Malibu Motel Read online

  “Everything okay Caish? You seem restive.”

  “Yeah, definitely,” (I insert the best fake laugh I can muster) “it’s just been a while since I’ve been to a Dodgers game. I’m excited. This is gonna be a blast.”

  Jamie’s smirk tells me my bluff has been called. Jamie’s eyes say that Jamie knows the real reason why I’m nervous.

  “Yeah, it’s been a while for me too,” Jamie says. Then, after a brief silence, “Caish, you have every reason to have a few butterflies right now. This afternoon you learned that all your money problems are going away, and now you’re on a smokin’ hot date with a wealthy admirer whose intentions are yet undisclosed.”

  “Ha! Is that what it is? Your fancy company and smoldering good looks are just too much for me to handle?”

  But Jamie was right. And we know it.

  “Yeah,” Jamie said with unashamed smugness, “that’s part of it.” Our shared smile confirmed we were on the same page.

  “I thought tonight was strictly business,” I mumble.

  In the quiet that followed, Jamie reached over and delicately took hold of my hand. I look at Jamie in surprise, but don’t pull away. Jamie’s hand is soft, dry, and meticulously well groomed. Warm but not hot, ideally sized, and holding just tight enough to show emotion, but not so tight as to cause alarm. Usually I won’t hold hands with somebody until after I sleep with them, but this feels right. I squeeze back. Jamie is in control.

  The Dodgers demolish the Diamondbacks for most of the game. In the ninth inning the Diamondbacks scored three runs that brought the game within a point. The entire stadium was on its feet when Jansen struck out Herrmann to end the game. I don’t remember the last time I had this much fun. I take plenty of pictures for Facebook.

  Jamie offers to drive me home and have somebody bring my car by in the morning. When we arrive, I invite Jamie in for wine and cheese. Jamie has an eye for art and is drawn to a Pollock painting in my entryway. It isn’t one of Pollock’s major works, but it’s still a good painting. I’m not really a connoisseur; I just admire art for its ability to strike up conversations. Plus, it helps to let visitors know that I have good taste and lots of money. This particular painting has always been a harmless collection of colorful splatters that reminded me of tadpoles in a pond during rush hour.

  “Jackson Pollock is one of my favorite artists, and yet I have never seen this incredible painting,” Jamie says.

  “Yeah it’s not one of his more popular pieces, but I like it.”

  “I can see why, there is such grace and balance in this piece. And the chaos of most Pollocks seems to be smoothed out by this warm canvas color.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I add.

  If it hasn’t already, that piece of art is now earning its keep.

  Jamie is also drawn to my piano. I don’t play, but growing up I always wanted a black grand piano. So, naturally I bought the best black grand piano money can buy.

  “Wow, this is beautiful, Caish,” Jamie remarks while taking a seat at the piano and examining the fine woodwork. “I’ve never sat at a Hamburg Steinway before. This is quite the experience.”

  “Do you play?” I ask.

  “A little.”

  And with that, Jamie eases into that one song from Ocean’s 11. The one that’s playing at the end while they look at the Bellagio fountain. And it’s perfect. I sink into a loveseat and watch as Jamie gets lost in the keys.

  When Jamie stops playing I feel like you feel when a massage ends. I beg for another song, and Jamie keeps playing. I pour Jamie a glass of Champagne on ice and place it near the piano. Jamie has a few sips and keeps playing. I get through three cigarettes by the time Jamie stops serenading me.

  After a few drinks we walk out on my deck and look out to sea. The water is as black as the night sky.

  “Do you see many fireworks out there this time of year?” Jamie asks.

  “Almost every night.” I move closer. “I’m sure there will be some tonight.”

  Jamie’s voice is soft, “Ever light your own?”

  Then there are fireworks. Fireworks with long, meandering fuses whose sparkle and crackle are a spectacle of their own. The fuses burn with delicacy as their sizzle slithers toward explosives. Some fuses are shorter than others, causing surges of combustion flaming up with welcomed surprise. But most take their time. When the sparks finally penetrate the firework housings a rush of flames propel the pack of gunpowder into the crisp night sky. Some scream on their way up; some take off with little more than a gasp. Then comes the explosion of color. Scarlets, oranges, and yellows with vibrancy and brilliance that seem to make the moon blush. Each blast is accompanied by a boom that reverberates deep in the diaphragm. Each ball of flame hangs in the sky before collapsing into smoke, leaving only the smell of smolder and gunpowder. And there are lulls. Soothing interludes of calm in the echoes of synthetic thunder.

  Then the candle’s flame licks the next fuse. The interval between each blast begins to shorten. Like a heart on adrenaline the pace of each burst quickens. In a breathtaking chaos of sound loud enough to feel and color bright enough to blind, the fireworks erupt in a fountain of flames. The geyser of fire is topped by a supernova explosion of blended colors creating a white light that seems to be coming from both sides of the eyelid. Time and place cease to exist. The climax of the fireworks is so immense that the mind is wiped of any straggling thought. Tranquility through pandemonium. The last few pops and snaps are felt more than seen. Slowly at first, then suddenly, awareness returns. The air is still, having just been pummeled into a daze.

  2

  “Caish. How do you like your eggs?”

  There are worse ways to wake up. “Mmm. Scrambled, please.”

  “And your coffee?”

  “Sugar and cream. Like you mean it.”

  Breakfast is delicious. The weather is sunny. 74 degrees. Beams of sunshine saunter through the kitchen’s skylights and give Jamie an angelic glow. Jamie mentions something about needing to get back to work and leaves around mid-morning. As I walk Jamie out, a young man drives my Lamborghini down the driveway toward my garages. He hands me the key and I tell him to wait while I grab a tip. $500 ought to cover it.

  That afternoon I swing into the bank and discuss mortgaging my house. Normally I would never go into debt like this. I get queasy thinking about paying a bank to lend me money. And the twenty thousand questions from the twenty-something year-old loan officer don’t help. But, I have money to make. If leveraging my house and selling a few paintings is the way to conquer these money problems, then so be it.

  After the initial volley of questions the loan officer transfers me to a more senior banker who will continue the barrage. The senior banker, Aaron D. Valentini, is incredibly energetic and nimble for his immense size. Throughout the conversation I keep scooting back to resist the pull of his gravity. Mr. Valentini speaks quick. Faster than most Californians, which means he is skirting the line of incomprehensibility. He’s clearly the type of gentleman that grinds and snorts his allergy pills so they’ll work faster. I initial and sign a pile of papers and we’re done in under an hour. Mr. Valentini tells me that in a few days the house will be mortgaged and the money will be in my accounts.

  I spend the rest of the week calling art and car dealers setting up consignments. I get sentimental with my cars, so choosing which of them to sell is a painful exercise. I part with a Mercedes Gullwing and a Koenigsegg Agera. Both cars are incredible, but they are two of my most valuable, and I can always buy replacements later.

  The artwork is an easier choice. I have a Warhol, a few Rothkos, and a Barnett Newman that I don’t care about and that are worth, collectively, a few million dollars. I never understood any of that abstract expressionism (or whatever the hell it’s called) anyway; I seriously doubt that anybody actually does. The Pollock, however, stays. Jamie likes it. And since I own it, and picked it, that means Jamie likes part of me. The praise Jamie gives the painting is praise of my fine t
aste and shrewd eye.

  By the end of the week I’m back in Jamie’s office transferring ten million dollars into a Green Mountain hedge fund. Later that evening we celebrate with dinner at Melisse and polish off the night with cocaine-fueled sex. I’m sleeping much better these days.

  Gull calls and the low hum of fog horns lift me out of late morning dreams. Late morning on a Sunday. Or is it Wednesday? Doesn’t matter. Half an hour later I sit up on the side of my plush pillow-top king size bed and stare out across the Pacific. This could be heaven. Not far off surfers are bobbing, waiting for the next swell. Further out a small pod of dolphins is taking its time moving up the coast.

  The squeak of Sergio’s squeegee snaps me out of my trance. Sergio and his crew clean the sea salt off my windows every Friday morning (ah, Friday, that settles it). Pulling on a robe and stepping into sandals, I make my way out to the deck and offer Sergio a cigarette. He declines, as usual, and scorns me for “sucking death’s verga.” Friendly words from a friendly man, he even delivers them with a chuckle. After a few more pleasantries I leave him to clean in peace and mosey downstairs for coffee.

  I check my Green Mountain investment app and see green numbers and climbing lines. It’s only been four months since my initial investment and I’ve already made several hundred thousand dollars.

  Being that it’s a Friday, that means I have a busy day ahead. More often than not I have a weekly lunch with the team at GrabBags, a luggage company I started three years ago. The company is doomed, but I still show up to the meetings. Then, at around 7:00 p.m., a few of my friends from the Malibu Ferrari Club get together for an evening cruise down the Pacific Coast Highway and get sushi at Nobu. After that (and I haven’t checked on this detail yet but I am confident this is the case), I will party. The party is normally at some socialite’s house, but occasionally a B-list celebrity or a trust fund beneficiary will host the soirée. I don’t judge them for not having earned their money, it’s not as if anybody would turn down millions of dollars. And I speak from experience—although mine was earned. Finally, I’ll wrap up the night by flying to my vacation house in Monterey. Monterey has a certain elegance that I can’t get enough of, so I bought a little place up there a few years ago. I try and make it up every other weekend.

  The sun is shining through the overcast by the time I get out the door, so I decide to take the Cobra. There is nothing like a Shelby Cobra, but mine is particularly unique. The car was built for racing in Europe in 1966, and is one of only twenty-three “Super Snake” roadsters with a 427. It’s also one of five Super Snakes to have black paint, a black that, to this day, is as deep as space itself. It won several races early in its life, then was shipped to California and converted to a street legal racer. Fifty years later I bought the car at an auction. Now the Cobra spends most of its days parked next to an Aston Martin DB4 and a Porsche 930 in the classics section of my garage.

  The sound of the Cobra starting up is an electric whirl followed by a roaring bass drum rhythm that could startle a fart out of a deaf person. While I wait for the car to warm up I scroll through my Facebook feed. From the looks of it, I had an eventful night last night. My memory is foggy, but I distinctly remember getting together with some friends on one of their yachts. Kelsey’s yacht. We met at the marina in Oxnard and went for an evening trip out to the Channel Islands. Facebook videos remind me that the outing became eventful when, at around midnight, we convinced the second officer to try a few magic mushrooms. She then mistook the lights of a distant cruise ship for floating gold coins and was convinced that we needed to “make like Mario” and go jump through them. After she tried to wrest control of the yacht from the captain she was restrained and subdued. The best friends are those with character. And yachts.

  I need a yacht of my own.

  I ease the car out of the garage and wave to Isabella and the other gardeners on my way up the driveway toward the gate. My yard looks incredible. Recently-mowed grass, groomed palm trees, and colorful, well-pruned flowers that I don’t know the names of. Even the fountain has been freshly polished. Isabella and her team have earned one hell of a tip this week.

  On the open road the Cobra rumbles along like galloping thunder. If roads could talk, they would thank me. Cruising down the coastal highway, cool wind in my hair, I light a cigarette and find my zen. Sun rays glisten on the ocean and heat the beach. Do seagulls know how well they have it?

  I pull into the Chevron by Malibu Point to get some smokes and top off the tank.

  Society has five-star hotels, five-diamond resorts, and fine dining at Michelin-starred restaurants, but no luxury gas stations. Chevron is as close as it gets. Whatever car you drive, whatever your status, you have to fill up with the other commoners. Which is fine. There are usually a couple people who get excited over what I’m driving, and I’m happy to make their day. Gas stations also give me an opportunity to take stock on the status of humanity. Here we all are. If there’s a case to be made against democracy, it is made at the gas station. These are the people choosing our presidents.

  The teller rings me up for two packs of cigarettes, an Arizona Iced Tea, and six Superlotto tickets. I usually play the MegaMillions, the Powerball, and the Scratchers. Statistically I’m more likely to win a second time than I am a first, so I buy tickets every time I fill up. If winning has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t win without playing. Plus, it’s only a few bucks, and the returns are in the millions. It’s a no-brainer.

  The GrabBags meeting is short. The hope is that we’re going to save the company by starting a few crowdfunding campaigns. Definitely doomed.

  After a few errands I make it home with enough time for a nap next to my infinity pool. My seizuring phone wakes me up at 7:40 p.m. Mia is wondering where I’m at. Last week at sushi I mentioned a newly-restored Ferrari 330 that I just bought, and she was looking forward to seeing it. I text back saying I’m on my way.

  I text an invite to Jamie, who has been busy at work lately. As expected, Jamie is too busy to make it tonight, but suggests we get together sometime next week. I’m not the type of person who gets attached to other people, but something about Jamie has drawn me in. I miss Jamie. It’s been weeks since we last talked, and even then it was just about Green Mountain.

  I change into evening finery, put on a couple of my favorite rings, and freshen up for tonight’s festivities. As I’m putting on my jacket and walking out the door, I glance up at my Pollock painting and a feeling of foreboding creeps up, seemingly from the shadows of my soul. The thought crosses my mind, is Jamie letting me down easy? Was what we had just a way to get me to invest? No. Can’t be. I had already committed to investing before Jamie invited me to the Dodgers game. I’m probably overthinking it.

  The Ferrari revs to life in much the same way as the Cobra, but the Ferrari’s V12 engine has a more dignified hum. It’s near 8:30 p.m. and I’ve missed the group drive, so I drive straight for Nobu.

  The parking lot is full, so I park across the street at McDonalds. That’s better anyway. I feel like Nobu and its parking lot are so close to the ocean that they could be swept away without warning at Poseidon’s whim.

  The host takes me back to the deck where the others are already enjoying sushi. A couple of them look up at me, then go back to their conversation. I scan the group for a friend and see Mia with an open spot next to her. This isn’t a big group of people, maybe ten or fifteen of us, but I’m relatively new to the club, so I don’t know most of them. Mia sees me coming her way and stands to greet me with a hug.

  “We thought you weren’t gonna make it!” Mia has mastered the ability to smile and speak simultaneously. “Some of us were beginning to think we’d never see the 330.”

  A couple familiar, nameless faces look up and simulate smiles. I return the gesture and sit next to Mia. I survey the rest of the group as Mia tells me about the group drive. Most of these folks come from old money, so we don’t have much in common. Others made their money through business,
finance, law, medicine, or some other occupation that they think makes them valuable to society. They all dress and act ostentatiously, especially toward each other. I mostly associate with the club because I like the cars; the silver-haired professionals tend to look down on us new money mortals. Mia also comes from old money, but she isn’t snobby about it.

  I met Mia Cortez at a spa resort in Japan last year. We were drawn to each other by our shared nationality. Our friendship grew like bamboo as we soaked in hot springs, steamed in saunas, and spent evenings sipping sake. We were both recovering divorcees that lived in Malibu—Mia being a lifetime resident, myself having just moved in six years earlier. We both knew what it was like to have wealth and how difficult it is to fend off freeloaders and gold diggers. As children our parents neglected us, and we both had siblings who had grown up to be monsters. The list of shared experiences seemed endless as we explored each other’s lives. Right down to our shared love of cars and the struggle of protecting them from the ocean’s salt. In fact, it was Mia who invited me to the Malibu Ferrari Club.

  When the conversation lulls, I ask Mia what parties are going on tonight. Usually my phone receives more invitations than I can scroll through by this time of night, but I haven’t heard anything from the usual crowd. Although Mia doesn’t party as often as the rest of us, she always seems to know who’s hosting what.

  “Hmm. Ya know I haven’t heard anything,” Mia replies. “Lemme check.”

  While she scrolls through her phone I figure I’ll dispel some of the silence on our end of the table. I look at the gentleman sitting across from us with his plastic wife. They’re looking toward a conversation happening a few seats over, but neither has said anything in a few minutes. Might as well break the ice.

  “Hi, Jack, right?” I offer.

  “Roger,” Roger says.

  “Oh, for some reason I thought it was Jack, sorry about that.”

  “It is Jack, I was just saying ‘rodger’ as in affirmative,” Jack says.