Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  “Agent Palmer. You have to get my money back. It’s your job.”

  “It absolutely is. And we’re doing our best. We have a high success rate solving these types of crimes. I just want to be transparent with your regarding the sophistication that ‘Jamie’ and ‘Jamie’s’ team used to defraud you.” Each time Agent Palmer said “Jamie” he bent his index and middle finger to make air quotes. Every reminder that Jamie wasn’t even Jamie stung. He continued, “I would hate for you to go on living a lifestyle that is no longer sustainable.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Easy, Caish. I am just letting you know. You know I have reviewed all of your financial records and bank accounts. If it were me, I’d sell this place and get something more... practical.”

  “Okay, thank you Agent Palmer. I appreciate the financial advice. But I think I can handle it. You think owning a place like this just happens? You don’t think I know how to handle my own fuckin’ money? Well you’re wrong. I worked very hard for this house, and I’m not gonna sell it just because some assholes stole from me because they were too lazy to work for their own money. Now please, get back to doing your job.”

  There were a few awkward minutes while the technician finished setting up my computer, then I walked them to the door and showed them out. Then I called Gabby.

  “Good afternoon, thank you for calling Morely, Black, and Associates, how may I direct your call?”

  “To Gabriella Rodriguez.”

  “Transferring you now, please hold.”

  After making me wait for twenty minutes, I hear, “Gabriella speaking.”

  “Hi Gabby, it’s Caish.”

  “Hello Caish, how are you this afternoon?”

  “Not too good. I just met with the FBI and they told me they can’t find Jamie or my money.”

  “Very sorry to hear that,” Gabby said. “So, what can I do for you Caish?”

  “I don’t know. Can we sue the FBI for mishandling my case? Or can you have your private investigators find Jamie?”

  “What evidence do you have that they have mishandled your case? Hasn’t it only been a month?”

  “Maybe, but they just told me they can’t find Jamie or my money. They just said it’s all gone and that I should sell my house and cars and buy a fucking Hyundai or some shit.”

  “Caish, before you go on, I have a very busy afternoon that I have to get back to. Before I can devote any more time to assisting you with legal counsel, you will need to become current on your bill. You haven’t paid on last month’s invoice.” Which was true. Gabby billed me for twelve hours of legal work on that Aston Martin repo situation. But she didn’t get the car back. Now she wanted me to pay her $14,500 for her time.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, “I meant to talk to you about that. Do you really think fifteen thousand dollars is reasonable for legal work that didn’t get my car back? That just seems like too much.”

  “We can’t guarantee success in every case, Caish, you know that. You pay for me to be your lawyer, not to solve all your problems. Get that bill paid and give me a call about this FBI thing when you have some evidence that they mishandled your case.”

  “Okay, sounds goo—” and Gabby hung up.

  No evidence surfaced. Not for me against the FBI, and not for the FBI to get my money back. Not in the next few days, not in the next few weeks. In two months my bank account had somehow trickled down to $1,230,521.15. I consigned three more cars, which brought my total down to three: the Porsche 930, the Shelby Cobra, and my G Wagon. But the consigned cars just sat in the showrooms of the car dealers. Until they sold I would be having cash flow problems. My Pollock finally sold, so did my piano, which brought in some much-needed cash and removed some much-resented reminders of Jamie. Despite all that Jamie had done, I still longed to see that beautiful face again. I still sent texts every now and then, just in case this whole thing was a mistake, and maybe Jamie felt the same way about me as I felt about Jamie.

  Last month I called the real estate agent who sold me my house seven years ago and told her that I needed to sell my place in Monterey. She sold that in a couple weeks and I made $500,000.

  Then, a couple weeks ago, I called her again and told her I need to sell my house. Not my vacation house, my actual house. As painful as it is, I won’t be able to make the mortgage payments for much longer, and Mr. Valentini refused to let me refinance. I don’t have a choice. The agent told me she thinks we can get “thirty mil” for it. The market is booming right now, she said. Everybody who’s anybody is crawling over each other to get into Malibu. Oh and your ocean view right on the cliff’s edge? Thirty mil, no problem, she said. This news brightened my mood, and for the first time in weeks I went to a house party and got laid by some young Hollywood hopeful.

  The next morning I felt like a new person. Maybe I should start investing in real estate. I had the good judgment to buy my current house, and I’m about to make a huge profit on the resale. Lots of people make money buying and selling property, I might as well do the same.

  My house didn’t sell for thirty million dollars. It sold for twenty-one million and some change. After taxes and fees I broke even. My cars also sold. I was no longer in debt, and I had enough cash to live on. My bank account had roughly two million dollars in it—the lowest since before I won the lottery. But, I had cash. And with the house and cars sold, I didn’t have any debt. Plus, of the one hundred and twenty-five million that I won, California still owed me four million over the next five years. I didn’t receive my earnings in a lump sum, the state paid me in front-loaded payouts. These last few are the smallest, but it should give me enough to either live off the interest (if I can learn to be more parsimonious, as Mr. Valentini has advised), or begin rebuilding what Jamie stole from me and get back on top. Six million is more than enough to stay happy.

  In the spirit of frugality, I put my pride aside and bought a two million-dollar Spanish-tiled house in Spanish Hills, Camarillo. Since, at the moment, I didn’t have much to spare, I bought the house with a loan. I have more than enough to cover the mortgage, I just wanted to stay liquid. The house is only four thousand square feet, only has a four-car garage, and the pool is just a regular pool in the ground without a view. No infinity about it. There’s also a small hot tub in a gazebo. I still invite people over for parties, but I can’t help but be a little embarrassed about the cheaper house. Even Mia, who also had to downsize, at least stayed in Malibu. Mia and I aren’t as close as we used to be. I think the stress of moving and dealing with this “change in lifestyle” has put some distance between us. Same story with Riley. But that’s how it is with people; in with the new, out with the old every few years.

  To save money, I hired an interior design firm to help style my new house instead of going with Tosca Giacosa again. By going with Chip, from Kate Thompson Designs, I only paid $25,000 for interior designing instead of Tosca’s quoted $95,000. Mr. Valentini would have been proud. Despite the downsize, I didn’t have enough furniture to fill my new house. I sold most of the antique and designer pieces before the move. And my walls were bare since I sold most of my art. Chip selected new furniture sets and art that fit the feel of the house.

  Then it got quiet. Most nights I ordered delivery and watched movies. I tried to read a book, but that turned out to be remarkably boring. I was actually surprised at how boring it was. I could only read a page or two before I found myself browsing Instagram. Not even cocaine made it interesting. Most nights I went for a drive and bought lottery tickets. I spent plenty of time floating in the pool, drinking in the hot tub, and tanning. Every now and then I would call the FBI to see if there was anything new with my case, but there hasn’t been anything new in months. No names, no leads, no money.

  Downtime is exactly what I need to clear my head and chart a course out of this small-time money. I’ll lay low for a while, then put my plan back to wealth into motion.

  8

  One million dollars in cash makes a smaller
pile than you’d think. A million dollars in one hundred-dollar bills fits comfortably into a duffle bag. Ten thousand dollars is a stack of one hundred one hundred-dollar bills and is only about half an inch thick. One hundred of those stacks, and there’s a million. One thousand pieces of perfectly shaped, crisply printed pieces of paper. Stacked, one million dollars is three-and-a-half feet tall. Spread out on my king size bed, there are enough bands of ten thousand to cover most of my comforter.

  Feeling forlorn, I boost my spirits with some warm soft cash. Withdrawing a million dollars from the bank isn’t easy. There are several forms to fill out (even though it’s your money), and, after days of waiting for the bank to let you take your cash, the FBI shows up to ask if you are making this withdrawal to pay a ransom. For days afterward the FBI follows you around just waiting for a drug deal. Some of us just need to occasionally feel the cash. To handle hundreds of stacks of ten thousand dollars. To hold power. To feel the texture of joy. Ever wonder what happiness smells like? Fan a ten thousand dollar stack of one hundred-dollar bills into your face and take a deep whiff. Money is happiness. Not just because of what it can buy, but because of what it means. The holder of this special paper is in charge. The wealthy call the shots and manipulate the masses.

  The poor try to even the score by claiming, “Ya can’t take it with ya when ya die,” and, “I ain’t never seen a U-Haul followin’ a hearse.” When really all they’re saying is, “I reckon you’re more successful than me now, but when we all die I’ll have a bigger house in Heaven because God—Heaven’s only developer—likes us poor folk better.” Face it, a loser in life is a loser in death. Money is the point system in the game of life. The rich are winning. We are winning. I am winning. This is me. This is my success. I own it. I am it.

  Nobody, not even Jamie and Penn, can change that. Just because most of my money was stolen from me does not mean that I am any less successful. I still have forty million dollars, even if thirty-five million of my dollars are being used by somebody else at the moment. Nothing can stop me from fighting my way back to the top. I went from a bank account of $112.87 to having $125 million in accounts receivable; it will be easy to get to $125 million with a starting balance of six million. I have the work ethic of the ambitious poor and the wisdom of the earned rich. I’ve been here, done this, and come out on top. My rebound starts here.

  The million in cash has several purposes. First, it cheers me up. The weight of the bag holding the money, the sound of the money pouring onto my bed, the feel of the stacks as I organized them on the comforter, the crunch of the bills as I laid on top of them, and the smell of printed power. These are some of my favorite things.

  Second, I need to have cash in a safe in case somebody tries to hack my bank account or steal money from me in the way Jamie did. A rainy day fund, if you will. Third, I need to see what I’m spending. I have lowered my cost of living substantially by cancelling my private jet membership, my chauffeur service, and all my cleaning services (both for the house and cars), and buying things in cash will help me keep an eye on where my money is going. Fourth and finally, I need cash for everything I have always needed to pay for in cash: cocaine, sex (only sometimes, and I have cut back on paying for this), and club expenses.

  Just before the sunset, Tim and Selina Rayburn dropped by to check out my new place. I told them about the Green Mountain disaster and they offered to help in whatever way they could. Apparently they had been conned as well a few years back (as Tim put it, “a fuckin’ sociopathic finance fuck”) and knew what it was like to lose a several hundred thousand dollars. I told them that right now the best thing they could do to help would be to keep me company.

  Tim’s teeth-whitened smile radiated as he swung his legs out from underneath the door and clamored out of his Lamborghini. He had put on a few pounds since the last time we saw each other, but cocaine kept him spritely. Selina climbed up and out of the car with grace. If anything, Selina looked younger than she did on the Bullrun Rally. Turns out the fountain of youth is wealth.

  “Caish! Ya goddamn mud duck, how have you been?” Tim said while giving me a side hug.

  “All things considered, I’ve been great. How have you two been? Selina you’re looking incredible as usual.”

  “We’ve been great too,” Selina said. “You look happy, Caish, I’m glad to see that.”

  “Look at this fuckin’ place!” Tim had his arms out like he was about to hug a giant. “This is beautiful, Caish. And you said you got this for only two million? That’s a fuckin’ bargain. Oh and check that out, a little gazebo, with, what is that? A hot tub in there? Oh hell yeah, Caish!”

  After the tour we settled down on my back patio. The sunset had warmed the sky up to a glowing orange that reflected off the pool. This house wasn’t on the beach, but it had a decent view of Ventura County. Besides a golf course there wasn’t anything on the hill below my house. We had a clear view of strawberry fields, the 101, and, beyond that, Oxnard. The view was obstructed only by a few palm trees.

  We relax with our cigarettes and wine and wax philosophical.

  “So, where to from here, Caish?” Selina asked.

  “Well,” I said, pointing to the gazebo, “I’d like to plant a lemon tree right over there.”

  “Haha, I like it. Any long-term plans?”

  “Tough to say.”

  “It is,” Tim said, “we’ve also been kind of treadin’ water lately. Not sure which direction to swim.”

  “Seems like it would be best just to lay low for a while and get my bearings.”

  Tim lit his third cigarette. Coyotes yipped and howled in the distance and crickets creaked.

  “And live off interest?” Tim asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that you can live comfortably off of the interest of just a couple million.”

  “Nah, it’s not true,” Tim said. “Maybe if you’re a fuckin’ austere peasant. Or a monk. If you get lucky and have six or seven percent interest rate—and I mean you’d have to be fuckin’ lucky, most interest rates are like three or four percent—but even if it’s seven percent, that’s only seventy thousand a year for every million you’ve got. So for a couple million, you’d only be making a hundred and forty grand a year.”

  “But that seems doable.”

  “Ha! You really are a fuckin’ mud duck, Caish. You buy this place with cash, or did you mortgage it?”

  “Mortgage.”

  “And what are your payments?”

  “Eleven thousand a month.”

  “So right there you’ve got, what? A hundred and ten grand a year?”

  “More like over one hundred and thirty,” Selina said.

  “Yeah,” Tim continued, “so there goes your hundred and forty grand a year. Not a lot left over for cars, cocaine, and the fuckin’ Copacabana, if ya know what I mean. And remember, that was best case scenario. Fuckin’ seven-percent-returns scenario. More likely is that you get four percent. Then you’re making eighty K a year off your couple million, not even enough to cover half your fuckin’ mortgage.”

  “Jesus.” I sip my wine and think.

  “It’s the same problem we’re in, Caish,” Selina said. “We’ve only got a few million to work with and we’re not getting nearly the interest rate we deserve.”

  “It’s not all bleak though,” Tim said. “As long as you have enough to pay off your house, which I think you said you did, and enough to buy a few cars, what else do you need? The tough part is that what happens in six or seven years when Lamborghini releases a new model and you don’t have enough to buy it? Then you’re putting around in an old model and everybody knows you don’t have the scratch to play big league.”

  “Oh come on, Tim, it won’t be like that,” Selina said, “an Aventador will always be an Aventador, and a Lamborghini is still a Lamborghini.”

  “No, it’s true, Selina,” Tim said. “Ever see somebody driving a Diablo around? That was the Aventador of the nineties. See somebody in one of those and the fir
st thing you think is, ah that poor fuck, can’t afford a real super car so they buy a classic and try to be big league. We all know its minor league. We still think it’s a bitchin’ car, but it’s fuckin minor league.”

  Tim was right. And my garage had two classics and a G Wagon in it. Tim looked at me and must have remembered that I was no longer big league. He amended, “Caish, you know what I mean. Your classics aren’t a fuckin’ Diablo though. Your Cobra is worth two Aventadors and your 930 is worth, what, five hundred thousand or something? Totally different.” But the damage was done.

  “God I miss my Aventador.”

  “We miss it too, Caish,” Selina said, “we’re excited to see your next one.”

  Then we let the Coyotes do the talking for a little while. The sky had darkened to a twinkling charcoal and a soft breeze made tiny ripples on the pool. My rope lights swayed in the wind. Tim lit another cigarette. Selina and I pulled our jackets around our shoulders.

  “I can never remember, what do you two do?” I asked. “Professionally, I mean. Like what do you do for a living?”

  “Tim buys and sells cars,” Selina said.

  “Well, I’m not a fuckin’ used car salesman,” Tim said. “It’s more like, a broker of fine art.”

  “Haha, okay Tim. You’re a broker of fine art.” Selina rolled her eyes and took a sip of wine.

  “It’s true! Caish, ya know how for a lot of high-end cars you have to get an invite to buy it, and then you’re on a waitlist to get your car? Like with the McLaren F1, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, so Ferrari invites me to buy, for example, the Ferrari LaFerrari or whatever new model they come out with. I agree, and I am waitlisted after my hundred-grand deposit. Now, sometimes at this point I can sell my spot in line. Some fuckin’ banker or lawyer wants the LaFerrari and didn’t get invited to buy it or just can’t wait another eight months or some shit. But usually I hold out, because if I can wait until I receive the car, then I can immediately resell it (subject to Ferrari’s terms) for a pretty fuckin’ good profit.”