Malibu Motel Page 2

  At 11:07 a.m. I pull into a parking garage underneath a Los Angeles high rise and park close to a wall so that I won’t get doored by some prick in a BMW. The elevator takes me to the forty-fifth floor. The elevator doors open, and the smell of sawdust and the buzzing and clanking of drilling and hammering assault me. I walk through some glass doors and a receptionist greets me and apologizes for the construction. He tells me to have a seat while he lets Jamie know I’m here. While I wait, I have a look around. The walls are bare and the office is empty. By the time Jamie arrives, I have only seen the receptionist, Jamie, and two construction workers.

  “Caish Calloway! Sorry about the dust, we are in the middle of a renovation,” Jamie offers an extended hand. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Oh the pleasure is mine, I’m excited to get started.”

  Jamie T. Lowell is a beautiful human being. There’s no other way of saying it. The symmetry of Jamie’s face is stunning. Each feature is flawless; proportionally sized and sharply shaped. Flawless skin. Jamie’s hair, which is drawn back in a loose, low ponytail, is near-black, and has just enough gray to prove that the rest of the vibrant color is natural. Jamie’s eyes are seawater green with a shimmering gleam. Although Jamie’s frame is somewhat petite, it’s obvious that Jamie hasn’t missed a gym day in a while. Jamie’s clothes look tailored and extremely expensive. Yet, no jewelry. Not so much as a wedding ring (which I only looked for out of habit).

  Jamie leads me back to a corner office with “Jamie T. Lowell, CFA, MMF” etched into a brass plaque mounted on the glass door. The office is huge and minimally furnished. The ceiling has to be fifteen feet high. All of the walls are glass. Jamie’s desk is white marble and completely bare except for an iMac, a few papers, and a silver pen.

  “Please, have a seat,” Jamie says, motioning to the black leather chairs in front of the desk. “How’s the traffic out there this morning?”

  “Not too bad, there was an accident at the 110 interchange, but other than that it wasn’t bad.” As I sit, the receptionist peaks in and asks, “Can I get you anything? Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thanks,” I gesture.

  “Did you take the ten in?” Jamie asks.

  “Yeah, usually it’s bearable.”

  “I agree. So, remind me, Caish, how did you first hear about Green Mountain?” Jamie says while situating papers and typing something on the computer.

  “Um, it was through a friend of mine, Penelope Perez. We were talking about money and Green Mountain came up.” For the first time in a long time I’m a little nervous. I’m not quite sure why, but my voice feels shaky and my legs are jittery.

  “Oh, that’s right. She called a couple days ago, mentioned that you were interested in one of our long-short hedge funds, is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. Before we discuss the details of those funds, let’s talk about your financial goals.” Jamie is still typing. “Where do you hope to be in five years?”

  “Richer.” My forced laugh comes out too loud and I feel blood rushing to my face to announce my embarrassment. Jamie gives what seems to be a sincere chuckle at my feeble joke and eases my embarrassment.

  “Any specific goals?” Jamie asks.

  “Well, in all honesty,” I say, “I just want to shore up my financial independence, buy a yacht, maybe a few more cars, and a home in Monaco. Then I’ll be set.”

  “You’ve come to the right place. How about your current financial position, how would you describe that?”

  “Rich.” Except this time I try to be more couth in my joke and opt for a grin.

  “That’s good to hear. On this front, though, we need to be more particular. What is your annual income?”

  “Tough to say, really. I have an accountant that keeps an eye on my money, and she files my taxes and everything, and I don’t really keep an eye on what it turns out to be.”

  “Perhaps you could give me a ballpark?”

  “Well, maybe a couple hundred thousand dollars a year? I am an entrepreneur, so I don’t have a set salary. In the past few years some of the businesses I’ve started haven’t really panned out, so my annual take is lower than it has been in the past.”

  “I see.” Jamie seems disappointed. “And what about your net worth?”

  “Mmm. I’d say probably around thirty-five million dollars.” Jamie’s disappointment vanished. Encouraged, I add, “I have a house in Malibu worth just shy of twenty million—which is paid off—and a car collection worth several million. I also own lots of furniture, art work, and clothing that is worth a few million.”

  “Okay, and what kind of liquid assets do you have?”

  “Um, I have... well, what do you mean by liquid assets?”

  Jamie rephrases the question, “Well as in cash on hand, any stocks or bonds, etcetera.”

  “Oh right, right. So, I’ve never been one to put money into the stock market, and with the recent business difficulties I mentioned, I only have around a hundred thousand in the bank.” At this admission my confidence falters. Shame washes over me. Surely Jamie will kindly ask me to take my empty bank account and get the hell out. What did I expect? Of course an investment advisor was going to ask about my money. I just hoped Jamie wouldn’t be so specific. “My hope was that it would be enough to get my feet back under me. Especially if I reinvest most my earnings.”

  After Jamie finished noting my response, Jamie’s charismatic smile soothes my worries.

  “Look,” Jamie says, “we here at Green Mountain don’t judge. Regardless of your current financial situation, we’re here to help. Even if your bank account isn’t where you want it to be right now, you have more than enough assets to get started.”

  “I was hoping to get started without having to sell anything, would $50,000 be enough to open an account?” I ask.

  “Caish. We want you to make serious money. Real money. And we can’t make you serious money with a $50,000 investment. Our minimum buy-in is $500,000.”

  My heart sinks into my stomach, which begins digesting it. Hopes dashed.

  Jamie goes on, “But look, I understand your situation. Let me talk to the other partners and see if we can make an exception for you. I might be able to get you in for a little less than that.”

  “I dunno. Maybe this isn’t the right time for me to be investing more. I was sort of hoping I wouldn’t have to sell anything.”

  “You don’t have to sell anything Caish, but something tells me you will. You don’t strike me as the type of person who enjoys living on a budget. You also don’t look to be the type of person who enjoys worrying about whether the next startup will finally be the one that makes you some serious money. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m willing to bet you have not always been a millionaire.” Jamie is now standing and looking down on Los Angeles through the fifteen-foot-tall transparent wall.

  “You’re right,” I say, “I was born into a working class family in Missoula, Montana.”

  “I knew it. You have a determination about you that people born into wealth rarely have. You know what it’s like to live without, and you’re not willing to go back to that lifestyle. We’re quite alike, Caish. I’m the youngest of six children, born in Salt Lake City into abject poverty. Purely proletarian. I studied hard, worked in a bowling alley until I was twenty-two, and starved through college so that I could make some money as a financial consultant.” At this point, Jamie is pacing and becoming more animated.

  “But the problem was,” Jamie continues, “I didn’t have enough capital to gain the respect of serious investors. Unless I wanted to be a slave at E-Trade for the rest of my life, I had to do something. So I began to work hard at the California state lottery.”

  No way. I never meet other winners.

  I cut in, “Don’t tell me you actually won?”

  “I did.” Jamie paused. “I won upwards of forty million dollars. But I earned it. Winning the lottery is no cakewalk. Constantly spending all my mon
ey on tickets, always getting my hopes up, never winning. Week after week. Month after month. All my friends and family telling me I was throwing my life away, criticizing me for my foolish hopes of winning. But I kept my resolve and played the lottery as if my life depended on it. Because I knew, with enough effort and perseverance, I could win that thing. And without that money, I would never be respected as I should be. And I won. I proved everybody wrong, and I won the California state lottery.”

  “Jamie,” I began, “I haven’t told many people this, but I am also a winner of the California state lottery.”

  Jamie lit up, “I knew it! There’s just something about you, Caish, I knew I could see it. How much did you win?”

  “One hundred and twenty-four million dollars, but you know how brutal taxes are.”

  “Wow, I bet you earned it though.”

  “Oh you bet; winning it wasn’t easy. I’ve always been drawn to California, it’s hard to explain, but it was like a magnet constantly tugging at me until I finally moved down. But I came here with a purpose, the weather was just a perk. I came here to win the lottery. Everybody told me I’d never win, I suffered through years of gas station clerks telling me that the ticket is a loser. You know how it is. What you said is exactly what it was like for me. But, I knew I could win it. Ya know, the universe is always balanced. Karma. And I knew that with all the bad luck in my life, one day it would balance out and I would win,” I say. Jamie is nodding along.

  “I knew it, Caish. I knew it. You are a fighter. You’re a wolf, not a sheep. You work hard because you know that without hard work there is no success. I know you well because I know myself well. I know that people like us don’t give up when life gets tough. We recognize when the stakes are high and we rise to the challenge. And Caish, that’s how I know that you are going to sacrifice to get capital for your Green Mountain investment. You know what needs to be done. You know that with a strong investment, you will get strong returns. You have to pay to play, Caish, you know that. Look, I can tell you’re pretty sharp, let me show you exactly how this works.” Jamie reaches into a desk drawer, pulls out a green dry erase marker, and begins filling the glass wall with numbers, lines, and squiggles. “Hypothetically, and for easy math, let’s say you start out with a ten million-dollar investment...” is Jamie’s opening line into this investment session.

  Over the next half hour, Jamie outlines exactly how the hedge funds at Green Mountain work, and why it’s such a sure bet that each investment will be successful. The numbers and lines on the glass multiplied and soon we were onto the next wall. I can’t really follow the math, but I can see the writing on the wall: Green Mountain is basically manufacturing money, and each extra dollar I invest up front will give me exponential returns.

  “So. Here’s what I recommend,” Jamie continues, “mortgage your house and get started with a million. That way you don’t have to sell anything, and you still have some spending cash in the bank. Then, when you see how big your returns are, sell a few cars—make it sting—because by putting everything you have into this, you will come out on top. In a big way. Remember that feeling when you first won the lottery? Like there’s no possible way you will ever need to worry about money again? You can get that feeling back. Yachts, helicopters, rare art, a place in Monaco. Green Mountain can give you that in just a few years if you’re willing to work for it.”

  “Okay, I’m in. Let me talk to the bank concerning mortgaging my place. But, Jamie, I’m going to do more than a million. Let’s start with ten million.”

  Jamie’s smile beams confidence. There was a dignity about Jamie’s face that made me want to up my investment commitment to fifteen million, but I figured I better not bet the farm until I made back enough to prove that Green Mountain was legitimate. This was going to work. If I reap anywhere near the figures and rates that Jamie had outlined and that Penn had experienced, my days of decline would be behind me as soon as the money was transferred.

  “I knew you’d make the right decision Caish. We are going to make a lot of money.”

  We hammer out a few more details regarding how the Green Mountain website worked, how to use the app, and collect all the paperwork I’ll need to fill out.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Jamie. Thank you for this opportunity.”

  “My pleasure, your success is my success.”

  “Okay so I’ll call you in the next few days about the first deposit after I’ve met with the bank,” I say as I walk toward the door. Jamie beats me there and gets the door.

  “Sounds good, I look forward to hearing from you. Maybe just swing in and we’ll get it all hammered out in person. Whatever makes you feel best.”

  The receptionist is still at his computer when we enter the lobby.

  Then Jamie adds, “Hey, Caish, I don’t mean to be imposing, and I have every intention of keeping our relationship professional, but how would you feel about a Dodgers game tonight? I have box seats and my date fell through.”

  Going to Dodgers games is one of my favorite pastimes.

  “Absolutely,” I say, “I love the Dodgers.”

  “Great, how about we meet back here at… six? That should give us enough time to get over there and grab a bite to eat,” Jamie said.

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  What an unexpected bonus. Jamie is awfully attractive, but I hadn’t given any thought to the possibility of hooking up. Well, maybe a tiny bit of a thought. My main squeeze wasn’t cutting it lately, so this would be a much-needed change of scenery.

  I’m late for a lunch meeting with some app designers, but compared to the money I stand to make at Green Mountain, this meeting seems unnecessary. There is a brief pause when I walk in and take my place at the conference table. Somebody I haven’t seen before is clicking through a PowerPoint. The meeting is a brainstorming session about whether people would use an app that helped them with public speaking. Ten months ago I had an idea for an app that started your car for you, but it didn’t work out because the auto manufacturers wouldn’t cooperate (or even return our emails). Then some of the developers talked me into investing in the company. “APParatus, Inc.” So, I gave APParatus $250,000 and received ten percent equity in the company. Business was good for a little while, but now my investment was worth less than $80,000. In the last four months this place has imploded. It won’t be long until the corporation is dissolved and we all lose our money to creditors. Unless, the engineers will remind you, the next app they design is the next Twitter. Jesus. How could I have been so foolish? And this was one of the investments that Mindy actually checked off on. Come to think of it, I should probably give her a call. I excuse myself and step into the hall.

  “Hello, this is Mindy.”

  “Hey Mindy, it’s Caish, how are you?”

  “Hi Caish, I’m doing well, how are you?”

  “Really great, thanks. Look, Mindy, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I no longer need your services.”

  Mindy doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, then asks, “Caish, can I meet you somewhere for lunch so we can talk about this?”

  “Um, nah. I don’t think that would be productive. It’s nothing personal, Mindy, I’m just at a different place in life now, and I no longer need your accounting work. But don’t worry, I’ll still come to you for my taxes.”

  “Caish, you don’t fire your pilot just because of some turbulence. If this has something to do with those Green Mountain people you were telling me about, I think this is a terrible idea.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see. Okay, anyway, talk to you next April.”

  “If you say so, but please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. I’m as much your friend as I am your accountant.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks Mindy.”

  “No problem, you know I mean it.”

  “Okay, talk to you later.”

  “G’bye.”

  “K, see ya later.”

  “Bye.”

  I hate p
hone calls.

  After the pointless APParatus meeting (certainly my last), I have a few hours to kill before meeting up with Jamie. I can’t make it to Malibu and back in time, so I go shopping instead. I love The Grove and I’ve been meaning to check out the new Michael Kors.

  At 6:00 p.m. Jamie and I meet in the lobby of Green Mountain’s building. Jamie is wearing the same clothes from earlier in the day, but now also has a chic camel coat that looks custom. I offer to drive, but Jamie tells me that the reserved spot needs Jamie’s license plate and adds, “You know how they are at Dodger Stadium, they’d probably give even your Lamborghini a ticket.”

  “How’d you know I drive a Lamborghini?”

  “Guessed. I figured, a person of your regard would probably own a few fine Italian automobiles,” Jamie said while melting my insides with a smile warmer than sunbaked sand.

  “Am I fine leaving my car—I mean my Italian automobile—in the garage here?”

  “Definitely, security here is top-notch.”

  Jamie leads the way down an escalator to P2 and we find Jamie’s BMW parked less than a foot from the wall.

  Jamie apologizes for the tight fit on my side, “If you don’t park close to a wall in these caves, Neanderthals will door the shit out of your car.”

  “I know exactly what you’re talking about,” I say. “And taking up two spots is an open invitation for the Neanderthals to key new pinstripes into your car.”

  Small talk isn’t my strong suit, but Jamie guides us down conversation channel like a seasoned gondola guide. Traffic thickens as we drive past Chinatown, so we have plenty of time to get to know each other. We agree with everything the other says, and we’re surprised at how much we have in common. My anxiety from this afternoon was just beginning to ebb when the excitement of something new—of someone new—returns my nerves in spades. Apparently Jamie notices.