Stuff to Die For (2 page)

At the end the old man had picked the wrong business. He’d partnered with a friend in selling shares in Miami property, only the
friend
never told Oscar that there were more shares than property. When shareholders came to collect, the friend was long gone and Oscar Lessor did five years in prison. Five years. When he got out, he was a broken man.

“Hey, man. Look at the businesses you’ve tried to start. You’re not a loser. And he wasn’t a loser. He just never got where he wanted to be.”

“You know what he told me a couple of weeks before he died? The doctor had told him that the cancer was going to get him before the end of the year, and he’d pretty much accepted it. I brought him a cup of coffee, and he reached out and took my hand. Didn’t have much strength, his hand was shaking, but he squeezed mine and he said ‘I never drove a Cadillac.’”

“A Cadillac?”

“Yeah. I never told anyone that. Sounds really stupid. But that’s what he wanted. I think my old man thought if he drove a Cadillac, it was his way of saying that he’d made it. He’d finally arrived.”

“And your point is?”

“I’m not going to fuck up my life. I’m going to make it long before it’s my time to go. My old man is still hanging around, telling me to get my act together, and he’s right. I’m not going to be the loser he was.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m not going to die before I drive that Cadillac. What we’ve talked about. We’ll get the student loans and go to school. You take the business courses, I’ll do the culinary thing, and when we get out we’ll start our own restaurant, right on South Beach. We’ll be the hottest spot in town.”

Seventeen and eighteen, right out of high school, I suppose that sounded like a chance to hit the big time. My mom was just happy that I’d decided to go to college. Sam and Dave U.—2300 kids—smaller than our high school. It was nicknamed Sam and Dave U in honor of the two sixties singers who had the hit “Soul Man,” but there wasn’t a lot of soul at Sam and Dave U. And no one seemed to know who the real Samuel and Davidson might have been. They’d used Miami’s standard for building complexes: rows of pale stucco buildings with orange tile roofs and palm trees that sprouted more dead brown branches than live green ones. The faculty lacked soul and the students lacked soul. The institution was structured like a trade school, with a minimum of fine arts or anything else for that matter. Talk about a minimum campus. We should have figured it out from the brochure the university sent out.

CAMPUS ACTIVITIES.
MANY GROUPS PLAN
OFF-CAMPUS TRIPS TO CULTURAL
AND ENTERTAINMENT VENUES.

That was it. Off campus.

And four years later, after almost being tossed out two or three times for minor and major infractions of campus rules (organizing a wet T-shirt contest in front of the Student Union for one), we found that the placement office was not up to the task of finding high-paying, steady jobs for two students who barely squeaked by with a 1.9 and 2.1 grade point average. With student loans in the tens of thousands, the dream of owning our own restaurant was a distant memory.

“Skip, think about it.” James was selling harder than usual. “Working as a line cook at Cap’n Crab isn’t what I envisioned after four years of Sam and Dave. And you?” He waved his hands in the air, the look of total exasperation on his face. “Dude, you’ve got a head for business and you’re selling some goddamned security system to home owners who don’t have anything to secure. Our dreams, man. What happened? We were supposed to own our own business!”

“I remember. It’s just going to take a little longer than we planned.”

I knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“Look at this crappy apartment, Skip. Jesus, our dorm room was bigger than this.”

I took a deep breath. When the breeze was just right you could smell the thick, cloying, greasy smell of fried food from the Denny’s about a block away.

“Shit. I don’t have the time, bro. You know what I think?”

I shook my head. Long ago, maybe in fourth grade, I’d given up trying to tell what James was thinking.

“I think someone should take this city and just flush it down the fucking toilet.”

I smiled. “De Niro,
Taxi Driver
.”

“Hey, very good.”

James had spent far too many nights watching classic movies, but he always had some great quotes. I’d watched most of them with him but his unbelievable memory captured the best lines. I had trouble remembering the plots. James was a riot at parties.

“So, as I was saying, security systems. How many have you sold in the past six months? Three? Four?”

“Two.”

“And you’re coming off salary, right? Now it’s commission?”

“I’ve got some stuff in the works.”

“Bullshit. And me? I come home every night smelling like fucking fish. I can’t get the stink out of my clothes, my hair—” He paused. “This isn’t what I had in mind, Skip.”

“It’s temporary, James. We’ll get some of the loans paid off, move down to Miami and—”

“Yeah. And one or two years stretches into five and six years. It’s going to start happening now, bro. It’s time to break out. Skip Moore and James Lessor, entrepreneurs. Moore and Lessor, or Lessor and Moore. Have truck, will haul.”

I put down the magazine, the one with Jamie-Lynn DiScala on the cover. Tony Soprano’s little girl was all grown up in a miniscule bikini and a come hither look on her face.“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Come to the door, my man. I want you to see our future.”

I should have avoided the door. I should have turned my back, bolted out the rear of the apartment, and never talked to my best friend again. But, of course, that didn’t happen.

If it had, there would be no reason for this book, and Jackie Fuentes would probably be sleeping with the fishes. Literally. But I went to the door to see what the future held. You always want the future to look bright—rosy and beckoning. You just never expect the future to be a Chevy one-ton box truck.

CHAPTER TWO

E
MILY GOT US THE FIRST JOB. James had business cards printed with my cell phone number. I guess he thought we’d just pass them out and everyone would call.

HAVE TRUCK WILL HAUL.
555-4628

It was supposed to be that simple. It almost was.

“Furniture, clothes, machinery, junk, whatever somebody wants hauled, we can do it. You’re the salesman, Skip. When they call, close the deal.”

I’ll be honest. The first thing I thought about was hauling illegal merchandise. When you grow up in South Florida you don’t read about waving palm trees and white sandy beaches. The people up north read about that.
You
read about drugs, contraband, stolen goods, and hijacked commodities. You hear about shady characters, organized crime, and boats, planes, and trucks that make unannounced rendezvous at strange hours in the morning. Bales of marijuana floating on a black ocean and Colombian drug lords who import their form of terror into the United States through Florida. And you think about Cuban refugees who are escaping a life that must be hell. But, what the
hell
, it was another James Lessor scheme and since I’d bought into all of them before, there wasn’t much to lose. Or so I thought.

James had bought the used truck for $12,000, an inheritance from an aunt who lived in California.

“I met her once.” He sucked on his cigarette, letting the ash grow an inch before he flicked it off. “I must have left some impression, or else she just doled out $12,000 to everyone in the family.”

“James, you should have paid off some of your student loans. They’re going to hang over our heads for half of our lives.”

We were sprawled on cheap plastic lawn chairs on what passed as our apartment patio. It was a slab of cracked and pitted concrete, stained with a lot of beer, wine, and black smudge marks from ground-out cigarette butts. Some of those stains had actually been there when we moved in.

James took a slow swallow of beer from the brown bottle and gazed over the top of his sunglasses at the two girls three apartments down. Dressed in shorts and halter tops, they worked over a charcoal grill, trying to fan the briquettes into hot coals. “Skip, it’s that old adage about giving someone fish, or giving them a fishing pole. Give ’em a fish, they eat one meal. Give ’em a pole, they can catch fish the rest of their lives. If I put the money toward the loan, I wouldn’t have any money left. But,” he held up his index finger for dramatic effect, “but if I buy a truck, then I can use the profits from our little business venture to pay off the entire loan and at the same time build a business empire.”

“Empire?”

“I’m not thinking one truck here. Think Ryder. Think U-Haul, Penske. Think big, Skip. People are more mobile than ever, and they have more stuff than ever. Stuff, buddy. Stuff. They need trucks to haul that stuff.” He stood up, stretched his six-foot, lanky frame, pulled his baggy green shorts up around his bare waist, and walked barefoot down to the girls’ patio. I could see him showing them how to get maximum heat without stinking up the meat with charcoal lighter. Four years of culinary college had paid off. He could pick up girls by dispensing barbecue advice. The phone chirped. I checked the number. Emily.

“Em. How goes it?”

“Whatcha doin’ for dinner? Want to grab a pizza?”

I looked down toward the girls’ patio. James was laughing, drinking one of their green labels, and they seemed to be amused at something he’d said. “Sure. I think my roommate has plans.”

“Oh, so I’m runner up?”

“No. Just an observation. Sure, let’s get a pizza. I want to run a business idea by you.”

“Me?”

Her, indeed. Emily’s dad owns a construction business in Carol City. Carol City Construction. He’s built some of the most palatial homes in the Miami area, and runs a very successful company. When Em graduated from the University of Miami with a computer engineering degree, she was offered about a zillion jobs, with salaries approaching $150,000. But she went to work for Dad and figured out how to make the main guy in her life another gazillion dollars. If anyone knew good business, she did.“You.”

“What about Jaystone?”

“I’m not quitting. Jaystone Security is still paying the bills.”

“Barely. You know you could always work construction, Skip. Dad could put you on at about a dozen sites right now.”
Dad
didn’t realize I couldn’t drive a nail even if I had a sledgehammer. And furthermore, he didn’t like me a whole lot. It wasn’t necessarily that I was dating his daughter or that I had a crummy job. It was more about not dating his daughter seriously. And I’m not sure he knew that was by her choosing. Em liked different guys. She liked to flirt, to party, to have her little affairs. She’d been that way since she went away to some hot-shit private school as a junior in high school and we’d broken up. But she still liked to get together with me and just get comfortable. And sometimes it was very, very comfortable.

“James has an idea—”

“Oh, Jesus.” I could picture her shaking that pretty little head, her short hair bouncing around that kissable face. “He’s always got ideas. You’re not buying into something with him are you?”

“Em, let’s go get a pizza. We can talk when my minutes aren’t on the line, okay?” Cell phone minutes, just like money, meant nothing to her. It’s the problem with rich people. They don’t think about how tough it can be on the others, trying to keep up. Every now and then I’ve got to bring her up short.

“I’ll be by in half an hour.”

“Dutch treat, Em. There haven’t been a lot of sales this month.”

“Then I hope to hell this business venture pans out, Skip. If it doesn’t, you might just starve to death.”

Did I mention that besides being rich, she has this sarcastic streak a mile long? Still, when she’s comfortable, she’s very comfortable.

Half an hour later to the minute she picked me up in the T-Bird convertible, the tan top already down and the red paint job waxed to a blinding shine. If I have to rely on a woman for my ride, I’m glad it’s a classy ride.

CHAPTER THREE

P
AULIE’S HAS THIS GREAT CRUST that’s crisp and thin and has enough flavor to make you wish they’d just forget about the toppings. Seriously. Sometimes we just get a twelve-inch without anything and eat the crust.

Em ordered a fourteen-inch mushroom and Italian sausage with a pitcher of beer to wash it down, and we sat out on the faded wooden deck under a cheap umbrella, the sun cooking everything that wasn’t covered.

“So what is this big venture?”

“Promise me you won’t laugh?”

“No.”

“No, you won’t laugh?”

“No, I won’t promise you. Skip, that’s one reason I keep seeing you. You make me laugh.”

She laughed.

I read one time that if you can get a girl to laugh, you can get her into bed. I’m always afraid that they’ll laugh
while
we’re in bed.