by Tim Dorsey
Whats happening? said Ford. What kind of motions?
The meritless kind. Just like their suit. But you have to answer every single one or they win by default. I was up past eleven last night responding to yesterdays filings only to get hit with another wave this morning. Its either shut down my practice to handle the paperwork or they win and take everything. Either way Im burned.
They sued me, too.
I heard about that. SLAPP.
What?
SLAPP. Strategic Lawsuits Against Public Participation. Unethical but legal tactic of big corporations. Usually used against everyday citizens protesting big polluters, developers, lobbyists and such, but it works here as well. A mountain of torts. Defamation, interfering with potential economic gain. It never flies in court, but they dont care. The real objective is to wear down the little guys thats us financially and physically.
What am I supposed to do?
Tell you what. Since I encouraged you, Ill go to talk to the studio. Pro bono. If you drop the case, I can probably reason with them.
But I dont want to drop the case. I think I can still beat them.
Son, you dont understand. Theyve already won.
** Chapter 14
THE BIG BAMBOO
Mason jars were topped off. Chi-Chi adjusted himself on the stool like he was getting ready for a long drive.
Serge leaned forward on his elbows.
Alabama, said Chi-Chi, raising his jar. Damn.
I want to know more about this script business, said Serge.
For a short game like JCPenney, you can just bullshit it out over breakfast, said Chi-Chi. In a long game like Alabama, you need a script. We couldnt believe it was so good, especially for such a young crew.
Other guys? asked Serge.
Will you let me tell the story? said Chi-Chi. Thats why they needed to team up with an older gang. Great script, but not enough character in some of those peach faces to sell it. Thats the thing about the long game: Youre working against other con men.
Criminals? asked Coleman.
Not exactly, said Chi-Chi. But the kind of people who can read other people. Businessmen whove built fortunes exploiting others in the gray edges of the law. The long game turns their greed against them and clouds judgment.
Tell him about the hotel in Panama City, said Coltrane.
Classy crew, said Chi-Chi. Respected their elders, which isnt exactly a trend these days. They put us up in nice suites overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, one of those Panhandle resorts with the staircase architecture. We were there three weeks, a regular vacation like they promised. Top-shelf room service kept coming while we sat around rehearsing. They even had tailors drop by and fit us. Finally, we were ready. The teams split up. Us old guys go to the country club.
Were you members? asked Serge.
Doesnt matter at our age, said Chi-Chi. Act like you belong and have the right clothes. They wont dare insult you. Thats where the wardrobe came in. Expensive navy-blue blazers with big brass buttons and yellow silk hankies poking out breast pockets. Plaid pants, white shoes. Normally I wouldnt be caught dead. Each afternoon we set up camp in the mens-only bar overlooking the eighteenth pin. Dark paneling, cigar smoke. You know the kind of place: Talk always ends up about money. And did we have a story! This particular club was big with bank types, presidents, board members. A bunch were from Alabama, since it was so close to the state line. Second homes on the Redneck Riviera. Fish in a barrel. Wed grab a private cocktail table in the corner each day, the ones with the big cushy chairs you sink into, which were hell on my knees. It was Sergios finest hour. Underplayed his role to the nines. Hes obviously the most important because the rest of us are acting like loud fools, and hes the quiet one handing out big checks. I dont just mean the amounts. We ordered a set of the largest business checks we could find, then casually left a couple on the table, catching guys at the other tables trying to read the dollar figures upside down, which were five and six digits. What did we care? We werent going to cash them. After our Rémy Martin comes, all of us make a big show of whipping out our own leather books and writing a pile of checks back to Sergio. The mojo started. Club members begin trying to strike up conversations, but wed quickly put our stuff away and act coy. The more secretive we were, the more curious they got. It was killing them! Went like this two whole weeks. Finally, one day, we pretend were drunker than usual. On cue, Sergio goes to the restroom, and we spill the beans to the next table. Then we see Sergio returning and act all guilty: Dont say anything! We werent supposed to tell you.
And thats when we started drilling for oil, said Coltrane.
You want to tell the story? said Chi-Chi.
No, I want another drink.
Then dont interrupt. Where was I?
But you cant drill in Florida, said Serge.
Thats why we had to go to Alabama, said Coltrane. Shit, they dont care. They take money from other states to bury garbage that makes the hills glow at night like a black-light poster.
Will you two shut up? said Chi-Chi. Now I lost my place.
Bartender!
I remember, said Chi-Chi. We baited the trap; time to spring it. And this is where the young kids really impressed us, because you always hear how this generation wants everything handed to them. Not these guys. They didnt just grab the easy money to them it was as much about tradition. They read their history, and they did their homework. Thats why it worked. The game was so preposterous, not even other con men would suspect. But these kids showed us the old court photostats. It really happened before: Louisville, Kentucky, in 1958, and again the next year outside Lubbock. The last case popped up in Oklahoma during the OPEC embargo. And thats how we came to own an oil well.
Where on earth do you buy an oil well? asked Serge.
Oil derrick, actually, said Chi-Chi. The whole thing is the well. You lease them, for less than youd think. Theres dozens of companies ship anywhere as long as you pay.
But you dont have an oil field.
They dont care, said Chi-Chi. Theyre in the derrick-renting business. As long as your check clears, you can sink it in your living room and pump champagne.
Serge was skeptical. But bankers check out everything. Werent they bound to find
Covered, said Chi-Chi. There are very specific paperwork rules for this kind of thing. You follow them. Find a farmer in bib overalls willing to be an accomplice. Offer a few grand for six months mineral rights, which is a windfall to him cause there aint no oil. Its a standard contract the people in those country clubs know all about them. Farmer gets front money and an eighth of whatever you strike. Split the rest in sixteen shares. File all the proper documents with the county and state, incorporate. Then, when those bankers from the country club start snooping around, its all in order. Only thing left is to strike oil.
But if theres no oil, said Coleman, howd you strike it?
We didnt strike it, said Chi-Chi. We bought it.
Bought it?
Five gallons of crude to be exact, said Chi-Chi. Splashed it over the derrick that we never turned on. All set for the big day. After blabbing to our new friends at the club, they wouldnt leave us alone. Begged to meet the next time we went out to the well. The following Tuesday this long line of big-ass luxury cars heads north on U.S. 331 and crosses the state line at Florala. They drive deep into Covington County: spooky, unmaintained roads through moonshine country with a bunch of scraggly oaks making canopies.
Coleman waved for the bartender. Youd think theyd get lost. Or scared.
Turns out they knew the area better than we did. Foreclosed on properties all over the place. One of them even kne
w the last turn, which was through this broken cattle gate and up a bluff until they came to the most surreal sight: a giant wedding tent surrounded by grazing cows. They met us and shook hands. Then they asked the pink-elephant-in-the-room question: Whats the tent for? And why wasnt the derrick running? We explained that a quick strike is good-news, bad-news. Good: less investment in exploratory drilling. Bad: the closer to the surface, the smaller the pocket, nothing remotely compared to the vast reserves farther down. We told them we didnt have the problem of a quick strike.
Yeah, but why the tent? asked Serge.
Im getting to that, said Chi-Chi. We told them we had so many tanker trucks coming and going on these back roads that talk was starting. Sergio only had the one lease. He was forced to shut down and hide everything in the tent so he could go around buying more rights before too many people got wise. After that, those bankers couldnt whip out their checkbooks fast enough. We told them: Hold on, we werent out to screw anyone, but were the guys who had to sweat it out a month paying for pipes and bits going down a dry hole, no guarantee wed ever hit anything. They couldnt just come in at the end. Theyd have to spend backward up the well and amortize our risk. They said it was more than fair.
And thats when you took them? said Serge.
No, thats when Sergio drove up and kicked everyone out, said Chi-Chi.
Now Im confused, said Coleman.
Thing of beauty, said Chi-Chi. Giant limo comes barreling across the field kicking up a giant dust cloud. Parks next to the tent and Sergio gets out with this terrific-looking blonde. She was in her mid-forties, but Sergio was eighty-six at the time. For the bankers, that math confirmed the oil strike more than any geologist ever could. They run over to him with big smiles and outstretched hands, but he just starts cursing at the rest of us about not being able to keep a secret. Tells everyone to get the fuck off the property. Then he jumps back in the limo and speeds away. We rush over to apologize. Promise to talk to Sergio and smooth everything. Then we make plans to meet them back at the club in a few days.
And thats when you took them? asked Coleman.
No, said Chi-Chi. We never went back to the club.
So what happened? said Serge.
Exactly what we knew would happen, said Chi-Chi. They bought up the mineral rights on all the surrounding property and a whole lot more. Wed been by to see the farmers in advance and cut deals. Everyone made out. But heres the cherry on the sundae. After we cleared town, the bankers came back to that first field and found no hole. They ran to the police demanding charges be pressed, except there was no crime.
Of course there was a crime, said Coleman.
Serge smiled. No, there wasnt.
Yes, there was, said Coleman. When they
well, but when they
definitely when they
shoot, youre right.
Chi-Chi signaled the bartender for another beer.
The smile on Serges face got bigger. An interesting coincidence of geography?
Dont know what you mean, said Chi-Chi, starting to smile himself.
Where did these young kids grow up?
Not sure, said Chi-Chi. Might have been that same county.
Where those bankers did a bunch of foreclosures?
Chi-Chi nodded.
Any of those foreclosures happen to be these kids parents?
Now that you mention it
Serge raised his orange juice for a toast. Sweet.
Chi-Chi clinked it with his jar. Your granddads finest hour.
What was the take?
Over a million, almost two. But the best part is, except for expenses, the kids didnt keep any. Let the community divide it up. Told you they were class.
Serge set his OJ back on the bar. But how did you meet them in the first place?
Chi-Chi laughed, then his face went dead serious. You dont know?
Know what?
Oh, my God! I thought he told you!
Told me what? Whats going on?
It never dawned on me, said Chi-Chi. I must have been drinking too much telling the story. Oh, man, Serge. You have to go to L.A.!
Did you say L.A.?
Cant believe nobody told I guess with the heart attack and all our excitement
Grandpa mentioned something about L.A., but I just thought it was just more ranting.
He wasnt ranting, said Chi-Chi, climbing off his stool. Okay, Im going to do this right. Im going to let your granddad tell you.
Now, youre ranting.
Wait here. Chi-Chi walked quickly out the front door to the parking lot.
Serge hit the bar with his fist. Will somebody tell me whats going on?
Chi-Chi retrieved an envelope from his glove compartment and headed back to the lounge. Behind him, a white sedan with blackwall tires drove by on highway 192.
A man in a dark suit and a thin, dark tie turned around in the passenger seat. Just passed the place.
I did?
You can make a U at the next light.
The sedan pulled into the left lane and stopped at a red. Think he might be in there?
Not after that close call at the cemetery. But we can lean on his friends.
Chi-Chi hurried back into the bar, catching his breath. Here. He handed Serge the envelope.
Serge took it and began tearing the flap, giving Chi-Chi a wary expression. You sure youre okay?
Chi-Chi nodded, still panting. Your grandfather gave me that a few months ago. All happened in the last year. With you off to who knows where, he was afraid he wouldnt see you again. Made me promise to deliver that if anything happened to him.
Serge was still giving Chi-Chi an odd look as he pulled the letter from the envelope. He began reading.
A white sedan pulled up in front of The Big Bamboo. Two men in dark suits and thin, dark ties opened the doors.
Serges eyes were almost out of his head as he finished the letters first page and frantically flipped to the second. Holy shit!
Something, eh? said Chi-Chi.
Serge suddenly jumped up. Come on! He yanked Coleman off his stool. A jar of beer went flying. They ran out the back of the bar as two men in dark suits came in the front.
The men walked up to the counter and leaned against the end with a half-full jar of orange juice. The bartender grabbed the jar and dumped it in the sink. He set out fresh squares of toilet paper. What can I get you fellas?
One of the men showed the bartender a black-and-white photo. Know this guy?
The bartender leaned and pretended to study the picture, then stood up. Nope, never seen him.
He turned to Chi-Chi, about to show the photo again when he realized the previously noisy lounge had gone silent. Everyone staring into their drinks.
The man shot his partner a knowing glance. He began walking behind the row of stools. So this is how its going to be? Well, just from where Im standing I can see at least a dozen fire violations
His partner bent down. Whats this? He picked a piece of paper off the floor. Looks like a letter. He turned it over to the empty back side. Its just the second page.
Chi-Chi smacked himself in the forehead.
Let me see that, said his partner. His lips moved as he read. He reached the end of the letter and looked up in puzzlement. Los Angeles?
** Chapter 15
LOS ANGELES
Another Friday evening sunset on Ivar Street. Shadows grew tall. A green-and-yellow neon sign came on outside the Alto Nido apartments.
In a third-floor unit, four roommates worked combs, cologne and a hair dryer. The fifth tapped typewriter keys. He was starting to grow his first beard.
�
�Ford, this isnt good, said Pedro. You havent left the apartment since you were fired.
Why dont you go out with us tonight? said Ray.
You have to snap out of it, said Mark.
Tino slipped into a sports shirt. All the signs of depression
Actually, Im doing my best work, said Ford. Tap, tap, tap. At first I only wanted to occupy my mind. Then it just started coming.
What started coming? asked Mark.
New script. Ford twisted the roller, removing the sheet. He set it neatly on a stack of pages next to the typewriter. And now its done.
That means you can go out with us?
Ford stood. Okay.
Pedro capped a Speed Stick. Thats more like it.
Ford turned on an electric razor with turbo-cut action. Just give me a minute.
TAMPA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
Runway Niner. Seat 42B. Middle seat. Serge adjusted the overhead vents and reading lights. He pulled out the reading material in the pocket in front of him, unfolded the laminated safety guide, put it back. He rested his hands in his lap and smiled. He looked down. His knees were slightly touching the seat in front of him. Serge frowned. He shifted his weight and stretched his legs. No good. He shifted the other way. He grabbed both armrests and pushed himself back as far as he could. His knees still touched.
Seat 42A. Window seat. The older man in a business suit made notes in an organizer. His gray hair was leaving, but he was comfortable with it. The organizer began shaking; his Montblanc pen skidded into the margin. He looked at the passenger to his left, fiercely twisting his legs. Serge stopped and smiled. The man smiled back and returned to his work.
Seat 42C. Aisle. Coleman tapped Serge on the shoulder. When do they start serving alcohol?
Not now. Im having configuration problems. Serge bent down and reached under the seat in front of him, retrieving his carry-on. There. My feet have more room. Knees clear.
But now the carry-on is in your lap, said Coleman. The rule says