DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY. Ken Salter
not thinking of investing in one of the most lucrative businesses known to man without cutting in your old buddy Jeff, are you?”
“Wish it were so, Jeff. I’m just doing a routine background on a marital property evaluation. I figure there can’t be many underwriters for such a specialized business.”
“Should be no problem to get the coverage, but it may take a couple of days to track claim records since we don’t do this type of underwriting.”
“No problem on the time frame. Get me everything you can. Give my love to Polly and the kids.”
I had the rest of my plan of attack organized when Reggie whisked a steaming plate of gumbo under my nose and set it on the table. The savory smell of the gumbo along with the three freshly baked pieces of cornbread excited my stomach juices; I couldn’t wait to sop up the gumbo with the cornbread. The meal was probably going to be the highlight of my day. I wolfed it down just as fast as I could shovel it in my craw without burning a hole in my throat.
My first stop on my way to the courthouse was at Sharon Miller’s apartment in the University Village where Cal houses its married students in dilapidated four-plexes built for military personnel during WW II.
Sharon was thrilled to sign her divorce agreement which gave her four years of alimony support in addition to child support to complete her undergraduate B.A. degree and earn a Master’s degree in business administration. Sharon hugged me and pleaded for me to celebrate her victory over her ex by taking her to dinner. Sharon put her ex through grad school; he rewarded her sacrifices by dumping her and their two kids to start his new career in public planning with a younger wife he’d romanced on Sharon’s earnings as a secretary.
I should have said “No” nicely and begged off the temptation. Sharon’s a lovely woman with a trim figure, flaming-red hair and an engaging smile. I felt bad to let her down on her moment of triumph which she attributed to my snooping and nailing her ex. I rationalized that a night out dining and dancing would take my mind off Gloria Simmons.
After agreeing to pick up Sharon later, I made my way down San Pablo Avenue to Oakland. The further I penetrated the inner city, the bleaker the tableau became; I passed rundown tenements alongside long-neglected Victorians, their weather-bleached boards raw and screaming for a coat of paint, their windows without glass or papered with cardboard. Bandit liquor stores on most corners had windows barred and mean-looking brothers leaning against doorways, watching who was buying what.
The old courthouse across from the more modern Oakland Museum had barely survived the ’89 earthquake. I shuddered to think of the problems if the building had burned. Most of the official records I consult are housed in this antiquated structure.
I stopped first at the Recorder’s office. It took twenty minutes working with microfiche to learn that the mortuary’s real property was not owned by the Simmons brothers, but by a Nevada corporation called TJS Enterprises, Inc. The deed had been recorded eighteen months earlier. The deed to the Nevada corporation was signed by the Simmons brothers who had gained title from a deed from the probate court at their father’s death. I paid to get copies I could pick up before leaving the courthouse.
I stopped next at the “bullpen” where legal actions are filed and stored. While a surly clerk begrudgingly searched for the probate case in the inactive files, I ran the index listing lawsuits filed to see if any were against the mortuary. I was rewarded with one active and two inactive litigation files. When the clerk handed me the probate file, I handed her the requisition slips for the lawsuits and my order and check for copying them. I scooted off to the Vital Records office before the clerk could start bitching and throwing me nasty looks.
I wanted to see if Jimmy Simmons had taken out a marriage license; he hadn’t. I had better luck checking the filings for fictitious business name statements. Booker T. Simmons had filed a statement six years ago stating he owned the mortuary as a sole proprietor. I was surprised there was no filing after the father’s death and deeding to the Nevada corporation. It might be an innocent oversight by the Nevada attorney unfamiliar with California requirements or it might be an intentional omission to hide ownership by an out-of-state entity. I made a note to check with the Dept. of Corporations in Sacramento to see if the Nevada corporation had registered with the state and designated a local agent for service of process in case of litigation. I wondered also if Gloria Simmons was aware of the Nevada connection to the business.
I picked up the copies I’d ordered and headed back to the office to face Patsy Kline. I got caught in traffic and Patsy was fuming when I arrived. Saundra was smirking behind her word processor and watching Patsy getting ready to take me to task. She’d probably been helping Patsy load her gun for big game for the moment I came into her sights.
Saundra announced, “Mr. Bean can see you now,” in a sing-song voice full of sham.
Patsy looked a bit worse for wear; she was in her early thirties and starting to put beef on her thighs. She wore a black cocktail dress that emphasized her buxom features but made her look gaudy. She’d over-rouged her cheeks and lips and wore nail polish that clashed with her hennaed hair worn in a pony-tail. Her legs were without hose and her feet were stuffed into scuffed high-heels. She’d worked as a cocktail waitress while her husband took his time getting his M.B.A. degree.
According to Patsy, he started investing her tips in penny gold mining stocks on the unregulated Vancouver Mining Exchange. He claimed they’d be rich by the time he graduated from Cal. My investigation discovered that he’d registered all the mining shares in his name only and had his broker hold them so Patsy couldn’t see his deceit. Patsy was sure the stocks must be worth a fortune. Her hubby vanished after getting his master’s degree and left her with a five year-old kid and two months worth of unpaid bills and rent. Naturally, Patsy was angry as a disturbed hornet and expected me to find and squeeze money out of her departed spouse.
Patsy lit up a cigarette and blew smoke in the direction of the “Smoke And I’ll Croak” sign behind my desk. Working in a smoke-filled bar hadn’t helped her complexion or her sense of humor.
“So, have you found the bastard?” Her voice was deepened by years of smoking.
“No, he’s still on the move.”
“What about all the investments he made with my money?” She took a deep drag on her cigarette and gave me a piercing look.
I tried to avoid her penetrating gaze. “I’m afraid I don’t have good news on that front either . . .”
“What the fuck! I don’t believe this. No way you’re gonna sit there and tell me the bastard got away with all my hard-earned money. I’ll kill the slick fucker.” She had a stranglehold on her cigarette and her other hand pumped up and down in my direction.
“He didn’t get away with anything. The stocks are all worthless. They were all highly speculative issues and most of the companies went belly-up.”
“You mean he stole my hard-earned money and blew it, don’t you?” Her face was flushed and she was on the edge of her seat.
“That’s one way of looking at it. Another way is that he knowingly made high-risk investments and lost.”
“The son-of-a-bitch ripped off Katie and me, and didn’t have the smarts to turn a profit on what he stole. The loser lived off me to go to business school. What a waste! I want you to see he goes to jail.”
“You need to talk to Mr. Green about that. I’ll make an appointment for you to see him to discuss your legal remedies,” I said with a straight face.
Patsy seemed only somewhat mollified by my shunting her off on Nate. I figured it served him right. She was going to be furious when she learned she had hardly any legal recourse against her husband’s actions other than to nail him for unpaid child support. He’d invested community property income and lost it. It might be impossible to collect the child support. We didn’t know where he’d skipped to; he was probably in another state busy setting up a new identity. Let Nate take the heat. I made her an appointment to see him in three days. Tit for Tat.
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