Flinch Factor, The Read online

  He opened the passenger door and gave me a wink. “Let’s do it.”

  ***

  A woman in her thirties opened the door. In the background were the sounds of a television cartoon—the boings, boinks and accompanying music—at high volume.

  “Yes?”

  She had the slightly-harried look of a mother with young children.

  I gave her a sympathetic smile.

  “We’re so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Carswold. My name is—”

  “—I’m not Mrs. Carswold. They don’t live here anymore.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize—”

  “—they moved about a year ago. We bought their home. I think they moved to Florida. That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Do you need to contact them?”

  “Actually, we were—” I paused and looked toward Benny with a wifely smile.

  “We’re not here to sell anything,” he said to her in a reassuring voice. “And we’re not missionaries. I promise. My wife and I are planning to build an addition to our house. One of the contractors we talked to did your addition. We tried to call to see if it was okay to come over and look at their work, but your number—or, actually, the Carswolds’ number—wasn’t in the phone book. But we happened to be in the neighborhood anyway, so we thought we’d drop by to see if anyone was home.”

  She smiled. “No problem. I’m Joanne Clark. Go around back. I’ll meet you there and show you the deck and porch.”

  ***

  Corundum Construction Company did quality work. That was obvious the moment we reached the back. The redwood deck was on three levels and included a hot tub, a wet bar, hanging gardens, and a beautiful dining area. Joanne Clark showed us around the enormous enclosed porch, which featured a ceramic tiled floor, beautiful woodwork, heavy oak beams overhead, and a dramatic stone fireplace. Having been through my own renovation projects, I could tell this one had cost plenty.

  “Have you met the contractor?” I asked.

  “I don’t even know who it was.”

  “Does Corundum Construction ring a bell?’

  “No.” She gave me a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry.”

  “They do nice work,” I said. “Thanks for letting us see it.”

  “Oh, my pleasure.”

  “I’m sorry we weren’t able to call in advance. If they moved to Florida, that explains why their telephone number wasn’t listed anymore.”

  “Actually, I don’t think they were listed even when they lived here. I remember our realtor had to give us their phone number. But you would have had just as much trouble reaching us.”

  “You’re not listed either?”

  “My husband is a doctor. A psychiatrist. Can you imagine the calls we’d get in the middle of the night if he was listed?”

  “I understand,” I said. “Was one of the Carswolds a doctor?”

  “Worse. He was an alderman. Can you imagine the crazy calls those people must get?”

  ***

  A gray-haired man in his late fifties opened the front door to 723 Noyes. He was stocky but fit, had a thin mustache, and wore a pair of reading glasses perched on this end of his nose. He was holding a section of the newspaper in his hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Kirkland?” Benny asked.

  The man glanced at me and back at Benny. “Who are you?”

  “Nick Charles, sir. And you are Jeffrey Kirkland?”

  “I am. What do you want?”

  “We would have called, Mr. Kirkland, but your number is unlisted. So we decided to drop by.”

  “Why?”

  Benny gave him a friendly smile. “Corundum Construction, sir.”

  Kirkland’s eyes narrowed. “What about them?”

  “Your thoughts about their workmanship. What kind of people they were. Mainly, I suppose, whether you feel like you got your money’s worth.”

  “What are you trying to imply, sir? I paid in full. With my own money.” He looked at me. “Who is this woman?”

  “She’s my wife Nora, Mr. Kirkland.”

  He stared at us. “What’s going on here?”

  “We don’t mean to disturb you, Mr. Kirkland. Nora and I are thinking of doing an addition to our house. One of the contractors we talked to is Corundum Construction. We wanted some references, and you were one of names they gave us. Apparently, they built you a pool and deck.”

  “You’re dealing with Corundum Construction?”

  “Not yet,” Benny said. “We’re trying to decide between them and two other companies.”

  “Who did you speak with at Corundum?” he asked.

  Benny frowned and look at me. “Do you remember the name, Sweetie Poo?”

  Sweetie Poo?

  But I played along, pretending to try to remember.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I talked to so many contractors.”

  Benny turned to Kirkland. “Who was your contact person?”

  The question seemed to catch him off balance. “I don’t remember. It’s been a long time.”

  “Were you happy with their work?”

  “Yes. No complaints. I have to go. Good-bye.”

  He closed the door. There was the clunk of the deadbolt lock.

  Benny turned to me. “What the hell was that all about?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  On the way home from the office the following afternoon I stopped at the supermarket to pick up three items: a gallon of milk, a carton of eggs, and two pounds of apples. I ended up with six bags groceries, and had to run back to the dairy section for the eggs while I was checking out.

  I pushed the shopping cart out to the parking lot, parked it alongside my minivan, and started transferring the grocery bags from the cart to the back of the van.

  “Well, lookee here. The great and wondrous Rachel Gold—live and in person.”

  I turned to see Ken Rubenstein, his arms were crossed over his chest and his head was tilted, as if he were appraising a new car. Though it was overcast, he wore reflecting aviator sunglasses. He had on a black silk shirt and a tan suit. We stood at eye level to one another.

  “Hello, Ken.”

  “And hello to you, Rachel.” He grinned. “So?”

  I put the last grocery bag into the back, pulled down the tailgate, and turned to face him. “So what?”

  “Are we going to make love or make war?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your lawsuit. We going to settle?”

  “That’s an issue for me to discuss with your attorney.”

  “He’s not here. How about we cut out the middleman and get it done?”

  “Can’t do that.”

  I started pushing the cart across the traffic lane toward the cart rack. I paused and looked back.

  “I’m a lawyer, and you have a lawyer. Under the rules of professional responsibility, I can only discuss your case with your lawyer.”

  “What if I’m a consenting adult?”

  “Not to me. Only to your lawyer, and then he has to authorize me to talk to you.”

  “No problem.”

  I shoved the cart into the rack and started back to my minivan. He’d already flipped open his cell phone and was holding it against his ear.

  I checked my watch. “I need to get home.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  “In the parking lot?”

  He held up his hand, palm toward me. “Hey, Crane, what’s up?…Yeah?…Guess who I’m standing out here with?…Supermarket parking lot. Your beautiful adversary in our Cloverdale case…Yep, the one and only…Huh?…Chatting, dude. Just chatting…‘Cause she won’t talk to me. Says she can only talk to you about the case…Hey, Robby, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  He rais
ed his sunglasses and gave me a wink.

  “I’m a big boy,” he said into the phone. “Huh?…Listen, I’m not some illiterate beaner getting asked to sign away his personal injury claim for a case of Schlitz and a lottery ticket, okay?”

  His features darkened as Crane said something to him.

  “Zip it up, Rob. Listen carefully: I am the client. You are the lawyer. I have now listened to your advice and I have decided not to accept it. I want to talk to her. Make it happen…Sure, here she is.”

  He handed me the phone.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Rachel?”

  “Correct.”

  “I understand you want to talk with my client.”

  “Actually, no. I’d prefer to go home. This is his idea.”

  “Fine,” Crane said. “Here are my ground rules. Number one: whatever is discussed between the two of you is off the record and inadmissible. That means that it can never be used in any—”

  “—Nope.”

  “What do you mean nope?”

  “Nope, as in no deal. You want to let your client talk to me, fine. Tell me you consent, and I’ll talk to him. If not, not. I couldn’t care less. But no ground rules. Understand?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  I handed the phone back to Rubenstein.

  “Your attorney says no. Good-bye.”

  I turned toward the car, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Wait a second,” he called to me. “Rob, what the hell is wrong with you? Huh? Bullshit. I instruct you to consent. You either consent or find yourself a new client. Understand?”

  “Rachel,” he said as I was opening the car door.

  I turned. He was walking toward me and holding out the phone.

  “Here.”

  I took it and held it to my ear.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “I consent. You can talk to my client.”

  “No ground rules?”

  A pause. “No ground rules.”

  I handed the phone back to Rubenstein. He chuckled as he slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

  “Sometimes I think Tony Soprano had the right idea,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “That line of his: ‘First thing we do is kill all the lawyers.’”

  “Actually, Dick the Butcher said it.”

  “The Butcher?” Rubenstein frowned. “He was in The Sopranos?”

  “Henry the Sixth.”

  “That series on Showtime? The Tudors? That’s Henry the Eighth, not the Sixth.”

  “What did you want to say to me?”

  “Can we go somewhere first? Somewhere to talk?”

  “We can talk here.”

  “In a supermarket parking lot? How ‘bout a little privacy?”

  “You want privacy, get in the van and we’ll roll up the windows. They’re tinted.”

  He got in on the passenger side and closed the door.

  “You’re a tough gal, Rachel Gold.”

  “I need to get home to make dinner. What is it?”

  “Our case. Let’s get it settled. Let’s roll up our sleeves, get it done, and move on.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m the one listening. Tell me what you want. What will it take to get this case settled?”

  “Drop the project.”

  He laughed. “Come on. What do you really want?”

  “For you to drop the project.”

  His smile became a frown. He shook his head.

  “Not gonna happen. But I am prepared to do something I have never done before. When I instructed Crane to raise my settlement offer to fifteen percent above the appraised value, that was my final offer, as I’m sure he told you. I have never budged off a final offer. Never. You understand what never means?”

  I gave him a weary look. “Yes, Ken.”

  “Today is a first for me. I am prepared to up my final offer.”

  “To what?”

  “Work with me here, Rachel.” He smiled. “I need a demand. I know how to budge off my final offer, but I don’t know how to negotiate with myself.”

  “I made you an offer.”

  “I want a money offer.”

  “I may not have a money offer, Ken. I’ll check with my clients.”

  “Let’s get it done. Time’s a wasting. How ‘bout I call you tomorrow night?”

  “I may not have an answer by then.”

  “I’ll call the day after tomorrow.”

  “I have a better idea. How about when I have an answer I’ll call your lawyer.”

  “Just call me.”

  “Ken, that’s not how it works. You have a lawyer. Unless he wants to withdraw from representing you, I need to deal with him.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “All of a sudden you have scruples, eh?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He opened the car door.

  “You know exactly what it means. When I want to talk directly with you, that’s a—” he paused and used the first and second fingers of both hands to make air quotes “—violation of the sacred rules of professional responsibility. But when you want to talk directly to someone who should have a lawyer there, it’s suddenly okay to sneak around.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He shook his head. “See you around, Counselor.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Benny paused, a forkful of stuffed jalapeño suspended between plate and mouth. He frowned.“What the fuck?”

  “My thought exactly.”

  He put the forkful in his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of Dos Equis Ambar.

  “And that’s it?”

  I nodded. “He got out of my car and left.”

  “You think that dickhead has you under surveillance?”

  “Seems a stretch. More likely someone he knows happened to see me talking with someone else he knows.”

  The waitress arrived with my lunch—a chicken enchilada—and two more courses for Benny: a large beef burrito slathered in guacamole and green chili sauce and a bowl of posole soup with enough pork and hominy to feed a Mexican family. We were meeting for lunch on Cherokee Street at El Bravo, Benny’s favorite Mexican restaurant. Whether he was there for lunch, dinner, or one of his between-meal “snacks,” his order always included posole soup, which the staff at El Bravo’s served to El Señor Benny in an extra large bowl.

  He scarfed down the rest of his stuffed jalapeño, chased it with another gulp of Dos Equis Ambar, and used his other fist to partially smother a belch rumbling up from the depths of a digestive system that could go one-on-one with any metropolitan sewage treatment facility.

  He leaned over the soup, inhaled, closed his eyes and sighed.

  “Heaven.”

  I shook my head in wonder. The only thing more remarkable than the size of his appetite was the size of his waist. Given the sheer volume of food that Benny shoveled down his gullet every day and his disdain for any form of physical exertion outside of the bedroom, he should have long since reached a poundage level measurable only by a truck weigh station. Instead his weight remained steady somewhere just north of two-fifty. While that still qualified as obese, his intake-to-girth ratio left you in awe of his metabolism.

  “Have you ever seen him?” I asked.

  “Rubenstein? Not in person. Maybe a photo in the newspaper. Why?”

  “Something about him—he looks familiar, like I’ve seen him before.”

  “Ah.” Benny grinned. “Another shitty high school date?”

  “No. He’s not from around here.”

  “You going to finally give him a settlement offer?”

  “Muriel and Cletus are coming by the house tonight to talk.” I shrugged. “W
e’ll see whether they want me to make an offer.”

  “They’d be fools not to.”

  He paused to take a slurp of his soup and smother another belch.

  “You’re a great lawyer, Rachel, and by the term ‘great’ I include more than your tush and your legs. But let’s face reality here, kiddo. The law on your TIF case sucks. Ultimately—either at trial or on appeal—that blight bastard is going to win, and that means when this crappy case is finally over, your clients’ homes are history. Every last one of them.”

  “And your point is?”

  “My point is that the trial and appeal process could take years. Time is money in the real estate development world. That prick will pay your clients a premium today to bulldoze their houses tomorrow.”

  “This case is not completely hopeless, Benny.”

  He set down his spoon. “Yes, Rachel, it is completely hopeless. Read my lips. Completely. Hopeless. In the shitter. The sooner you make your clients realize that, the better. Trust me on this, woman. Your clients are screwed. Totally screwed. Upside down, inside out, from the front and from the rear.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Pangloss.”

  “Hey.” He shrugged and gave me a sad smile. “All is for the best in this best of all possible legal systems.”

  “Howdy, gang.”

  We looked up to see Jacki Brand approaching. She’d had a prior commitment for lunch but had promised to stop by afterward. She looked sharp in a gray three-button suit jacket and skirt with a black scoop-neck top beneath the jacket, and black sling-back pumps.

  Jacki pulled up a chair and surveyed Benny’s array of food—the plate with remnants of the stuffed jalapeño, the plate with remnants of the giant burrito, the half-empty bowl of posole.

  “What’s going on, Slim?” she asked. “You on a diet?”

  “Just getting warmed up, hot stuff.”

  As if on cue, the waitress arrived with Benny’s main course—a large platter of Carne Guisada, a hearty Mexican stew.

  I watched Benny tuck into the stew.

  “The boy has a capacity,” I said to Jacki.

  “Speaking of boys,” she said to me, “how was the zoo?”