Bad Citizen Corporation

by S. W. Lauden

  “Really? I had no idea.”

  “Oh, sure. We sold him all his property, back when Jack still had the real estate business. First the bar, and then the other properties nearby a few years later. It would have to be worth a mint these days.”

  Marco jumped into the conversation without any warning.

  “Wow. If he bought that property in the early seventies and held onto it for all this time the capital appreciations alone would be mind-blowing.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson. I didn’t realize you were in real estate?”

  “Oh, I’m not. Not really. I just read The Bay Cities News a lot.”

  “Sorry, I should’ve warned you about Marco.” Greg shot him a look while attempting to steer the conversation back to the topic at hand. “What’s that you were saying about Eddie?”

  “There are plenty of things you don’t know about me, Gregory. It’s what makes me so mysterious.”

  She lifted her goblet and took a dramatic sip of orange juice. Greg served himself another plate of food.

  “He’s actually been thinking about selling some of it off. Somebody made an offer that he might not be able to refuse.”

  “That would be Robert Fitzgerald’s son, I assume.”

  “Right. Mikey. He’s a big time real estate developer now.”

  “His father was one of my husband’s closest friends. At least they were back in the seventies. They used to go deep sea fishing all the time. Male bonding, and all of that. It was just an excuse to drink beer and complain about their wives.”

  “That’s funny. Mikey and I used to be pretty close, but I never met his dad.”

  “He was a polite little boy. Very soft-spoken, just like his father. I almost didn’t recognize him when he first approached me about selling. He’s so well put together now. Very successful from the looks of things.”

  “We’re not really that close any more, but I guess I can see what you mean.” Greg was trying to be polite. Was it possible that he was too close to the situation to see the real Mikey? That soft-spoken kid she described might have grown up a little too ambitious, but he was there for Greg when the band fell apart. “He definitely has cash to burn.”

  “Oh, I know. I sold my last piece of property to him about a year ago. He gave me more than what the appraiser said it was worth, in cash. I’m not sure where he’s getting his money from, but I know he has been on something of a buying spree. I can’t imagine there’s much property left over near the reservoir that he doesn’t own at this point.”

  “That explains why he’s giving Eddie the hard sell. I imagine he’ll just build around him if he doesn’t cave in soon.”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible. Not if Jack had anything to say about it.”

  She pursed her lips and picked at her mostly untouched muffin, savoring the moment. Greg kept his eyes locked on her. Marco’s loaded fork was frozen in mid-air somewhere between his plate and his mouth. It felt like an eternity before she finally spoke again.

  “My husband was a very smart man, but he had some peculiar ideas about certain things. We held the deeds on most of the land around the reservoir back then. It wasn’t really worth all that much because they were just open fields. Beautiful, really. It’s hard to imagine now.” She let her eyes drift up to the trees for a moment as she reminisced. “So much has changed around here over the years. It’s barely the same place it once was.”

  “Tell me about it. A lot of my friends from around here will never be able to afford a house in their hometown. It’s a pretty harsh reality.”

  “Well, this place might be available soon. I’m thinking about moving up north to be near my grandchildren. They’re growing up so fast and they barely know me. It hardly seems fair to deprive them of that pleasure.”

  “Are you serious?” Greg was trying hard to contain the panic that was welling up inside of him. “I mean, that would be great for you, but a big loss for this town.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say, but my friends are dropping like flies. It’s just not the same place it was.”

  “I would really like to discuss that with you later, when we can chat alone.”

  He motioned to Marco with his head and gave her a quick wink.

  “Of course, dear. Where was I?”

  “You were telling us about your husband’s real estate strategy.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Real estate wasn’t just about money for Jack. He didn’t want somebody coming in and building one of those ugly suburban housing developments that were so popular at the time. So he created what he called a ‘Checkerboard’.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know how the squares on a checkerboard alternate so that no two squares next to each other are the same color?”

  Greg and Marco nodded in unison. Her point was slowly dawning on both of them.

  “That’s how Jack sold off the property around the reservoir. It didn’t matter to most of the buyers because they were only interested in a single piece of land. It was a different story if anybody wanted more than that. Jack would only sell them parcels that weren’t side by side.”

  “So Eddie’s properties are all spread out?”

  Mrs. McMillan smiled and nodded. Greg turned to address Marco.

  “That means that all the properties Mikey has been swooping up at a premium won’t be worth much in the grand scheme of things if Eddie doesn’t sell.”

  Then back to Mrs. McMillan.

  “Does Mikey know all of this?”

  “I never really discussed it with him. I’m sure he’s figured it out by now.”

  “Well, I hope you can keep this our little secret.”

  “Don’t be silly, Gregory. I haven’t spoken to Mr. Fitzgerald since I cashed his check.”

  Breakfast wound down once the conversation turned from real estate to the weather, and eventually found its way to gardening. Greg did his best to give Mrs. McMillan the impression that he was interested in her choice of fertilizers, but his thoughts turned to the rest of the day.

  Marco was polishing off the last slice of bacon when Greg took advantage of a lull in the conversation and stood up. He threw his napkin down on the table and thanked Mrs. McMillan for the delicious breakfast.

  “You are welcome. Where are you two off to now?”

  “We promised Ricky’s mom that we would clean out his apartment today.”

  Greg started the sentence with his eyes on Mrs. McMillan. He finished staring at Marco.

  “Wait, what?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Apartment number eight was always hot and dark. It was situated in the bottom half of a two story building, all the way in the back. That meant that it got very little sunlight during the day, but still managed to absorb all the heat from the units around it. The only bright spot for Greg and Marco was that it was located conveniently close to the driveway and carports. Greg backed his El Camino under Ricky’s bedroom window and they both went inside to investigate.

  Everything was pretty much just as Greg remembered it. The living room was sparsely furnished, with anything of value—TV, stereo system, gaming console—propped up on plastic milk crates near the door. There was a small, lopsided futon against the opposite wall that served as a sofa. A square black guitar amplifier was face down on the carpet in front of the futon with a bong and a couple of empty beer bottles on top of it.

  A twenty-gallon fish tank was propped up on cinder blocks under the window. A modified desk lap provided harsh light that shined down on a medium-sized iguana. The large lizard was basking in the warmth on a slab of granite, head cocked and one eye sizing up the two intruders.

  “Marco, meet Godzilla. Godzilla, Marco.”

  “Sup, Godzilla?”

  “That thing always creeped me out.”

  Marco went into the adjoining kitc
hen to see if there was anything to feed Ricky’s pet. The cupboards were mostly empty expect for a stack of red plastic cups and a few mismatched plates. There were frostbitten blocks of fishing bait in the freezer and a collection of sketchy to-go boxes scattered around the refrigerator. The shelves on the inside of the door were lined with bottles of light beer. He came back with a few wilted pieces of lettuce that he found in the crisper and dropped them into the aquarium. The iguana and Marco were engaged in some kind of intense staring contest as Greg went to investigate the rest of the apartment.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary in the bathroom so he headed for the bedroom. A brand new king sized bed took up almost every inch of floor space. A large flat screen TV was mounted on the wall across from the pillows. Greg knew that Ricky was always happiest when he was sleeping, but he had no idea how he had managed to squeeze the box spring into the tiny room. More importantly, he didn’t have a clue how he and Marco would manage to get it out.

  He was formulating a plan when he slid the closet door open. The clothes on hangars were packed tight from one end of the closet to the other. The shelf up above was filled with folded T-shirts and pants. Tucked into the corner on one end of the closet he saw a two-drawer steel filing cabinet.

  “Marco, get in here.”

  Marco came into the bedroom with the iguana resting on his forearm. It was nibbling on the piece of lettuce in his other hand.

  “Are you the iguana whisperer or something?”

  “It’s either the iguana or I pound all those beers in the fridge. What’d you find?”

  Greg pulled open the top drawer. It was filled with glossy photos of every shapes and size. He reached in, grabbed a stack and started shuffling through them. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to how they were sorted. Pictures of Ricky from elementary school were mixed in with shots from a recent club tour his band had done in Europe. In between there were photos of Greg and Ricky together on a surfing trip to Mexico during high school, prom photos featuring awkward poses with long forgotten girlfriends, and a short series featuring Ricky’s long-dead pet dog. He even found a couple of wrinkled black and whites of Ricky’s mom and dad on their wedding day.

  Greg was tempted to sit down and go through all of the photos right then, but knew it would take up most of the morning. It was probably best just to have Marco start loading them into a box that they could deliver to Ricky’s mom. He knew it was important for her to have the photos, even if she would never have the strength to go through them.

  The bottom drawer seemed stuck, as though it was caught on something inside. Greg managed to get it open about an inch and then slide his other hand in to rearrange the contents. The drawer came sliding open on his next tug. He removed a couple of small cardboard boxes from the top of the pile and found stacks of shrink wrapped CDs underneath. Ricky had saved a pristine copy of every record that he or Greg had ever played on, including European and Japanese versions. It was like a tiny punk rock shrine and it almost took Greg’s breath away.

  “Marco. Put your friend down and load all this stuff into boxes. Put the pictures in one box and the CDs in another box. Then use one of the black markers we brought to label them.”

  “I know how to move, dude.”

  Greg wandered back into the living room. One of Ricky’s guitars was leaning in the corner. He grabbed it and took a seat on the futon. He was picking out a simple pattern when Marco came back in holding a stack of file folders.

  “Mother load!”

  “Where did you find that?”

  “In the same drawer as the CDs. It looks like he kept records of all his jobs.”

  Greg grabbed the stack from his partner’s hands and started leafing through the papers. Marco took a seat beside him on the futon and scanned the documents over his shoulder. Greg closed the top folder and gave Marco an exasperated look.

  “Those boxes aren’t going to pack themselves.”

  Sometimes keeping an addict busy during the first days of recovery was the only way to work off the nervous energy. Greg knew his friend had some tough days ahead.

  An hour flew by while Greg searched through Ricky’s business records. Marco spent his time sliding Ricky’s belongings out the bedroom window and into the bed of the El Camino. The place was almost empty when Greg went to find Marco. He was curled up on the stripped mattress rubbing the iguana’s belly.

  “Break time?”

  “There’s only heavy shit left. I need help.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “You need to get your ears checked, bro. Find anything interesting in those files?”

  “Nothing yet, but I’m only half way through. There is one sheet of paper that has a bunch of addresses written in Ricky’s handwriting. Everything else is just invoices and receipts. Come on, let’s knock this out and get whatever we’re keeping over to the rehearsal space.”

  Marco groaned. He rose to his feet and took Godzilla back to the aquarium in the living room. The dumpster near the carports was brimming by the time they pulled away from the empty apartment a couple of hours later.

  Greg could feel the El Camino’s shocks groaning under the weight as they headed for Ricky’s rehearsal space. Marco kept his eyes fixed on the aquarium in his lap.

  ›

  They made it to Ricky’s rehearsal space in a few minutes. Marco complained about his sore back the entire ride over. Greg was too busy dealing with his phone to give his friend’s whining too much thought. A disturbing string of text messages was coming across at regular intervals; each of them was sent from a different number that Greg didn’t recognize.

  The first one was just an exterior shot of Junior’s house. It took a moment for him to recognize himself coming out her front door in the picture. It had obviously been taken from the window of a parked car.

  His phone buzzed again about two minutes later. This time it was a picture of Greg and Junior sitting on the rocks at the tidal pools. She had her head tilted back in laughter and he was smiling at her.

  Greg tried to call Junior, but got no answer. He left a message and hoped she would get back to him right away.

  They arrived and he started pacing around the parking lot like a caged tiger. Marco was chasing after him asking what was wrong. Greg was too freaked out to respond. Instead he tossed Marco the keys that Ricky’s mom had given him and told him to unload the El Camino. Marco’s protests fell on deaf ears.

  Greg could remember when this building was used as a storage facility. That was back when this North Bay neighborhood was still a sought after suburban oasis. Since then a new freeway extension had gone in and the property values had plummeted. Now the storage units were primarily used by bands looking for a cheap place to keep their gear set up around the clock. A few of the band members even slept in their units when they weren’t embarking on break-even, cross-country van tours.

  Another picture was waiting when he checked his phone again. He made up his mind that if the next call or text wasn’t from Junior they were getting in the car and driving straight to her house. His phone buzzed again, but it wasn’t Junior. This picture was taken at the tidal pools, too. It showed Greg outside of Junior’s vandalized car. The picture was a little out of focus, like it had been taken from a distance and then cropped.

  He was trying to wrap his head around it all when the phone rang. He still had it cupped in his palms and almost jumped straight out of his sweaty clothes. The name ‘Junior’ appeared on the screen and he tapped the ‘Answer’ button repeatedly.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the salon. Where are you?”

  “Where’s Chris?”

  “Fishing with his grandpa. I got your message. What’s going on with you?”

  Greg exhaled and let the phone drop from his ear. He could hear Junior screaming at him in the background. He needed a moment t
o get his thoughts together.

  “Sorry. I just thought something was wrong.”

  “Okay… How’d it go at Ricky’s place today?”

  “Good. We’re just finishing up at the rehearsal space.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Me and Marco. And Godzilla. Call me and let me know that you got home okay.”

  ›

  Marco was spread out across Greg’s bed with the iguana on his bare chest. The wet towel at his waist was dangerously close to slipping off. He was too tired and sore to move.

  Greg was in a T-shirt and board shorts sitting on a chair with his feet propped up on the end of the bed. He was staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the text messages and pictures. He had been so preoccupied at the studio that he never even made it inside, and he was feeling as if he had missed band practice.

  I will take my anger out on your girlfriend and her kid.

  That’s what Manny had said that day in the warehouse. They were watching him and his friends, probably all of the time. Everybody would be in danger if he went to the preliminary hearing on Tuesday morning. And for what? They didn’t have a gun so it would just be his word against the word of the kid in the blue hat. It was a no win situation for everybody involved, but the cop in him didn’t want to cave in to threats.

  “Are you gonna tell me what’s got you all twisted up, or what?”

  “I have to make a tough decision, and I can’t figure out the right thing to do. Somebody gets hurt either way.”

  “I think that’s called a moral dilemma.”

  “Right, ‘a moral dilemma.’ Please spare me your junkie philosophy.”

  “Look who’s talking, you fucking drunk.”

  Marco was standing up now and pulling on a pair of Greg’s old jeans. The iguana was back in the aquarium sitting on top of Greg’s nightstand. Greg stood up and started pacing.

  “I think I should go for a run on the beach, or something. Clear out the cobwebs.”

  “Wish I could join, but I’d probably die.”

  “In that case you should definitely join.”