The Fugitive Grandma

Chapter 7 - Tuscan Paradise

After dropping off Stella at her house, Frank drove back down the 91 Freeway toward the foothills in Corona. He took an exit to a surface road lined with eucalyptus trees, arriving at a gate with Greco-Roman pillars. An engraved title over the entrance read Tuscan Paradise. Frank keyed in an access code and the gates slid open to a private road that snaked up a foothill toward the ridge.

At the summit, the road overlooked a construction area for a vast planned community, with sites for scores of condos, homes, and mansions. Frank descended into the basin, where the slopes were carved into layered tiers of separate residential lanes that ended in cul-de-sacs. Only several blocks of homes were complete and showed signs of habitation.

The remainder of the slopes and the basin were lined with wooden skeletons and frames, some of them partially fleshed out with insulation, drywall, and stucco. At the center of the basin was a giant pit of dirt and cement, once intended as the foundation for a community clubhouse and auditorium at the heart of the doomed community.

Frank once envisioned future phases with hope and optimism, watching the workmen and equipment sprinkled throughout the basin. Now the men were gone and all construction was suspended.

There was a time when Tuscan Paradise was touted as the hottest real estate attraction in the county, a new standard in luxurious residential living that would put Santa Ramona on par with the most exquisite master-planned communities in San Diego, Los Angeles, and Orange County.

Frank couldn’t resist the promise of Tuscan Paradise. When the banks wouldn’t loan him any more money, he searched for a private investor who could back him up. That was how Frank came to know Lester Cummings, a secretive man with vast, hidden wealth. Lester agreed to front one million dollars, as a part-loan, part-equity investment, for the purchase of multiple homes in the first phase.

Now it was obvious to everyone that Frank’s bet on Tuscan Paradise had gone horribly wrong. Lester was not a man who you’d want to disappoint. Frank understood that better than anybody.

As the afternoon sun baked the basin, Frank turned onto Tivoli Lane and noticed a few cheerful Sold signs with the photo of Bobby Maguire, a rival realtor with a strong reputation in the city. Maguire was the father of the twin brothers in Johnny’s middle school class, two boys who bullied Johnny and were known for having the upper hand in the classroom.

Unfortunately for Frank, the twins’ father had the upper hand as well in the world of real estate. Whether it was merely bad luck or inferior salesmanship, Frank’s timing was off, and he couldn’t unload his own houses before the market soured.

So while Maguire’s face beamed with the satisfaction of someone who sold before it was too late, Frank was stuck with For Sale signs in the yards of the four homes that he and Lester owned in the cul-de-sac at the end of Tivoli Lane. Every time he came by Tuscan Paradise, his own signs seemed a little more worn, and his own smile in the listing photo seemed a little more desperate.

As he parked his SUV in front of one of his empty two-story, McMansion properties, Frank observed a black Mercedes in the driveway. He noticed the three large men sitting inside, watching in the shadows. One of the men emerged from the driver’s seat and marched forcefully toward Frank. He was middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair. As he approached, he seemed to gain momentum. His face was red and blotchy, full of anger and violence, hardened by a life of greedy conquests that brought no satisfaction. This was Frank’s business partner, Lester Cummings.

Lester was a tank of a man, a mass of fat and muscle, and propelled his enormous body with energy and precision. Clad in jeans, a leather jacket, and a black sweater, he hurtled toward Frank as if he might tackle him. His thick neck, crooked nose, and square jaw gave his face a triangular menace, like an alligator ready to snap its jaws on helpless prey. The two other men in the Mercedes stepped out and followed behind Lester, hands buried in their bulky coat pockets. Frank knew they were Lester’s cronies.

The first man strutting behind Lester was Harry Gibraltar. He was lanky, with oily black hair and sideburns worn long like Elvis in his later Las Vegas days. Harry had a sour face, with pockmarked cheeks and lips in a persistent scowl. Frank knew Harry was involved in the day-to-day oversight of Frank’s legitimate businesses that served as a front for his cash flow.

Frank had assumed from the outset that Lester needed a safe place to park his cash. When they drafted the deal to buy the homes in Tuscan Paradise, Lester insisted on keeping his name off public transactions, funneling the money to Frank through a series of off-the-book maneuvers that cloaked his involvement. And so Frank formed a corporation in his own name. This seemed strange to Frank at the time, but it also seemed to work to his advantage, so he didn’t question it.

The second figure emerging from the Mercedes was Rudy Spinoza, a thin man of average proportions that gave him an everyman quality. Rudy was a chameleon whose appearance changed a little each time Frank met him. Frank could never figure out exactly what role Rudy played within the organization, which was not a good sign. He could tell that Rudy’s various faces were masks for a man who could be very dangerous.

As the three looming figures closed in on him, Frank shuddered and regretted once more how badly he’d underestimated the risks of taking on Lester as a partner. At the time, all he could see was the money that Lester was willing to provide. Now, Frank saw Lester and his henchmen for what they really were: thugs hiding behind the façade of legitimacy. Frank was mired in a swamp and there was no easy way to avoid the jaws of the alligator.

“I still see For Sale signs on this block. Why are these signs still here, Frank?” Lester growled. He kept charging forward until his body was on the brink of contact with Frank. When he stopped, he clenched his fists and kept his arms ready, like he might throw a punch any second.

“I still have plenty of leads, Lester,” Frank answered weakly. “I have appointments all afternoon to show the homes.”

“You’ve been showing these houses to people forever. You have no excuse. You need to make the sale.”

“You’ve got to give me a little more time, Lester.”

Lester shook his head. “Your job is to sell. That’s what you told me. You told me you were the best guy around. I gave you one million dollars because you told me you could turn these homes for a thirty percent return. So that’s what I expect you to do,” Lester continued.

“I’ll get you your return,” Frank said. “Just a little more time.”

Lester poked his finger into Frank’s chest.

“My patience is running thin. I didn’t get where I am by giving guys like you the benefit of the doubt. You came to me because you couldn’t get a loan from the bank. I invested. The flip side to that is that I play by different rules than the bank. I am not gonna write off a loss quite so easily. If you don’t pay up, I guarantee you’ll lose a lot more than your credit rating.”

Lester shoved Frank so hard that he fell backward, knocking over his own sign and landing in the grass. Frank started to push himself up and saw Lester move one step closer.

“When I first started dealing with you, Frank, you convinced me you were a winner. Come on, man. Convince me again. Show me you’re a winner,” Lester challenged.

Frank sat up on the grass. He expected more abuse, but instead, the big man turned around and got into his car. Frank waited until the Mercedes disappeared over the ridge and then brushed himself off, checking the time as he did. In half an hour, another prospective buyer would arrive at Tivoli Lane for a house showing. Frank had to forget what just happened and get ready to sell.