SEBASTIAN’S MAIN COMPETITORS in the luxury real estate market were the big-box firms with main and satellite offices located inside swanky towers and strategic storefronts situated in primo locations like Wilshire and Sunset Boulevard. They paid enormous rents, had high overhead, and employed fleets of agents and support staff. They fought one another like starving orphans battling over table scraps.
Sebastian stayed out of the fray by taking a different approach to his business: a referral-based boutique agency that operated out of a three-floor, six-thousand-square-foot home in a quiet neighborhood in Beverly Hills. He owned the home free and clear, because he had no desire to build his company into a mighty global empire like Sotheby’s, which was why the industry barely paid any attention to him, even when last year he sold a seventy-five-million-dollar French Palladian in Beverly Hills that had been on the market for almost three years.
Which was exactly how Sebastian wanted it, flying under the radar, so he could focus on his true business.
Operating out of a house, in a rich, quiet neighborhood, had been Frank’s idea, mainly because he had insisted, even when they started out together, on living wherever he worked. Frank explained that he didn’t like leaving “the kids”—his name for the computer servers he owned and operated—or any other computer equipment alone at night, vulnerable to theft and, worse, corporate espionage. Sebastian suspected the real reason had to do with the fact that Frank didn’t care much for people.
Sebastian, covered in sweat in spite of his Jaguar’s air-conditioning, parked in the driveway. He hadn’t wanted to drive—hadn’t wanted to do anything except lie on his office floor, because, oh sweet, merciful Jesus, sitting up, let alone standing, shot up his spine enormous bolts of pain that exploded like lightning inside his head, made his lungs feel like they were being squeezed to death. As much as he wanted to stay home, he needed to be gone in case the police showed up.
Sebastian parked, and killed the engine, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror. I look like some junkie going through withdrawal, he thought. No sooner had he pushed open the Jaguar’s door than the front door of the house swung open and here came Frank bolting down the stairs, dressed as sharp and slick as a powerful Hollywood mogul—black suit and a dark blue shirt with French cuffs with a pair of gold cuff links, a Christmas gift from Trixie. Frank always wore long-sleeved shirts, even at the beach, even though he was in great shape, his six-foot frame sinewy with muscle. The reason, Sebastian suspected, had to do with the burn marks clearly left from cigarettes along his arms and back. Frank had never explained who had burned him, or why, but he took great pains to keep his scars hidden.
Frank helped him out of the car and to his feet. Sebastian lurched, his knees buckling; Frank grabbed him quickly.
“Put your arm over my shoulder,” Frank said. Sebastian did, and it reminded him of the old days after prison, drinking to the point where he could barely walk or talk. A good majority of times, Sebastian had blacked out. Frank was always there to pick up the pieces.
“Still no signal from Paul’s phone,” Frank grunted as they made their way toward the house. “Either he shut the power off or he ditched it. But if he’s still using the phone, the moment it comes on we’ll get his signal and track down his location.”
Provided Paul stays on the phone for at least a minute, Sebastian thought. Frank had GPS trackers and listening devices installed on the phones of every single person who worked for them, and he conducted monthly audits of everyone’s calls, texts, and emails, and even the websites they visited.
Sebastian staggered into the house with Frank, grateful for the air-conditioning. The first floor was used as the main lobby and had minimal office space, most of the exterior walls in the back of the house made of glass. Frank eased him into the modern-looking sofa, which looked uncomfortable as hell, and was. Sebastian lay back and the pain cut itself in half and he felt like he could breathe somewhat normally again.
“Just the ribs?” Frank asked.
“I think so.”
“I reached out to Maya. She’s on her way. I’ll get you some water.”
Water? I want a Scotch, Sebastian felt like screaming. In fact, give me the goddamn bottle. A gallon of booze followed by a handful of Percs or Oxy from Dr. Dawson’s goody bag would hit the spot.
Neither Frank nor Maya would help him out that way, the two of them having been instrumental in getting him into detox and then AA to treat his alcoholism. He had never been a pill guy, but taking any kind of narcotic painkiller would free his addiction from its cage. Within a week, maybe even a couple of days, he would be back to the old Sebastian.
He had to resist the urge, no matter how great the pain. He needed to keep his mind sharp and focused so he could find Paul. Finding Paul and playing around with all the wonderful ways to torture him would be immensely more satisfying than a drink or a drug.
Sebastian licked his lips. Swallowed. “Get me some Tylenol—and some Advil.”
He wiped the sweat from his eyes and then closed them, felt the pain clawing at his nerves, digging its talons into the soft meat of his brain. He tried focusing on Paul as he listened to Frank’s footfalls, and then Sebastian was thinking about Frank living upstairs, alone, and wondered—and not for the first time—if Frank ever felt lonely.
Ava came to him again. Not surprising, as she had been on his mind all day. Ava had been his last thought when he sank through the water, sure he was dying. He didn’t need a shrink to explain why: Ava was unfinished business. She had been the love of his life, and that life had been stolen from him because of a three-for-one taco special at the local Jack in the Box.
The two of them had gone there to eat before hitting a friend’s house party in the neighborhood. There had been a lot of people there—a lot of friends—and he lost track of Ava for a while. When he finally found her, she asked him to leave; the food wasn’t sitting right, and she thought she was going to be sick.
Ava lived a few blocks away. The short walk turned into a long one, Ava nauseated, sometimes stopping to catch her breath, convinced she had food poisoning. She threw up once, then twice, Sebastian encouraging her to keep walking. They were almost home when a white car the size of a boat pulled against the curb. It was a beautifully restored Cadillac Fleetwood, the paint buffed to a shine. Only one person drove that car: Paco Magic, a cholo banger who stood five foot five and always wore baggy jeans and a Raiders jersey. The door opened and here came Paco Magic, gang, occult, and astrological tats running all the way up his neck and covering his shaved head, the ink so black, he looked like he’d been dipped in paint.
Paco had another cholo with him, a tall, mean-looking dude with a big, misshapen head and a busted, scarred face that reminded Sebastian of the pit bulls he’d sometimes see guarding junkyards—scarred soldier dogs missing fur and eyes. The guy wore a crisp white tank and, Sebastian could tell, was itching to administer a beatdown, when Paco Magic said, “Hey, Ava, everything okay?” Then, with a nod to Sebastian: “This chingado here giving you a hard time?”
Ava said she was fine, thank you—straining to be polite and respectful because Paco was a king in training, a guy who demanded respect, and his eyes were on Sebastian when he said, “I’m gonna take your beautiful mija home. I know where she lives.” Sebastian didn’t move, said nothing, his mind stuck on Paco calling him a chingado, a fucker. His heart was running a marathon, not from the insult but from the awful reality of being nearly face-to-face with a guy who had killed at least a dozen people, according to the streets. Selling guns was how Paco made his money—and his name.
Paco placed a hand on the small of Ava’s back and smiled at Sebastian, his teeth looking gray in the dying summer light. His smile widened as he slid his hand down and gripped her ass. Ava pulled away, and she looked at Sebastian with such terror—Don’t let them take me into that car, her expression said. Please don’t let that happen—that Sebastian stepped in front of her. Paco Magic snorted, and Pit Bull reached around his back and underneath his shirt.
Even now, all these years later, Sebastian couldn’t remember what happened next. He had blacked out in rage, but he had fragments—hitting Paco with a solid left hook he used in the boxing ring; a jab-jab-cross that sent Pit Bull collapsing back against the car, followed by an uppercut that knocked Pit Bull sideways, off his feet. What he recalled clearly, though, even now, was Ava screaming at him to stop, Ava pulling him off Paco Magic, who lay unconscious on the ground, his face unrecognizable. Pit Bull was unconscious, too; he had cracked his head open against the curb when he fell. Sebastian learned that later. That and the fact that Pit Bull’s real name was Clarence Romero—Romeo, to his friends and colleagues within the LAPD. Clarence was an undercover cop assigned to gather intel on Paco Magic’s gun operation.
Paco Magic should have died, the way Sebastian had gone after him. But he survived, albeit with some severe brain injuries, and while the nearly all white jury didn’t care much about a gangster who now drooled when he spoke and cried when he spilled his oatmeal, they had a much different opinion on the death of a cop. The jury delivered their verdict before it was time to break for lunch: life, without the possibility of parole.
Frank came back with a bottle of ice-cold water and some Advil. Sebastian sat up, sweat popping out on his forehead as his ribs screamed in protest, like an angry mob. He dry-swallowed four Advil tablets and then chased them down with water.
Frank’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his pants pocket and glanced at the screen. His eyebrows rose, which was about as expressive as Frank got.
“Paul?” Sebastian asked.
Frank nodded. “Take it so I can track it.” He shoved the ringing phone into Sebastian’s hand. “Keep him on as long as you can,” he said, and then he bolted across the room, heading for the stairs that would take him to his office on the bottom floor.
Sebastian answered the call, but he didn’t speak.
“Hey, Frank, how’s it going?” Paul asked, sounding calm and casual, like he was calling a store to see if a certain something was in stock. “Was hoping to have a word with you.”
Sebastian sucked in air, to draw back the pain, to get some strength in his voice. “Frank’s unavailable, asshole. You’ll have to deal with me.”
“You’re alive.” The words came out as half laugh, half surprise. “Well . . . shit.”
“Puts a wrinkle in your grand plan, I’m guessing.”
“You sound like you’re in a lot of pain.”
He was, in fact, although what he was experiencing right now wasn’t anywhere near as bad as the first time he’d gotten beaten in jail. He was working his shift in the laundry room when a group of guys—Sebastian had no idea how many or who they were, it had happened so fast—jumped him and then took turns beating the shit out of him. It shamed him, how he begged and cried for it to stop, how he continued to cry after it was over. Eventually, he forgave himself for being a ponocha—he was, after all, just a kid, a terrified eighteen-year-old boy, not a man, whose life had suddenly been turned upside down through no fault of his own. He had been protecting the woman he loved—and still loved, to this day.
But he wasn’t that scared little boy anymore. That kid had been dead for a long, long time. Sebastian had killed and buried him.
“How badly are you hurt?” Paul asked. “You going to make it?”
Sebastian didn’t answer. A spike of pain had stolen his breath. He gritted his teeth, swallowing, not wanting Paul to hear.
“Maybe this is a good thing,” Paul said. “You being alive.”
Sebastian sucked in a deep breath and looked past the glass walls, to the backyard. The evening sky was the color of a bruise. A window was open somewhere, and he could hear the soft, steady gurgling of the pool filter. The calming sound of the water, the beauty of the sky—it reminded him he was alive. Knowing that allowed him to separate himself from the pain; it was only temporary.
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Paul said. “You’re going to hand over your business, and then you and Frank can take all the money you’ve made and go live happily ever after together. You can stay in the real estate game, too, if you want, and you can keep your house. I’ll allow that.”
I’ll allow that. Hearing those three words sparked Sebastian’s rage, took his pain and made it small. That was the wonderful thing about rage, how it clarified, boiled everything in life down to its simple, primitive elegance.
Sebastian spoke from experience, said words he knew to be true. “I will find you,” he said, his voice eerily calm. He was still sweating, and the pain was still there, roaring and clawing, but his heart was no longer racing, and his words were clear. “It may take some time, maybe a lot of time and a lot of money, but I will find you.”
“Then, what, you’re going to kill me?” Paul chuckled.
“I’m not going to kill you. But I am going to lock you away somewhere. And each day, I’m going to come visit you. Each and every day, for the rest of your life, I’m going to personally introduce you to a new and special level of hell.”