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La Jolla is sunny. The fresh Pacific breeze and the waves crashing against the rocky South Californian beach are a distraction from the noisy, fumes-and-traffic-packed streets of New York.
The La Jolla job turned out to be pretty easy.
The client—Mrs. Kubinsky, a handsome gallerist and a divorcee in her forties with more money than God himself.
The target—her twenty-six-year-old stud of a boyfriend who ghosted her, swiping on his way out a USB with the sensitive clients’ info he was intending to sell to the black market art dealers.
The run-away boyfriend was pretty clever. He got a burner phone and used cash. My guess is he was screwing with Mrs. Kubinsky and buying more time. Obviously, there was some personal revenge. His mistake was logging into his social media. Typical. IP addresses are easy to track. The approximate location was then sent to the Eastern European surveillance team, and since the young gigalo never thought of wearing a disguise, face recognition picked him up on public cameras in no time. That’s where we got him—eating tacos at a Taqueria in East LA. To think that tacos can ruin one’s life…
Fifty grand to locate him and bring him in with the precious USB was pennies to Mrs. Kubinsky, but the glee on her face when we did was priceless.
I love bagging assholes.
What she does with him and how she sets flames to his future is her business.
Ours is done as we sit on the patio of her nine-million-dollar oceanfront villa and sip coffee, going over the final bill.
“I’ll recommend you if any of my friends ever need this sort of job,” Mrs. Kubinsky says, elegantly crossing her bare legs as she fixes her luscious dark hair and sunglasses.
The view of the Pacific is beautiful, and I love the warm sun in contrast to the cool breeze.
Soon, we are leaving, following Mrs. Kubinsky through a bright minimalistic living room that doesn’t have much decor besides several giant paintings.
“Is that a modern variation ofNude Descending a Staircase?” I ask, pointing at one of the pieces I vaguely recognize. Lu would be proud her educational sessions with me didn’t go in vain.
Mrs. Kubinsky turns her startled eyes to me. “Well, well! You are into art, Mr. Reed?”
“My friend is an artist in Brooklyn. She’s really good.”
“What sort of art?”
We are not supposed to get friendly with clients. With some exceptions. Like Roey hooking up with a wealthy widow in LaCross, Wisconsin five months ago. “Not friendly, it was a follow-up,” he dismissed my reproach later.
And I can’t help myself. I’m boasting about Lu like she’s my wife. I pull out my phone and proudly show Mrs. Kubinsky a couple of Lu’s teddy bear works.
“That’s a very clever concept,” Mrs. Kubinsky says without much enthusiasm. I assume she sees hundreds of new artists a month. “And her style is refreshing, though not something I would pick for representation. You have my card, Mr. Reed. Get her to email me. Maybe I can connect her with someone up her alley.”
Afterward, I drag Roey to Windansea Beach. This happens every time we are home or between jobs. Roey enjoys the beach but mostly the potential of hookups and surfing. Granted, he grew up on the West Coast and is a fantastic surfer.
Me, I love water in any form or size.
SoCal has been my home for over a year. But the drastic change of scenery after months in New York makes it feel like Lu is far away, and I don’t like it.
I send her a picture of Roey and me on the beach.
Lu: Hotties! I wish I was there with you!
My heart melts just a little more. There won’t be much left of it but a puddle at Lu’s feet if I continue in this manner.
“Distracted, buddy?” Roey asks. “Wanna go to Goldsling Towers? Looks like work is the last thing on your mind.”
“It’s not like that.”
“I’m not blind. Or a twenty-four-year-old virgin.”
Here we go.
“Listen, you need advice—ask. You need some pointers, I’m here.”
