by Larry Hill
Majoring in agricultural economics, Mark was academically prepared to return to the soya beans and corn, but academic preparation did not equal emotional readiness. He simply did not want to farm. He decided to go to business school, having been, to the surprise of himself and his professors, accepted to Stanford. To the knowledge of those who were likely to know such things, nobody from Hastings College had ever even applied to Stanford Business, let alone matriculated there.
As much as anything to get beyond the sexless dilemma, Mark and Teresa married in a traditional Catholic ceremony just prior to their Western trek for enrollment in Palo Alto. She gave up her nursing studies, knowing that she could always enroll later in a two year program at a California junior college. He happened upon the revered Stanford B School in the days that venture capitalism was a fledgling profession, with, by far, its deepest roots in the Silicon Valley. He was, after graduating in the top half of his class, able to hook onto one of the smaller firms and discovered that he had an inherent skill at identifying opportunities. His earliest hits were in the field of agriculture, especially in developing nations. Visas from Kazakhstan, Laos, Burkina Faso, and Zambia dotted his first passport. His greatest hit was the Ivory Coast cocoa market, where he helped put together a consortium of landowners in a uniquely verdant sector of the northern part of the once stable country. After five years as a successful underling, he and two other juniors split off to form their own firm. He could not take clients with him, but managed to spot and sign contracts with another bunch of Ivorian cocoa growers. After a few major scores in West Africa, Mark and Teresa had become very wealthy. Their future was assured.
Fred had an appointment with his cardiologist. The Kleins spent a not insignificant number of hours in the weeks and months after his long hospital stay going to and from and waiting in the offices of doctors. In fact, Fred did little else outside his home in Pacific Heights. He’d occasionally take a walk around the block. Although he rarely saw neighbors, when he did, the interactions were brief – a nod of the head, a comment about the wind and the sky, but nothing of depth. He was pleased that they were brief, as his ability to communicate had fallen drastically. The neighbors, who before the events tended to verbosity, were pleased that they didn’t have to make more than small talk with a neurologically-handicapped, alleged felon.
The Houston-trained cardiologist had not been involved in the placing or early monitoring of Fred’s pacemaker because he was the heart doctor for the upper crust. He spent no time in the County Hospital. His office featured Salvador Dali prints on the wall and Foreign Affairs and New York Review of Books on the coffee table. Fred was quickly ushered into the examining room where he instantly disrobed from the waist up when the nurse told him he was to have an EKG. The doctor was euphoric about how well the pacer was working. He wouldn’t comment on Fred’s good cholesterol level; that was a job for the primary care doctor. “Come back every three months and we’ll run a check on your battery.”
The Boston-trained neurosurgeon, who, as a clinical faculty member at San Francisco General, had been in phone contact when the hematoma was evacuated, was thrilled by how well Fred’s full head of hair had obscured the rough edges of the craniotomy scar. “No reason for you to come here anymore. Just don’t hit your head again. Ho ho ho.”
The New York-trained neurologist bragged about his practice’s total lack of Medicaid patients. He, like the cardiologist, had taken on Klein’s care via a referral from the neurology clinic at the General. If there is a main-man for a patient with Fred’s medical history, it’s the neurologist. The heart, the liver, the lungs, the kidneys and the skin and bones – they can all be going at full throttle, but to what end if the brain is out of whack? On each monthly visit, the doctor’s assistant administered tests of ambulation, fine and gross motor function, and most importantly, memory.
“Mrs. Klein, I don’t want to sound overly optimistic, but Fred is getting better. Last month, he couldn’t remember three simple objects for over a minute. Now he can. Look at these drawings of circles and squares – compare them to last month…not bad, huh?”
“Thank you so much, Doctor. I thought that he was improving but then figured it was just me getting used to the way he is and always would be after the accident. He’s gotten more interested in things other than TV. The other day, he asked for the sports section – he wanted to read about the 49ers. He hasn’t looked at a paper since before he was arrested. But he’s not the Fred of old. Is he going to be?”
“I wish I had a crystal ball. There’s just no way to know. But we can say that things are going in the right direction. Where it ends up is anybody’s guess. Let’s see him again in six weeks.”
“Why six and not four?”
“Sorry. I’m going to be at our place in Provence.”
“Ready for this, Fred? Your cholesterol is 165!”
Allison Jameson, the primary care lady, hadn’t seen her patient since the day she told him that his cholesterol was 260. What an improvement! Of course, since then, he’d been arrested for manslaughter, suffered a heart attack which required a pacemaker, and had his brain function damaged by head trauma and neurosurgery. She didn’t allude to any of that.
“So, can I eat steak again? And fried eggs?”
“Of course you can, Sweetie.” He did not react to the name. “Jennifer, I think you can probably let up on the diet restrictions a bit. Those statin pills are doing what they are supposed to – even better than we expected.”
“He’s been eating steak and fried eggs since he came home from the hospital. I guess he just wants your approval.”
“He’s got it.” Jameson proceeded to listen to Fred’s heart and lungs, feel his abdomen, and check his ankles for swelling.
“You taking your baby aspirin?”
“Yep, every day.”
“How are your spirits, Fred?”
“Spirits? I haven’t touched a drop of booze since they sent me home. One of the doctors told me not to.”
She didn’t know whether this was sophisticated humor or confusion. She doubted his brain’s capacity for sophistication.
“Not that kind of spirits. I mean how do you feel? Are you sad? Depressed?”
“You mean, do I want to kill myself? No way. I’ve gone through all this shit with the surgery. I gotta get my money’s worth. Just look at this gorgeous wife of mine – why would I leave her so that she could hook up with some young dude? And, I’ve got to find out who those idiotic Republicans are going to nominate.”
“Not everybody who is depressed wants to kill himself. You don’t sound depressed. What do you think, Jennifer?”
“No, Fred’s pretty upbeat. A lot more upbeat than I’d be in his situation. I guess that’s an OK side effect of having a brain that’s not working at 100%”
Fred did a double take. “What do you mean, not working at 100%? My brain is just fine thank you.”
“Come on, dear. Your memory still isn’t what it was before the surgery. You can’t even name your grandkids.”
He named them and came up with their ages, give or take a couple of years.
“Not bad, Fred. You couldn’t have done that two weeks ago. Doctor Jameson, I guess you’re right. He’s better.”
“Good news…that’s really good news. Keep up the good work, Fred. Keep taking those cholesterol medicines and the others and come on back in a month.”
“Why do I need to do that?”
“I guess you don’t really need to. How about three months?”
“Make it six and you’ve got a deal.”
“Six it is.”
Fred stopped at the receptionist’s desk on the way out. “The doctor wants me back in a month. Give me a nine o’clock on Thursday. I’ve got lots of meetings that week.”
The burly buxom reservationist at Beef, Ltd. called across the room. It was 3 PM. The place was empty of lunch diners and setting up for dinner diners. “Ernesto, phone call for you.”
“Hello, Ernesto
. This is Mark Spencer. You may remember me from last night. I was the guy who ordered the expensive Brunello and the other guy drank rum and Coke.”
“Yes, I do remember you.” He remembered the big tip more than he did the bar order. He assumed that Spencer must have lost his credit card. Rarely would a customer call the waitperson at a restaurant where he had eaten the previous day for reason other than a forgotten card. “How can I help you?”
“I just wanted to say how impressed I was by the service we received last night. Let me tell you about myself. I am a principal of an investment company here in the City – Spencer, Bowman and Clark. Often, I am looking for talent. What I mean by that is I look for men and women who might fit into slots in companies that I invest in. And, right now, I am involved in something new that needs an intelligent and persuasive Spanish speaker. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but am I not right in assuming you speak Spanish? Your accent certainly suggests you are from South of the Border.”
“Yes, I do. I was born in Mexico.”
“Would you be willing to talk to me?”
“Yes, I guess I would. Where? When?” He didn’t ask why.
“Why don’t you come over to my office tomorrow morning at ten? I assume that Beef, Ltd. doesn’t serve breakfast,” he chuckled.
Spencer’s firm was on the 14th floor of the most recognized symbol of post-1970 San Francisco, the Transamerica Pyramid. His office’s 270 degree view looked at both bridges, Alcatraz, and the East Bay. On about half the days, he could see the Campanile at UC Berkeley. Every day was casual Friday at Spencer, Bowman and Clark. Mark sported a Thai silk sport shirt and chinos over Air Jordans when Ernesto Contreras was brought in by the critically handsome male secretary. Ernesto was dressed as if he was a waiter at a fancy dining establishment – dark suit, white shirt, subdued blue tie. He was offered coffee, tea, or San Francisco tap, declining all.
“How kind of you to come, Mr. Contreras. May I call you Ernesto?”
Ernesto had never been asked the question before. “Yes, just don’t call me Ernie.”
Mark grinned broadly. “Tell me about your background.” He received an abbreviated history of his having come to the US with his mother and sister, his education at USC, his citizenship success and his employment at the shipping company. “Have you ever been to South America?”
“No, Mexico and California – nothing more.”
“Married?”
“Never. But I’m not gay.”
“No problem. Gay, straight – we don’t worry much about that here. You have a girl friend?”
“Not really. I see a few women.”
“Let me tell you about this company that you might be just the right guy for. A few months ago, I was introduced to a cattle man in Uruguay. I don’t know if you, as a steak guy, know anything about cattle in Uruguay. There are four times as many cows as people – the biggest herd compared to population in the world. Most of the farms, and there are thousands of them, are small – just a few acres – and they raise their animals and slaughter them like they do in the US or Argentina – nothing special. Well, this guy I met wants to get into a new niche – he wants to get a Kobe beef thing going, like Japan – you know about Kobe beef?”
“Sure, I’ve heard to it, but we don’t sell it at Beef. Those are the cows that are treated better than the waiters who serve it.”
“Right you are. Kobe beef is from the Wagyu breed of cattle and the mother and calf are together, in a tight shed, for their entire lifetimes. The beef tastes like nothing you’ve ever had in your mouth. It’s incredibly expensive – you can spend over a thousand dollars for a steak. The farmer I learned about outside of Montevideo has purchased some Wagyu cows and bred them to Angus bulls and is planning to raise them in the traditional Japanese way and then sell his meat on the world market. The Japanese almost never let any of theirs get out of the country. Our guy thinks that there’s a big market for Kobe beef in the US, Europe, and especially the Middle East. He may not be able to use the name, got to call it Kobe-style or something like that.
“And, why me?”
“As I told you, I need a Spanish speaker who knows something about beef. I could tell by the way that you were with us the other day that you get along with people and are smart. Your job will be to grease the skids.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry. I mean that you will be our go-between – you will use your people skills to make our guy there think that our firm is the way he should go.
“We supply the business information – that’s what we sell at the firm. And, we can pay you more than you are getting at the restaurant – lots more. Of course, we pay all expenses of getting there and staying there – nothing but five star hotels and business class seats.”
“That’s all pretty cool. When would the job start?”
“If you go for it, we’d probably take you on in a couple of weeks – there’s a training program. First, we’ve got to check you out. Can’t afford to have somebody without papers, no? You are OK with that, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir. I’ve got my citizenship – have for years.
“Good. Our personnel girl will need to see some documents. We teach you the business of venture capital. We’d have to send you out to UC Davis Vet School and have them give you a crash course in cattle care. You gotta have the right vocabulary. Our guy speaks fair English but none of the guys around him does, so you’ll have to learn the Spanish for this stuff. It’ll be a couple of months before you take your first trip to Uruguay. You interested?”
“Sure, I’m interested. I have to think it over for a few days at least. Let me get back to you by the end of the week.”
Mark shook his head. “I need an answer by tomorrow at noon. In this venture capital business, we’ve got to make our decisions fast – if we don’t do it, somebody else will. And, by the way, don’t tell anybody about your being here – don’t mention my name or the firm’s name. If you are talking to your girl friends or mother or sister, it’s OK to talk about a new job and the possibility of travel to Latin America, but not a word about Kobe beef or Uruguay or Spencer, Bowman and Clark. Agreed?”
“Agreed. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.” As Contreras left, Spencer observed dark patches of sweat under both arms.
“Jesus Christ, Jack. You won’t believe what I’ve done with Carmen’s brother! And, I don’t even know why I’m doing it. You know that deal I was telling you about with the Kobe beef in Uruguay? I’ve offered him a job as our man in Montevideo. I can’t believe he won’t take it – I told him he’d be making a lot more dough than he is at Beef.”
The brother-in-law, who had invited Mark over for a drink, was not surprised. “You trying to mess with the Klein lady’s mind? There are probably ten thousand Spanish speaking smart people in the Bay Area who would grab a job like that in a heartbeat, and you go out of your way to pick the lover of the wife of the guy who killed your wife. You are a sick son-of-a-bitch, Mark.”
Ernesto lived in the Excelsior District, as far south in San Francisco as one can go – just above the Daly City line. Excelsior houses tended to be considerably cheaper than most parts of the expensive metropolis. The common languages of the street were Tagalog, Spanish, and Cantonese. Street crime was high and street trash was everywhere. One rarely went more than five minutes without seeing a SFPD black and white pass by.
Jennifer had been to his place only once, some ten years earlier when the affair was just getting under way. Hotels, motels, her place – venues for their escapades until Fred’s issues took away her place as an alternative. After the encounter with Jason at the Clift, she was more than a bit apprehensive about meeting her lover in public places. It was her idea to suggest a return visit to his place when he called saying that he absolutely had to see her that day.
Her newish SUV was one of the more impressive rides in the neighborhood. She found, much to her shock, a full size space immediately in front of his house. She could tell that the house hadn�
��t been painted since she last visited a decade earlier. The cracked stucco recalled to her the map of a big city subway system. The window frames peeled paint and the concrete steps had turned a mildew-green. She knocked on the door, in need of either cleaning or replacement, and she regretted not having put an alcohol germ killer in her purse to slather on her knuckles. She could not believe that her lover, so clean of person and dress, would accept living in such a hovel.
Ernesto opened the door looking as handsome and spotless as ever. They hugged but to Jennifer, the hug lacked its usual passion. She felt like he hugged her to prevent the consequences of not hugging her. The living room was no more a candidate for a House Beautiful photograph than was the exterior. The walls screamed for paint. The carpet, a sickly green not very different from the steps to the front door, showed signs of spilled liquids and too many years of use. The chandelier, once the only real sign of class in the room, had lost several of its crystal pieces, while the furniture, non-matching sofa and easy chairs, plus a coffee table of oak-like veneer, needed a trip to Goodwill. Unframed posters of Mexican tourist sites alternated with old photos and a plaster of Paris icon of the Virgin and Son as decorative highlights. There was no sign of a book, magazine or newspaper in the room.
“So, why the urgency, my love?”
“I need to talk to you about something. You’re the only person I know that can advise me. A weird thing happened to me a few nights ago. A couple of men came into the restaurant and had steaks. Nothing unusual about the encounter – nice enough guys. One was obviously richer than the other and he left me a very big tip – the biggest I’ve gotten since the rapper left five hundred dollars a few years ago – you remember. The next day I get a phone call at work from the rich one – he wants me to come to his office and talk about a job. So, I go the next day, yesterday, and he says he wants someone who speaks Spanish to work on a big deal in South America. I had to promise that I wouldn’t say who he is, where he works or what country in South America. Says that it’s too risky and that maybe the information would get out and they’d lose the deal.”