Corridor Man

by Mick James

  “Yeah, all that shit. Get that rolling so I can have that place on the up-and-up. I’ll be following your advice, turn that baby into a money machine. All nice and legal, of course, just like you told me.”

  “I didn’t think you were even listening. Good. Okay, let me get in touch with my contact. Hopefully, we’ll get the ball rolling with her and be good to go.”

  They drove on in silence toward Moonies. Bobby had the sudden feeling that something had changed between them, something verging on the positive. He pulled up in front of Moonies and stopped. The place looked just as awful as he remembered.

  “Enjoy the ride, man.” Prez smiled and opened the door.

  “You sure you’re going to be all right in there?”

  “Just a little chat with friends. Besides, if it ain’t safe what the hell were you planning on doing?”

  Bobby didn’t have a response to that.

  “Yeah, see you, man,” Prez said, then slid out, closed the door and walked inside.

  He was right. There was nothing Bobby could do so he drove off.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Bobby parked on the street in exactly the same spot Prez had parked the Mercedes earlier. He stared at the dashboard for a good while, flicking switches and pushing buttons. Most of his actions only served to confuse him a little more. Although Prez had been beyond gracious he still wasn’t going to take any chances. He climbed out and checked beneath the front seats. He checked the back seat. He opened the trunk to make sure Prez didn’t have him hauling some sort of contraband. He lifted the carpet and checked beneath the spare tire. The vehicle appeared to be clean.

  He opened the passenger door and then looked in the glove compartment. There was a black leather folder with a business card and papers, an owner’s manual and then resting beneath and sort of in the back of the glove compartment a small gift-wrapped package. He took everything out, locked the car and carried the items up to his apartment.

  He set everything on the wobbly card table, then cautiously began to open the package. He recognized the logo on the box as he pulled off the gift wrap. A cellphone.

  There was a handwritten note attached to the box that read simply, “Paid a year in advance,” which didn’t sound like any calling plan he was aware of.

  Maybe it was the mark of having been incarcerated over four years. Maybe it was the result of practicing law. Maybe he was just a jerk. Regardless, he was beginning to grow even more suspicious. He stared at the phone for a long while, and then looked out the window at the shiny white Mercedes parked on the street. Why?

  He turned the phone on and checked the contact list. There was one number. He pushed the button and waited.

  “St. Paul Homicide,” a deep voice said, then paused before the laughter began.

  Bobby’s heart was still in his throat.

  “You still there, man? Got you on that one, didn’t I?”

  “Goddamnit, Prez. Don’t do that, Jesus Christ you scared me half to death.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Listen, I just wanted to say thanks. None of this was necessary, I mean I....”

  “Hey, I already told you it was for helping me out and all. I think I know how you operate so look at the paperwork on that large white object, if it meets with your approval good, if not, no pressure.”

  “I don’t know what to say?”

  “Good, then maybe just shut up.”

  “You still at Moonies?”

  “No.”

  Bobby waited a long moment for something else to follow. When nothing else came across he said, “Well, just wanted to say thanks.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” Prez said and hung up.

  Be in touch. Maybe that was what worried him.

  He placed the phone on the card table and opened the black leather folder. There was a white business card with the name Joseph Morales, a phone number and an email address. He punched in the phone number and waited three rings.

  “Morales,” a voice said. He didn’t sound sinister, suspicious or apprehensive. “Hello, hello. Who’s calling? May I help you.”

  “Joseph Morales?”

  “Yes, who’s calling please?”

  “I’m calling regarding a vehicle.”

  “Could you give me the license number and your name, please, sir”

  He didn’t want to give his name and he couldn’t read the license number from the third floor so instead of explaining the situation, like any rational adult he simply hung up.

  He reviewed the paperwork in the folder. There was a title, insurance papers and the yellow copy of an invoice for a second set of laser-cut keys. All the paperwork was in the name of Joseph Morales and it all appeared to be in order. So what was the problem?

  He returned to the cell phone, got the manual out on that thing and went through it. Same story, everything appeared to be in order and it left him with the same question. So what was the problem?

  In the end, he did what any sensible adult would do. He went to the grocery store to pick up some dinner. He was beginning to feel in a celebratory mood and the idea of a steak seemed promising. He decided not to walk.

  Instead, he climbed behind the wheel of the white Mercedes and drove the few blocks to the store. Along the way he was aware of a couple heads turning. He parked at the far end of the small lot, as far away as possible from the other cars.

  A young woman unstrapping two little kids from car seats appraised the Mercedes and then gave him a decent once-over from the side door of her late model van.

  “You wouldn’t want two kids who like to color on walls would you?” She smiled.

  “Gee, thanks, but no thanks,” he said.

  Other than Karen Clarken, who was too drunk, Marci, who was too bitchy and the women he’d driven to the law office or Courthouse, she was the first woman he had spoken to in the past month. He decided to keep the Mercedes.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “Well, I suppose I could have you deliver this package of documents, Bobby. We’ll need signatures so I’ll expect you to wait and then return, as quickly as possible. I’ll go over details with you once you arrive,” Marci said.

  He felt like telling Marci he was phoning her from the driver’s seat of his new car that was probably worth about three years of her salary. Instead, he said, “Thank you, I’ll be down there in the next thirty minutes.”

  She hung up rather than give a response.

  “We’ll need Mr. Zimmerman’s signatures, here, here and here.” Marci instructed a half hour later. She looked up to see if he was paying attention. “I’ve noted the places for signatures with these red flags. I’ll need initials in these areas - there are a total of five. I’ve marked the areas to be initialed with green flags.” Marci looked up again, perhaps wondering if dealing with different colors might make things too complicated. She followed up with another one of her fake smiles.

  “Shouldn’t these signatures be notarized?” Bobby asked.

  “This is Mr. Denton’s client,” she said, suggesting that ended any further questions.

  “I gathered that from the letterhead, but I think these signatures should probably be notarized, and that means Noah should be present when they’re signed. It’s pretty standard…”

  “I believe we’re all quite aware of proper standard procedure. Mr. Zimmerman has been a long-time client of this firm. I think Mr. Denton is more than capable of handling this in an appropriate manner without interference from one of our drivers.” She flashed that smile again, like a shark circling with bared teeth.

  Bobby figured he knew what going on and so he shut up. He just stood there and watched as Marci stuffed the documents into a manila envelope. She moistened the flap and ran her hand across to seal it. Then she pulled a length of two-inch wide clear tape, shot Bobby a quick glance before she pressed the tape along the flap to seal the envelope, ensuring no morally decadent low life like Bobby would be able to open the thing.

  “The sooner you can r
eturn with this the better,” she said, then picked up her phone, pushed a couple of buttons signaling she was finished and gave him a dismissive nod and a wave of her hand.

  He was trying to conjure up a picture of Lowell Zimmerman as he drove across town toward his home. The address on the envelope was in Minnetonka, a far west suburb with expensive homes and a very large lake. He’d never heard of this person before and he pictured a hard-charging, forty-something guy, tanned, without an ounce of fat and a crush-your-hand grip. Whatever he did, it would probably appear he was doing it right.

  Still, the paper work he’d caught sight of required a notary and you’d think Noah Denton would be enough on the ball to realize that and overcharge for the privilege. Then again, disbarred attorneys like Bobby were in no position to give advice.

  There was a large circular drive laid out behind a red brick wall and two black wrought iron gates that had been pulled open. As he drove in through the gates he caught sight of what was probably a boathouse and a quick flash of the lake. The circular drive ran around a manicured lawn with neatly trimmed shrubs and a brick pathway cutting across the center.

  The house was a three-story red brick affair with white trim. The structure was sort of U shaped with large white pillars and a second story veranda across the better part of the front. Bobby parked opposite double front doors painted a glossy black and climbed out. The doors shone like they were polished and had shiny brass handles and a large brass knocker. Just beneath the knocker was a brass plaque that read, Lowell Zimmerman, Esq. Bobby reached over and rang the doorbell.

  The door was answered in under a minute, just after the chimes stopped. An elderly, bald little man in a red and grey paisley print silk jacket pulled the door open. He wore a starched white shirt with an open collar, black trousers and shiny black shoes. The butler, Bobby presumed.

  “Yes.”

  “Hello, I have a document for Mr. Lowell Zimmerman. Noah Denton’s office sent it over for signatures.”

  Bobby expected to be told to wait where he was while the butler checked with the lord of the manor, Lowell Zimmerman, Esquire. Instead, his face brightened and he said, “You’re finally here, come on into my office.”

  Bobby followed him across a large circular foyer with black and white marble tiles and a winding staircase off to the side leading up to the second floor. They passed beneath a large chandelier surrounded by elegant plaster trim, through a leaded glass door and into a room with dark green walls, deep rich wood and a desk the size of a pool table.

  “I’ll take that envelope,” Zimmerman said stepping behind the large desk and holding his hand out.

  Bobby handed the envelope to him. He picked up some sort of razor affair and ran it along the edge of the envelope, neatly slicing it open. He pulled out the documents and set them on his desk. Then he tapped the sides of the documents with his hands so they appeared perfectly lined up.

  “I’m guessing that … yes indeed, this will need a notary,” he said turning pages. He picked a cell phone up off the desk, pushed a button and gave Bobby a blank stare while he waited.

  “I need you to notarize something for me. No. No, now, in my office,” he commanded, then put the phone back down on the desk. “Shouldn’t be too long.”

  He picked up the phone again, pushed the button and waited. “Bring coffee when you come. No,” he said and laid the phone back down on the desk. “Take a seat,” he instructed and indicated a leather couch.

  Bobby took a seat and looked out the window behind him. A manicured lawn extended out a good half-acre before it sloped down toward the lake shore. A large dock and the boat house he’d caught a glimpse of earlier were off to the left.

  There was a gardener out there, apparently clipping flowers that didn’t live up to their resume and occasionally pulling the odd weed. Bobby watched the gardener while Zimmerman skimmed the documents and turned pages. He worked his way through the pages, then drummed his fingers on the desk for a bit before he snatched up the phone.

  “What’s taking you?” he growled. He listened for a moment, then tossed the phone back onto his desk.

  A moment later the leaded glass door opened and a woman entered carrying a tray with a silver coffee pot, a cup, a saucer and what looked like a chilled, stemmed crystal glass. She looked to be substantially younger than Zimmerman. Her hair was peroxided blonde with sky blue roots and casually pulled toward the back of her head. She wore a small, two-piece swim suit, and over that a long sleeved white lace affair that dropped down to her ankles. The two-piece wasn’t quite a bikini and looked to be uncomfortably tight. Bobby suspected a diet of martinis for lunch might have a way of doing that.

  “Just a half cup,” Zimmerman said to the woman indicating the silver coffee pot with a wave of his hand. He ignored Bobby and remained focused on the documents, skimming and turning pages. “I’ll need you to notarize these in a couple of places,” he said to the woman.

  He picked up a pen from a holder off to the side of the desk, gave a disgusted glance at the woman as she slurped noisily from the crystal glass, then wrote his signature and pushed the sheaf of documents across the desk to her. She produced a notary stamp from a lacy pocket, pressed it next to his signature, then signed and dated the stamp. They followed this procedure two more times.

  As she signed Bobby couldn’t help but notice two large diamond rings, one on each hand and a bracelet sparkling around her right wrist, strange attire to wear with a swim suit. The lace sleeves of her robe disguised the particular tattoo designs covering both arms from the shoulders down to her wrists.

  “Thank you,” Zimmerman said by way of dismissal.

  She didn’t respond other than to give a noisy slurp from her stemmed glass and study Bobby briefly over the rim.

  “Go” Zimmerman commanded, then watched as she departed the room sipping noisily. He continued to shake his head disgustedly until she closed the door behind her.

  “Very well, then, pass on my best to Noah,” he said, apparently putting thoughts of the notary behind him. He stuffed the sheaf of documents back into the envelope, took a sip of coffee and flashed a smile for just a nano-second before he pushed the envelope across the desk.

  Bobby stood and said, “Thank you, sir.” Thinking, ‘What a prick’.

  “You can find your way out?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  Bobby left the office, walked across the foyer and out the front door. He was tempted to leave the front door open, but thought better and pulled the thing closed without slamming it. He turned to face his Mercedes and there she was, leaning against the passenger door, sipping from her stemmed glass.

  “Isn’t he just a total pompous asshole?” she asked, then sort of thrust back her lacy robe to reveal her figure. There was a red line across both her hips from where she had apparently just rolled the waist band down a couple of inches. Her stomach hung over the waist band and for the first time he noticed reddish stretch marks along her thigh and midsection. Little cellulite indentations ran over her upper thighs and across her stomach.

  “I’m just here to get a signature. I wouldn’t know much about that.”

  “This your boss’s car?” she asked, then stroked the side of the car with her free hand as she took another sip.

  “No, it’s mine. In fact I should probably get in it and go, they’re waiting for this,” Bobby said and indicated the envelope.

  “Or, maybe you’d like to see the boathouse?” She drained her glass, looked down and sort of examined her front, then flared her nostrils at Bobby and raised her eyebrows.

  “Maybe some other time, it was nice to meet you,” he said.

  He walked around the front of the car, climbed in the driver’s side, then quickly locked the doors and pushed the start button. The engine purred awake causing her to step away from the car. As he drove off toward the front gates he caught her in the mirror giving him the finger and yelling something unintelligible as he made his way around the circular drive. Just as
he slowed to turn out through the gates she suddenly wound up and fired the stemmed crystal glass in his direction. It fell far short and shattered on the brick pathway.

  Bobby gave a little wave, a quick honk and drove out the front gate.

  He stopped at home for lunch, half expecting Prez to be drinking what was left of his beer and looking out the window. Thankfully he wasn’t there. He ate a chicken sandwich while he scanned Lowell Zimmerman’s paperwork.

  The documents appeared to complete the forming of an LLC, a Limited Liability Company between Lowell Zimmerman and someone named Morris Montcreff. From what Bobby knew of LLCs the paperwork seemed to be on the excessive side. Then again, attorneys like Noah Denton didn’t become successful by taking the discount route. He made a mental note to Google the two of them, Zimmerman and Montcreff, once he dropped the documents off. An appendix to the paperwork contained a laundry list of properties Morris Montcreff was involved in and apparently had pledged as financial security while Zimmerman didn’t appear to be on the hook for all that much. The woman who had notarized the document was named Gina Gravatto. On the way back to the law firm Bobby stopped and for a little under two dollars copied the entire document.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “You left Mr. Zimmerman’s over two hours ago. Where have you been?” Marci barked before Bobby had taken no more than two steps off the elevator.

  His first thought was, how in the hell could she know that?

  “I stopped for a quick lunch.”

  “I hope you’re not expecting to be paid for that time,” she said, then held her hand out for the documents.

  Bobby set the envelope down on the counter.

  “This transaction required the utmost care, it involves two of our most important clients. Under the circumstances I think your lunch could have waited just a few more minutes.”

  She reached for the envelope, noticed it was unsealed and shot him a look of disbelief. She recovered quickly and said, “We won’t be in need of your services for the rest of the day.” Then she flashed her stupid grin in Bobby’s direction.