CONTAMINATED
Peter Zimmermann
Copyright 2012 by Peter Zimmermann
Smashwords Edition
Chapter I
Craig Adams considered himself a lucky guy. Luck, usually a combination of education, experience and preparation, can still be completely blind. Like the tide, luck is an ebb and flow thing. A lucky guy can’t look forward to a lottery win every week; an unlucky guy doesn’t get out of bed in the morning and expect to get run over by a bus before lunch. There was a time not long ago that Craig thought he was unlucky, but for now that’s been forgotten.
Craig stood ten feet from the front wing of one of the most fantastic racing cars ever built, and watched Jonathon Graves slip down into the cockpit of his Formula 1 car. Jon had asked Craig to be there, and Craig traveled from Los Angeles to Europe to watch his friend perform. While driving Indianapolis 500 racing cars Jon got the offer he had hoped for, a chance to drive for a competitive team in the top bracket of his sport, where every race is a Super Bowl, a World Series, a Stanley Cup or Wimbledon.
Jonathon sat in his racer alongside 19 others. Each of the 20 cars was occupied by one of the best drivers in the world. Craig watched as Jon’s crew fussed over him, they checked and rechecked his safety harness, the radio wire connection at the side of his helmet, and other elements inside the car to be sure he was secure. As secure as one could be in a car that would be traveling close to 140 miles per hour from a dead stop in the short distance to turn one.
Quickly it was time to move. The beautiful women that hold a marker for each car’s position were asked to leave the grid, along with the host of VIP’s and team members still with their cars. Craig wss escorted toward Jon’s garage, where the privileged few are allowed to partake in what the ultimate form of motor racing has to offer. As Craig moved past the wall that separated the pits from the track the engines behind him came to life. His blood ran cold and a chill gripped his spine as he listened to the engines rev.
Jonathon’s heart rate, only 42 beats per minute at rest, was 160. Jon had prepared hard for the moment, and was ready for his first Formula 1 race. Skill, far more than luck, was why he sat strapped into his earthborn rocket.
Craig watched the clock tick down to zero and focused on the cars as they moved away to do one low speed lap. Jonathon started smoothly; a cloud of tire smoke hung over his third place position. Experts say no one short of an experienced race driver can get a Formula 1 machine moving from rest, let alone drive it. 180 beats-per-minute. Not even the great, multiple world champion Michael Schumacher started as far up on the grid in his first attempt. Three minutes passed before the cars returned to their designated starting slots, each marked by painted lines.
All attention turned to a row of five red lights suspended over the track, which illuminate one at a time and then go dark simultaneously. Approximately 18,000 horsepower will be unleashed as the cars rocket toward turn one with a fury unknown in any other sport on earth. 200 beats-per-minute. Jonathon gives his safety belts a final tug, engages first gear and closes his helmet visor.
Luck. Sometimes it has absolutely nothing to do with anything. It just happens. Twenty-five years earlier, Jim, one of Craig’s two older brothers, stood on a sidewalk in Santa Monica, California. Jim, with his friends Mark and Tom, were told that a nearby apartment building was a whorehouse, and if one hung around untold pleasures might be theirs. The then 17 year old took a long pull from a can of Coors hidden in a brown paper bag, swallowed with satisfaction, and watched a car pull to the curb not far away.
The car’s door opened and a pair of long, shapely legs appeared. A sexy young woman gracefully stood, adjusted her almost illegal-length mini-skirt and walked toward the three boys.
As she passed by on her way to the building’s front gate Mark said, “Hey, baby. How much do you charge?”
The young woman turned and said, “Excuse me?”
Mark said, “You work here, don’t you? How much for a little action?”
“You want action? How about if I call the cops? How about if I run down the sidewalk yelling rape?”
“Ah, shit. Calm down, bitch.”
“Fuck you,” the woman replied, slamming the wrought iron gate behind her.
Put in his place, Mark continued to curse her as she walked into the building, finally gave up, and the boys made their way back to the car. They spent another half an hour watching darkened windows, finished their beers, threw the empties out the window and headed across town. When they reached the west end of Wilshire Boulevard Jim turned right onto Ocean Avenue, made a left at the California Incline and drove down to the Pacific Coast Highway. Several miles later they stopped at a small bar on the beach in Malibu.
As they walked in they noticed the one and only pool table had drawn a crowd; a row of challenger’s quarters lined its rail. They moved to the bar and bellowed a hello to Sammy, who worked the place with a waitress named Sherry. Sammy, always good for a beer unless law enforcement was in the building, would wave Jim and his buddies to the back door and Sherry would bring them their brews. The coast was clear.
Jim led the way outside and down a rickety staircase; the boys kicked off their shoes and walked barefoot to one of a few small tables scattered on the beach. Sherry, dressed in a white blouse tucked into tight denim shorts, walked toward them and put their beer on the table. As she bent forward her shirt, unbuttoned far lower than most women of the day dared, fell open nicely, and the boys stared at her exposed breasts. She drew more appreciative glances from the three teenagers as she walked away; the soft sand accentuated the sway of her hips.
A few minutes later a boy named Kurt walked up the beach from the surfboard shop he worked at and shouted a noisy greeting.
“Hey guys, thanks a lot. Where’s mine?” he said, pointing at the three beers on the weathered table.
“Get your own,” said Mark.
“You know he won’t serve me.”
“Too bad, pal,” said Mark, laughing. “What are you doing workin’ so late?”
“I’m making myself a new board, and man, I’m going to blow everybody away the next time the surf’s up.”
As this exchange took place Jim sat quietly. He sported his usual smug look, and although his mind was far away his eyes burned bright with intelligence. It was anyone’s guess what thoughts they hid.
Kurt switched subjects, and boasted how fast his car was with the new carburetor on it.
Jim said, “Let’s go up to County Line; I’ll race you for fifty bucks.”
Kurt accepted the challenge and the boys raced south to Trancas Canyon, with the understanding if the cops stopped them the bet was off. Scrub pines and Bots Dots flew past; a long picket fence became a blur as they covered the six miles at speeds close to a hundred miles an hour. They hurtled past their finish line and pulled into a parking lot at Zuma Beach. The two teens climbed from their cars and while they talked about the race the right front tire on Jim’s car blew out. They stood staring at it. Less than five minutes earlier Jim had passed Tommy on Tommy’s left. It was clear to them if it had blown then the game might have been all over. Luck.
Lady Luck was Jim’s friend. At the tender age of ten he and Rochelle, his twin sister, found a way to get under a boardwalk in Atlantic City, New Jersey. They had grown restless on the fourth day of their annual family outing to the seashore, had finished a round of miniature golf and wondered where the balls went after they rolled into the cup on the eighteenth green. They found a large bucket, filled with brightly colored balls, nestled in the sand below the last hole. As they watched, a green ball dropped into the galvanized pail from above.
Jim and Rochelle exchanged wicked smiles, scooped up as many balls as they could carry and, one by one threw them into the ocean. As they attempted to outdo each other a trap door opened in the pier’s floor and the game’s manager dropped to the damp sand to collect his golf balls.
He saw the two kids and yelled, “You little bastards!”
The twins ran as fast as they could, and the man behind them followed until he tired. As he fell back he screamed, “I’ll kill you little fuckers if I see you here again!”
When Jim and Rochelle reached safety they collapsed on the warm, white sand and laughed until their stomachs hurt.
Three years passed, to a warm summer evening in 1971. Jim and Rochelle squatted next to a hedge that bordered a quiet city sidewalk. Jim had just climbed down from a huge tree whose branches reached far out over the asphalt of the street; he held a six-inch long wood dowel in his hands. On the rod was a ball of string not unlike that used for kite flying. The string played out and disappeared up into the darkness of the tree, and when Jim released a few feet of the twine a thick, foot long piece of branch fell from the tree’s lowest boughs, directly above a traffic lane. Jim pulled on the string and hoisted the chunk of wood until it once again blended with the tree.
Rochelle said, “Now what?”
“Elle,” Jim said, using the name he had started calling his sister, “just watch.”
“You’re not going to hit a car with that, are you?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You can’t do that!”
“Sis, I can. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got these,” said Jim as he cupped his genitals with his free hand.
“Oh brother,” said Rochelle as a car turned onto the street.
From their hiding place behind the hedge they watched a Corvair approach. Jim waited, and then released the string. The heavy branch missed the little car’s roof and trunk, its driver unaware.
The next guy wasn’t so lucky. Jim got his timing right, and the piece of wood hit a big Buick’s windshield dead center. At approximately forty miles an hour the man behind the wheel slammed on his brakes, swerved violently, sideswiped a parked vehicle, and littered the road with a trail of broken glass and car parts.
Behind the foliage Jim pulled the branch up into the tree, tied the string to the dowel and stuffed it into the dense hedge. Laughing, he said, “Let’s get out of here!”
The two thirteen year olds ran a couple of blocks, walked calmly into a malt shop and ordered sundaes. After Jim’s adrenaline rush subsided Rochelle looked at him and said, “Jimmy boy, you’re fuckin’ nuts.”
Jim’s luck held. A few years after the speed contest with Kurt Jim invited Craig and some others to a party at the house his childhood sweetheart rented with two roommates. It was late afternoon on a beautiful June day. The barbecue awaited burgers and dogs, and Craig finished a conversation in the kitchen. As he moved into the living room he watched Jim walk out through the sliding glass door, the closed sliding glass door.
Shards of glass, large and small, burst outward, producing an odd cacophony of noise from loud crashes to the faintest of tinkles. Momentary flashes of brilliant color burst from the falling pieces before they landed on the concrete at Jim’s feet. He made it from inside to outside and stood motionless until the noise stopped. Everyone gathered around as closely as the glass on the patio would allow. Not a single spot of red could be seen from any angle, from Jim’s almost black hair to his white Vans sneakers. Carefully, he stepped away from the house as brooms and dustpans appeared and the cleanup job was accomplished.
Jim removed his shoes, checked for glass, put them back on, and stood up. His girlfriend walked around him about five times; not one single cut, not even a scratch.
Chapter 2
The present. A huge, white cruise ship slid silently through the clear, dark Caribbean water. Soft music from a ballroom drifted peacefully from windows and doors open to the warm, night air. Lights from the ship's many decks reflected in the water’s mirror-like surface, disturbed only by the low, gentle wake from the vessel’s bow. The ship’s staff always enjoyed the third night of this particular cruise. The ship had been underway for a number of hours and after most of its guests were peacefully tucked into their beds the crew would drop anchor at just the right place, to create a spectacular setting for the next morning. The scene that awaited the passengers at sunrise was a vista that included a ring of islands with stunning white beaches and blue water so clear fish could be seen swimming lazily thirty feet below the surface. Shuttle boats would pick up the passengers who wanted to explore the closest of the islands, sample their food, and return with native treasures to take home.
After the evening meal and scheduled entertainment happy travelers made their way slowly to their staterooms. Two men stood by the railing of the fourth deck, toward the front of the vessel, observing.
The men had boarded the ship at the outset of the cruise and watched as other vacationers disembarked from limousines, shuttle-vans, taxis and private vehicles. According to the information they were given they knew there would be three single females, unaccompanied by males, on the trip.
They watched the one listed as traveling alone, a nice looking redhead, come by taxi, check her bags and walk up the boarding ramp. The two observers checked their notes, assumed she was Melanie Walker, and wandered along behind her until she reached her room. They noted her cabin’s number and immediately returned to the arrival area and resumed their watch.
About an hour before the ship’s scheduled departure two scantily clad females in their early twenties emerged from a limousine as their driver retrieved their bags from the trunk. The ladies watched him carry their luggage to a check-in counter, had their tickets stamped and walked, hips swaying, up the boarding ramp carrying small overnight cases.
A bet was made on whether the women wanted to spend time together, or if they intended to ruin a couple of marriages during the cruise. The men followed them as they strolled slowly along the decks until they reached their cabin. Once again, the room number was jotted down.
The men tracked the occupants of both rooms for the first two days and nights. Both nights they saw the redhead walk as far forward as she could, on the deck her room was on, to enjoy a last cigarette before bed. Tonight they waited for her. They knew that people were predictable, and the young woman didn't let them down. Shortly before midnight they saw a splash of light appear on the deck outside her door. Almost as quickly the light disappeared as Walker pulled the door shut behind her.
“Show time,” whispered one of the men.
They leaned on the railing, talking quietly, as the sound of Melanie’s flip-flop sandals approached. As she walked behind them the taller man quickly pulled his hand from his pocket, reached around behind her, and clamped a chloroform-soaked cloth over her nose and mouth. As her body went limp the second man opened the door to a nearby restroom, and the woman was pulled inside. They laid her on the floor; one man retrieved a professionally printed OUT OF ORDER sign, which they hid earlier in the day, and hung it on the outside of the door. The second man felt the pockets of her shorts and found her room key. He went outside, walked to her room and entered. He quickly packed her belongings, did a wipe-down of the room, placed a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outer doorknob, and carried her luggage outside. He allowed the door to swing closed and lock behind him, threw her keys over the side and went back to the bathroom where his partner waited.
Just over an hour later the cruise ship reached its destination, and as the anchor was being lowered, a small, electric-powered craft made its way silently toward the white ship’s port side. Its pilot saw the flashlight signal he was looking for and maneuvered his boat directly below it. Less than a minute later he could see his cargo being lowered at the end of a rope.
As the redhead’s unconscious body got within reach he supported her and laid her on a bench seat. He untied the bags attached to the line, gave a firm double-tug on the rope, and watched its end disappear into the darkness above him.
Looking down at his new passenger, he smiled and thought, “You’re going to bring more than the average, baby.” He threw a dark-colored blanket over Walker’s limp body and pulled away from the side of the cruise ship as quietly as he had approached only minutes earlier.
The small boat followed a course that allowed it to pass directly between the two nearest islands, after which its pilot turned north. He pulled alongside a beautiful Bayliner pleasure craft and tossed a line to a man who was waiting for him. After securing the two boats together, another man appeared on the Bayliner’s deck, and together they transferred the redhead and carried her to a below deck cabin. They hurriedly disconnected the line and the larger boat sped northwest.
The small craft turned, circled the nearest island, pulled into a small west-facing harbor and tied up at an empty dock. Its operator walked along the pier, climbed on a waiting motorbike and rode along a narrow access road that followed the shoreline until he reached his tiny house. Secure in the knowledge that a messenger would deliver a sealed package to him the next day, he fell asleep knowing he just earned three months pay in one night, and best of all, it was tax-free.
Chapter 3
1976. Jim and Rochelle became the apples of their parent’s eyes when they both gained admittance to the University of California at Los Angeles. Jumping straight from high school to a major university suited them well. Rochelle worked hard to achieve success while Jim hardly worked. Jim excelled in math classes that other students dropped. Rochelle became fascinated with a pre-med program while Jim stretched his mind finding easy entrance to fellow classmate’s wallets. Rochelle studied until three in the morning, rose at six a.m., walked three miles and went to class. Jim played poker and blackjack until three a.m.; perfected his ability to memorize cards he had seen face up and continually calculated his odds of winning. He got so good he would fold winning hands to avoid walking away from a game with too much money.
As a 21 year-old junior Jim traveled to Las Vegas for a poker tournament, and won the first prize of $50,000 for his efforts. During his stay he met a couple of characters that, between them, had about twenty hookers that worked in the city. They knew the girl’s activities were illegal and they bragged to Jim how they managed to stay just out of reach of the law.
Intrigued by this new information Jim returned to school and placed an ad for girls who wanted to make some easy cash. To his surprise his phone rang off the hook for three days. He arranged interviews and dismissed all but three of the young women, the three who were eager to disrobe for him in his dorm room.
Two weeks later Jim turned his girls loose on a Friday night in Westwood, near the campus. The next morning, after the girls delivered almost $3,000 to him, a fire began to burn inside Jim. He wanted money, lots of it, and he began to see how to get it. His fertile mind began to calculate a different set of odds, how to remain insulated from the cops. Jim never kept notes or jotted down thoughts. Jim never forgot anything.
Rochelle knocked on Jim’s door one morning early in the twin’s senior year. Jim opened it and said, “Hi, Elle.”
“Hi Jimmy.” She stretched to kiss him on the cheek, not because Jim was big, but because she was small.
“What’s cookin’?”
“Jim, I want to go to med school.”
“Can you get accepted?”
“Oh hell yeah. My obstacle is the money.”
“How are you planning on paying me back?”
“Twins don’t usually have sex, so that’s out.”
“Damn. I’ve been keeping myself pure all these years, and now you tell me you won’t do it with me.”
“Jimmy, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, you’re fuckin’ nuts.”
“Since we left mom’s womb I’ve wanted to kiss your tits. I’m really shattered.”
“Oh come on! You’re starting to worry me. What’s the matter, doesn’t Rebecca put out?”
“Sure she does. Seriously, what’s it cost?”
“What, for me to have sex with you?”
“Stop that already. Med school…”
“A lot.”
“I’ve got a lot; go ahead and apply but do some of it with student loans.”
Rochelle jumped up from her chair, leaned over and hugged Jim tightly. “No one, anywhere, has a twin sweeter than you! Thanks Jimmy!”
“Now will you have sex with me?”
“Sorry. No time. I’ve got papers to fill out!” She blew him a kiss and was gone.
Chapter 4
1982. Craig Adams drove slowly along a quiet neighborhood street near where his parents lived. He heard an engine, a loud engine, come to life nearby. Looking down a driveway the noise was coming from he saw a racecar moving slowly toward a trailer that was parked facing a backyard garage. A young boy stood next to the trailer guiding the car up the trailer’s ramps.
Craig had always been drawn to racecars, so he parked his car at the curb and walked back to get a closer look. Jon Graves glanced over his shoulder. Somehow he sensed Craig behind him even with the racket and distraction the racecar created.
Jon smiled and said, “Hi.”
“Hi.” Craig waited until the car was in position on the trailer and shut off. “I’m Craig. I heard the car…”
“I’m Jon,” the boy immediately said.
“And I’m Jon’s dad, Avery,” said the man climbing out through the door window of the racecar.
“Hi. Where do you race?”
“Willow Springs.”
“That’s out past Lancaster, in the high desert, right?”
“Yes, you been out there?”
“A while ago. I love racing, but don’t know anyone who does it.”
“You do now. Do you live around here?”
“Across the gully, on Dunes Road.”
“Do you want to come with us this weekend?”
“Sure! I’ll check with my parents, but I’m sure it’ll be okay.”
“If you don’t want to drive your car, there’s plenty of room in our truck if you want to ride with us.”
“Great.” Noticing the SCCA club decal on the side of the car, Craig asked, “How long have you raced with Sports Car Club of America?”
“This is my sixth year.” Pointing at Jon, he added, “He’s already got three years under his belt as my pit crew.”
Craig said to Jon, “Are you going to want to drive someday?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve done a little karting already, but I haven’t driven anything fast yet.” He looked at his dad and said, “Now that we’re on this subject, how about a faster kart, dad?”
Avery laughed and said, “Give me five wins and we’ll step up. You know I want you completely comfortable at the level you’re at.”
Jon turned back to Craig and said, “I can already slide the kart in a corner and I know my lines. I could win if dad got me new tires instead of buying used ones.”
“I’m sure your dad does everything for a reason. Be patient and good things will happen.” Craig could see that Avery appreciated that remark. Continuing, Craig said, “How old are you, Jon?”
“Seven.”
Amazed by his composure and awareness, Craig said to Avery, “I don’t know what to bring with me.”
He said, “Jeans, work gloves if you have them, T-shirts, a couple of sweatshirts, and sneakers. Bring a couple of changes because I might have to put you to work.”
“Great. When do we leave?”
“About eight this evening. Do you mind leaving your car in front of our house?”
“Nope. I’ll be back then. Thank you, sir. See ‘ya later, Jon.”
That weekend began the finest of friendships. Craig went to many races with Avery and Jon. He was with them when Jon won his first kart race, and his second, and his third, all on used tires. Avery was teaching the kid car control, teaching him to stay within the limits of what he had both in ability and the car’s ability. It was apparent that Jon was good, maybe even special.
He finally got his new tires and ran away from the entire field, cruising to an easy win almost a minute ahead of the second place finisher. Craig kept a lap chart that race and noticed when it was over that, even with a huge lead, Jon’s lap times never varied by much. Jon stayed focused, made no mistakes, and went as quickly as he could. While watching him during those wonderful race weekends, Avery taught Craig and Jon about racing, teamwork, and a little bit about life. The three knew that a rare bond of friendship had formed.
Chapter 5
1984. Jim promised Craig, Rochelle and their older brother Quentin a year of excitement and financial good fortune. Jim, Craig and Quentin bought their first expensive real estate. Jim was in charge of that venture, and Craig, twenty years young and impressionable, did almost anything his brothers asked of him. Quentin recently sold his first business and Jim managed to convince him that legally avoiding paying tax was good. Quentin showed absolute faith in Jim, and wrote him a six-figure check. The Adam’s investment portfolio grew to a pretty impressive amount almost overnight.
Quentin’s business was electronics, and when a business like that is sold the transaction can be done in a myriad of ways. In Quentin’s case there was a substantial cash payment plus stock options. Quentin was confident the company buying his firm was solid, therefore stock options would be good. It might even make him rich someday. He turned over the cash to Jim, who bought a 110-unit apartment complex in San Diego, with both the windfall from Quentin along with the sale proceeds from a first venture, a six-unit building in El Cajon. The small building was bought two years earlier with personal funds that Jim, Rochelle and Craig managed to scrape together. At least, that’s what Craig thought. His money certainly went into the building, as did Rochelle’s, but Craig discovered years later that Jim had used borrowed money.
When the six-unit complex sold, Rochelle opted out of the partnership the siblings had started. Although she was a rebel of sorts she managed to make it to medical school by the tender age of 23, and would be practicing on her twenty-seventh birthday. When the big building was purchased Jim and Rochelle were 26, and Quentin was 30. Rochelle’s reason for getting out of the fledging enterprise was, in hindsight, one that made perfect sense. She felt she didn’t live close enough to her investment to kick its tires.
Craig sensed he and his brothers were getting somewhere. Quentin started a new company and Craig’s comic book store was doing well. Jim produced glowing reports that showed how much money the partnership was making by having him run the show. To prove how right he was, he took Craig and Quentin to the Caribbean for a week, all expenses paid, to eat island cuisine, lay in the sun and snorkel. Yes, the Adam’s kids were getting somewhere, except for Rochelle, who was not invited to go. Craig missed her during the trip, and thought Jim’s decision to not bring her was ridiculous.
Craig said, “Rochelle should be with us.”
Jim said, “She wanted out, now she’s out.” And that was that.
During the evening of the third day of the vacation the three brothers sat on a balcony, satiated by barbecued lobster, island fruit and cold beer. Jim took it upon himself to lecture on the merits of being heavily in debt on one’s deathbed because “they” can’t force you to pay after you’re dead.
Years later Craig thought about that comment, and how it probably was the moment he should have run, not walked, but run away. He should have gone straight to his room, packed, and hopped aboard the first plane out of there. Hindsight, it’s been said, is 20/20. Craig also realized that Jim never spoke about debt in the presence of their father, who lived an honorable and productive life.
After the Caribbean vacation Jim began to exercise his newfound power by beginning a mind-boggling string of, in real estate parlance, re-fis. Refinancing a mortgage is done to obtain a more favorable financial position, by reducing the interest rate, which lowers the monthly payment. It’s also done to take advantage of an equity gain, by creating a new loan for a larger amount and pulling out the difference, or equity, in cash. Doing either achieves leverage, which in turn can be used to buy more property.
About the same time, Quentin and Craig began to hear the name Harborview Management more often. Apparently Jim and Fred Black, owner of Harborview, had gotten together somehow. Jim called Black the answer, a Stanford Business School graduate who, according to Jim, knew it all and would show the way to untold riches. Listening to Jim one could easily picture Fred Black walk on water. Time passed; Craig was busy running his business, Quentin was busy growing his new one, and they received occasional reassurances that everything with the real estate venture was going well.
Until existing depreciation rules, which allowed the huge tax write-offs being taken by owners of rental property, had to change. Unfortunately Jim didn’t react to the rumors and when his brothers questioned his strategy he answered, “No problem.”
“But I think we do have a problem,” Craig said.
“How do you figure?” he asked.
“If rental property isn’t going to be as desirable a thing to own, how can it retain its value?”
“You obviously don’t understand,” he said. “It’s the per-unit earning power that drives the investment; the tax benefit is secondary.”
“Then how come we’re not making money?”
“What do you mean, not making money?” he answered, becoming slightly indignant.
“I haven’t seen a dividend check with my name on it, and it’s been a few years now.”
“Well, there’s maintenance costs, we had unusual vacancy rates, and the military enlarged their on-base housing.”
Excuses. Always excuses. Craig, angry, asked, “So it’s not because you over-financed everything, went too fast with re-investing and now we’re so heavily mortgaged we’re upside down?”
“Why don’t you go back to work on Monday morning, run your little comic book store, and let me handle this deal. You don’t understand it, and you probably don’t have the capacity to learn it.”
And with that statement Craig saw Jim’s superiority complex rise into plain view.
Chapter 6
A few hours after Melanie Walker’s transfer, the Bayliner fell in line with a couple of other pleasure boats and trailed them into a marina. It headed toward a row of boathouses situated on the west side of the boat basin and pulled smoothly into one of them.
The young woman with red hair, who should have been sipping from a glass of fresh orange juice while she enjoyed the view from the cruise ship, was locked inside a tiny, hidden compartment in front of the below deck passenger lounge. After she regained consciousness she immediately became ill, throwing up on herself. She tried to stand and was again sick, fortunately not as violently as the first time. She was badly frightened and sat huddled in a corner of her tiny prison.
The air was thick, humid, and hot, and the last water she drank was with dinner the evening before. She forced herself to stand and regained some of her equilibrium, just before the boat stopped. A few minutes later she heard a click and watched a panel in the teakwood wall open, dimly lighting her space. Two men standing at the doorway beckoned her to come out.
She stiffened with fear and as she passed through into a bedroom she felt a needle puncture the skin below her shoulder. In moments she felt herself relax. One of the men commented on how badly she stunk, and together they removed her clothing. They washed her body with warm water and a sponge, and although she knew what was happening, she felt strangely apathetic regarding the whole thing.
She realized that both men were suddenly naked, and she was on her back, and one of them was inside her. She blinked her eyes, she thought it was only a blink, and when she reopened them the other man was on top of her. She blinked again and she was walking drunkenly down a path lined with fences covered in bougainvillea. She was dressed in her shorts, top and her flip-flops. More time was lost and once again she was lying down, and then the darkness came, and she slept.
Chapter 7
1986. For all of Jim’s comprehension of the complexities of real estate investment, the Adam’s partnership found itself in trouble. Their 3.4 million-dollar apartment complex was worth 2.9 million, and the brothers were carrying a 3.1 million-dollar mortgage. With no money available for advertising and no way to generate funds, Harborview Management let maintenance slip. Of the 110 units in the complex, seven were badly damaged and not suitable for occupancy. Combine those with 14 vacancies explained away by Jim’s excuses, and suddenly they had a vacancy rate of 19 percent. The mortgage at the time was structured as a break-even at 15 percent, so the partnership’s flagship started to lose money. A vicious downward spiral had begun.
“Not to worry,” Jim said. “I have a banker in my hip pocket who I’ve been carefully working. I’ve just about got him in a position to help us.”
“How?” Craig said.
“The first thing we have to do is sell our partnership share of one of the smaller complexes. Fred will move some money from one of his investments into ours. That will give us a picture of strength. Then the banker will come into the picture. He just wrote me a loan for $100,000 and promised another $400,000.”
Quentin and Craig’s naivete took over and they both were relieved that, in the face of adversity, Jim had saved the day. They never stopped to think that they were going to be another half a million dollars in the hole, with interest payments due the first of every month and a balloon payment for all of it due in two short years. The new loans were structured to allow the partners to hold on to a building that couldn’t financially justify its own existence; all they could see was financial salvation.
Jim continued to blame the government’s policies, the military, and the city’s lousy campaign to entice people to move there. He continued telling Quentin and Craig that he and Fred Black were in total control and there would be no problem. All the while he kept himself busy by investing personally in a fast food restaurant and a small string of coin-operated Laundromats. Craig heard a rumor that Jim had a couple of girls working out of a fleabag motel on the south side of the city. If that rumor was true, one could only guess what else he was involved with and what he was capable of.
Six years passed and by 1992 Jim became a re-fi champion. A couple of partnership shares were sold, the 110-unit complex continued to lose money and the notes issued by the banker in Jim’s pocket were past due after being renegotiated a couple of times. Quentin and Craig learned of an account that Harborview referred to as the Tar Pit, and Craig made a silent vow to find out what that was all about.
Then one morning a Marshall showed up at Craig’s store, and in front of his employees served him with a court order. Craig, more like his father than his three siblings, was at first embarrassed, and then angered by this latest development. The court order was a demand that Craig’s own corporation was going to have to garner his wages. Craig did some quick number crunching and decided he could get through the next six months, after that he would have to start scrambling.
Craig opened his store at the tender age of 19, lived at home at the time, and immediately began making money. He had always loved comic books, gag gifts and other items of that genre. He knew a lot about them, which enabled him to price items with profit in mind, because competition in the field was minimal. He enjoyed the niche he had carved for himself, and he enjoyed his independence. Now, because of Jim, Craig was going to have to send a substantial amount of his own wages to the court. The longer Craig dwelled on the court order, the more pissed off he got.
Quentin answered his phone on the first ring. “Data-Tek, may we help you?”
“Where’s your secretary?” Craig asked.
“In the bathroom.”
“I just got a wage garnishment order. What’s this bullshit all about?”
“I got mine this morning.”
“Obviously, I don’t see a way to get around this. Jim’s banker is sure in our corner, huh? These are the loans Jim was supposed to use to make things right, but the whole deal’s in the tank.”
“Craig, we’re going to have to work on this. I want to fly to San Diego and take a look at our building. I also want to drop in on Harborview Management unannounced and find out what they’re all about.
Craig said, “I don’t have enough money to last long, they’re taking almost half my take-home pay.”
“Same with me. Let me work on this and I’ll get back to you.”
The garnishment lasted longer than six months, but Craig held on until Quentin came up with a way to make the bank happy. He drew a check against his corporation as a loan to himself and passed the money along. Once again, the brothers dodged the foreclosure bullet and managed to keep an apartment complex that was worth about $700,000 less than what they owed on it, and continued to lose money. The partnership was desperate to retain their ownership position because the tax ramifications would have been severe had the lenders taken the building from them.
As Craig stepped from the shower at 7:00 a.m., one rainy morning in February 1994, he heard the insistent ringing in his bedroom. Craig answered and his mom said, “Craig, I have some very bad news.”
“What’s going on, mom?”
“Your dad passed away last night.”
Craig was stunned speechless. He knew he had to say something, but couldn’t. His chest tightened, he remembered that he had just talked with his dad a couple of days earlier and he sounded fine.
“Craig?”
Dad was in his mid-seventies, and other than some arthritis, was in pretty good shape. Now he was gone. Still no words came. Panic threatened to set in, but passed. Craig’s knees grew weak and he sat on the edge of his bed. Logic and reason flew out the window. He looked around the room, not seeing anything.
“Mom, are you all right?” Craig managed to say.
“He had a very peaceful expression, almost angelic, on his face. I went to wake him for breakfast and he wouldn’t move. Then I knew.”
“I’ll be over as soon as I can. Do you want me to call Rochelle, Jim, and Quentin?”
“No, I will, honey.”
“Okay. I’ll see you shortly.”
“Bye, bye.”
Craig, sitting motionless, reflected on the fact that mom and dad started having kids late, at 30, and that he was probably an accident, though they always told him otherwise. Tears welled up in his eyes.
The next few weeks were a real low. Mom and dad owned three houses, two of which were rented, and one they lived in. There was a small amount of stock and some personal treasures that accumulated during a marriage lasting more than fifty years. The Adam’s siblings had just begun to recover from the premature tragedy when their mom died, probably from a broken heart.
Now everything Frederick and Clare had owned belonged to Quentin, Jim, Rochelle, and Craig. Quentin, as the oldest, was appointed the executor of the estate, but passed the position down to Jim because Quentin’s business was robust enough to be experiencing growing pains of immense proportion. He felt that blood ran thicker than water, and if you couldn’t trust a sibling whom could you trust?
Craig’s business, on the other hand, was going the other direction. Not into the tank, but it was having its fourth consecutive down year. He was caught in the evil trickle-down web that the collapse of the Southern California aerospace industry had spun. The area found out how severe its economy would be impacted by the loss of 30,000 workers; most earned an average of about $45,000 per year. The damage took Southern California many years to recover from, and by the time Craig was once again taking home a decent paycheck his parent’s estate was developing some ominous undertones.
Jim decided the house the sibling’s parents had occupied was pretty nice, so he moved in. All three properties were listed for sale and with those listings came a giant dose of reality. The same problems that adversely affected Craig’s business took their toll on property values. Some houses had decreased in value almost 40 percent and bankruptcy sales were common. The kids got lucky. The cheapest of the three houses, which also happened to carry the biggest mortgage, sold for close to what they hoped to get for it. They didn’t walk away with much cash, but their lives became a little simpler.
The big house Jim took over was shown a couple of times and one lowball offer was refused. The older rental was attracting no interest whatsoever. The Adam’s kids felt the need to reduce the asking price, but Jim fought it at every meeting. He did not pay rent to Quentin, Rochelle and Craig for three-quarters of what could be considered a fair lease price. Five months passed. They finally lowered the asking price 15 percent on each property and the big house sold. Before that event another loan to the real estate partnership had come due and Jim told his siblings he would do a re-fi on one of the houses.
Of course, this re-fi would have to be in all four names, because, unlike the apartment business of which Jim was the Managing General Partner, the estate was an entity divided into four equal parts. Jim showed up at Craig’s store at 5:15 p.m. for a signature, right in the middle of the most frantic part of Craig’s day. Jim made it clear he was in a big hurry to catch a 6:30 flight out of Los Angeles International Airport. Craig signed and Jim was gone as quickly as he had arrived. Later, Craig learned that Jim had done the same thing to Quentin; interrupted a meeting that Quentin was in with visiting executives of a multi-national company. Quentin told Craig he talked with Rochelle earlier and she told him Jim had shown up in her operating room and had her sign the loan document during a surgery. Fortunately she was teaching, as she watched over her students she signed with barely a look at what it said.
When Craig’s copies of the loan documents arrived in the mail he put them in a file at the end of a very long day, one that was spent working and fighting a bad head cold, and he didn’t bother to look at them again.
A few weeks passed and escrow closed on the big house. The older, smaller house had been vacant for a couple of months, so Jim loaded up his stuff and moved into it. Shortly after, he told Quentin, Rochelle and Craig that he had a chance to get another re-fi done with a great interest rate.
Craig asked, “Why?”
He said, “You just don’t understand, do you? When a great deal’s available with a lender, you jump on it.”
Anger flashed in Craig’s eyes, and he said, “Just like the one that ended up having my wages garnished and embarrassed the hell out of me when the court served me papers in front of my employees?”
Jim laughed and said, “Fuck the employees, they don’t mean shit. Craig, keep your little life in order, and I’ll manage the money. There’s light at the end of the tunnel.”
“Is it a train coming at us?”
A few days later, it was déjà vu. Rushing to catch a flight, Jim stopped by Craig’s store about half an hour before closing time, rushed him through the signatures as he tried to do business with a group of German tourists, and was gone.
Later, after Craig closed for the night, he wondered where Jim flew to all the time. He wondered about the latest re-fi. He wondered where the money from the sale of the big house was. He pushed those distractions aside, finished the day's business and went home too tired to think about it further.
The next morning Craig woke up at about 5:00 a.m. He lay in bed for a couple of minutes, then got up and walked down the hall to his home office. He took out the file for the estate, removed the first of the re-fi documents, which are called Settlement Agreements, and started thumbing through the pages. A column of numbers was listed under the heading “Debit” in a sub-section titled “Loan Charges.” Inside that section were five entries that appeared to be credit card accounts. Across from each was a dollar amount. Craig added them; the total was nearly $140,000.
Craig called Quentin, waking up his wife, Kimberly, who in turn woke up Quentin. He groggily asked, “Who died?”
“Don’t know, but I think we’ve been snookered.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you studied the re-fi Jim did a few weeks ago?”
“No.”
“Get it.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I call you back?”
“Yeah.”
Ten minutes later Craig’s phone rang. He picked up the receiver and said, “Well?”
“I’ve got it. What’s up?”
“You haven’t looked at it yet?”
“No.”
“Look at it.”
After a pregnant pause, Quentin said, “Does this say what I think it says?”
“I think the fuck-head used the re-fi to pay off about $140,000 worth of personal debt. How do you see it?”
“The same way.”
“Have you gotten copies of the most recent refinance yet?”
“No.”
“I wonder who he paid off with our money on that one?”
“Who could be left?”
“I have a hunch we’ll find out. I’ve been wondering about a lot of things lately. Where he goes and how he pays for it are pretty high on the list.”
“We need to do some calcs. There’s a lot of money missing, and now we know we’re $140,000 in the hole for sure.”
“Good idea. Go back to bed. Your wife will probably never speak to me again.”
“Probably not. Talk to you later.”
Craig went back to bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. He couldn’t shake the thought he might have found the tip of an iceberg. All of a sudden the room felt cold. He pulled the blanket up under his chin, lay there and worried.
The following Sunday the four siblings gathered at Quentin’s house. Everyone headed for the large, grassy backyard, selected croquet mallets, colorful matching balls, and began to play. As Jim pulled into an early lead, with Kimberly close behind, Craig and Rochelle brought up the rear.
Jim missed a wicket, Kimberly hit his ball with hers, and on her next shot drove Jim’s ball into a rose garden at the far end of the yard. Amidst whoops and laughter Kimberly continued play while Jim protested loudly.
Craig brought Rochelle a fresh Bud Light, and after her turn he asked, “So, sis, how’s life treating you?”
“Really good, Craig. How about you?”
“Since the divorce crap ended and I got the spousal support adjusted, great.”
“You having problems living alone?”
“Nah. I was alone when Debby was still with me. How ‘bout you, anyone special that we don’t know about?”
“It’s funny. I dig guys, but I love my job more. I’m not desperate.”
“Still working eighty hours a week?”
“Not quite that bad, but guess what?”
“What?”
“I was on call at the ER a couple of weeks ago, and when I got there this guy was sitting in a chair with his eyeball lying on his cheek.”
“Yuck!”
“Yeah, no shit. But you get used to it. Now, remember, I had some micro-surgery training during my residency, so they had me sew the dude’s eye back in. He got shot in the face, the bullet entered at his nose and exited in front of his ear. It cut a path behind his eye and I had to clean out all the bone fragments and then rebuild him. At this point I would bet he’ll be able to use the eye again.”
“Good thing it wasn’t a large caliber weapon. How do you like working with tiny needles and microscopes?”
“It’s fun, but at the same time it’s much harder.”
At that point Kimberly won the first match, called everyone lightweights and went to light her barbecue.
Considering the pressure, caused by the failing partnership, the conversation stayed on amicable terms, although confrontation was always in Craig’s mind.
About a month after the party Quentin called Craig. He said, “When can you meet with me?”
“Tonight or Saturday morning. Saturday would be better.”
“Good. Nine o’clock?”
“Fine with me. What do you have?”
“Enough to continue. We never did get down to San Diego. When can you go south with me?”
Craig said, “Next week. Do we need more than two days?”
“No. I’ve got enough frequent flyer miles so the trip won’t cost you anything. I’ll get the tickets today and see you on Saturday.”
“Later.”
Saturday morning Craig drove to Quentin’s office and they settled in leather chairs at a highly polished table in his conference room. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the space. They each poured a cup and spent a few minutes catching up on life in general. Quentin related that Rochelle asked him to speak on her behalf; she seemed stunned by Jim’s brazen behavior and wished Quentin well in getting the mess straightened out.
Quentin said, “I’ve gone through my files, and there are a lot of holes. How’s your memory for filling in blanks?”
“Without my files I don’t think I can do it. There are documents in there I’ve never read. I’ve always trusted Jim to cover our ass and be honest with the business dealings.”
“I was the same way. Incidentally, I still haven’t gotten copies of the most recent re-fi. Did you?”
“No. Let’s call Jim. If he’s in his office he can fax them to us.”
Quentin walked to a wall-mounted phone near the door, entered a speed dial code and reached Jim’s machine. He hung up without leaving a message and passed a short stack of stapled paper across the table.
He said, “This is what I’ve done so far. I’ve taken every note and re-fi transaction, put them in chronological order and started tracking them.”
Looking down at Quentin’s well-organized preliminary study, Craig could see that indeed there were holes.
Quentin said, “On page five is a list of all of our partnership investments and our percentage of ownership of each, as a partnership and individually.”
Craig turned pages, found number five and read an equally comprehensive listing of various purchases, the date escrow had closed for each and the partnership’s ownership position.
“Nice job.”
“Thanks. When we get to San Diego I want to have a list of items I think we need more info on.”
“Harborview seems to be a key player. I remember reading about a Tar Pit account they’ve got. I want to look at that more closely. We also need their records regarding maintenance, vendors, past due accounts and that sort of thing. Let’s put this crap on paper so we don’t forget anything.”
The two brothers spent the next hour brainstorming, and agreed to meet at the airport Monday morning.
Monday, after their plane landed in San Diego, they walked to the Hertz counter, got a local map and some basic directions on how to get to the general area where the apartment complex was located, collected their rental car and headed out to their building. Neither Craig nor Quentin had seen it so they made their way across town anticipating something good. Finding the address, they pulled into the front entrance and Quentin brought the car to a sudden stop.
Looking through the windshield, Craig said, “My God. We’re slum lords.”
“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” added Quentin. Getting out of the car, they walked slowly into the complex. Five separate buildings were arranged around a courtyard, rather than what they assumed would be one, large structure.
“I can already see where the vacancies come from,” Craig said, noting the weeds growing up through cracks in the concrete walkways. There was an old car tire leaning against the wall next to somebody’s front door, paint was peeling from both stucco and wood and most of the decorative vegetation had died. “Who would want to live here?”
“This place was painted four years ago,” said Quentin.
“I don’t think so.”
“Make a mental note to asterisk the maintenance column, and find the receipt for the work. The color combo screams the ‘70s and the paint looks a hell of a lot older than it supposedly is.”
Stepping across a deep pothole in the parking lot Craig suggested, “Let’s rattle the site manager’s cage and see if we can get in to see one of the vacant apartments.”
“Good idea.”
Quentin pushed a doorbell button under a small sign that identified an office; they could hear a daytime soap playing on a television from somewhere within the apartment. The door opened shortly after they rang the bell a second time, and a young woman chewing on what appeared to be three or four sticks of gum asked if she could help them. Quentin identified Craig and himself as Jim’s brothers, who co-owned the complex with Jim, and told her they would like to see a vacant, ready-to-rent unit, as well as a damaged apartment that was scheduled for repairs.
She led Quentin and Craig to an upstairs unit first, one that was heavily damaged by the last occupants, two college students who were evicted. When she opened the door they were taken by surprise at how much repair work the unit needed. The facade on the fireplace was torn loose, the large mirror over the mantel was broken and there was a large dark stain in the beige carpet at their feet. The apartment smelled of something between urine and mildew, which caused Craig to recoil slightly. As they walked into the tiny kitchen they noticed the Formica countertop had numerous cigarette burns, the faucet dripped steadily, the stove knobs were missing, and two of the cabinet doors were ripped from their hinges and leaned against a wall. The sliding glass door leading to a balcony wouldn’t close and its torn screen was lying on the floor outside.
Craig asked the manager, “How long has this unit been vacant?”
After thinking a moment she deposited her gum in a cheek and said, “About four months.”
Quentin asked, “What’s the estimate to fix this place?”
“I think it was about three thousand dollars, plus carpet.”
“No way,” he answered, somewhat incredulous.
She said, “You haven’t seen the bedrooms yet.”
Following her, the brothers immediately saw what most of the cost would be for. The window in the first bedroom was broken, there were holes in the drywall, the closet doors were damaged and one hung from its remaining track wheel.
Looking down at the carpet Craig said, “I could never walk into this room barefoot.”
The second bedroom was almost as bad and the bathroom between them had a cracked basin, a broken mirror and a badly stained toilet.
Turning to the manager, Quentin said, “This place is disgusting. Could you show us the unit that’s ready to rent, please?”
Smiling, she said, “Sure. Anything to get out of here; follow me.”
They trailed her down the outside stairs, across the parking lot and up to the second floor of the smallest of the buildings. She unlocked the door and held it open. Again the smell, although less potent, hit Craig and Quentin as they walked inside.
She said, “All the buildings with older carpet get this way. These should have been replaced before the last tenant. All kinds of stuff gets tracked in and nobody takes their shoes off when they’re wet or dirty.” She cracked her gum a couple of times, returned the huge wad to a cheek, and continued, “The stuff soaks through the carpet, and eventually starts to rot the wood sub-floor. That’s what you smell.”
“Why don’t you put linoleum or laminate in the entry area? It doesn’t seem like it would cost much.”
She said, “Harborview talks about it, but according to them renters want carpets, not hard floors.”