He fondled himself briefly under the water, smiling back at Shari before he answered. “J.T. Edwards.”

  “J.T.? It’s Hector Aza.”

  “¡Hector, mi amigo!” Even though he was a GSAC hired gun, and thus the enemy, J.T. felt a soft spot for a guy who took a punch so gracefully. “Let me guess. You’re calling to set up a tee time. Going to give me some of those putts like your pal at Betty Ford? ¿Que pasa, hermano?”

  “Um, actually, J.T., just a courtesy call with a minor housekeeping matter. The client’s going to forego the counterclaim.”

  J.T. laughed. “Well, of course they are, Hector. That would clearly fall under the umbrella of the settlement.”

  “J.T., I’m not sure—”

  “Speaking of which, I’m still waiting on your paperwork. Don’t tell me those GSAC assholes are giving you the runaround too?” J.T. glanced over at Shari, still smiling, her eyelids drooping into provocative slits. “Listen, I’m actually out of town at the moment.” He held the phone over the tub to let Hector hear the bubbles. “I should be back in a couple of days, though.” Shari stretched her arms upright and arched her back, her bare twenty-three-year-old breasts lunging forward. “Maybe three.” J.T. looked down into the tub. Still rock hard. “Have to see how my negotiations go out here.”

  “J.T., I think there’s a misunderstanding. I’m talking about the tab your clients had at El Fuente Dorado. It was over forty-eight hundred dollars, but under the circumstances, the resort’s decided not to pursue it.”

  Shit! That’s right! He’d been so excited about getting his one-third split of the settlement, he’d forgotten that the expenses he’d fronted Mack and Wanda were coming off the top. There was also the 2K from Vegas. Nice little windfall. Hell, maybe he’d pop for the Blue Label after all.

  “Not sure you what you mean by ‘under the circumstances,’ Hector, but as I said, that was already assumed. Not to mention a deal breaker.” Shari lay back on the hammock and pointed a toe to the thatched roof above the lanai. Her sarong fell back, flashing J.T. a glimpse of a creamy tan-line and black landing strip. “So, Hector, I’m afraid I need to bounce. I don’t have my computer here or I’d have you just e-mail the paperwork to me.”

  “You’re serious. You really don’t know?”

  “Know what?” J.T. turned off the motor and stuck his cigar in his teeth. He hauled his dripping pink ass onto the side of the tub as he reached for one of the resort’s enormous white bath sheets.

  “Your client dismissed your case.” Hector laughed. “You really didn’t know. Man, this is just too classic.”

  The cigar dropped from J.T.’s mouth and bounced off his wet chest back into the tub. “What the fuck are you talking about, Hector?”

  “Your client? The grieving Widow McMahon? She dismissed your case. With prejudice, J.T.” Hector laughed again. “With prejudice.”

  This wasn’t possible. Nobody walks away from two hundred and thirty grand! Why the fuck would Wanda pull the plug on the case? And with prejudice meant it couldn’t be re-filed. There had to be a mistake. J.T. leaned on the side of the tub to steady himself. “But she, she…she can’t—”

  “But she did, amigo. Apparently she used to be a paralegal. Knows her way around the clerk’s office. Oh, Jesus, this is too priceless.”

  “This is bullshit!” Fuck! There had to be some way to re-open this shit. Maybe somehow through estate law. God, when was the last time he’d tramped through that swamp? “I’m filing a fucking motion first thing tomorrow morning!”

  “That’s great, but I don’t know what relief you’d be seeking. Settlement offer’s gone, J.T. As in, for good. Why do you think the client was being so generous about the hotel bill?”

  J.T. slipped off the tub and landed onto the lanai with a thud. “Listen, we can still work this out, Hector.” He scrambled to his feet, naked, still dripping, with a huge smear of Montecristo ash in the middle of his chest.

  “Se acabó, hermano. It’s over. Nos vemos.”

  J.T. looked down at his fleshy damp gut. The line wasn’t the only thing that went dead.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Buddy had seen enough episodes of Shark Tank to know that the $50,000 cashier’s check he’d gotten from Wanda for 25 percent of his company wa
s a win-win. At first he was a little surprised that the offer was contingent upon his going back to Florida to set up the company’s headquarters. There were plenty of golf courses in the Sunshine State, Wanda explained, and a lot fewer people who might have questions about shopping carts and tractors.

  Having found a reluctant but desperate buyer for the Monte Carlo, Buddy bought a small used pickup truck, packed up his prototype for the Magic Wanda ball-retrieval system, and headed east across the desert in the early dawn hours.

  The case had ended a month ago, and Hector Aza had moved on. After shooting a seventy-seven, he was feeling good enough about his Friday afternoon to pull up a barstool next to J.T. in the 19th Hole at Mira Chiste. J.T. was wearing street clothes and already appeared half in the bag. Unfashionable gray stubble peppered his face and neck just above his grimy collar.

  “J.T.,” said Hector, “how’s it going? You get out today?”

  J.T. stared straight ahead to the kitchen behind the bar, crunching some ice from his near-empty glass. “Nope.”

  Hector leaned on the bar and ordered a draft Dos Equis. Carrie, the former cart girl, back at UCR after a summer abroad, smiled at him when she set the glass on a faded red cardboard coaster. He sipped his beer and turned on his stool to look through the window at the putting green outside. Heat waves shimmied behind doughy retirees trying to squeeze in a twilight round. Hector’s stomach rumbled when he smelled the basket of fries cooling at a table in the dark corner opposite the TV.

  J.T., still staring straight ahead, stopped crunching the ice in his glass. “You ever hear of anything like that?” He swallowed the last of the ice. “I mean, fuckin’ A, the money’s right there.” He shook his head. “Right fucking there.”

  Carrie dumped some more ice in a fresh glass and poured J.T. another double Dewar’s. J.T. threw back his drink and gulped the whisky in one shot. He started crunching the ice in his glass again and motioned to Carrie for another. He tottered on his barstool, swirling ice cubes in the bottom of his glass, a greasy hank of hair hanging down his forehead like a plumb bob. He stifled a burp and got up from the bar, holding the stool to steady himself. He picked up the check lying next to the bowl of bar snacks and squinted at it. He drew a Montblanc pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled on the check, then pulled a ten from his wallet and dropped it on the bar. He staggered away from the bar and down the hall toward the men’s locker room.