CHAPTER 11

SEBASTIAN’S MAIN COMPETITORS in the luxury real estate market were the big-box firms with main and satellite offices located inside swanky towers and strategic storefronts situated in primo locations like Wilshire and Sunset Boulevard. They paid enormous rents, had high overhead, and employed fleets of agents and support staff. They fought one another like starving orphans battling over table scraps.

Sebastian stayed out of the fray by taking a different approach to his business: a referral-based boutique agency that operated out of a three-floor, six-thousand-square-foot home in a quiet neighborhood in Beverly Hills. He owned the home free and clear, because he had no desire to build his company into a mighty global empire like Sotheby’s, which was why the industry barely paid any attention to him, even when last year he sold a seventy-five-million-dollar French Palladian in Beverly Hills that had been on the market for almost three years.

Which was exactly how Sebastian wanted it, flying under the radar, so he could focus on his true business.

Operating out of a house, in a rich, quiet neighborhood, had been Frank’s idea, mainly because he had insisted, even when they started out together, on living wherever he worked. Frank explained that he didn’t like leaving “the kids”—his name for the computer servers he owned and operated—or any other computer equipment alone at night, vulnerable to theft and, worse, corporate espionage. Sebastian suspected the real reason had to do with the fact that Frank didn’t care much for people.

Sebastian, covered in sweat in spite of his Jaguar’s air-conditioning, parked in the driveway. He hadn’t wanted to drive—hadn’t wanted to do anything except lie on his office floor, because, oh sweet, merciful Jesus, sitting up, let alone standing, shot up his spine enormous bolts of pain that exploded like lightning inside his head, made his lungs feel like they were being squeezed to death. As much as he wanted to stay home, he needed to be gone in case the police showed up.

Sebastian parked, and killed the engine, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror. I look like some junkie going through withdrawal, he thought. No sooner had he pushed open the Jaguar’s door than the front door of the house swung open and here came Frank bolting down the stairs, dressed as sharp and slick as a powerful Hollywood mogul—black suit and a dark blue shirt with French cuffs with a pair of gold cuff links, a Christmas gift from Trixie. Frank always wore long-sleeved shirts, even at the beach, even though he was in great shape, his six-foot frame sinewy with muscle. The reason, Sebastian suspected, had to do with the burn marks clearly left from cigarettes along his arms and back. Frank had never explained who had burned him, or why, but he took great pains to keep his scars hidden.

Frank helped him out of the car and to his feet. Sebastian lurched, his knees buckling; Frank grabbed him quickly.

“Put your arm over my shoulder,” Frank said. Sebastian did, and it reminded him of the old days after prison, drinking to the point where he could barely walk or talk. A good majority of times, Sebastian had blacked out. Frank was always there to pick up the pieces.