A Famously Bad Contract Page 2

  “I’ll be ready when you get back,” she replied.

  “Thanks,” I said as she retreated to her desk.

  I grabbed my cell phone and started scrolling through the contacts until I found Seth. As expected, he didn’t answer, and it clicked over to his voicemail almost immediately which meant he either declined my call or his phone was off.

  Fantastic.

  I guess Kitty was going to have to ping his cell so I could know where he was. With any luck, he was passed out in another room of the Seminole Hotel and hadn’t actually skipped out on paying the marker. I wasn’t going to hold my breath, though. I knew my client too well.

  I stood up and stuffed my wallet into my pocket. My stomach was starting to rumble, and lunch was long overdue. I stuck my head around the door and saw that Kitty had eaten most of the salad that she’d brought with her that day.

  “Kitty,” I called out. “Can you find out where Seth is? He’s not answering.”’

  Her eyes pulled away from the screen in front of her as she looked up. The white glow made her freckles pop against the paleness of her skin, and flashed on the diamond in her ring. Her fingers hovered over the keys for a moment as she tried to process my request as well as the document she’d been working on.

  “Sure thing,” she finally agreed. “Going to lunch?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Want anything?” I always asked, even when I knew she’d eaten, because sometimes she surprised me and asked for something.

  “No,” she said as she turned back to her computer. “I ate earlier. Say hey to Abuela for me, though.”

  I nodded, and then I stepped out of the office and into the heat and humidity of the day. I stuffed my hands into my pockets as the door swung closed behind me and then set off for one of my favorite lunch spots.

  There were a few cars on the road, so I picked up my pace as I crossed the two lane road then slowed to a stroll as I took an alleyway that cut to the restaurant area of the little island. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and tried not to breathe too deep as I passed a dumpster that was being baked in the growing heat.

  Cocina Cubana was a tiny hole-in-the-wall about a block away from the beaches with silver metal tables and chairs out front. Bright striped umbrellas offered some protection from the Florida sun, but the humidity still smothered anyone who dared to sit outside.

  Even that short walk was a struggle in the day’s mid-day heat. The pavement warmed my black oxford shoes so much during the walk I was sure my feet were going to burst into flame. I should have worn the white since they didn’t soak up the sun’s rays as much, but I didn’t like the way they looked with the black slacks. I noticed the other stores on the strip had neon red open signs, but no one was lingering outside. By the time I arrived at Cocina Cubana, I was melting under the sun. There was only one couple seated outside, and I nodded to them as I yanked open the door.

  Cuban dance music drifted from somewhere in the kitchen and competed with the soccer game that was playing on the television. A Spanish commentator rattled off every play in rapid succession even when nothing was really happening. Inside, the tables were loaded with people, which meant I was going to be taking my lunch back to the office.

  “Lucas!” a voice called above the din.

  I turned my attention from the goal that had just just scored to see Abuela coming toward me. No one knew her actual name, and she was just Abuela to the customers. The little old Cuban woman barely came up to my shoulders, and her tiny frame was draped with a faded blue dress and an apron covered in stains from the kitchen. Her steel-gray hair was pulled into a bun so tight not one hair could escape.

  “Abuela,” I leaned down when she motioned for me to come closer. She was so small I had to bend almost all the way at the waist just for her to reach. She was grinning up at me as if I was her favorite grandchild, though, as far as I knew, we were not related by any family ties. I turned my cheeks for her as she gave them each a kiss, grabbing onto my face as she did. She smelled like garlic and spices with just a hint of ham.

  It was like home.

  “You came for your usual?” she asked in a thick accent.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied.

  “Good,” she declared. “You sit and watch the game. I’ll make it for you. On the house.”

  “Abuela, you cannot give me free food,” I laughed. “I would eat you out of your restaurant.”

  “Bah!” She waved her hand dismissively, “If it wasn’t for you there would be no restaurant. Now, sit!” She released my cheeks then wiped her hands on her apron as if to say she was done with me for the moment. Her attention was taken by the tables stuffed to the brim, her eagle eyes trying to spot a place for me to relax before she went to cook my favorite sandwich. She pointed to a table that had just been vacated and started to push me toward one of the chairs.

  I gave in and did as the old woman commanded. The last time I tried to argue with her, she had brandished a wooden spoon at me like my own abuela used to do. I’d started to laugh, but then she swung it at me, and I had immediately backed down. The last thing I needed was to explain why I had a bruise on the side of my head after visiting the restaurant. Kitty would never let me live it down.

  “Abuela making you the usual?” A younger version of Abuela came over to me with a pad of paper in her hand. There were several pages flipped over that she was holding with one hand, the pen she used tucked into the messy bun her long brown hair was thrown into. Her scribbled handwriting was on the page that was revealed, all of it in Spanish, though I suspected some of the unreadable scratches were shorthand.

  She was taller than her grandmother, but not by much. Her dark-brown eyes still had the shine of youth in it, and her cheeks were still plump and red.

  “Yep.” I pulled out my wallet. It was old and made with brown leather that was cracking with use and age. I needed to replace it, but it had been a gift from my mother, one of the only gifts she could afford when she had gone back to visit our family in Cuba. The ancient thing would be staying with me until it fell apart completely.

  My eyes darted to the kitchen to make sure the elderly grandma couldn’t see me, and I always expected her to materialize whenever I tried to pay.

  “Don’t tell her I gave you this,” I whispered

  “I never do,” the woman winked then stuffed the twenty dollar bill I handed her into her apron and hustled away to a table calling for a refill on their water.

  “You know if she ever sees you paying she would have all our hides,” a middle-aged man with a bushy mustache said from the table next to me. His mustache twitched as he smiled at me, and his attention went to the television as the commentator shouted the word ‘goal’ so long I wondered if he was going to pass out from lack of oxygen. The man’s fist came down in triumph as a guy across the room grumbled that the defense of his team needed to be stronger.

  The mustached man had a white apron stained with years of grease. The cook was clearly on his own lunch as he watched the soccer game and poked at his fried plantains.

  “Probably,” I began with a shrug, “but helping her out one time doesn’t mean I should get free food for life.”

  He laughed. It was loud and full of joy as it ricocheted around the room. His whole body shook with the effort of it, and his belly bounced while he calmed himself and wiped a tear from his eye. He glanced toward the kitchen, and my gaze followed as we watched the top of Abuela’s head move around behind the open square that revealed part of the workspace.

  “You tell her that,” he said.

  “I’ve tried,” I sighed. “It didn’t go very well.”

  “Exactly,” he said, “it’s best to just accept your fate, Lucas.” He grunted as he pushed himself up out of his chair. The table he was sitting at moved a little as he used it to hoist up his weight. He picked up his plate with its few plantains and dribbles of grease leftover from what I suspected was the same Cuban I was getting.

  His shoulders were starting to hunch in o
n themselves, and his back was starting to curve. Years of working in a kitchen was taking its toll on his aging body, yet he would never quit. One of his beefy hands came down on my shoulder and patted me a few times before he went back into his home away from home.

  “Here it is,” Abuela said. “Now you make sure to eat all of it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I agreed and I realized that if I stayed here for lunch, she would bring me some desserts and undo all my hard gym work, so being my own best advocate I decided to take my lunch to-go and eat back at the office.

  My mouth was watering as the smell of ham, roast pork, swiss, and mustard wafted up. No one in all of Miami made a better Cuban than Abuela. I fished out half of the sandwich as I walked back to the office, stuffed a large bite into my mouth, and caught the tangy pickle that tried to escape with the well-honed reflexes left over from my time in the NFL. I managed to keep the rest together, and grease covered my hand as I stuffed the last bite into my mouth then pulled open the door to my office, the melted cheese coating my tongue as it mixed with the tart mustard and perfectly seasoned ham.

  “Couldn’t wait?” Kitty teased.

  “I was hungry,” I admitted.

  “Well, you better hurry up with the last half,” my paralegal replied. “I have Seth’s location. He’s at his house.”

  I thought about putting it off. It was still a bit early in the afternoon for him to be awake, especially if he had gone on a bender. But the sooner I could get to Tina and work out a payment plan, the better. If we waited too long, her bosses might grow impatient and want it all up front. And Seth didn’t have that kind of money in his accounts, his contract with Disney giving him all the fame with none of the fortune.

  “Did you print the repayment plan?” I asked.

  “On your desk,” she replied.

  “Fantastic,” I said in a dry tone. My sandwich was going to be rushed but at least I would be able to eat it before I had to head to Seth’s. I had given Abuela my word that I was going to eat it and there was no way I was going to fail her when it came to consuming the perfect balance of Swiss cheese, mustard, and pickles, so I waved to Kitty then walked into my office and plopped down behind my desk.

  The bag was as greasy as the sandwich, the juiciness of the meat leaking out of the white styrofoam container to coat the inside of the plastic bag. More than once I was tempted to pour that extra flavor back onto my sandwich but the mess it would make on my desk wasn’t worth it. The other half of the sandwich was polished off in only three bites but the taste of the Cuban promised to stay with me a little longer.

  I snagged some of the extra napkins I kept in the drawer to clean my face and hands then threw them, the bag, and the container into my trash before turning to the folder Kitty had placed on my desk. The file with the proposal and various repayment options was sitting on top of yet another stack of files. I grabbed it from the desk and then flipped through it as I walked back out to the car with my briefcase stuffed under one arm. It was a fairly straightforward twelve month plan that could easily be changed to nine or six months if the casino wanted to play hard ball. As long as Seth hadn’t taken a marker for more than fifty-thousand, the casino should be okay with the plan. Even if it was more, I could make it work or finesse Tina into something else that was a little more beneficial than whatever the casino had planned.

  The seatbelt stung my thigh even through my pants. I hissed as I pulled it around without touching the scalding metal again, but my steering wheel hadn’t fared much better. Despite the heat shield covering my windshield the scorching heat had managed to penetrate the car. I managed to turn the engine on and turn the AC to full blast without burning off any skin, but I had to wait a minute before the wheel was cool enough to handle.

  The AC continued to push out frosty air as I pulled out of the parking lot and headed back toward the MacArthur Causeway. It dried the sweat that was already starting to bead on my forehead and neck, and I was grateful that my button-up shirt was light enough that it wasn’t sticking to my skin and adding to the heat.

  Traffic getting back over the bridge was decent, though I did have to stop a few times. My client’s house was just on the other side of the bridge along the waterline where other celebrities had their vacation homes. It was a few blocks away from the actual beach, but he could see it from his balcony. According to him it was where poorer celebrities lived, and he would be getting a new house as soon as he finished his contract with the Mouse.

  The bright white stone of his house reflected the sun back at me as I drove up. I pushed my sunglasses further up on my nose as if being closer to my eyes would help keep out the intense rays. The two-story Spanish-style house was a lot like my office with the awnings covering the windows but instead of a few long windows they were smaller and more numerous. There were three windows on each side of a massive balcony with a black iron railing, the dark metal twisted to look like vines were crawling up the legs to the banister. The roof was paved with dark-orange terracotta tiles that completed the look and made it seem as if the house had been transported straight from the Spanish countryside to Miami beach. A white wall that matched the house surrounded the property, and a large iron gate blocked the driveway up to the house and kept out unwanted guests or paparazzi.

  At least the gate was locked,which meant he hadn’t been completely wasted when he’d returned home. The keypad beeped as I put my code in, and then I waited for the black iron barricade to swing open. I shot through before the gate had even finished opening, and I spotted Seth’s bright-orange Camaro SS parked at an angle near the front door. I managed to squeeze my Mercedes into a spot by the door and hopped from the car. The door was closed, another good sign that he might not have gotten trashed, but there was no answer when I rang the doorbell. He was probably passed out, but at least he’d made it home and managed to secure the place before he did.

  I gritted my teeth against the irritation that threatened to rise to the surface and then found his hidden key. I unlocked the door and stepped into the cool, modern entranceway.

  All of the framed posters from his movies were hanging in their places, and his keys were tossed into his blue glass bowl on the entryway table, even his shoes were tucked neatly underneath it so he had at least been sober enough to perform those simple tasks. Somewhere, a TV was playing a fight scene that sounded like it belonged to his last action movie. I followed the shouting and explosions until I found him on the couch, one leg draped over the back and his head at an odd angle. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.

  “Seth,” I said as I stood at the edge of the couch. “Seth. Wake up.”

  He grunted but didn’t move other than to twitch and run a hand over his face before falling back into his comatose state.

  I glanced around to see the half-eaten pizza on his coffee table and the empty beer cans he had crushed and tossed onto his tile floor. I guessed that his maid must have been around at least once during the week, though, because that was the only mess in the entire place, and even his shelf of collectible superhero figurines looked like it had just been dusted. I swatted his foot to get his attention, and he jumped up with a terrified look around the room like he was expecting some attacker.

  When his eyes settled on me he huffed and ran a hand through his blond hair. It was still cut short into the fauxhawk the superhero he played wore, and his square jaw was covered in the light stubble he was so known for.

  “Lucas?” He grumbled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “You need to get dressed,” I replied. “The casino is waiting.”

  “The casino?” He stood and stretched then grabbed a half empty bottle of water and chugged it down. “Oh, right. I’d almost forgotten about that.” He crushed the plastic container, tossed it over to join the pile of beer cans, then ran a hand over his face as he rubbed his eyes to take a bleary look at his television. He leaned down to grab another half finished water bottle that had no cap then drank it so deep and fast
that his throat bobbed with the effort to drink it all in one gulp before he threw the empty bottle with the rest.

  He gave me a lopsided smile that on a puppy would have been cute, but on a grown man was irritating.

  “Yeah,” I said with a lifted eyebrow. “They called.”

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “Not awful,” I reassured him. “I have a plan. But you need to get cleaned up.”

  “On it,” he saluted and then stumbled toward his bedroom.

  The sound of a shower turning on competed with one of the duller parts in the movie. I turned my attention to the film and watched as one of the characters began a long and sappy speech. They weren’t bad movies, and of course, Disney doesn’t usually produce something that isn’t going to make them money. They had done wonders for Seth’s career, they had put him in the spotlight and guaranteed him more offers once he had finished his contract with the Mouse and was able to branch out. He’d become an instant heart-throb for young girls and teenagers all around the world.

  Seth had gotten lucky when he’d signed a multi-movie contract with the House of Mouse, and if he wanted to keep getting paid under that contract, we had to protect the reputation that Disney’s PR department had carefully crafted when they plucked him out of obscurity and thrust him into the spotlight. With any luck, we could sweep this nonpayment under the rug and the Mouse would be none the wiser.

  “You ready to go?” Seth asked a few minutes later.

  I glanced around the room to make sure that nothing was on fire or could become a fire hazard once we were gone. There was no liquid near a power strip and the pizza might be inedible by the time he came back to it, but everything else was manageable. I leaned down to grab the remote from between the cushions of his old brown leather couch then turned off the tv and put the remote next to the pizza box to shut the rest of the slices off from flies at least before I turned back to look at my client.

  He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a baby yoda on it. His pants nearly hid the black converse that he wore almost everywhere. At least he looked the part of a young man who might be sorry about his wayward actions. That would help. Tina probably loved his movies, too.