7
RIGHT NOW NOTARY AND TAX PREP OPERATED OUT OF AN aging strip mall on Beach Boulevard near Talbert. There was a Laundromat next door and a liquor store next to that, which was also a carnicería that sold asada and carnitas tacos to go, and which cashed paychecks and did a limited pawn business. The counter in the liquor store was shielded by bulletproof glass, and the doors and windows were covered with a sliding wrought iron gate after two in the morning. The Laundromat was open all night.
Ray Mifflin sat at the office desk reading a People magazine and drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. He could hear a muffled churning from beyond the wall, a washing machine chugging away in the Laundromat. From time to time he glanced out the window, waiting for his client to show—a Mr. Edmund Dalton of Huntington Beach, son of a very rich man. Dalton was fifteen minutes late. Ray didn’t normally open until ten, although he was usually in the office a couple hours early. This was ridiculous, though. This morning he had pulled in shortly after dawn for an appointment with a man who was too busy to wait for business hours. Ray had just turned sixty, and he was damned if he would put up with being treated like a fool by some rich young punk.
He was tired, but it was only lately that he had realized it. He looked tired. His hair was thin. Rogaine treatments hadn’t done a thing for him. Neither had diet pills. He was sedentary, his back was a wreck, and he was simply goddamn weary of the whole thing. He missed his breakfast, too. When he got up early like this, he always felt starved within a half hour, and this morning he craved a Hostess apple pie, which, of course, he couldn’t put his hands on because the damned liquor store didn’t open until eight, when the vagrants sleeping on the Laundromat chairs woke up hungry.
He was charging his early-morning customer a hundred dollars to notarize a quitclaim deed, but at this moment the pie was more attractive to him than the money was, and if the man didn’t show up in another ten minutes he was going to hang the be-back-soon clock on the door and head down to the all-night market.
This whole transaction smelled wrong anyway: the rush to get it done, the early-hours appointment, the money….
Ray had notarized another deed for the man barely a month ago, and that one had smelled a little high, too, although it was true that he wouldn’t have thought more than twice about last month’s work if it weren’t for this second one. There was nothing really out of the ordinary about the deed that he had notarized last month. It involved an old guy, pretty much on the ropes, quitclaiming a piece of property to his son, getting out from under some of his assets before he dropped dead and the estate got caught up in probate and taxes. There was something about the son, though, that Ray didn’t like—he was way too anxious and smug. You’d think that if the old man was giving you a gift-wrapped piece of Newport Beach you’d be a little bit deferential, a little grateful. But this had been hurry-up-and-get-it-done, and when the deed was signed, the son had called the old man a cab, given him some folding money out in the parking lot, and drove away by himself in a Mercedes. The old man had hit the liquor store for a pint of bourbon while he was waiting for the cab.
On the other hand, it wasn’t any of Ray’s concern. If you ask too many questions about another man’s business, it becomes your business, and pretty soon you’re wading through mud and you don’t have any galoshes. And besides, there were lots of ungrateful sons out there, and lots of fathers who boozed it up.
There was a knock on the door now, and whoever was standing outside leaned hard enough against it that the dead bolt clanked against the frame. Ray got up and looked out past the curtain. When he saw it was Dalton, he unlocked the door and let him in. “Take a seat,” he said, motioning at one of the two office chairs opposite the desk.
Dalton looked far too fresh and pressed for this early in the morning, and the sight of him made Ray feel even more tired than he already felt. He also felt powerless, dressed in yesterday’s limp shirt and a pair of slacks that should have gone to the cleaners last week. Dalton wore a suit and tie, and his shirt had a monogram on the pocket, a stylized D. He wore his clothes easily, too, as if he was born to model shirts. He was slightly taller than Ray, who was five-ten, and he had a medium build. There was a lot about him that was medium—a lot of restraint, a magazine image. He looked a little like Frank Sinatra in his prime, but with wavier hair and a tan that must have come out of a tanning salon, given the time of the year. Women probably found him handsome.
Ray rubbed the top of his head and sat down heavily in his own chair. “Cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I don’t drink coffee.”
“My coffee’s no good anyway,” Ray said. “I usually chase it with Rolaids.”
“Why do you drink it, then?” Dalton was apparently serious. He had no sense of humor at all, despite his smile.
“Force of habit,” Ray said. “What have you got?”
“Same as last time. Nothing complicated. This won’t be the last one, either.”
“Where’s your father, out in the car?”
Dalton shook his head. “He’s not too well, I’m afraid. I believe I mentioned that they were going to do bypass surgery on him?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Unfortunately they couldn’t, not in the shape he was in. So they put him on a diet and exercise regimen, which was completely worthless. He’s weaker than ever. You saw what he looked like last month.”
Ray nodded. Last month the old man had looked like a street drunk wearing somebody else’s clothes.
“I’m pretty sure that there’s something more wrong with him. His stomach problems get worse every day. He can’t eat. My guess is it’s cancer, but I’ll be damned if I want them to run the tests on him. What’s the use? If they find out it’s cancer, what are they going to do—chemo therapy? Not in the shape he’s in. I’m just trying to keep him comfortable now. He might hang on six months, or he might go tomorrow.”
“He’s insured?”
“With Kaiser Permanente.”
Ray clicked his tongue.
“They’ve taken good care of him. The HMO is the wave of the future. But when a man’s dying of heart disease, cancer doesn’t interest him all that much. He’s got a big enough fight as it is.”
“And that’s why he wants to get rid of these properties?”
“That’s exactly it,” Dalton said. “He’s clearing the decks, I guess. It’s sad, but it’s practical.”
“Well, it’s not all that practical. We’ve got a small problem.”
“What’s that? I’ve got his signature here on the deed.”
“Even so,” Ray said, “we need him, too.”
“Well, we’re not going to get him. I’m not exaggerating about his condition. It would kill him to have to deal with this now. You’ve already met him. What’s the sudden interest in his personal appearance?”
Ray held his hands out helplessly. His instincts had been right. There was a problem here. And now his instincts told him that it was a problem that was bigger than a hundred bucks.
“It’s the law, Mr. Dalton.” The only thing to do for the moment was to stonewall him—shift the blame to the government. Hell, there were other notaries around. Let him go hose somebody else if he didn’t want to play ball.
Dalton looked at him for a moment, as if considering Ray’s objection. “What’s that picture on the wall there?” he asked suddenly, pointing at a framed photo.
“That’s the Mifflin hacienda. Belonged to my folks.” The photo was of a U-shaped ranch-style house with a wide verandah and shuttered windows. The blue of the ocean was visible beyond the dry scrub that surrounded the house. There was a terra-cotta and tile fountain in front with a sporty-looking old car parked beside it.
“And now the place is yours?” Dalton asked him.
“It sure as hell is, whenever I can find the time to get down there.”
“It was your birthright, your inheritance?”
“I guess you could put it that way. It’s only about four hours away, too. Outside a little village called Punta Rioja—just below Ensenada.” Ray instantly regretted saying this. He was talking too much, getting too familiar with a man he didn’t know. That was against the rules.
“That’s how you learned the language, then?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s come in handy for you, too.”
“There’s a big Hispanic population up here. They pay taxes.”
“That’s good to hear. They need help, and they come to Ray Mifflin. I bet they need all kinds of help.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
Dalton shook his head, as if what he’d said wasn’t important anyway. He waved his papers in the air. “Well, you’ve got your little hacienda already. I guess you understand what I’m talking about here.”
“Yes, sir,” Ray said. “And so will your father. All we need is his signature, like I said.”
“You’ve seen the signature before, though. It’s not as if this thing doesn’t have a history. I mean, this isn’t the first of these. And as I said before, you’ve already met my father.”
“Well, the county doesn’t have as much respect for history as you and I do, Mr. Dalton. Legally, either your father’s got to be here or else you’ve got to have two witnesses to attest to the fact that this is his signature.”
“Are you implying that you don’t believe this is his signature?” He laid the papers on the desktop and gestured at them.
“Hell, no,” Ray told him. “But this isn’t about what I believe. This is about what’s legal and illegal. I’d love to do you a favor, Mr. Dalton, but I’ve got a career on the line here, and I’m afraid I’ve got to follow the rules.”
Dalton shrugged and sat back in his seat. “I guess maybe we can get an ambulance to transport him. I don’t like it, though. I can’t imagine that’s what the law had in mind.”
“Like I said, how about a couple of witnesses to the signature? That ought to be easy enough. Either that or I could run on out to Huntington Beach with you. I’d have to charge you my hourly plus travel, but if that’s the only way to work it …” He held his hands out and shrugged. “What is it, anyway? Another quitclaim deed? Not that it’s any of my business, aside from the signature question.”
“That’s it. Quitclaim deed again. Real estate. I’ve still got to get his estate under control before the tax man gets hold of it. I already feel like a vulture, you know, grabbing these deeds like this. But the government doesn’t let you do anything else. And like I said, I don’t want to bother my father with this. There’s no use for the two of us to go pushing into his sickroom and shoving a pen into his hand. He’s my father, for God’s sake. He deserves a little bit of respect.”
“I sympathize with that. That’s my attitude, too. But we’re all legislated into hard corners, Mr. Dalton. Why don’t you round up those witnesses and come back in during regular hours?” Ray stood up and held his hand out. If Dalton shook it and left, then to hell with the hundred bucks or anything else. He wouldn’t be back.
Dalton didn’t get up, though. He sat in the chair and looked Ray in the face, as if he were studying something out. “I appreciate your position,” he said finally. “And call me Edmund, for God’s sake. We’re all friends here.”
“I’m glad you understand,” Ray said. “You’re a businessman yourself. My advice is to make all this legal and aboveboard. Neither one of us needs some county official down here asking questions.” Ray had a gut feeling now: Dalton was going to make him an offer. Either Ray could act indignant or he could take it. He made up his mind then. He’d act indignant first; then he’d take the offer if it held up.
Dalton sat there silently again, studying his fingernails, which appeared to Ray to have been manicured. Last month’s deed had transferred title to a lot that must have been worth a couple hundred thousand, and this one on the desk now was something of the same kind. The guy could afford a manicure. A hundred bucks! Ray laughed out loud, cutting it off short and shaking his head.
“Something’s funny,” Dalton said.
“I just remembered something I heard on the radio once, that’s all.”
“Go ahead.” Dalton tossed his head. “Let’s hear it.”
“Well, I don’t know. It was funny as hell at the time—a few years back, when Jimmy Hoffa disappeared.”
Dalton nodded. “I hear he’s buried under the goalposts at some football stadium. What’s the joke?”
“Well, what I read was that there were all kinds of ransom notes that came in. Hundreds of them, all bogus, apparently.”
“I bet there were.”
“One of them was really rich, considering it was Hoffa.”
“What’d it say?” Dalton had a big grin now, as if he was ready for a good laugh.
“It said—this is what I heard—‘We’ve got Hoffa. Put five hundred dollars in a paper sack and …’ ” Ray waved his hand in a little whirlwind gesture and waited for Dalton’s reaction.
“And what?”
“I forget. Put it under a bush or something.”
“Five hundred?” Dalton appeared to be mystified, maybe doubtful. “That’s all they asked for?”
“That’s what’s funny. That’s it. That’s the joke. It was because it was Hoffa, see. If it was somebody else—JFK or somebody—the joke wouldn’t make any sense.” Either the man was dense, or he was playing dumb because he was catching on. “The idea was that Hoffa was only worth five hundred bucks….”
Dalton sat back in the chair again, all the anticipation gone out of his face. The joke had fallen flat on him. “You laugh easy. I admire that.”
“Well, in a world like this, you pretty much have to.”
“Business down a little bit? What else do you do here? You can’t make a living stamping papers.”
“Income tax. Investment counseling.”
“Investments?”
Ray nodded.
“That’s good. You’re a wise man, Ray. You could fool anyone with an office like this. Anyone with any sense would bet you’d never made a successful investment in your life. I guess that’s a lowball approach to the game.” He looked around, taking in the metal file cabinets, the stained carpeting, the desk against the back wall piled high with overfull file folders, the Mr. Coffee machine surrounded with plastic spoons and empty Cremora packets and used Styrofoam cups. “Now let me see if I’ve figured out what you’re driving at with this Hoffa joke, Ray. Basically, to begin with, you think that I don’t want to round up any witnesses because the signature’s a fake. Am I right so far?”
“I didn’t say it was a fake.”
“Wait, wait … No offense. I’m just organizing things here. You figure the signature’s a fake, and so you tell me this Hoffa story, making fun of five hundred bucks in a bag. That’s the punch line, isn’t it? My hundred dollars is the same kind of thing. That’s the joke.”
Ray nodded slowly. “That’s the punch line,” he said carefully, watching Dalton’s eyes, which were still full of sincerity.
“Well, you’re right.”
“About what?”
“About the signature. It’s a complete fake. I forged it.”