Malibu Motel Read online

  “My name is Rob Tugly and I’m here with Tugly Ugly Repo & Tow on behalf of Aston Martin of Beverly Hills. Are you aware that you have defaulted on your payment agreement to Aston Martin of Beverly Hills?”

  Damn. I forgot about the Aston Martin. I may have missed a few payments there as well.

  “That doesn’t sound right... seems like they would have sent some sort of notification if that were the case,” I say with a sincere look of consternation. Rob is just a pawn for his company. He doesn’t really care about taking my car. I bet he earns $25,000 a year and lives in a two-room, one-bath hovel in Hawthorne. People like this, which is to say most people, can easily be persuaded with a little incentive. Rob is just like all the other lazy lower- and middle-class citizens of this country. He probably wakes up, does the minimum amount required of him, and goes home to his screaming children and mindless sitcoms.

  “They have sent notifications,” Rob states, “and you received them. They sent the notifications via certified mail, and you signed for them. Either way, that’s not really the point. I need to take your Aston Martin DB4, California license plate IAM DB4.”

  “Mm. Nah, I’d rather not allow you to do that.” What did Rob expect? I add, “And I know my rights, you can’t take it. But let’s not get mired down in all the prickly details of your job. How about this: I’ll make it worth your while to go back to Tug-One-Out and tell them that the car wasn’t here and neither was I.”

  “It’s Tugly Ugly Repo & Tow,” Rob says.

  “Yeah. Look, how about $500 to forget about the whole thing?”

  “Are you aware of what a secured transaction is?” Rob asks, clearly missing my point.

  “No, but that’s not what we’re talking about right now.”

  “It is, though. Ya see, a few months back, when you purchased your Aston Martin, do you remember whose money you used to purchase it?”

  “My own, of course.”

  “Close, but not quite. You borrowed $715,810 from Aston Martin of Beverly Hills to buy this car. To secure their loan, the dealership asked you to agree to use the car for collateral, that means that—”

  “Yeah look, Rob, whatever, I get it. But what I’m saying doesn’t concern Aston Martin of Beverly Hills. It’s just me and you Rob. Me, you, and, let’s make it $1000 cash.”

  “No, this is not between me and you. In fact, I have nothing to do with this. I am just doing my job. Now, I don’t mean to take up much of your time, could you please pull the DB4 out of the garage and park it about fifteen feet behind my truck?”

  “Sorry Rob, I can’t do that.” I have to put my foot down. I’ve paid the dealership over two hundred thousand dollars so far, and they have no right to come take my car just because I’m sort of behind on payments. Especially since I can pay off the loan in a few months.

  “Let me get you to look at something here for me,” Rob says and steps toward me with the clipboard out in front of him. “Does that look like your signature?” He points to a squiggle.

  “Yes.”

  “What you signed here is an agreement to allow Aston Martin to—”

  “Rob, fuck that. I know. You don’t have to keep telling me. But I’m not going to open the garage. I have enough money to become current on my payments, I just haven’t gotten it to the dealership yet. They’ll have their money, and I’ll keep my car. Trust me, everything is under control Rob. You can leave.”

  Rob looked disappointed. I was finally getting through to him.

  “Caish, if you don’t open that garage, the dealership will go to court and have the sheriff come take your car. The police will force you to relinquish the vehicle.”

  “Well then let them try to force me to relinquish the vehicle. It’s my car and they’re not taking it. Goodbye Rob.”

  Without another word, Rob smiled, tipped his hat, and drove his truck up and out of my driveway. And to think, he could have done the exact same thing but with $1000, had he been willing to see reason. Had he been more entrepreneurial. He may have even made more if he was an enterprising negotiator. It just goes to show you why he’s not one of us. Why he goes home to peasant blue-collar squalor and I go home to 8,000 square feet of beachfront heaven. Because I am a hustler. I have ambition that Rob will never have. What does he know about hard work? About sacrificing to make your dreams come true? Obviously nothing. If he had any real desire to amount to anything, he would have his own tow truck business and stop taking orders from other people. He would see an opportunity when it was staring him in the face, instead of blindly following the orders of superiors.

  Whatever, I don’t have time to think about that. Let the sheriff try to take my Aston Martin. I’ll move it to a storage unit later today. I’ll tell the authorities it was stolen if it comes to that. But for now, I have a rally to get to. Registration starts in an hour and I’m two hours away.

  I change into a T-shirt and jeans that say I’m casual and laid back, yet extremely rich. I put on my Gucci driving shoes, put a few carats worth of diamond studs into each ear, and grab my driving gloves on my way out the door. Last night I packed my bespoke Lamborghini suitcases with everything I’ll need on the rally, so I’m ready to go.

  I all but begged Jamie to come with me, but I guess this is still a busy time of year for investment advisors and hedge fund managers. Having a co-driver is an essential part of any rally, so, when Jamie turned me down, I called Mia. She said she couldn’t take a couple weeks off work. I decide to let Riley Hammon be my co-driver. Riley is young enough to be reckless, but old enough to be legal—right in the sweet spot. Riley is a blonde model with a small frame, a big ego, and complete disregard for authority. Riley wasn’t my first choice because I’d rather not go on a road trip with an immature talk box who won’t stop telling me about who said what to who. But I figure if we party early into every morning, Riley will sleep while we drive.

  Riley is on the curb and ready to go when I pull up to Empire Apartments. We arrive at the rally with plenty of time to spare and get registered. The Bullrun is an exhibition of the finest mechanical engineering money can buy. Over a hundred exotic cars, many of them modified, dominating over three thousand miles of highway. Most drivers know how to have a good time, so it ends up being a week of nonstop racing and partying. Registration is a pre-party of re-meeting last year’s drivers and checking out any new cars.

  After we get our wristbands, grab bags, and paperwork (all quite official), we work our way back to the Lamborghini to make sure we’re all set. That’s when I hear the unmistakable voice of Tim Rayburn.

  “Hey Mud Duck, you can’t park there!”

  I turn to see Tim, about fifty feet down the parking lot, laughing and walking toward me. Tim drives a blue Lamborghini Aventador SV with Selina, his wife, as his co-pilot. We met a few years back at this rally and hit it off when we discovered that we were both lottery winners (up until Jamie, he was the only other winner I’d met). Tim made his way through the crowd and greeted me with a half-hug and giggles he could hardly contain.

  “Caish, you missed it!” Tim’s cigarette seems to defy physics as it clings to his lower lip. “Just before you got here, haha, there was this Oscar Meyer Wienermobile doing fuckin’ burnouts! Ah haha, you’d have laughed so hard! Hahaha. Oh God. You know, the big ass hotdog cars? Oh, sweet Jesus. Just picture it, this fuckin’ thing’s got like a supercharged Chevy 570 pushin’ over 700 horses and nobody knows it. Probably turbocharged too. It pulls into the parking lot and everybody’s makin’ fun of it and talkin’ shit. Haha, then, Caish, I shit you not, the dude just lets it rip and does one of the longest fuckin’ burn outs I’ve ever seen. All sorts of donuts and shit. And, haha, he’s got his arm out the window flipping everybody off. The smoke cloud was so fuckin’ thick, haha, people were chokin’ and running for air. Pluggin’ their ears and yellin’ at him. Haha, I don’t know how the dude’s tires didn’t blow out. And then he just fuckin’ drove away. Haha, oh my God Caish, you’d of loved it.”

 
“Haha, dammit, nobody asked him to come on the rally with us?”

  “We couldn’t, he just fuckin’ rolled up, burned rubber, and peeled out of here. Haha, a fuckin’ Oscar Meyer Wienermobile! Oh God. Anyway, how’ve you been Caish? You look great, everything going alright?”

  “Yeah man, everything is going great, how about you? How’s Selina? She still your co-driver?”

  “Yeah she is, and she’s doing great. You wouldn’t believe how good she’s looking these days. Damn. Oh there she is right there. Selina!” Tim yells across the parking lot, “Hey, Selina, look it’s Caish! Com‘ere! Here she comes.”

  Selina is indeed looking great. Her hair is as blond as the sun’s corona and she looks like she just walked off the set of a movie. Her new breasts look as natural as her tan. She must be 37 years old or something, but she looks 25. To date, I’m not sure I have ever met somebody who smiles and laughs more than Selina. Her and Tim are apt examples of how much happiness money can buy. On the rally, if you pass Tim’s Lamborghini (or, more likely, when Tim passes you), you will hear two things: the roar of a Lamborghini V12, and classic rock almost as loud. And you’ll see four things: Tim’s smiling face, Tim’s middle finger, Selina head-banging, and both of Selina’s hands in the air telling you to rock on.

  “Caish! Long time no see! How are you baby?” Selina says with arms out, reeling in a hug.

  “I am really great, how about you?”

  “Never been better! Who’s this gorgeous co-driver you’ve got with you this year?”

  I had completely forgotten about Riley, who was scrolling through Twitter in the passenger seat.

  “Hey Riley, come meet two of my favorite people,” I say, motioning to Tim and Selina. Riley pockets the phone and walks around to the front of the car.

  “Riley, this is Selina Rayburn and her husband Tim. No doubt they will be the best people you meet on the rally. Tim, Selina, this is Riley Hammon. Riley knows how to have a good time and was available on last-minute notice to come along.”

  Riley offers a limp handshake to the Rayburns and says, “Nice to meet you, I look forward to partying with you.” Despite Riley’s weak first impression, I’m sure the Rayburns will see Riley as I do: a young beauty with a tight body and a high tolerance for controlled substances.

  “Hell yeah Riley,” Tim says, “we look forward to wearin’ you out. How are your cocaine supplies?”

  Riley blushes and laughs nervously. “What?”

  “Ya know,” Tim continues, “Bolivian marching powder, blow, California corn flakes? Surely you brought a couple weeks’ supply?”

  Riley glances at me suggesting I take it from here. So I do. “Yeah we’re all stocked up. But we know where to go if we run low.”

  An organizer on a bullhorn announces the beginning of the rally and people start filing into their cars.

  “Well good stuff, this is going to be a fuckin’ rally to remember. We’ll see you two on the road! Oh, by the way, did you hear about Mario Andretti?” Tim adds.

  “No, what’s up?” I ask.

  “He’s here! I shit you not. He’ll be rallying with us. They say near the end of the rally he’s gonna choose one of his favorite cars and drive it.”

  “Like, drive one of our cars?”

  “Yeah, isn’t that bitchin?”

  “Hell yeah that’s bitchin. See you out there Tim!”

  Riley and I slide into the Lambo and add to the symphony of starting engines. The Italian V12 (well, I guess sort of German these days, but whatever) gives me chills every time I start it. The pedals feel firm under my Guccis. The smooth vibration of the engine massages us through the seats.

  Riley asks, “Should we do a couple lines to start things off?”

  “Not a bad idea,” I say, “but I always get coke all over the place when I try and snort in the car. It’s like eating in the car for me. So let’s hold off until our first checkpoint.”

  “Fair enough,” Riley responds. Then, “Tim and Selina seem nice. Are they always that high?”

  “Oh they weren’t high, Riley. That’s just how happy they are naturally. You’ll know when they’re wired.”

  “No fuckin’ way. Nobody is that happy sober,” Riley says with bewilderment.

  “Really, I’m not kidding. They’re just properly rich. Find them in the morning, they’ll be smiling and laughing just as much. Maybe wait ‘til they’ve had their coffee and a few cigarettes, but they’ll be just as chipper.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re sober,” Riley replies, “maybe they put coke in their coffee instead of sugar.”

  “We’ll get breakfast with them tomorrow and you can see for yourself. Will you grab that checklist and see what our first challenge is? We need to stop by my place on our way out of town, but if there’s something we can do on the way we might as well.” And like that, we’re off. We take off toward my place to move the Aston Martin. Riley will help.

  My gate is open. I get a pit in my stomach. I know I closed my gate. Rob has been here since I left. I know it. The sneaky bastard must have been watching the place. Fuck. How could I forget to set the alarm? Sure enough, the DB4 is gone. That motherfucker broke into my garage and stole my DB4. I’m calling my lawyer, this is bullshit.

  “Good afternoon, thank you for calling Morely, Black, and Associates, how may I direct your call?”

  “To Gabriella Rodriguez.”

  “Transferring you now, please hold.” No hold music is better than any hold music.

  “Gabriella speaking.”

  “Hey Gabby, this is Caish.”

  “Good afternoon Caish, everything going alright with that settlement?”

  “Yeah it’s great, thanks for your work on that. But I’m calling about something else. A repo guy just broke into my garage and stole one of my cars. I want my car back, and that asshole arrested.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Were you home when he broke in?”

  “No.”

  “Is the garage attached to your house?”

  “No, this is one of the detached garages.”

  “Was the stolen vehicle used as collateral for a loan?”

  “Yes, but Gabby the guy broke into my fucking garage and stole my car. That car is worth like a million dollars.”

  Gabby is quiet for a moment. “Okay, what is the vehicle’s year, make, and model, where did you buy it from, and who was your lender? Also, do you know the name of the repo company?”

  I give Gabby the details lawyers need and she tells me she’ll call me back tomorrow with some options.

  “Well, no need to call back,” I say, “just handle it. I will be on the road for the next two weeks, and I want that car back in my garage by the time I get back. An added bonus would be for Rob, the repo truck fucker, to be in jail. When that happens maybe just shoot me a text letting me know everything’s taken care of. Twelve hundred an hour for your time, right?”

  “Yeah, the billing rate hasn’t changed, but, Caish, it may not be possible to get your vehicle back that easily,” Gabby says. “It sounds like you entered into a purchase money security agreement with Aston Martin of Beverly Hills, and they may be within their rights to take it back if you have defaulted on your loan. That said, I’m going to do everything the law allows to get your Aston Martin back, I just want to make sure your expectations are in the right place.”

  “Yeah I get it, everything takes forever. Either way, please just handle this.”

  “Sounds good, Caish. I’ll start making phone calls as soon as we hang up.” Then she hung up. I don’t think I have ever heard Gabby say “goodbye” or anything like it. She doesn’t have time for that. That’s why I work with her. She’s a hustler, like me. She’s also rich like me, so I’m sure we have a similar understanding of reality. She won’t let some schmuck like Rob do this to one of us. The poor can steal cars from each other until the cows come home and nobody cares. Hell, they probably enjoy the added drama in their pointless lives. But stealing from one of us has swift c
onsequences. We have the full weight of the justice system behind us. Rob doesn’t stand a chance.

  “Everything alright?” Riley asks when I get back in the car.

  “No. Some asshole repo fucker just broke into my garage and stole my Aston Martin DB4.”

  “Holy shit! Caish that’s terrible,” Riley says while scrolling through Instagram, “sorry to hear it. What a goddamn tragedy. Was that your only Aston Martin?”

  I see Riley grinning, as if to say, “Really? You mean you only have sixteen cars now? Whatever will you do?”

  “Oh fuck off Riley. You know what it’s like to lose something you’ve worked for? Something worth a million dollars?”

  “I’m just kidding, Caish, chill out. That sucks your car was stolen.”

  “Yeah. Well since we’re here, wanna swing in and do a couple lines before we get out on the road again?”

  “Definitely,” Riley answers almost before I’m done asking. “Wanna fuck too, or do you think we have time for that? Looks like we need to be in Vegas by 9:00 p.m.”

  “What time is it now? Fiveish?”

  “Yeah right around there.”

  “I think we have time, but let’s hurry.”

  Soon we’re back on the road. Windows down, heart-rates up, bobbing and weaving through traffic like Muhammad Ali rumbling in the jungle. When we transfer from the 405 to I-15 we settle into our cruising speed. Road trips in exotic cars can be quite a challenge. Discomfort sets in about an hour into the trip. The seats are so firm, the suspension is so stiff, and the tires are so thin, that crosswalk lines turn into speed bumps. Desert highways aren’t exactly glassy smooth, and the slightest crack at 90 mph can become a teeth-rattling chasm. Sure, the Lamborghini has a comfort mode on the suspension, but that hardly helps. Then there’s the constant battle to avoid rock chips, to stay out of blind spots (the car’s low profile seems to make it invisible), and not get tangled up with rubberneckers gawking at the car. A road trip in a Lamborghini takes incredible focus and resolve.

  The first checkpoint is at the base of the Baker thermometer. I’m told that it’s the tallest thermometer in the world, and that it was built after Baker’s temperature reached 134 degrees Fahrenheit. You’d think they’d have spent the money on the world’s biggest air conditioner. But then I never have understood these desert folk. Growing up in Missoula was no metropolis, but at least we had basic amenities. What do the desert folk eat? Where do they shop? What do they do all day? What opportunities are there for the children to become rich and make a difference in the world? But, I guess it’s their choice. Being poor is as much a choice as being rich. This is America. If they want money, it is there for the taking. If somebody is poor, it is because they want to be poor. Anybody can start a business and become rich, it just takes some grit.