The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [98]
Over by the entrance to the motor court stood a burly man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a cap turned backward, his greasy hair and black T-shirt stained with sweat, his huge belly lapping over his waist like a lava flow over a cliff. He was looking around at the Fenney estate like a kid at Disneyland.
The repo man.
He was here to take away Scott’s beloved $200,000 Ferrari. Two days ago, knowing this moment would come, Scott had cashed out his 401(k) and purchased a replacement vehicle: a $20,000 Volkswagen Jetta.
Scott walked over to the motor court. Two more tow trucks were idling at the curb, here for the Range Rover and Rebecca’s Mercedes-Benz. The repo man held out a clipboard and said, “Nice hat.” Scott signed the document acknowledging the repossessions on this date and watched as the red Ferrari 360 Modena two-seater with Connolly leather interior and an engine capable of hitting 180 miles per hour was hoisted onto the flatbed by a wench and secured in place. Even though he knew he was losing something he never really had, it still hurt like hell to see his perfect life being dismantled and carted off piece by piece.
An hour later, Scott, still hurting, was stretched out on the chaise lounge by the pool.
“Mr. Fenney,” Louis said.
Scott looked over at Louis, who nodded his head in the direction of the motor court. Scott twisted around and saw a young couple standing there. The man was slim, in his early thirties, and dressed in a starched, long-sleeve, button-down blue shirt, khaki slacks, and black loafers. His hair was dark and curly, his skin pale and pasty. He was wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He seemed vaguely familiar.
The man said, “We had an appointment to see the house at three. We rang the doorbell, but no one answered.”
Scott checked his watch and climbed out of the chair.
“Sorry, I lost track of time.”
Scott walked over in his swim trunks, bare-chested and barefooted, and held out his hand.
“Scott Fenney.”
“Jeffrey Birnbaum. And my wife, Penny.”
Standing next to him was a pretty young Highland Park Junior League wife, perfectly made up and wearing a red sundress and red sandals. Her hair was jet black, her legs were bare and tanned, her body trim, and her lips matched her dress. Jeffrey had married up in looks, way up.
Penny said, “You’re famous.”
“Infamous is more like it.”
She smiled, that flirtatious smile so familiar to Scott Fenney, and he immediately knew Penny, because he had dated so many Pennys during high school and college: a nice Highland Park girl who had taken a walk on the wild side and was now ready to settle down with a nice Highland Park boy who could provide a nice Highland Park mansion. Scott motioned around at the motor court, garage, and backyard.
“Four-car garage, heated and air-conditioned, pool and spa, one-bedroom, one-bath cabana, all on one acre in the heart of Highland Park. Come on, I’ll show you the place.”
Scott led Mr. and Mrs. Birnbaum through his house, starting with the commercial-grade kitchen with the Italian tile floor, the mural of a French bakery scene on one wall, hand-painted on hundreds of six-inch tiles, and the walk-in freezer big enough to hold a side of beef. He proceeded through the butler’s pantry, the formal living and dining rooms, the den, and then down to the basement for the wine cellar, the home theater, the game room, and the exercise room with the framed blowup of himself running the ball against Texas, the one that had hung in his office for eleven years, leaning against the far wall.
“You’re a legend,” Penny said. “Did you really get a hundred ninety-three yards against Texas, like the paper said?”
“Sure did. You a big football fan?”
“Oh, I love football,” Penny said.
Jeffrey glanced at the exercise machines with indifference and walked out. Penny lingered behind, and as she squeezed past Scott at the door, she gave him a look and whispered, “But I love football players more.”
They found Jeffrey in the game room rolling billiard