MANNY & JUNIOR

Part Two

I was sitting in the office of the esteemed Eric Graham, Esquire, senior partner of the law firm Graham & Associates. Eric and I had known each other since the sixth grade when we met at Torrance while surfing. During the summer, Eric and I would spend the entire day on our surfboards, except for the time we took to eat our lunches that we’d bring with us. We rarely saw one another away from the beach, but we were rarely away from the beach. By the end of the summer, we’d be the color of Colombian coffee. The thousands of hours we’d spent side-by-side on our surfboards had made us lifelong friends.

Graham and Associates consisted of Eric, and a part time receptionist/legal secretary. As far as I knew, Eric never had any associates. His practice consisted mainly of what he referred to as "beach law." Anyone who hung around the beach and needed a lawyer was welcomed. Eric handled everything from traffic tickets to drug possession cases, and still found time to surf almost every day. His cubbyhole of an office was on a side street in Torrance, just a block from the beach.

Eric Graham was a true relic of the 60's. He still wore shoulder-length hair, though it was thinning considerately on top, and a bushy moustache that concealed his mouth. I’d never seen Eric in a suit, but I imagined that he had some outrageous sports coat and a Jerry Garcia tie stashed somewhere for his rare court appearances. And he never abandoned the Woodstock vernacular. "Oh, wow!", or, "Far out," were still his favorite expressions.

As I sat in Eric’s cramped office looking around at his collection of concert posters, I felt like I was in a time warp. Bob Dylan, Arlo Guthrie, Joan Baez, Jim Morrison, and Country Joe and the Fish were all fastened to the sheetrock with thumbtacks, and all of the posters were curled up on the edges. God knows how long they’d been there.

Eric was seated behind his desk with his sandaled feet propped up on a mini refrigerator that cooled the various brands of Mexican beer that he sipped on all day. In one hand he held the petition that J. Blake Ellington had filed for Damon and Darren, and in the other he had a firm grip on a Dos Equis longneck.

        "Bummer," he grunted as he read the petition. After a few minutes of silence he tossed the papers on a desk littered with files, surfing magazines, and empty beer bottles. He looked at me and observed, "Wow, Loren, this is really a bad trip."

        "Bullshit, Eric," I answered. "These guys are thieves."

        "No they’re not, dude," he reminded me, "They’re tenants. And there’s no place on the planet where tenants have more rights than right here in The Golden State."

        "How in the hell could they be tenants if their lease expired?" I argued.

        "Their written lease expired, Loren," he corrected me. "Then they became month-to-monthers. That means our landlord-tenant statutes took over. And those statutes are real easy to interpret -- they’ve got all the rights."

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. "They haven’t paid rent in over four months, Eric. All I was doing was trying to collect the rent."

He leaned forward and lowered his voice, like the beach freaks were going to overhear us and go blab to J. Blake Ellington. "Well, dude, let me tell you what you did do: Moved the planter -- interfering with personal property; nail in the door -- reckless endangerment; note on the door -- threat to inflict immediate bodily harm; another threat to their lawyer -- another threat to inflict immediate bodily harm."

He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head, and looked me in the eye.

        "This," he said softly as he held the petition up in the air, "is a textbook example of what not to do."

I sat there stunned. I thought they were dead meat, and now I’m hearing that it’s my goose that’s cooked.

Finally, I asked, "What in the hell am I going to do, Eric?"

He sat there pondering for a few minutes, twisting the whiskers on the outside of his moustache and staring up at the Loving Spoonful poster that, for some reason, was tacked to the ceiling.

        "Two options," he said. "First, you authorize me to call this lawyer and find out how much you’ll have to pay to settle this thing."

I shook my head vigorously. "No way. I’ll never pay them any money -- I don’t care what happens. Whatever option number two is, I’m going for it."

        "Then it’s settled," Eric said as he reached for his telephone.

        "Who are you calling?" I asked.

He winked at me and grinned.

        "Manny and Junior."

        "Who in the hell are Manny and Junior?"

As he flipped through his Rolodex he said, "Why, they’re your new tenants."

Ironically, I was sitting in the same Denny’s where I’d first met Damon and Darren. The meeting wasn’t until noon, but I’d arrived a full hour in advance just to make sure everything was ready. Eric had told me that if Manny and Junior got there before me they wouldn’t wait around. I didn’t want to miss them.

Eric had explained to me that Manny and Junior were two Samoan brothers that he’d met through a client a few years ago. The client owned rent houses all over East L.A., and frequently was faced with the same problems that I was having with Damon and Darren. Whenever the client needed to evict renters, he’d call the Samoans.

As Eric had informed me, in California the tenants have a huge legal advantage over the landlords. It took forever to evict deadbeat tenants, and the small fortune in court costs and attorney’s fees was rarely recovered. Even though the tenants weren’t paying rent, the landlord couldn’t interfere with their occupancy. The utilities stayed on, the tenants enjoyed rent-free use of the property, and the landlord’s attorney tiptoed through the legal minefield of paper-work, notices, and hearings that were required before an eviction order was ever signed.

The Samoans cut through all of that.

Eric had discovered that there was nothing in the statutes that prohibited a landlord from entering into another lease with additional tenants. The deadbeats may be able to stay in the house for months without paying any rent, but they were going to do so with The Roommates From Hell.

It was all so gloriously simple. Manny and Junior would give the landlord a check for $500.00 -- one month’s rent -- and they’d sign a six month lease. The landlord would make a copy of the check and the lease, and give it to them. The check was never cashed. The Samoans then went to the rent house and watched it from their car until no one was home. Once they were in the house, they’d make themselves at home until the tenants returned from work, the store, or wherever in the hell they’d been.

And then all hell would break loose.

The Samoans required a flat fee of $200.00 cash each, and a half-gallon of whiskey. I was instructed that any kind of whiskey was acceptable as long as, for some reason, it wasn’t vodka. Eric told me that they had a 100% success rate, and, as far as he knew, there had never been any violence or arrests.

When Manny and Junior walked into Denny’s, I could see why. I looked up from the L. A. Times and noticed the two largest humans I’d ever seen standing in front of the "Please wait to be Seated" sign. They were both about six four, and their weight would be anybody’s guess. At the very least, they had to be 350 pounds, maybe more. They were dark and had shoulder-length, coal-black manes. They both wore shorts and tennis shoes with no laces. One had on a tank top, the other a sleeveless tee shirt. Their arms were bigger than my thighs.

The hustle and bustle of the noon lunch crowd came to a halt as the customers and waitresses all stopped what they were doing to gawk at the mass of humanity standing at the front door. I stood halfway up in the booth and waved to my new tenants-to-be. They didn’t wave back or nod in my direction or acknowledge my wave, other than to slowly start moving toward me. They walked with their arms out from their sides, like gunslingers in a quick draw contest. When they got to the booth, I slid out and stood up.

        "Peterson?" the one closest to me asked. His voice was soft and low, like it was coming out of a stereo with the bass turned all the way up.

        "Yeah," I answered, extending my hand. "I’m Loren Peterson."

        "I’m Manny," he said as he shook my hand. "This here’s Junior."

My grandfather had taught me how to shake hands with other men. I remember one Sunday after dinner -- I couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8--when he had given me a lecture about the art of shaking hands. A handshake had to be firm, he taught me, but not forceful. And you should look the other guy in the eye during the handshake. Under no circumstances could you hand the other guy a "dead fish." If a "dead fish" was a handshake with no pressure being asserted, what Manny handed me was a barracuda. His hand was thick, sandpaper rough, and when he closed it on mine, it felt like I’d gotten it stuck in a trash compactor.

        "Please," I said, motioning toward the booth with my good hand, " have a seat."

Manny and Junior couldn’t quite fit on their side. Manny took up about two-thirds of the seat, and Junior sat half-on and half-off the end.

        "Would you like something to eat?" I asked, immediately worried by the prospect that I might not have enough cash to pay for what these two could put away.

        "Nope. We just ate," Manny said in a low mumble.

        "Late breakfast?" I asked.

        "Long breakfast," he corrected.

        "Okay, let’s get down to business," I suggested. "Let me tell you why I want these guys out. You see, for the last several months . . ."

        "Wait a minute," Manny interrupted. "Do you own the pad?"

        "Yes, of course I do," I told him.

        "Do you got the lease?"

        "Yep," I said as I fetched it from my briefcase. "Right here."

        "The money?"

I reached in my shirt pocket and retrieved the four crisp C-notes that were neatly folded in half.

        "Here’s four big ones."

        "You got the whiskey?"

        "As ordered."

        "No vodka now."

        "Two half-gallons of Jack Daniels in my trunk."

Manny looked around the restaurant and then leaned forward and said, "Look, Mr. Loren Peterson. If you got the money, and you got the lease, and you own the pad, and you got the whiskey . . ."

        "No vodka," I interrupted.

        "...no vodka," he repeated, "then you gotcha a deal. Me and Junior here really don’t give a rat’s ass why you want these two monkeys out, but I guarantee you, by this weekend -- they out."

I paid our tab and we went out to my car to get the Jack Daniels. Manny gave me the $500.00 "rent" check, and I went next door to the Days Inn and photo-copied the lease and the check. When I returned, I found the Samoans in the front seat of their 1976 Olds ‘98 passing one of the Black Jacks back and forth.

        "Getting a head start on tomorrow?" I asked as I handed Manny the copy of the lease and check, and the house key.

        "Shit no, dude," Manny said as he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the bottle to Junior. "We just checking out what you got us. Some pretty good stuff . . ."

        "Look, Manny, I’d like to be there tomorrow when you guys do your deal. . ."

Junior handed the bottle back to Manny who took a big hit and passed it back.

        "Not in the morning," Manny said. "You’d just get in the way. But once we’re in, we’ll call you and then you can come."

I handed Manny my business card. "I’ll be waiting for your call. Please let me hear from you as soon as you get in."

* * * * * *

        "You’re outta your goddamn mind, Honcho."

As usual, I was having a little disagreement with Star, and, as usual, she was winning. I had gotten to work early, and had found Star in the break room making coffee. I explained to her what was going down in Laguna Beach today, and that I’d be getting a very important phone call from Manny.

        "You mean to tell me that you sent a couple of gorillas down there to strong-arm our two little ballerinas?"

        "C’mon Star," I told her, "they’re not going to ‘strong-arm’ anyone."

        "That’s just the problem, Superstar -- you have no idea what’s going to happen down there."

        "Look, Star, Damon and Darren will show up from work, see a couple of monsters that look like they’ve escaped from the San Diego Zoo, get hysterical, and call the police."

Star poured herself a cup of steaming coffee, stirred a couple of Sweet-n-Lows in it, and said, "That’s one scenario. Here’s another: Our little fruitcakes are a might more assertive than you think. They carry a real big gun in their glove compartment because they take their deposits to the bank every night. They find two Pacific Islanders in their house who are big enough to scare Hulk Hogan, run to their car, get their gun, and you’ve got the O.K. Corral right in the living room. You’ve got two dead Samoans. Or maybe they’ve got guns, and you’ve got two dead decorators."

        "Settle down, Star," I said, trying to sound a lot more confident than I felt. "You’re getting hysterical. Nothing like that’s going to happen."

She picked up her coffee and headed for the door. "All I know is you have no control over the situation, and any damn thing could happen. This whole thing could blow up in your face."

Well, that little conversation got my day off to a royally shitty start. It all seemed so simple and easy at Denny’s yesterday. When I’d given the Samoans the money and the whiskey, I’d never even considered that I was creating a potentially dangerous situation. I envisioned headlines in tomorrow’s paper: "LAGUNA BEACH SHOOTOUT LEAVES TWO DEAD, LANDLORD IN JAIL." I had to call Eric Graham, pronto.

         "Hey, wow man, I’m not in right now. Leave your name and number at the beep and I’ll call you back. Later."

        "Eric, this is Loren. Call me the minute you get in. I’m at the office and you’ve got the number."

It got worse as the day went on. By noon, I was convinced that some serious shit was going to go down in Laguna Beach, and I’d be responsible for it. I kept envisioning Damon and Darren coming through the front door and there they were, eyeball-to-eyeball with Manny and Junior, who were laying around on the ultra-modern furniture sucking on their half gallon bottles of Jack Daniels. Screams, flying furniture, and punches followed. (I kept thinking what a punch from guys who’d hurt my hand just shaking it would do to Damon’s head.) Star was dead wrong. It wasn’t going to take guns for this situation to get out of hand. Just the four of these people in the same room created an ultrahazardous scene.

Finally, at exactly one-thirty, Star buzzed me on the intercom in my office.

        "Manny for you on line three."

        "Hello," I said quickly.

        "Nice pad you got here, Mr. Loren Peterson," Manny said.

        "Where are you, Manny?" I asked.

        "I’m laying right in the middle of the biggest bed I ever seen," he answered. "You know they got little plastic stars that glow in the dark all over the ceiling?"

        "I’ve seen the bed, Manny, but I didn’t notice the stars. Any trouble getting in?"

I heard a crunching sound. "Nope. Piece of cake," he said, and then more crunching.

        "You eating something, Manny?"

        "Yeah," he said. "After we got in we hit the ice box. I got me some carrots."

        "Where’s Junior?"

        "Sitting in front of the ice box having lunch. They got a bunch of rabbit food and wine in there, but Junior found hisself a whole baked chicken in the back," he informed me as the crunching continued. "The way Junior eat, we gonna have to make a trip to the grocery store with our roommates when they show up."

        "Look, Manny," I said, " I’m getting a little concerned about what’s going to happen when they get home. I mean, we’ve got no idea how they’re going to handle this."

There was much more than a pregnant pause. Finally, Manny said, "Your feet getting a little cold, Mr. Loren Peterson?"

Damn right, I thought to myself. Right now they were freezing.

        "Well to tell you the truth, I’m worried about things getting a little out of hand."

I heard Manny chuckle softly.

        "Oh, things already a little out of hand."

        "What do you mean?"

Another chuckle. It sure sounded like Manny enjoyed his work.

        "We been here thirty minutes," he informed me. "We track mud all over their pretty white rug. Junior had to piss like a racehorse when we got here, but he don’t know where the bathroom is, so he stand on a chair and piss in the kitchen sink. Left a big mess there and broke the chair. We both smokin’ cigars. Big, cheap cigars. Can’t find no ashtrays, so we use the top of that big glass coffee table. Me and Junior are nice guys, but we some pretty sloppy dudes. Used to drive our mama crazy."

This was worse than I thought. Much worse. Star was right. I must have been out of my goddamn mind. I made a quick decision to stop this madness while it could still be stopped.

        "Manny," I said slowly, "let’s call this whole thing off."

        "No can do, Mr. Loren Peterson," he said matter-of-factly.

        "What in the hell do you mean ‘No can do’? You keep the money and the whiskey and get the hell out of there right now!"

What a hell of a mess this was turning in to.

        "Sorry, dude, but we got a job to do," he said. "You know we gotta 100% success rate?"

        "Yeah, I was told that," I said, not seeing the point.

        "Well, we not gonna ruin our track record just because you gettin’ a little nervous. Me and Junior got a reputation to protect."

        "That’s all well and good," I said, "but it’s my ass that’s on the line here. I want you guys out now."

        "We ain’t gonna leave ‘til your two happy boys clear out," he told me with a certain firmness in his voice that sent shivers down my spine. "Besides," he added with a laugh, "there’s something you forgettin’."

        "Like what?" I asked.

He lowered his voice and reminded me, "We got a lease, Mr. Loren Peterson."

I sat back in my chair with my mouth wide open but incapable of coming up with any response.

Then he added, "We your tenants."

* * * * * *

I had to get out of the office. Star was making me miserable with her I-told-you-so looks, and I couldn’t get any work done worrying about the impending confrontation at the rent house.

I called Eric several more times, but only got his answering machine. I left work and drove down to the beach to his office, taking a chance that he was in but just wasn’t answering his phone. I was wrong. After waiting in my car for almost an hour, I came to the conclusion that whatever his plans were for the day, they didn’t include coming to work.

I finally decided to call Chris, make a full confession to her, and ask for guidance. I hadn’t told Chris about Manny and Junior, principally because I knew she would’ve reacted the same way Star had -- "You gotta be out of your mind!" After almost thirty years of marriage, I had long ago come to the inevitable conclusion that my wife supplied the brains in the relationship. Now, I’m no dummy. Far from it. I was the one who’d taken a small-time auto parts business and turned it into a multi-million dollar operation. But Chris had a sixth sense about how to handle a crisis, whether it pertained to a problem we were having with our sons, an unexpected emergency in the business, or one of my eventual, predictable, semi-regular screw ups. Her mission in life was to keep me out of trouble, and, for the most part, she was an overwhelming success. On an all-too-frequent basis, her role as my spouse fell somewhere between guidance counselor and probation officer. For years I suspected that Chris kept a secret diary somewhere that contained, in explicit detail, every hair-brained thing that I’d ever done. She was a prolific note-taker, and maintained file boxes of 3x5 cards that recorded telephone conversations, meetings, and anything of any significance that happened during the day. I harbored a secret fear that if we ever divorced, I’d find myself in court being cross-examined by her lawyer who would be holding her diary and asking me for hours, "Do you remember the time when . . .?"

What little pride I had left I swallowed, dug around in my briefcase, found my cellular phone, and called home.

        "Hi. This is Chris. Loren and I are away from the phone, but don’t want to miss your call . . ."

I slammed the tiny phone down on the passenger’s seat, totally exasperated. Star was busy gloating, Eric was probably out surfing or at a garage sale rummaging through a bunch of junk in search of 60's memorabilia, and Chris was God-knows-where. If anything was going to be done to defuse the Manny-Junior/Damon-Darren debacle, it was up to me.

I fired up the VW convertible, pulled away from the curb in front of Eric’s office, and headed for Laguna Beach. Maybe I could help the cops identify the bodies.

Continue to Part 3