BAKER, Page 2

  “God damn it, Baker,” he seethed.

  “It’s not negotiable. I’ll announce it to the club on Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Fine. But that bitch better hope I never see her on the street.”

  The job was in Indio. The odds of him ever seeing her again were nil at best. “She’s a hundred and fifty miles from here, so we won’t have to worry about that, will we?”

  “It’s a good thing.” He tapped the tip of his index finger against his forehead. “Because the next one’ll be between her eyes.”

  TWO - Andy

  Present day.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.” He shook his head so lightly it seemed unintentional. “I hate to say it, but I believe you were called in by accident.”

  My heart sank. “Accident?”

  “You have no property management experience? Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir,” I stammered. “I have no experience, but I believe I’m more than qualified. In fact, I’m convinced I’ll better serve you in this position than anyone else you’ll interview. I’m sure of it. Quite sure.”

  I was three minutes into the most important job interview of my life. A job I had no experience at. The Notice to Vacate I’d recently been forced to comply with was all the motivation I needed to convince the old man on the other side of the desk to hire me.

  He held my resumé at arm’s length. His brow wrinkled. “I don’t know why she prints these things like this. I need a magnifying glass to read it.”

  He picked up a pair of wire-framed glasses and stretched the curved earpieces over the back of each of his ears. For just shy of eternity, he studied my sparse work history through the thick lenses. When he finished, he placed the resumé on the side of his desk and set his glasses on top of it.

  “You are Andy Winslow, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I’ve got to be honest, Andy. When I told Nadine to call you in for an interview, I thought you were a man.”

  “I’m one hundred percent woman. All 134 pounds of me,” I said playfully.

  His face remained expressionless.

  “Does being a woman prevent me from being considered?”

  “I suppose not. It’s just that I can’t see how a business management degree – and a few years of experience as a bartender while you were in college – can prepare you to manage two pieces of property that are filled with demanding tenants.” He waved a dismissive hand at my resumé. “Is this the extent of your job experience?”

  My qualifications were bleak at best. For fear of tarnishing my otherwise spotless background, I hadn’t bothered listing the job I’d been fired from recently. Excluding it, my life’s experiences – in respect to work – were listed.

  “Yes, Sir. But that sheet of paper isn’t reflective of my abilities at all.” I stood and removed a hair tie from my purse. “Give me your best demanding tenant impersonation.”

  His eyes thinned. “Pardon me?”

  “You’re an angry tenant. I’m the property manager. Go.”

  He looked at me as if I was crazy. “I don’t think this is--”

  “I’m serious.” I twisted my hair into place. “You don’t think I’m qualified, and I think I am. Try me.”

  He crossed his arms and then looked me over. “My air conditioner quit, and I need to get someone to look at it right away,” he said, his tone coarse and challenging. “I’ve got family coming in from Michigan, and I can’t wait all damned weekend.”

  I gave him a stern look and dropped my voice a few octaves. “It’s Friday, Mister Greene. You and I both know that getting someone to come look at the air conditioner on Friday at six o’clock is going to be impossible. Rest assured I’ll get it resolved as soon as I can. Have you noticed the fan making any funny noises, or have you seen any signs of backed up condensation?”

  “I haven’t noticed, no.”

  I cocked my hip and looked him up and down. “You haven’t noticed, or you haven’t paid attention? You do realize it’s your responsibility, not ours, to clean the condensation pan, don’t you?”

  One side of his mouth curled into a half-assed grin. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. “I thought you had no experience at this?” he asked.

  “I don’t.”

  “How do you know what a condensation pan is?”

  “My uncle owns a heating and air business.”

  He stood and cleared his throat. “I’ve been seeing bugs every time I come home at night. I need you to get this place sprayed--”

  “Pest control is a preventative measure, not a reactionary one. It’s performed quarterly. We treated the building in June. I’m sure whatever you’ve seen is on the verge of death. If not, we’ll make sure they are in September, when we treat it next. Anything else?”

  His eyebrows raised. “Let me guess. Your knowledge of pest control comes from an aunt who’s an exterminator?”

  “No. I lived in an apartment. Every time I called them about roaches, that’s what they would tell me.”

  He let out a sigh and then lowered himself into his chair. “I’m not convinced hiring you is the answer--”

  “That’s funny. I’m convinced if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

  His brows knitted together. “I’ll regret it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m sixty-seven years old, and I can count my life’s regret with one finger.”

  “That’ll all change if you hire someone else,” I assured him. “You’ll reach a point of regret.”

  He leaned back in his chair and looked down his nose at me. “Is that a fact?”

  “If you could see beyond my feminine exterior, you’d realize how valuable and man-like I am. I cuss like a sailor. I can easily out-drink a Russian peasant. I’m loyal, but not to a point of fault. For me, honesty is second nature. I’ll argue until I’m exhausted if I think I’m right. If I’m proven wrong, I’ll admit it promptly. I earn the respect of those around me by knowing when to listen and when to speak--”

  “Why are you speaking?” he asked. “Right now?”

  “Because you’re not one hundred percent convinced you want to let me leave.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  I gestured toward his desk. “You’ve got three piles of resumés on your desk. I’m guessing one is the people you’ve interviewed. One is applicants. The other is the pool of interviewees you’ll be picking from. You’ve got no less than ten resumés in each pile. Yet, you’re still talking to me. Furthermore, my resumé isn’t in a pile. It’s at the edge of your desk. Apparently, you haven’t decided what to do with me yet.”

  A low chuckle escaped him. “What’s your favorite cuss word?”

  “Cocksucker,” I responded dryly.

  He choked on his laugh. “Type of whiskey?”

  “Single malt scotch. Macallan. Neat.”

  He sighed lightly. It was apparent he was entertained. Nonetheless, he pushed the dagger in a little deeper. “You lack experience, Miss Winslow.”

  “You called me in for an interview despite that lack of experience. Because you thought I was a man. Right now, I think the idea of hiring a woman for the position intrigues you. You’re hoping to come up with something to convince you it’s a bad idea, but so far, you haven’t.”

  “I’m impressed by your ability to ad lib and fascinated by your intellect, Andy. I’m simply afraid your lack of experience is enough--”

  “I Googled you before I came. Your properties are on J Street and Westside Drive. What do they rent for? Three grand a month? Four?”

  His face washed with pride. He lifted his chin slightly. “The building on J Street is primarily office space. The average rent is around ten grand. Between three and five for the living spaces on Westside, depending on square footage. Why?”

  “They’re not filled with roaches, and the air conditioner isn’t on the way out. Your properties are immaculate, I saw the pictures on your website.
There’ll be problems, sure, but not of the variety we’ve discussed. You need a dynamic leader with strong business, marketing and management sense. That’s what your ad said. I graduated Magna Cum Laude from USC. There’ll be a senior property manager above me. I’d act as the buffer between him and the contractors, suppliers, and tenants. No one will manage your money better than me, Mister Greene. Nobody.”

  “I like you,” he said with a smile. “It’s hard not to. Now that you’ve mentioned it, I’ll touch base on something you said earlier. That one regret I spoke of? I’ll tell you what it is. After spending the majority of my adult life single, I married a woman who was considerably younger than me. She spent money as if it grew on trees. Damned near drove me into bankruptcy before I realized what was happening. Right or wrong, I simply don’t trust women with my money. I have my doubts you’ll be frugal.”

  Acting indifferent to his remark, I walked past his desk and gazed down at the street. The bicycle I’d resorted to use as transportation – because my car was repossessed – was chained to the corner lamppost. At the curb in front of it, someone’s spotless red Ferrari caught my attention.

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Come here for a minute.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want you to see something.”

  I gestured to the lamppost at the corner of the street. “See that bicycle chained to that post?”

  He peered over my shoulder. “The one with the basket on it?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about it?”

  “That’s my transportation. My only transportation.” I pulled a Think Thin protein bar from my purse and turned to face him. “And, this is lunch. Frugality is my middle name.”

  The look of uncertainty that he’d been wearing diminished. It hadn’t vanished, but it was close. He was considering me. All I needed to do was push him over the edge of the indecisive cliff he was standing on.

  “If you hire me right now, I’ll make you an offer,” I said. “But it’s only good if you take it before I walk out of here. Your ad said the position paid eighty-five thousand a year. I’ll take it for seventy thousand for the first year. At the beginning of year two, either fire me, or bring my wages in line with what they would have been if you paid me the eighty-five.”

  “That’s an interesting offer.”

  I turned toward the door. It was a huge risk, but I began walking, nonetheless. “You’ve got about ten seconds to decide on whether a twelve hundred and fifty dollar a month savings is attractive to you or not.”

  Without looking back, I took one predictable step after the other. Six feet before I reached the hallway, he stopped me.

  “You’re hired,” he announced.

  I spun around. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

  He tilted his head toward the window. “Is that really your bicycle?”

  “No,” I said with a wink. “I’m driving the red Ferrari.”

  THREE - Baker

  The owner of a coin-operated carwash has a license to launder money. The income was all cash, and can easily be manipulated one way or the other. Filtering a few hundred thousand dollars of ill-gotten gains a year through one was an easy task that couldn’t be traced.

  My LLC owned three of them, but I was far from a businessman.

  I was the president of a motorcycle club, an outlaw, and a thief.

  A professional thief.

  Nonetheless, I needed an office to make my business appear legitimate. So, my LLC bought a three-story building within walking distance of the San Diego Bay. The upper floor was my office. The second floor served as my place of residence. Below that was the Devil’s Disciples clubhouse. Beneath the clubhouse was an underground parking garage.

  We used the parking garage to store our motorcycle collection and a few exotic cars. The clubhouse was primarily for drinking beer, relaxing, and an occasional party. The office was reserved as my escape from society, and for planning robberies.

  On paper, the men in the MC were employees of the company. They received paychecks, paid their taxes, and were seen from time to time performing maintenance on the car washes they managed.

  Logistically speaking – at least for me – having the operation in one facility was problematic. There was no evading the men in the club, regardless of what time of day it was. I lived and breathed the MC.

  Wearing a guilty smile, Cash sauntered into my office with one hand hidden behind his back. Half the distance to my desk, he paused and arched an eyebrow.

  I shot from my seat, pulled my knife from my pocket, and flicked the blade open with my thumb. “If you’ve got another snake behind your back, I’ll cut you. Again. I guarantee you it’ll be worse than the last time.”

  “Settle down. And put up the blade, motherfucker.” His grin widened. “You’re gonna love it.”

  “I’m not kidding, Cash.” I took a few steps back. “I’ll cut you and carve that snake into chunks.”

  “It’s not a snake. It’s an idea.”

  I nodded toward his missing hand. “You’ve got an idea in your back pocket?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  He took a few steps in my direction. “You’re going to like it.”

  “So far I’m not impressed.”

  He produced his hand. A business card was wedged between his fingers. He flipped it onto the desk in front of me. I picked it up, read the face of it, and then turned it over. A rudimentary hand-drawn diamond and a shitty sketch of a gold coin adorned the back. Apparently, the graphic designer was a six-year-old child.

  “Pat’s Gold and Diamond Exchange.” I sat down and gestured toward the empty chair on the other side of my desk. “Let me guess. You bought a wedding ring, and you’re going to marry that stripper from Oceanside. What’s her name? The one with the extra nipple? Crystal?”

  He gave me a cross look, and then sat. “It’s a mole.”

  I tossed the card across the desk. “A nipple-shaped mole that sits right beside her mole-shaped nipple.”

  “Fuck you, Baker. She can’t help it.”

  “You doing it in June, or is that too cliché?”

  His face formed a defiant scowl. “That place is getting a new alarm system.”

  “The strip club? What’s the name of it?” I tapped my index finger against my pursed lips a few times, and then met his gaze. “The Main Attraction?”

  “No, god damn it. Pat’s Gold and Diamond Exchange. It’s a shit-hole in Rainbow. A really busy shit-hole. And, he’s getting a new alarm.”

  “That little town between Escondido and Temecula?”

  “That’s it.”

  Following Cash’s logic was like trying to comprehend Nuclear Physics. It wasn’t impossible, but it required far more work than I was willing to devote. So far, I’d completely lost interest in his story. My head began to throb.

  I rubbed my temples with my fingertips.

  “Migraine?” He lifted a glass paperweight from my desk.

  “Yeah,” I whispered.

  He tossed it in the air, then caught it. “That sucks.”

  “I think I know what causes them.”

  He tossed it again, and almost dropped it when it came down into his hand. He looked at it as if it had done something wrong, and then looked at me. “What’s that?”

  I looked at his hand and shook my head. “You.”

  “Fuck you, dude.” He nodded my direction, set the paperweight down, and then raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s probably because you don’t jack off.”

  It didn’t surprise me that in his opinion, fisting my cock was the solution to cure my migraines. Cash claimed that once he stroked his cock in the McDonald’s drive-thru. For him, it was the answer to everything.

  I let out a breath of frustration. “Stroking my meat isn’t the answer.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Might be.”

  “You think if I start pulling my pud my headaches will vanis
h?”

  “They might. There’s a reason everyone does it.”

  “Everyone doesn’t do it. Do you see Tibetan Monks walking around rubbing their temples?”

  His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond. It seemed I’d completely lost him.

  “Masturbation is forbidden,” I explained. “But they don’t walk around rubbing their temples, do they?”

  His face went blank. “Huh?”

  I shook my head and swallowed my desire to laugh. “Never mind.”

  He nodded in my direction. “You should try it for a few weeks and see if they stop.”

  “You should try leaving yours alone, and see if you gain a few ounces of common sense.”

  “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When you walked in, you looked like you were hiding Coca Cola’s mysterious original recipe behind your back. Then, you tossed me a business card that some second grader designed. After an exhausting question and answer session, I’ve learned that some shitty little jewelry shop in Fuckwater, California is getting a new alarm system. You’ve wasted fifteen minutes of my morning, and I’ve learned nothing. Why can’t you just say what it is you want to say?”

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “It’s more fun this way?”

  “For you, maybe. Any chance you can hit the highlights of what it is that I’m supposed to get excited about?”

  “Pat’s place takes in about fifty grand a week in gold, and another ten or twenty in diamonds,” he said excitedly. “He’s got a steady stream of customers from SD, Vegas, and LA, because he doesn’t ask questions and he doesn’t do receipts unless you ask.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “How in the hell do you know what his income is?”

  “Dumb fucker said so.”

  “Okay. Let’s say Pat has a banner day. We hit him before he makes his drop. Then, after we pay for expenses and fuel, we’ll split forty-five grand six ways. That’s seventy-five hundred each if we’re lucky.” I gazed at the ceiling, stroked my beard a few times, and then met his gaze. “Sorry, I’m not interested. We can make that much hitting a fucking taco truck in Salinas.”