Tall Cool One (9 page)
When they made a pit stop north of San Diego to use the restrooms, Anna found Lloyd in the connecting restaurant, where he informed her that he’d already ordered them Diet Cokes and turkey-breast sandwiches. Anna didn’t want turkey, but she also didn’t want to get their elderly waitress in trouble by canceling food that was in the process of being made. So when the waitress brought the sandwich, she just said “thank you” and asked for an iced tea with lemon and an English muffin. Which prompted Lloyd to expound on how turkey’s uniquely efficient balance of amino acids made it the definitive power sandwich.
Anna allowed how she felt quite powerful already and preferred to order her own meals.
Fortunately, Lloyd had brought a book on tape for the ride. Unfortunately, it was Donald Trump’s
The Art of the Deal.
But at least it allowed Anna to doze off until they reached the border crossing between the United States and Mexico, just north of Tijuana.
“The hair thing is a ruse, you realize that,” Lloyd informed her. She’d awakened just in time to hear the New York real estate magnate expound on how he’d developed the parcel of real estate that ultimately became the garish Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The Donald. The hair. He deliberately goes for this weird hairdo thing. The hair makes people think he’s got a weak spot. They underestimate him, which he uses to his advantage. I’ve been studying the guy for years.”
Well, that would explain your weird-hairy-toes weak spot,
Anna thought.
Traffic was heavy at the border crossing between San Ysidro, California, and Tijuana, Mexico. It took Lloyd nearly an hour to roll his BMW up to the checkpoint. The Mexican border guard peered at Lloyd and asked politely for identification. Anna handed her passport to Lloyd; he passed it to the guard along with his own.
“We were stuck in line for an hour,” Lloyd complained as the man scrutinized their passports. “Not a very organized system. If you’d simply create two lines, delegating one for small cars and motorcycles and the other for SUVs and trucks, things would flow far more easily, amigo.”
Amigo?
Anna winced.
The guard looked down his sunburned nose. “I am not your amigo, sir,” he said in excellent English. “I am an official of the Mexican government. Are you traveling to Mexico for work or pleasure?”
“Both,” Lloyd replied.
“Where will you be staying?” the guard asked.
“Las Casitas. The resort in Baja. Thinking of buying the place. Resorts down here do a lot better when they’re owned by Americans.”
Anna was ready to flee and run all the way back to Beverly Hills. Anything to separate herself from this overeducated social klutz. Did he really have no clue how his comments and demeanor would come off to an overworked, underpaid, carbon-monoxide-choked Mexican immigration official? She scrambled to say something, anything, to improve the rapidly deteriorating situation.
“Lo siento para mi amigo; el tiene muchas problemas sicológicas,”
she said, which basically meant, “I’m sorry for my friend’s behavior, but he has a number of serious psychological problems.” Unfortunately the comment didn’t seem to make a dent in the guard’s impassive expression.
Lloyd whirled around on her. “I caught that. I speak five languages fluently, Anna. Spanish is one of them.”
“Too bad tact isn’t,” she muttered.
The official waved Lloyd’s car to the right toward a covered pavilion and a low-slung brown building. “You will need to pull over there, sir.”
“Why?”
“Official business. Inspection. Your car and your person.”
“I’d appreciate a specific reason,” Lloyd persisted.
“Because I am an official of the Mexican government, and you wish to enter my country, sir.” Anna got a sinking feeling. Searching Lloyd’s “person” undoubtedly meant searching her person, too. How detailed that search might be was a big fat question mark.
Lloyd reluctantly pulled the BMW into the covered area. While two customs agents methodically went through all their baggage and the vehicle itself, Anna and Lloyd were escorted to the adjacent, modern two-story building, the second story supported by huge concrete columns. Just inside the doors was an American-style bureaucratic waiting room, with people working behind Plexiglas and all the signs in English and Spanish. Anna and Lloyd waited for ten minutes. Then Lloyd was taken away, presumably to a different room for a more thorough personal examination. Anna waited, nearly trembling, for an escort to come and spirit her away for her own version of the Lloyd treatment.
“Follow me, please,” said a chunky middle-aged woman who appeared before Anna.
Anna rose and followed the uniformed woman out of the room, up a steep staircase and into another smaller room. It was barren save for two vending machines, three wooden chairs, and a portable metal table.
“Um, a body cavity search isn’t really necessary, is it?” Anna asked, steeling herself for the worst. She kept her eyes locked on the woman’s meaty hands; if she donned rubber gloves, she knew she was in trouble.
“Wait here.” The woman pointed to a coffee machine. “There is the coffee, if you want.”
“You brought me in here to wait? That’s all?” Anna exhaled with relief.
“
Lo siento,
the coffee is not very good, but machine takes American money,” the woman explained, and then lumbered out of the room.
Anna sagged into a chair, grateful that she was not going to pay for Lloyd’s boorishness—her person and her Weinrib tote would remain untouched. But the notion that he was probably undergoing a certain degree of indignity at that very moment cheered her considerably. She skipped the coffee and flipped through a Mexico City newspaper to pass the time.
Two hours later, the customs officials finally released Lloyd from custody. He looked ready to chew nails but kept silent until they were back in his car and under way.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Lloyd apologized as they finally pulled away from the border crossing toward the entrance to the toll road that would take them to Ensenada and then points south. “Fucking assholes. These low-level guys are power crazed. Everyone’s just pissed off at everyone else.”
“I’d agree with that, Lloyd.”
“What?” He was incredulous. “You’re mad at me? You think that was
my
fault?”
“Sí. Muchisimo,”
Anna replied. “Now,
por favor,
shut up and drive.”
M
exico. Anna had no idea what to expect. But she marveled at the landscape as she and Lloyd drove south, first on the spacious toll road that hugged the coast between Tijuana and the resort city of Ensenada and then inland toward San Quintin. For a long time, the Pacific Ocean had been to her right, glistening in the sunshine for as far as the eye could see. Its beauty lulled Anna into a zone-like state that lasted through the wild terrain of Ensenada and up until Lloyd chose to ruin it by opening his mouth.
“Are we there yet?” Lloyd mock-whined like an impatient child on a long car trip. Then he winked at Anna. “I’m just teasing you. Only a half hour or so more.”
“Good to know.” As the miles had passed, it had become increasingly difficult for her to remain civil.
“So, you planning to follow in your dad’s footsteps?” Lloyd asked.
Now
he wanted to make pleasant chitchat?
“I really have no interest in business or in money.”
Lloyd guffawed. “You know, it slays me when people born rich say they have no interest in money. I grew up in Lake Balboa. Know what that is?”
Anna shook her head.
“The Valley. Lake Balboa. Van Nuys, really, but the people there voted to change the name because Van Nuys has such a bad rap. You know, gangs. But anyway, not a millionaire in sight. Want to know how I made it?”
Not really,
Anna thought, but she was much too polite to say it. She waited for him to continue, knowing that he would.
“I kicked butt at Birmingham High School—that’s in Van Nuys, too. Lettered in soccer and tennis, president of the debate club. I was all around ‘the man.’ Got a full-ride scholarship to Williams. You know it?”
She nodded. Of course she knew it—Williams was one of the best small colleges in the country.
“Four years there,” Lloyd continued. “Full of thoroughbreds like you. Guess who was the only kid from Lake Balboa?”
“You?”
“Yep. And the cream always rises. I had a four-oh average. An alum recommended me to your dad. I started out as a flunky at the firm; your dad had no clue who the hell I was, which wasn’t gonna fly. So I snuck into this VP’s office—the guy was working on this top-secret acquisitions plan, right? He’s pulling down six figures, easy. The thing sucked. I took it home on a Friday night, worked all weekend rewriting it, slipped that beauty on your dad’s desk, saved the company about five mil, the rest is history.”
“What happened to the vice president?” Anna asked, fascinated in spite of her dislike for him.
“
Former
vice president,” Lloyd replied. “Like I said, the cream rises.”
Anna didn’t respond, so Lloyd restarted the Trump book on tape. Fifteen miles later the road turned south, once again paralleling the ocean. Then, as if someone had hit a switch, the landscape changed suddenly from rocky and brown to lush and green.
“Irrigation,” Lloyd expounded. “We’re on Las Casitas property. Just another half mile or so to the entrance.”
Thank God. Anna didn’t know what had been more difficult to stomach, Lloyd’s pontificating or Donald Trump’s audio self-aggrandizing.
“That’s good,” she replied evenly. “It’s been . . . quite a drive.”
Lloyd nodded. “Even with the ridiculous delay at the border, this was still more time efficient than flying.”
With a smile that was almost human, he turned off the highway onto a two-lane road that appeared to have been blacktopped the day before; the white stripe down the center was freshly painted. There was a speed limit sign in English that said ten miles an hour but no other indication that they were approaching one of the world’s most exclusive resorts.
“Excellent. See the security cameras?” Lloyd cocked his head toward small cameras mounted on tall wooden poles, all camouflaged by lush foliage. “Unfortunately, Mexico’s had quite a few kidnappings in recent years. Some of the world’s biggest power brokers frequent this resort. What they don’t need is an unexpected interruption of their vacation.”
“Come on,” Anna chided. “Americans visit Mexico all the time and don’t get kidnapped.”
“You know where the secretary of state likes to vacation?”
“No.”
“How about the chief justice of the Supreme Court? Or Tony Blair?”
“Here?”
“That’s why they need the security,” Lloyd explained. “If you motor in, you have to inform the management in advance what you’ll be driving. If we’d just showed up from out of the blue, they’d meet us in a Bradley Fighting Vehicle.”
A few hundred feet farther along, the landscape opened up, and a magnificent golf course came into view, dotted with a few golf carts and golfers enjoying a late afternoon round. Then the road dipped to the left and tunneled under the course. Anna realized it was so the golfers could safely cross the road without any danger from passing vehicles.
When they emerged from the tunnel, they passed a driving range where a few more golfers were hitting buckets of balls, then a tidy ocean-side tennis facility where a singles match was in progress, and a low-slung wooden stable where a sleek white Arabian horse was being hot-walked by a young groom.
Finally they came to a white-gabled, low-slung building with a small copper sign announcing that this was indeed Las Casitas.
“How much did you say this place was worth?” Anna asked.
Lloyd smiled. “Let’s put it this way. A famous hotel guy with a very overexposed granddaughter once bid two hundred and seventy million for it. The owners here turned him down flat. Your father’s syndicate”—he said the words “your father” with something approaching reverence—“has an offer on the table that’s sweeter than that. A lot sweeter.”
As Lloyd stopped the car, a battalion of valets, car parkers, and attendants was upon them.
“Welcome to Las Casitas.” The eldest of the valets greeted them with a huge smile. He wore black pants, a long-sleeve white golf shirt with the words
Las Casitas
embroidered in red thread, black shoes, and white gloves despite the warm late afternoon sun. The intended effect was understated elegance, and Anna thought it worked perfectly. “Miss Percy, Mr. Millar, it’s a pleasure to have you with us. Check-in is arranged; your escorts have your keys. Mr. Millar, Miss Rodriguez will be available to escort you to your casita. Miss Percy, Mr. Phelps will do the same for you. If you want a look at the premises, just phone the front desk ten minutes before you’d like your tour to begin and then simply wait for your guide to arrive. If there’s anything we can do to make your stay with us more pleasant, just ask. Your bags will be in your casitas by the time you arrive. And remember: No tipping, gratuities,
propinas,
or
pourboires
are accepted at Las Casitas. It is our pleasure to make sure you have everything you need or desire, twenty-four hours a day.”
Lloyd nodded. Meanwhile one of the valets—dark-skinned, with short dreadlocks; his name tag said Trevor—bowed slightly to Anna. “I’ll bring you to Casita Las Brisas.” His voice had the lilt of a Caribbean island. Barbados? “That’s where you’ll be staying.”
As Lloyd was escorted in the opposite direction, Anna followed Trevor through the main building, where a white-jacketed waiter handed her a flute of chilled champagne with floating raspberries. She was thirsty and took it gratefully. One sip told her that this was no ordinary champagne.
“Louis Roederer Cristal 1995,” Trevor commented. “Shipped by refrigerated container from France to San Diego, then by refrigerated truck to us. It’s a little obsessive, yes. But our sommelier demands it that way.”
“It’s wonderful,” Anna declared as she took a serious swallow.
