True Grift

by Jack Bunker

  When J.T. returned to the office after lunch, Shari gave him a message that a lawyer named Hector Aza called regarding his representation of GSAC in Mack’s case. J.T. began perspiring. He grabbed a bottle of water off the serving tray in the reception area, dusted every morning by Shari for clients that never came. He fumbled with the plastic cap, spilling a little on his shirt as he brought the slightly shaking bottle to his mouth.

  “Are you okay?” asked Shari.

  J.T. wadded up the message and stuffed it in his pocket. “Yeah. I think too many chilies in the pico de gallo or something.” He pulled the pink message slip back out of his pocket. “I need to give this guy a call.”

  GSAC wouldn’t have had time to get the complaint yet. That meant the in-house guys hired Aza even before the claim was filed. That meant they weren’t looking to settle. That meant GSAC thought the claim was bullshit.

  J.T. looked around for something in his office to break. Something inexpensive. He picked up a stapler and slammed it down hard on a Scotch tape dispenser, shattering the clear plastic. Fucking cocksuckers! He had to get under control before he returned Aza’s call.

  J.T. didn’t know Aza. He vaguely recognized the name, but then again, he could have been confusing it with some other Mexican. They all had z’s in their names anyway. J.T. decided to Google Aza’s website before he called. A shitty, one-page embarrassment. Didn’t even have the guy’s picture. Just a phone number and a map of how to get to his office, an office J.T. imagined next to a nail salon in some rundown strip mall. And this chump was going to take money off J.T. Edwards? In your fucking dreams, pal.

  J.T. dialed the number and reclined in his chair.

  “This is Hector Aza.”

  The guy didn’t sound Mexican.

  “Mr. Aza, J.T. Edwards. I’m returning your call about the McMahon claim against El Fuente Dorado Resort.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you for returning my call.”

  J.T. could sense Aza sitting up at attention now. Good.

  “I was just calling as a courtesy, actually,” said Aza, “to let you know I’d been retained by Golden State Assurance in the matter.”

  “Okey-doke. You get a copy of the complaint yet?”

  “I wasn’t aware a complaint had been filed.”

  Of course you weren’t, you dumbfuck. “Yep. Filed this morning. I expressed to GSAC my willingness to negotiate a settlement, but no one got back to me, so I filed the complaint as I promised I would.”

  “I see.”

  “Would you like me to send you a copy?”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  Of course it would, you clueless bastard.

  THIRTY-ONE

  An unfamiliar phone number appeared on the caller ID of Al’s desk phone. Only after Hector Aza had been talking for ten seconds did Al realize he was the lawyer Marino Vargas had told him about.

  “Anyway,” said Hector, “now that a complaint has been filed, I was hoping—”

  Al coughed. “They filed already?”

  “Yeah. I just got off the phone with opposing counsel a little while ago.”

  “How about that? I tried to tell Sid the case was pretty strong. You see the pictures of the guy’s pecker yet?”

  “Uh, no. Actually, that’s kind of why I was calling. Sid said you could e-mail the file to me.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Al’s head was spinning. “I’m still surprised they didn’t want to settle this one. It could be a huge verdict if things go south.”

  Al searched on his computer for the electronic file on Mack’s claim.

  “There’s always a chance it could settle,” said Hector. “But I don’t know that it’s a mistake not to get a little more information before the company just opens the checkbook.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Al took one more look at the picture of Mack’s broken joint, then scribbled down Aza’s e-mail address.

  “By the way,” said Hector, “do you have contact information for the witnesses out at Fuente Dorado?”

  “Witnesses? I thought no one was around.”

  “Well, there had to be someone around at the resort, right? Someone that saw the plaintiff when he came in from the course? Hotel manager? Somebody?”

  “Oh, yeah. I think it’s in the file.” Al’s fingers rattled across his dingy keyboard. “Okay, I just e-mailed you everything I have.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to head over there this afternoon. We’ll see if we get any questions answered.”

  Al felt his rash returning. He took one of the disposable phones out to his car and called J.T. “What the fuck? You filed the complaint already?”

  “Yup. How’d you find out?”

  “The lawyer—what’s his name, Raza?—he called me and had me send him the file.”

  “It’s Aza, not Raza, and don’t worry about it. I checked the guy out. He’s a bum. I’ll eat him alive.”

  “What are you basing that on?”

  “First of all, I know for a fact you guys don’t pay shit for insurance defense, so that’s Exhibit A. Second, the guy’s a lawyer in Riverside and I never heard of him. Third, I checked out his website. Looks like it was designed by a retarded Albanian kid. I’m telling you, I’ve got it under control. Unlike some people.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re supposed to be the hotshot claims manager, and you can’t even get a settlement negotiation going for a guy whose dick looks like it got caught in an elevator?”

  “I told you my authority’s only two hundred thousand.”

  “So you didn’t suggest they settle?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “So then clearly GSAC doesn’t think much of your opinion.”

  “Actually, they don’t think much of you.”

  The line went silent on both ends.

  “What?”

  “Nobody doubts Mack’s hurt. The guys in legal apparently just all know something I didn’t.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’re full of shit. That they can drag this out forever and you couldn’t afford to finance the case, even if you weren’t afraid to go to trial.”

  “Those assholes said I was afraid to try this case?”

  “‘Like a cockroach with the light on,’ I believe was the quote.” Al made that up, but he wished someone really had said it.

  J.T. was breathing hard through his nose and Al could hear it through the phone.

  “This shit just got punitive, my friend,” said J.T.

  “You know what? Spare me. I’ve heard enough bullshit to last me a lifetime.”

  “Okay, just think about something, you simpleminded fuck. You got any idea how many jury verdicts I’ve had in my career? How many multimillion-dollar cases I’ve won or settled? You’re letting the tough talk of some third-rate, in-house hacks make you think there’s a chance in hell GSAC’s not going to get their asses handed to them on this. Ever wonder, if these guys are such great lawyers, why are they working for GSAC? Why aren’t they out there making millions, huh? They’re fucking drones, man. Ciphers. Guys like me shit out guys like that every morning with a bran muffin.”

  Al blinked quickly but said nothing. This was the most pissed off he’d ever heard J.T.

  “You saw those pictures. What’s the jury going to say when the doctor testifies? The doctor who treated President Ford, Walter Annenberg, and Bob Hope, and who says Mack’s dick was broken in that accident and that the guy will never have sex again, huh?”

  Al hated it when J.T. was right. Even if J.T. was a shitty lawyer, a housewife in Temecula could walk into court and win on the medical evidence alone.

  “You know, if you want to bail on this thing, be my guest. When you could authorize a settlement, you had some use to me, but without it, who the fuck needs you?”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to bail.” Al turned the car on and cranked up the air conditioning. “I’m just telling you what these guys said. They don’t want to settle.” Al looked
inside his shirt to see if the blisters were returning. “Not yet anyway.”

  “That’s just it. They will settle. They’ll settle because they’ll have to. Between Mack’s broken dick and the loss of consortium claim, I’ll squeeze every fucking dime out of that place. And we haven’t even begun to talk about the pressure from Fuente Dorado when the publicity machine gets ramped up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think the resort’s going to want this story popping up on the Drudge Report and the Smoking Gun, showing Mack’s busted schlong? The fucking Emperor of Japan stays at Fuente Dorado. The Prince of Wales. Little billionaire arbitrage creeps. Fuente Dorado does not want to be known as the place where you go to get your dick mangled on the golf course.”

  “I guess you’re right. I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I am not patronizing you, I promise.” J.T. sighed. “I know you hadn’t thought about that. You know why? Because it’s not your job to think about things like that. It’s my job.”

  Al closed his eyes and rested his head on the steering wheel.

  “Everybody makes lawyer jokes,” J.T. continued, “because lawyers are the ones who think about things like this. Looking four, five, eight moves ahead. It’s a fucking chess game, man.”

  Al thought about that. Maybe those guys in legal really weren’t as sharp as they acted. What if they were just bluffing themselves? Shit, it wasn’t their money. They could talk tough in the office, but J.T. had a point. If they were such hotshots, why weren’t they in court themselves?

  “Look, I apologize for blowing up a minute ago,” J.T said. “I know what it’s like to have people turn your head with a bunch of shit. Let me ask you something. You know all those asbestos settlements? Tobacco settlements? Do you think the defense lawyers or insurance company lawyers weren’t telling the plaintiffs their cases were bullshit? But think about this. If those cases were bullshit, why did the defendants end up paying out so many billions of dollars?”

  “I guess you’re right.” Al looked at his watch. “I gotta get back to my desk.”

  “Listen, if you’re still in, you can still be of some use.”

  “How?”

  “Just keep me posted. Stay in touch with Aza. Let me know what he’s thinking. What he’s doing.”

  “Well, I know he’s going out to Palm Desert today.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, why? Is that a big deal?”

  “Not at all, Al. Not at all. Just keep me in the loop, okay?”

  Mack’s depression deepened. He was still recovering from the operation. His dick had returned more or less to a normal shape, but he couldn’t get an erection. A part of him was afraid to even try, afraid it might snap in half or explode or something. Making matters worse, even though Mack’s penis was useless, his balls were still working. The doctor told him the recovery would be long and that there was a chance of regaining sexual function, but there were no guarantees.

  Exacerbating Mack’s pessimism was the fact that he was now legally married and living in Wanda’s apartment. Wanda only had a double bed, which she kindly let Mack have during his convalescence. She slept on the couch when she was home, which was seldom, as she’d gone back to picking up as many shifts as she could at the club. She was nice enough to Mack, but now that they were away from the Fuente Dorado, she’d dropped the honeymoon act. She’d certainly never called him “baby” as she had after the accident.

  Was it really an accident? He’d been so out of his mind when everything happened, he never really stopped to question just how the tractor had started moving. He’d barely noticed the thing at all as he jogged down the slope to use the toilet. Buddy had said J.T. talked to him about hurrying things along. Had J.T. put Buddy up to mowing him down with the tractor?

  Tired of being pent up in the apartment, Mack occasionally went by the club to say hi or grab lunch. Everyone at the club seemed genuinely concerned about his injury. He could feel them treating him differently too, since he was now married to Wanda. People in the office smiled and waved when they saw him in the parking lot or the clubhouse. The other waitresses in the 19th Hole gave him free iced tea.

  When he’d gone into the greenskeeper’s shed, he’d pulled the tarp off the McMahon 3000. He creaked and groaned as he folded himself into the driver’s seat. When he was on the job he’d never crank it up during work hours, but he wasn’t working, and with all the other racket from the mowers outside, it wasn’t like it was going to bother anyone.

  Mack was surprised at how smoothly the engine ran. Tommy must have been starting it for him once in a while for it to be sounding so clean. Man, I can’t wait to take this fucker out in the desert. The thing was going to be indestructible. A four-inch-thick roll cage welded onto the chassis, crisscrossing overhead. He’d ripped out all the Mini’s ruined interior and put some new knobby-tread tires all around. Looked like a fucking moon rover, if a moon rover was badass.

  The doc had said while he should take it easy, he could go back to light work whenever he felt ready. J.T. had told Mack to stick his ass in the apartment and stay there. He was supposed to be injured, not out fucking around fixing golf carts and mowers. Besides, as J.T. had explained, he’d get all those lost wages on the back end anyway.

  But Mack was getting close to his boredom redline.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Hector introduced himself to the resort manager and politely asked if he might interview Winfred Bailey, the assistant pro, as well as the kid who’d been there when Mack rolled up after the accident. In front of Hector, the manager called Bailey and told him to extend to Hector every accommodation. The manager also dispatched Anna, an assistant hotel manager, to accompany Hector and ensure the resort’s employees were cooperative.

  Anna drove Hector in a golf cart out to fourteen, where the tractor had been perched at the top of the slope. Bailey followed in a separate cart. There was no evidence of the shattered fiber-glass in the area between the fourteenth and fifteenth fairways. Anna drove down to where a handful of guys were reshaping the sand traps and laying new sod in some areas on the sixteenth that had been torn up in the process of reworking the irrigation system.

  The foreman of the crew, wearing a faded yellow golf cap, showed Hector exactly where the tractor had come to rest.

  “You leave the key in the tractor?” asked Hector.

  “During the day, yeah.”

  “You’re not worried it’ll disappear?”

  “A couple years ago, one of our guys got picked up on his lunch hour by la migra,” said the foreman. “They trucked his ass back to Mexico with the tractor key in his pocket. Since then, we leave the key with the tractor until we’re done for the night.”

  Anna handed Hector a bottle of water from a cooler on the golf cart.

  “And when you found the tractor in the fairway here?”

  “Key was in it. Just not in gear. Whoever was driving it last must’ve left it in neutral, I guess.”

  Hector took a sip of water. “Who was driving it last?”

  “Chuy was, but he swears he had the thing in gear.”

  “You believe him?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Just seems weird that it could start rolling on its own,” said Hector.

  “I dunno,” said the foreman. “Maybe there was an earthquake or something.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. I don’t remember one, but then again, it’s been a few weeks.”

  “Maybe a little one? Just enough to rock it?” said Bailey. “Might’ve been so small nobody felt it.”

  “Could be,” said Hector.

  They rode back to the pro shop and Hector asked to meet with Tripp Wallace, the kid who’d seen Mack.

  “Yeah, he was pretty messed up,” said Wallace.

  “And talk about stink,” said Bailey.

  “He wasn’t playing by himself, was he?” said Hector.

  “No, there was a black dude w
ith him.”

  “You get his name? The black guy?”

  “Nah,” said Bailey. “The one who got hurt, McMahon? He was comping his greens fees. Even bought him some shoes and a hat and stuff.”

  “He was staying at the resort with him?”

  “No, McMahon said he was on his honeymoon,” said Bailey. “I teased him about it being with the black guy. McMahon said he was his homeboy from over in Moreno Valley.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “I don’t know. Regular size. Early twenties. More on the dark-skinned side, I guess. Seemed like an okay dude.”

  Hector looked at Anna still sitting in the cart.

  “Pretty good player, I think,” said Wallace.

  “Why do you say that?” said Hector. “You see him play?”

  “No, but after they pulled up and McMahon’s wife came out, everybody left in kind of a hurry. They left the scorecard on the cart. I remember wondering if they were any good. The McMahon guy, I’m guessing it was him—one player had an M, the other a B—anyway, I think M was plus-seven and B was plus-five, if I remember.”

  “You still got the card, by any chance?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” said Wallace. “That was, like, how long ago? I just threw it away when I cleaned out the cart.”

  “Yeah, of course, sorry,” said Hector.

  “Cart was a mess,” said Wallace. “Guy was covered in shit, excuse me, but—”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Anyway, he was a mess and there was beer spilled everywhere, cans in the basket, and just nasty from the toilet, you know? I hosed the whole thing off. It was disgusting.”

  “You mentioned his wife. Did she say anything?”

  “She seemed pretty upset,” said Bailey.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think she’d come directly from the spa. She was big. Like, almost like a dude. Kind of a pretty face, though.”