Buying Time (12 page)

Waverly winced inside. He was already counting on the commission. But he had never been one to apply pressure tactics.

“This is an important decision, Mr. Billington. If you’re not sure, we shouldn’t proceed. Have you discussed this with your family?”

“No, I can’t seem to find the right time to bring it up.”

Waverly closed the folder. “I think you may want to do that.”

A surprised look crossed Billington’s face.

“Why don’t I give you a few days to give it some thought?” Waverly continued. “You can call me back to reschedule our appointment after you’ve spoken with your family.”

Billington seemed hesitant and started biting his nails. “What do
you
think I should do?”

“I’m sorry,” Waverly said. “I really can’t make that decision for you. If you’re not sure you want to sell your policy, we shouldn’t proceed.”

The man just stared back at him and didn’t say anything for a long while. “If I go through with it, how soon will I get the check?”

“It all depends on how fast we can get your medical records from your doctor.”

“My doctor’s a golfing buddy.” Billington pulled out his wallet and handed Waverly a business card. “He promised me he would do what he could to get my records to you right away.”

“I really think it’s best if you talk this over with your family first,” Waverly urged him.

Billington waved his hand in front of his face. “Never mind. I’ll tell them. What’s next?”

This time, Waverly hesitated. He didn’t want any hassles after the guy died. It was always better if the family knew the deal up front.

“Our in-house doctors have to review your medical history,” Waverly explained. “I’ll see if I can give your case priority. If there aren’t any glitches, I should be able to get a check to you a couple of weeks after the medical review is finished.”

“So how much will I get?” Billington asked, his indecision now forgotten.

“As we discussed over the telephone, fifty percent of the face value of your policy. That’s one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Billington grinned. “Who gets the rest once I’m dead?”

“There are some administrative fees that go to Live Now and the doctors who evaluate your medical records. My commission also has to be paid. The rest goes to whoever invests in your policy.”

“And who’s that?”

“I can’t disclose that information. These policies are generally purchased through a trust.”

“Sounds like somebody’s going to hit it big when I kick the bucket. What’s your take?”

“Ten percent,” Waverly said slowly. He’d never had such an inquisitive client. Most people were just happy to have money coming their way.

“Why do you get so much?”

“That’s the standard commission, Mr. Billington.”

The man was asking way too many questions. “Like I said before, if you aren’t certain about proceeding, we should hold off.”

“No, no, I’m ready.”

Waverly tried not to reveal how happy he was with Billington’s final decision. “Okay, then. I’ll request your medical records and call you in a few days with an update.”

J
ust after ten, Dre drove into the darkened streets of L.A.’s Skid Row and parked his Volkswagen near 5th and Crocker Streets. He looked around, then got out to stretch his legs.

As he waited for his client to show up, he watched a bum peer out of a cardboard tent as two drunks stumbled by. He rarely made runs downtown anymore. Too risky. But Junior, a long-time client, was in a fix and Dre agreed to do him the favor.

He mentally calculated his take for the day. He had nine thousand in the pocket of his lightweight trench coat and was about to collect another six grand. The thought of the money empowered him. He was close, real close, to getting out.

Dre was also more than ready to take things further with Angela. He looked forward to hanging out with her after their cycling class, but just talking to a babe wasn’t hittin’ on nothing. Dre figured coming on too strong with a sistah like Angela would be a mistake. He had put it out there. She would have to make the next move.

Besides, Dre knew that if he wanted to pursue her as his woman, he would have to come correct. He hadn’t exactly lied when she asked what he did for a living. He did buy and sell foreclosures. But could he really keep her from learning about his
other
gig? Even if he got out of the game, could she accept his past? Dre told himself she could. Angela was real people. He just hoped Mr. Fiancé kept doing whatever it was he was doing. Or
not
doing.

He heard movement from the rear and spun around. Junior was strutting toward him. Dre chuckled. Junior was a slightly built, dark-skinned man who walked with the exaggerated swagger of a heavyweight boxer. He probably weighed a buck twenty, if that.

They acknowledged each other with only a curt nod. Junior handed him a paper bag filled with cash and Dre passed him a larger bag containing product. There was no need for either of them to check the contents. They had it like that.

Dre jumped back into his Jetta and headed home. As he drove west on 5th Street, he rolled down the window and rested his elbow across the door. At the last minute he slowed, deciding not to speed through the yellow light at Los Angeles Street.

As he sang along with Seal’s rendition of
It’s a Man’s World
, Dre imagined taking Angela out dancing and wondered if she could step. He tried to think of where they would go on their first date. He would search the Internet and find someplace special. Damn, how he wanted to get with her.

“Don’t move, muthafucka!”

Dre felt the barrel of a gun pressed against his left temple and froze. “What the hell?”

Before he could react, a brick shattered the front passenger window, stinging his face with chards of glass. “Pull over. Now!” a second man shouted from his right. Dre saw rotting teeth and a skeletal body.

Too afraid to move, Dre quickly assessed that he was dealing with a couple of crack heads. These dudes wanted money and drugs, not a murder rap. But mistakes happen.

“Pull over, muthafucka!” yelled the man with the gun.

Dre’s pulse quickened. “Look, dude—”

“Are you hard of hearin’?” The man bashed the side of his head with the butt of the gun.

Dre’s head throbbed in pain. He thought about flooring it, but didn’t want to risk getting shot. Too bad his .38 was out of reach in a secret compartment in the back. Trying to reason with his attackers would be a waste of time. He gently pressed the gas, jerking the car into the intersection. Both men jogged along with the car as a minivan darted around them, horns blaring.

“Pull over to the curb!” The gunman seemed overly agitated. “Hurry up!”

Dre did as instructed, steering the car through the intersection in a herky-jerky motion. When the Volkswagen eased over to the curb, the man on his right leaned in, grabbed the keys from the ignition and threw them to the ground.

Blood trailed down the side of Dre’s face and his vision was blurry. While the gunman kept his weapon aimed at Dre’s head, the other man ran around, opened the driver’s door and yanked Dre from the car. The man frantically patted him down, eventually finding the wallet in his back pocket which contained close to two hundred bucks.

“What else you got?” he demanded. “You got any rocks?”

Dre didn’t answer. He felt equal amounts of rage and fear.

“I bet he’s got some rocks, too,” barked the gunman, who was a foot taller than his accomplice and stank of urine. “Find ’em! Hurry up!”

The smaller man quickly ransacked the car, but found nothing. As he moved in to search Dre a second time, Dre kneed him in the groin and grabbed for the other man’s gun. While the accomplice bent in pain, Dre wrestled for control of the weapon.

Dre almost had it when he felt a blow to his face. The smaller man had composed himself and was pummeling him with what felt like a steel pole. Dre let go of the gun as he fell back onto the hood of the car.

He felt his trench coat being ripped open as three wads of cash wrapped in rubber bands, fell to the ground.

Just as he was about to fade into unconsciousness, Dre heard a police siren and saw a flash of blue and red lights, two, maybe three blocks up the street. The men instantly darted off in opposite directions as a police cruiser pulled up behind Dre’s Volkswagen. The cruiser’s headlights lit up the area like a movie set.

Two officers stepped out with their guns drawn. “Put your hands up!” one of the officers yelled.

Dre quickly complied. Both cops looked nervous, which made Dre doubly nervous. He raised his hands even higher.

The officers gingerly walked closer.

“What’s going on here?”

Dre struggled to catch his breath. “I was . . . I was just robbed.”

“Do you have a weapon?”

“No,” Dre said, still holding his hands over his head. “I just told you somebody robbed me.”

One of the officers, a big, burly black man, told Dre to turn around and face the car, then roughly patted him down. Satisfied that he was unarmed, the officer directed him to sit on the curb, then began searching Dre’s Volkswagen.

“What’re you doing down here?” asked the white officer, who kept his hand on his weapon.

“I was stopped at the light and two dudes broke my window and stole my wallet. When they heard your siren . . .” he paused, his breathing still labored, “they ran off. You . . . you saved my life.”

“Well, we weren’t trying to save your life,” the black officer yelled over his shoulder.

From his sitting position, Dre watched as the officer rummaged through his car. He prayed that the cop didn’t discover his .38.  The officer moved the seats backward and forward, then bent down to search underneath them. He tossed Dre’s floor mats and empty duffel bag to the sidewalk. “You got any drugs in here?”

“Two crack heads just robbed me,” Dre said, using the sleeve of his coat to wipe a trickle of blood from his face. “I’m the victim here.  Why you treatin’ me like a criminal?”

“Because you are,” the black officer shot back. “We ran your plates.”

It took about twenty minutes before he gave up the search. The contents of Dre’s car were now sprawled along the sidewalk.

“Ain’t nothing here,” the black cop said to his partner. He looked at Dre with contempt. “You wanna file a police report?”

“Naw,” Dre said.

The black officer ordered Dre to his feet, lifted his chin and examined his bruised face. “Just a few minor bruises. You don’t need an ambulance, right?”

Dre pulled away. “Naw, I’m fine.”

“Good answer.”

The cops headed toward their cruiser. “Don’t let us see you around here again,” the white cop shouted from the window as they drove off.

Dre thought about responding, but wasn’t stupid enough to give them an excuse to cart him off to jail. “Thanks for everything, officers,” he muttered.

He walked over to the sidewalk and starting searching for his keys. This was a sign, Dre thought, as he picked up a floor mat. It was time for him to close up shop. Time to get out.

Now.

The next day, Dre was about to take the stairs to the cycling room when he saw Angela heading in his direction. He stopped and waited for her to catch up with him.

She was only inches away when Dre’s battered face stopped her mid-stride. He had a long gash near his left temple and his right cheek was dotted with tiny red marks from the shards of glass.

“What happened to you?” Angela reached out and gently pressed both hands to his cheeks. Her touch felt soft and warm on his face.

Angela’s reflexive gesture of concern apparently surprised her as much as it did Dre. She self-consciously dropped her hands to her side.

He smiled and tried to play down his injuries. “Car accident. And it wasn’t half as bad as it looks.”

“When? You should’ve called me.”

Dre cocked his head. “I would’ve, but I don’t have your number.”

Angela’s lips curled into a smile. “Well, I guess we’ll have to fix that.”

They’d been
friends
for more than three months now and he knew little more about her than her name, profession and that she was about to marry some guy she didn’t seem to be all that into. Dre wished he could feel her hands on his face again.

“I’m fine,” he said. He took her hand and she let him. “Let’s go work out.”

When their cycling class ended, Dre walked over to her, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel. “I need to talk to you about something. You have time to grab some coffee?”

“Sure,” Angela said. “You have a legal problem?”

“Yeah, I do.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You. I’ll be waitin’ for you out front.” He walked off without giving her a chance to respond.

They took a short walk to the Starbucks in the Howard Hughes Promenade up the street. As they stood in line to order, Angela kept glancing back over her shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” Dre teased, as they took a seat near the window. “You worried about dude catchin’ us together?”

Angela smiled, then hunched her shoulders, which told Dre that was exactly what was on her mind. The clerk called his name and Dre retrieved their iced drinks. He set them on the table, then wasted no time getting to the point.

“Sometimes I find it easier to just put my shi—excuse me—put my stuff on the table,” Dre said. “So here goes. I definitely have feelings for you and I’m pretty sure you have feelings for me.”

Angela used that precise moment to take a noisy sip of her drink.

“Am I right?”

“Maybe,” she said coyly.

“What’s up then? If you’ve got the hots for me, why you marryin’ dude?”

Angela laughed heartily. “How did we get from my possibly having feelings for you to
the hots
?”

Dre leaned back in his seat and stroked his goatee. “I know what I know. And what I know is your personal situation ain’t what it’s supposed to be. Is there really a fiancé or do you just wear that big ass rock to keep brothas like me offa you?”

A smile touched her lips, but didn’t linger. “No,” she said, suddenly solemn. “There’s really a fiancé.”