Dave asked me, “How do you find me, a bad guy or a good fellow?”
He looked at me diagonally with a mysterious smile in his face. I instantly replied, “Good! Definitely good! Why shouldn’t you be?”
Had I any other option? I was at the mercy of his goodness. His hand was on the steering of his car, and a part of his mind was negotiating the busy evening traffic in a highway of Los Angeles. I reasserted, “Undoubtedly, a good person you are!”
He agreed readily, “I also think so!” Then after a while, he told with a hushed voice, “But some people do not think so. They consider me an evil devil.”
I could not make out from his voice, whether he was making any jest, or feeling sorry for the injustice he received from those unscrupulous minds. We were going to attend a concert, where Dave’s brother would play guitar. His brother was a lawyer, and Dave told me that he might not be the most sought after in his profession. But he was an accomplished singer, and a good lyricist. He had his own band, and brought out a CD recently with a collection of his songs. The concert was meant for celebrating the twentieth birthday of one of his musician friends, who was a promising drummer. Dave’s brother was invited to play guitar to accompany a song, when his friend’s group would perform on stage.
Dave reemphasized, “Some do consider me a bad person.”
I asked, “Why?”
“There is a fine line between being good and bad. You understand, what I mean? I may be good to someone for my role on certain matters. For the same reason, others may consider me bad. So why should you bother? At the end of the day, it is more important to know, whether you survived or not. I learnt it from my long experiences in the real estate business. I have been in this business for almost thirty years. The rules are grey in this sector. You can twist them, and surprise your adversaries.”
He took a pause. I was still staring at him, expecting something more to hear. He backed up, “The area where you live now is the downtown LA. Fifteen years before it was infamous for robbery and mugging. Even in daylight, people were afraid of roaming in the street alone. But, now you see, do you feel any disturbance or tension there? Things have become so quiet and peaceful. Do you know who brought this change?”
“Who?”
“It was by none other than me, Sir. It was me, who was instrumental in changing the demography of this region.”
“How come?” I wondered, but knowing him so far, I had no doubt on his honest and sincere claim on this unique feat.
“Well. You see. Who used to live there previously? Poor people, harboring thugs and criminals among them. I bought their land, built houses, and either sold them to the rich, or rented to University students and visitors. The poor were driven out from this locality.” He wanted to impress me further, “Do not think, it had been a cakewalk? I had to be very nasty in some cases. But, in any case, with my action the peace and prosperity followed in this part. You can call me bad or good, whatever, who bothers?”
He remained silent for a while, and then again carried on, “I hope you’ve understood how I could get hold of these properties.”
“How?”
“I had to be rough and tough in many cases, not a perfect example of a law-abiding citizen, and naturally I had to face many adversaries. Local police were after me during this whole period. My record was not so clean.” He narrowed his eyes, and rested them on me. He asked, “Had you ever spent a night in a jail?”
“Jail? – No,” I was honest in my declaration.
“Oh! Then, you are not yet grown up, Sir! It seems you are afraid of jailhouses? Why? You should spend a few nights there, just for fun. At least once in your lifetime you must have this experience.”
“You might have a different opinion, if you stayed for a night in a jail of our country.”
Dave nodded his head, “I see, what you mean. In Afghanistan, I had escaped it narrowly. Otherwise, I would have been hanged readily.”
“For smuggling?” I tried to hit upon an intelligent guess from our previous conversations on his business in Afghanistan.
“Yes. For smuggling drugs,” He elaborated, “I could avoid imprisonment there. But, after returning from that country, I did spend a number of nights in prisons here.”
“Why?”
“For keeping a gun with me.”
“Yours?”
“No. Someone else’s.”
“Did you shoot ever?”
“Oh! I had to, but never killed a man. But who knows, one day I may require doing so?” By saying this he turned towards me and asked, “Perhaps, you do not have much interaction with the under-world.”
“Not so. But I could guess a bit.”
“I see. You all live into your secured little comfortable shell. I wish I could break that, and show you the other world.”
He appeared to be serious, as he went into an unusual silence for a while, quite unbecoming of his character. I too was seriously contemplating whether to revise my previous certification on the ‘goodness’ of his character!
The evening traffic in the road became quite thick, and cars were moving very slowly shoulder to shoulder. It made Dave very jittery. In the mean time his brother made a few calls. They were waiting in an Ethiopian restaurant for us. Dave asked me, “Do you have such a heavy traffic in your town.”
“My town is very small. We do not have so many cars there.”
“Oh! You are living in heaven then. The traffic in LA sometimes kills me. That is why I hate driving car in these evening hours. But I love this city. A comfortable temperate weather round the year. It rains occasionally. That too mostly at night! Almost every day is sunny here. Roads in your cities must be very congested gasping with traffic-jams in busy hours.”
“Yes. It is quite common.”
“When I started my business, I had an Indian partner. He was from Bombay. He told me so. We became quite intimate. Even he was pushing me to marry his sister. But his father was a shrewd businessman. An ideal feudal lord of a third world country! I learnt from him how to recover the rent from an unwilling tenant.”
“Did they go back to India?” I asked.
“No. They are still here. But we are no longer partners. The relationship broke on account of an incident of tax sale. Do you know what a tax sale is?”
“No,” I frankly admitted my poor knowledge on the matter of real estate business.
“It is the sale of a property by the Municipal Corporation to recover unpaid taxes of its owner. The sale is made through an auction. I took advantage of its loopholes, and forced the corporation to change its rules.”
“Is it? How come?”
“Whenever there is an auction on account of a tax sale, I used to be present there, and get to know the price of the sale. The municipality would pay the owner the balance amount of the sale by deducting the tax dues. Then I approached the actual owner of the property and told them, “Look! You have lost the property. Why don’t you give it to me? I would take care of your dues. In addition, I am also giving you reasonable ready cash.” As the poor owner had no idea of the proceedings, and had almost nothing to bargain at that point, he would be more than happy to sell it to me. So I became the owner instead, and readily encashed the amount from the corporation, which it received out of the sale of the property. Of course, the corporation deducted the tax-dues from the selling price. Yet I could keep a significant margin from what I paid to its actual owner.”
“But, why didn’t the original owner of the property collect the money from the corporation?”
“Well! They are usually ignorant about such deeds.”
I felt sorry for the deprived ones, but kept mum on this matter. But Dave could sense my disapproval of his action. He cast a sharp eye on me, and asked, “Do you think, I have a moral obligation to inform them?”
I hesitated, “Well! Should you not?”
“Why should I? What is my interest in doing such a social service, when they could themselves get the thing by knowing the procedures? But, I must admit, I overdid it. I made millions out of those sales. At certain point, I had profited from four such consecutive tax-sales. It cautioned the authority, and they brought a change in the rule to stop me. They now allow the handing over the proceedings of the sale to an owner, who possesses the property at least for last one year. So that was the end of my making easy bucks from such a golden goose.”
After a pause, he told me, “There is another kind of sale. Probate sale. In this sale, the property of a deceased person is sold. It’s a real fun to make a deal out of this sale. Specially, if you find the lawyers responsible for the sale are corrupt. You could cut a deal with them. But you need to be thorough about the laws and regulations. You must be extra careful”.
When we reached the restaurant, where Dave’s brother and his niece were waiting for us, it had already become dark outside. It was an Ethiopian restaurant. After exchanging our greetings over introduction, Dave told me, “You got a vegetarian company now! My niece is a vegetarian like you. Let us order two dishes of non-veg and two for veg.”
Dave’s niece must have been in her early twenties. She was a teacher of a school of mentally retarded kids. She was not only a vegetarian, but also carrying on additional restrictions on her diet. She would not take anything produced from animals, neither egg, nor milk, butter, etc. She was a vegan. Dave commented, “If you meet any young American girl, most likely you would find them willful, crazy, and vegan.”
I found Dave’s niece was smiling at her uncle’s observation. I remarked, “She let you off, just because you are his uncle. Otherwise, you would have got a nasty lesson for having such a reactionary male-chauvinist view.”
Dave told, “Well! That’s what I am. But, I am also proud to be uncle of such a beauty!”
I asked his niece, “How do you maintain the balance of your diet? In our country milk is the major source of protein and vitamins for vegetarians. But you do not take it.”
She told, “I take beans, milk of saya. Also I take vitamin tablets.”
The Ethiopian food was served in a big bamboo plate. At its four corners different vegetarian, and non-vegetarian items were placed. There was also a separate dish containing thin and soft pieces of breads prepared from rice and flour. All of us, both vegs and non-vegs, ate on the same plate at its four different corners.
After our dinner we moved to the place of the concert. I expected it to be a decent auditorium. Instead I found it a small night pub, named ‘The mint’. There would be usual entertainment from different bands in that evening. As I mentioned previously, Dave’s brother would play guitar in one of them. On my entry a young girl welcomed me by rubber stamping on my wrist. It was the ticket to the world inside. She said jokingly, “Did you cross eighteen?” Dave replied, “Just a few weeks ago, my dear!”
Not many persons were there in the semi dark interior of the pub, which was immersed in a reddish glow all around. In stark contrast, an empty stage as white as in midday sun was waiting for us. There were drums and sound systems in the stage. In front of it, a few tables were placed, mostly unoccupied. A bar was running at one corner of the wall. Dave said, “We are lucky enough to get a table. Very soon the place would be crowded, and you would taste the real rock ‘n’ roll in a mad house. We are not going to stay here long. As soon as my brother’s program gets over, we will push off.”
Four of us took a table, and a young waitress greeted us for taking the order. It was written on a piece of paper on the table that to occupy a chair one must order for two drinks, or a dinner. Dave promptly asked for two pegs of black jack, and looked at me expectantly. I went for white wine – to justify my occupying a seat. Dave’s brother and niece also joined us.
Soon the music started. I was never close to such a high volume trauma previously. It reminded me of my night mares of early hostel days, when the sound system in our common room would blast my ears with high metallic sound of instruments and bombardment of western drums. Yet, I could take shelter then in my room by closing its door and window. It was also at a tolerable distance from the source of audible anarchy and chaos. Sometimes victims like me, could make a united foray against those crazy music lovers and put a social pressure on them for sparing us from their passion and fashion. But, in that evening I had no means to shut myself out of the living merriment going all around. Dave clarified, “It’s pure rock ‘n’ roll! Soon the dancing will start.” However, that evening there was not much of dancing. There was hardly any space in the floor for dancers. The stage was very near to the tables. The audience was mostly standing behind us resting against the railings of the bar counter. The barmaids were regularly keeping vigils on our glasses, and attending tables whenever they became empty. Dave went on filling his glasses at periodic intervals. His brother was also following him. I had to be extra careful not to finish my drink before we leave the place. I was hoping for his brother to perform on stage at any moment. But it was getting deferred at every new song and appearance of a new band other than his friend’s. In the mean time, Dave could discover two budding talents from one such band. They were in their teens, and must be out of their schools recently. Both of them played guitars for a band. Dave invited them to his table, offered drinks, and ordered dinners for them. He appreciated their performances in short phrases, “You guys are really good! You have a great future! Please carry on.” I could see the happiness and joy in their faces by getting appreciation from a senior person like him.
Finally, the band, with whom Dave’s brother would play the guitar, took the stage. Dave was very fond of the young drummer, whose birthday was celebrated that evening. He told me, “He is a very talented young drummer. I love to listen his playing.”
In this band the main singer was a tall young man, with curly hairs. He appeared to be in a trance, most likely under the influence of some drugs. He never looked at the audience face to face. Rather, he directed both the pupils of his eyes toward his nose, and took the microphone stand as his dancing partner, or an enemy soldier, whatever you might consider. Even a bad critic of rock ‘n’ roll like me, could not help appreciating his wild jumps, and high pitched terrifying vocal delivery on stage. He also got an able partner, a giant electric guitarist, who was shaking his body with the vigor and rapidity of a fighting bull. Their movements were aptly reciprocated by beatings of drums and cymbals, and high decibel emotion of the singer. Amidst this hulla bolla (hue and cry), Dave’s brother’s name was announced for accompanying the singer in a number. He was ready by then. At that moment, Dave was tabling a fresh order for another two pegs of black jack. His brother told him, “Who would drive the car? Jay or You? My daughter will drive me back.” Dave casually remarked, “Him!” His brother became assured, and went to the stage. I got alarmed and looked at Dave whether he was serious. It was not that I had not driven before. But, my confidence was restricted within the boundaries of my residential campus in India, and I had never crossed its border driving a car. Dave knew it. He winked at me and said, “Don’t worry. I can drink poison, but be steady on the wheel. But, there might be one problem. If I get caught by the police, you have two options. Either spend the night with me in a jailhouse, or walk straight to the safety of your shell.” I was not so fortunate. Though we flew back home in the dead of night, no police car stopped us.
29/12/2011
