Samir said, "Exactly what I thought."
"So what happened?"
"It didn't work," Samir said. "We had nothing in common."
"Twenty-three years," Karen said, "and you had nothing in common?"
"You go along and suddenly ten years pass by, and one day I thought, I can't do this anymore."
"Do you have kids?" Karen said.
"Two. Both grown."
Karen said, "Where's your wife live?"
"Ex," Samir said and grinned. "She bought a condo in Naples."
Karen said, "Italy?"
"Florida," Samir said.
Karen said, "Do you ever see her?"
"No reason to," Samir said.
The waiter appeared with plates, rack of lamb Genghis Khan, and served them. Samir picked up his knife and fork, cut a piece of pink lamb and put it in his mouth. "You're not going to believe it."
Karen picked up a lamb chop and bit into it. He was right; it was delicious.
After dinner they went back to Birmingham and had a drink in the Rugby Grill at the Townsend Hotel. Samir said, why don't we get a room? Karen said she liked him but it was way too fast for her.
They started going out, seeing each other a few days a week, and then every day. There was a trip to Napa, and another one to France: Paris, Bordeaux and Burgundy-tasting the latest releases from the top vineyards. It was a new experience-traveling by private jet and chauffeured limo.
After that Karen moved into Samir's West Bloomfield compound. He asked her to quit modeling and be available. He took care of her and showered her with gifts. They talked about getting married. He was fifty-two and she was thirty-six. That was close enough, and they had a lot in common. He asked her to call him Smoothie, the affectionate name all his close friends used, but Karen couldn't do it.
She had three hundred grand in a mutual fund that wasn't doing well-money she'd saved working as a model for eighteen years and asked Samir what she should do. He offered to invest it for her. Thought he could double it in three years. She said, are you kidding? Karen sold the fund and gave Samir a check for $299,560, her life savings. How could she miss with him handling her money?
Six months later their relationship started to unravel. Samir wasn't the kind, patient listener he first appeared to be. He was surly and chauvinistic and wanted to know where she was every minute. He'd call her ten times a day to check up on her. The other problem was living in the house with Samir's people-all his hangers-on. She couldn't do it anymore and told him she was leaving and she wanted her money back.
He said, "I leave you, you don't leave me."
She said, "Watch me." He hit her in the face with his fist and she went down on the marble floor of the foyer.
He said, "Get out."
That's what she did. Got up and walked out the front door and got in her car. She looked at her face in the rearview mirror. Her left cheek was bruised and beginning to swell but she felt relieved. She'd known for at least a month that it wasn't going to work, but was too nervous, too afraid to make her move. Now she'd never have to go back there and pretend again.
She'd kept her condo, a rental in Birmingham, the one smart thing she'd done, figuring if things didn't work out she'd need a place to go, and went back there now. She'd left most of her clothes at Samir's. That didn't bother her, but what did was getting her money back. She had no proof she'd given it to him. No forms or receipts or anything. Not even a canceled check with his name on it. At the time, he said, what do you need a receipt for? You think I'm going to steal your money? She'd made the check out to cash like he suggested, which, in retrospect, was pretty dumb. She tried calling Samir, but never got him on the line. She wrote him a letter but never heard from him. Why not give her money back? He was rich. It wasn't going to change his life. But she'd insulted him and he was an old-fashioned guy, and you didn't do that.
She talked to Robert Schreiner, an attorney who lived down the street. Based on his knowledge of contracts-and he was no expert in the field-she was up to her ass in alligators and somebody had drained the swamp. But he agreed to give it a try, and Karen didn't have to pay him unless he got results, and if he did, Schreiner's fee was 20 percent.
"That's fifty grand," Karen said.
Schreiner said, "The standard fee is a third."
She studied him. He was wearing a tee shirt that said Make Love Not Law Review in bold type. She stared into his puffy eyes. He didn't give her much of a feeling of confidence. He needed a shower and some clean clothes for starters.
Schreiner said, "How much you got now?"
"What?" Karen said.
"You don't want to cut me in for 20 percent, but how much do you have now? Nothing."
He had a point.
"Come in have a toke," Schreiner said. "We'll discuss your legal travails."
What did she have to lose?
First Schreiner sent a registered letter on his Robert R Schreiner Attorney at Law stationery, telling Samir he had a week to give Karen Delaney back her $299,560 or he'd file a complaint with the Oakland County Circuit Court. The way Schreiner told it, he went to work a few days later and there were three dark-haired guys in his office who looked like they were beamed from the streets of Fallujah. They surrounded him as he walked in. The one who did the talking wore a track suit and had a lot of chains, and looked like he worked at a party store. He told Schreiner if he filed a lawsuit or ever contacted Mr. Fakir again, they'd come back and break his legs. This was the warning.
Schreiner asked them who they thought they were talking to? He was an officer of the court and if they threatened him he'd have them arrested for breaking and entering and intent to do
great bodily harm.
That's when the guy in the track suit stepped in and hit him in the side and took the wind out of him. Schreiner said he bent over, trying to draw a breath. He told Karen the whole story when he stopped over the next day, moving like he was in pain, showing her white tape the doctor wrapped around his fractured ribs.
Karen said, "Did you call the police?"
Schreiner shook his head. "I'm going to file your lawsuit next week."
"If you do, it's going to be your last." She admired Schreiner's tenacity, but there was no way she could go through with it. "Next time they're not going to break something, they're going to put you out of business." She wasn't going to let Schreiner get hurt or killed over the money. She'd have to figure out another way to get it back.
He said, "Fuck them. They can't get away with this."
She said, "I agree with you, but it's not worth it."
They became friends after that. They had dinner occasionally and smoked weed and watched movies on Schreiner's plasma TV.
Then she met Lou.
Chapter Five
Megan had come up with the idea of robbing gamblers of their winnings one day when she was handing $9,600 in crisp, just-off- the-press $100 bills to a guy named Lou Starr.
He'd said something dumb like, "Be still my heart, I think I'm in love," staring at her chest. She heard a lot of bad lines so that was nothing special. Most guys took their shot and moved on, but he wouldn't give up, this guy who looked fifty-five-older than her father-wearing a toupee, she was sure of it.
"Everybody bet the Yankees," he said.
Megan said, "Except you. How'd you know?"
"I have a system."
"Well it obviously works," Megan said. "I have to tell you though, you're responsible for paying your own taxes."
"I'm going to run right home, fill out a 1099 and send it to my Uncle." He gave her a big grin. "I'm Lou. Want to come upstairs, see the Presidential Suite? It's got a hot tub. We could have some fun."
"I've seen it," Megan said, wondering if Lou thought he was irresistible or something. Like she was going to go up and bang this little ape on her break.
The next time she saw him he was with a redhead, who even Megan had to admit was a knockout, the redhead standing next to the little guy, towering over him in four-inch heels. Megan wanted to say, hey Mr. Starr, do you still want to take me up to your room have some fun?