A Penny Over

By Brad Watson

October 2010, a gorgeous foreclosed mansion in the exclusive San Francisco Bay Area suburb of Walnut Creek is auctioned off on the front steps of the Contra Costa County Courthouse. The eye-popping minimum bid of $70,000 tantalizes the crowd of bidders with an equal amount of uncertainty and confusion. Brian Taylor, a mortgage broker turned savvy real estate speculator, quietly makes the winning—and only—offer of “a penny over” the asking price. Unfortunately, this screaming deal of the century soon turns into a financial nightmare for Brian when he realizes the defaulted owner of this spectacular house, Sammy Savelli Jr., is the ringleader of one of the largest and most sophisticated foreclosure scams to ever hit the Bay Area and California.
Savelli’s scheme assumed no one would actually bid on his house, much less take ownership. What follows is an epic, roller-coaster thriller, with suspense, hope, frustration, humor, excitement, and despair at every turn. As Brian tries desperately to maintain legal control of his crown jewel with the assistance of his small-time attorney, Carl Freck, he’s determined not to be a victim. Putting his family at the financial brink in his quest for justice, Brian begins to piece together an intricate, multi-billion dollar foreclosure scam that ruthlessly victimizes anyone directly or indirectly in its path, leaving chaos and financial destruction in its wake throughout California. With painstaking research and dogged determination, Brian unearths the scope of the scam and realizes it’s much larger and intricate than he could have ever imagined. One by one, the shadowy participants who’ve given the scam the appearance of validity are exposed by Brian—one of whom turns out to be an unassuming individual that Brian and Carl have played basketball with over the years at their private gym.
As Brian digs deeper, he and his bumbling attorney realize the consequences of their maverick attitudes. The civil suit they’d brought against their adversaries turns into a train wreck of disappointment at every stage. It becomes clear that Savelli and his cronies will go to any limits or expense to get this property back and keep their scheme from being exposed, while being equally determined to flip the script and destroy Brian and Carl in the process.
-Based in part on a true story-

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brad Watson
• Release date: Dec 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310698897

Book preview

A PENNY OVER

By

Brad Watson

Copyright © 2014 by Brad Watson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at the address below.

Attn: Brad Watson; 2950 Buskirk Ave. Suite #300 Walnut Creek, CA. 94597.

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Introduction

October 2010, a gorgeous foreclosed mansion in the exclusive San Francisco Bay Area suburb of Walnut Creek is auctioned off on the front steps of the Contra Costa County Courthouse. The eye-popping minimum bid of $70,000 tantalizes the crowd of bidders with an equal amount of uncertainty and confusion. Brian Taylor, a mortgage broker turned savvy real estate speculator, quietly makes the winning—and only—offer of a penny over the asking price. Unfortunately, this screaming deal of the century soon turns into a financial nightmare for Brian when he realizes the defaulted owner of this spectacular house, Sammy Savelli Jr., is the ringleader of one of the largest and most sophisticated foreclosure scams to ever hit the Bay Area and California.

Savelli’s scheme assumed no one would actually bid on his house, much less take ownership. What follows is an epic, roller-coaster thriller, with suspense, hope, frustration, humor, excitement, and despair at every turn. As Brian tries desperately to maintain legal control of his crown jewel with the assistance of his small-time attorney, Carl Freck, he’s determined not to be a victim. Putting his family at the financial brink in his quest for justice, Brian begins to piece together an intricate, multi-billion dollar foreclosure scam that ruthlessly victimizes anyone directly or indirectly in its path, leaving chaos and financial destruction in its wake throughout California. With painstaking research and dogged determination, Brian unearths the scope of the scam and realizes it’s much larger and intricate than he could have ever imagined. One by one, the shadowy participants who’ve given the scam the appearance of validity are exposed by Brian—one of whom turns out to be an unassuming individual that Brian and Carl have played basketball with over the years at their private gym.

As Brian digs deeper, he and his bumbling attorney realize the consequences of their maverick attitudes. The civil suit they’d brought against their adversaries turns into a train wreck of disappointment at every stage. It becomes clear that Savelli and his cronies will go to any limits or expense to get this property back and keep their scheme from being exposed, while being equally determined to flip the script and destroy Brian and Carl in the process.

-Based in part on a true story-

Chapter 1:

Friday morning, February 16, 2007

A sleek, new, black Mercedes S-Class Luxury Sedan briskly exited the 680 Freeway into Concord, California, and made its way down Monument Boulevard. The sun was just peeking over the hills to the east reflecting off the black paint and custom chrome rims of the vehicle. With two lanes of traffic in each direction, Monument Boulevard was a main corridor that traversed the southern edge of the city. Concord was a bustling, East Bay metropolis of 122,000 souls located in Contra Costa County about thirty miles across the bay from San Francisco. It offered a broad base of employment and housing; however, the area along Monument Boulevard was economically challenged, comprised largely of immigrants, many of whom had recently arrived from countries to the south. The storefronts had a haggard, dog-eared look and multi-unit apartment complexes lining the boulevard were tired with dated architecture. However, there was a thriving Costco located at the far end of Monument Boulevard, and this establishment was what motivated most people living in the surrounding cities to even consider making the drive to this stretch of Concord.

The black Mercedes continued to breeze along the boulevard, aided by the good fortune of continuous green traffic signals, allowing the vehicle to maintain a speed slightly above what the 35-mph sign. Finally, the Mercedes was forced to stop at an intersection as the traffic light ahead blinked to yellow and then red. When the traffic light turned green, the car sped off, finally pulling into the parking lot of a U-Haul rental business where there was a full parking lot with people lined up inside and outside the door. The Mercedes slowly reconnoitered the lot then stopped at the end of the line, backed up, and slithered into the handicapped space near the side of the building. The entire parking lot was out of sight of the front of the building, around the corner and about thirty yards away from the entryway.

Three white men popped out of the Mercedes. A small cluster of Hispanic day laborers stood near the entrance of the store and began walking over to the driver of the Mercedes, offering their services: Help load. Help unload. Unpack. Good worker. Cheap. The driver brusquely waved them away.

The owner and pilot of the Mercedes, Sammy Savelli, was in his early fifties, short with a bald head, and slightly overweight. His neatly pressed slacks hugged his legs and an open-collared dress shirt gave him an air of superiority. There was an unlit cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth as he stood facing the line in front of the building, surveying the scene like a general overseeing his troops before battle. Then he turned to his passengers, who stood on either side of the car.

Stay here, Mike, Sammy barked to the man on the opposite side of the car, while the other man walked over to join Sammy.

No problem, Sammy, Mike said. Mike Taggart stood over six-feet tall with a two-hundred-and-fifty-five pound bulk around his mid-forties body. His skin was the color of lard gone cold and his cheeks ruddy and blemished. His auburn hair hugged his scalp and his worn jeans and a grey sweatshirt hung loose on his body. He seemed bored as he strolled to the back of the car. He slouched against the bumper, and pulled out a cell phone and began dialing a number.

Hey, Mike, Sammy said.

Mike turned around to face his boss. After you’re done making that call, use that gadget to check the traffic report and figure out how long it will take us to get where we’re going. Mike nodded and went back to his call.

Sammy glanced at his gold Rolex; 7:28 a.m. Damn, Richie, we need to hustle.

Richie Thornwood, thinner but about the same height as Mike, had a fabricated tan and a shiny gold chain hanging around his neck. People said he looked like Val Kilmer. He had slicked-back blond hair and wore jeans and a tight polo shirt that drew attention to his untoned midsection. His whole demeanor was tense; from his stance to his arrogant look. His eyes darted nervously from the people in front of the store to the day laborers. Come on, said Sammy, nodding with his head. They walked toward the front door where customers chatted with one another.

You got the trucks reserved? asked Richie.

Nope.

Richie shook his head and his jaw involuntarily clenched. He ran his hand through his hair —a nervous habit. Sammy opened the door and they walked in. Richie followed, staring at the back of his boss’s head. When they got to the counter, the man behind the counter was just finishing with a customer. The few people in line stopped talking and watched as they cut to the front of the line.

What’s he doing? one woman asked her friend.

Cutting the line, looks like.

Hey, a guy in his twenties blurted you gotta go to the back of the line.

Yeah? Sammy said, turning toward the man and narrowing his eyes.

Get your ass back to the end of the line, another man shouted.

Guess what, said Sammy calmly, removing his unlit cigar from his mouth. I saw somebody throwing rocks at the vehicles in the parking lot. He shrugged. I just thought I oughta let somebody know.

What? someone said.

The U-Haul service manager nearby turned to an employee and said, Dale, go out to the parking lot and see what’s going on.

Yeah. Looked like the amigos of those guys over there, Sammy said pointing his head in the direction of the day laborers. Everyone inside the store turned to look through the front window. There was confused mumbling from the people in line, then moved as a group out the door. The two men who exited first told the people in line that some wetbacks were throwing rocks at the cars in the parking lot, then they and the others who had been in the store jogged around the corner to the lot.

There was a palpable tension for several long seconds then all the people in line turned and hurried to the parking lot like a herd of cattle. As soon as they disappeared, the day laborers dispersed and moved off quickly in different directions. Sammy watched everyone scurry and chuckled.

Richie, despite himself, smiled then whispered, Shit, boss. When those people come back, they’re going to murder you.

What can we do for you, gentlemen? asked service manager, a tall, gangly young man with a threadbare goatee wearing a U-Haul-issued parka with a label that read Ted, Manager. Coils of uncombed hair escaped from his knitted cap.

I need two, twenty-four-foot trucks, Sammy said.

Reservation number? asked Ted, turning to his computer.

Don’t have one, Sammy said staring into the man’s eyes.

Ted blinked at Sammy. I’m sorry, sir. All the trucks on our lot today are reserved. His eyes shifted nervously. Sammy waited a few moments, staring at Ted’s face.

Well, that’s an issue, because I need two trucks, Ted. Now.

Ted took a breath. We just don’t have any trucks. They’re all reserved. I can probably get you one for tomorrow, though. He walked quickly over to his computer.

Sammy looked down at the floor while gathering himself. Richie turned when the front door opened where the first of the people who’d been in line came in. Richie leaned into Sammy. Boss, he whispered.

Not now, Sammy growled, raising his head to look at Ted. Then he smiled. Ted, he said. Ted feigned intense interest in his computer screen.

Richie turned toward the gathering crowd. He crossed his arms over his chest and assumed the position of kick-ass bodyguard. He wasn’t armed, but he summoned the image of Rambo, in his mind, and stood there intensely staring at the crowd.

Ted! repeated Sammy. Ted reluctantly looked up, anxiety in his face. I really need those two trucks, right now. I know how hard you bust your ass around here, with little reward.

Discreetly, Sammy pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and held the money clip close to his chest, thumbing through the thousand-dollar bills. I’ve got four grand for you, Ted, he whispered, right here, to reward you for your can-do attitude. This is all for you for getting me those two trucks I see out there. Sammy nodded his head toward the lot. Here’s my I.D. and credit card, he said a little louder while slipping the four folded bills over to Ted, along with his driver’s license and MasterCard. Deal?

Ted’s eyes fastened on the money. Sammy was sure the man had never been presented with a thousand-dollar bill before, much less four of them. Ted glanced over Sammy’s head at the other customers in line, eyeing the goings-on with malevolence. Still, Richie’s bluff had worked. Nobody seemed about to go after him or his boss.

Ted took the driver’s license and credit card, quickly pocketing the cash.

The arrangements for the trucks were efficiently accomplished and in less than five minutes the deal was consummated except for the signature. Right here, Mr. Savelli. Sammy scribbled his indecipherable signature. Thanks again, Ted.

Richie preceded Sammy out of the building, ignoring the glares of the other customers, and held the door open for his boss. Sammy strode out with his chin lifted in pompous defiance. Just as Sammy walked through the doorway, one of the irate people snarled, You little prick.

Sammy lifted his chin a little higher and grinned. When he stepped outside, he was promptly greeted by two U-Haul workers who had run from the parked trucks to give him the two sets of keys.

Sammy immediately flipped one set of keys to Richie and the other to Mike, who had moved toward the door when Sammy exited. We gotta get going. You guys stay right with me, you hear?

The two men hustled to the trucks and started them up. Sammy glanced at his watch 8:05. He jumped into the Mercedes and pulled out onto Monument Boulevard as the lead horse, followed by the two trucks, forcing oncoming traffic to stop. They headed for Highway 680 then Sammy and the vans got onto Highway 24, lending the illusion that the trip into the city might be smooth sailing. Sammy chewed on his cigar as he waited in morning rush hour. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel and began to breathe audibly. He hated waiting. Fuck! he shouted, slamming his hand against the wheel. With a quick look to his right, he jerked the steering wheel in the same direction and gunned the Mercedes onto the right shoulder, where he proceeded to drive, illegally. The two moving vans followed suit, a tight fit for them. Drivers honked, some raised their fists.

Facing the same direction and parked on the median next to the fast lane was a California Highway Patrol cruiser. Traffic was still stalled and the cruiser seemed to be waiting out the gridlock in the westbound lanes.

The policeman saw that someone had turned the right shoulder into the fast lane and pulled out, siren blaring and lights flashing. The cruiser sped along the left shoulder, parallel to the Mercedes and the two U-Haul trucks that continued to move forward on the right shoulder. Sammy and the two moving vans managed to ride the right shoulder for nearly ten miles as they passed through the Caldecott Tunnel, emerging into Oakland and approaching the Bay Bridge. It, too, was gridlocked, but vehicles were inching their way forward. With a lot of hand waving and cussing, Sammy pushed his car through traffic and onto the carpool lane, narrowly avoiding scraped bumpers. The trucks followed in the wake of the Mercedes, keeping only a few feet between one another so nobody would dare to cut in. A half hour later, after navigating the downtown area of the city and moving into the Mission District, Sammy’s car and the two trucks pulled up in front of a decrepit-looking apartment building where the neighborhood was in the process of gentrification. A gaping panhandler walking past the front of the building stopped to look at the big trucks as they groaned to a halt at the curb. Two little boys came over and slapped the tires of one of the moving vans and gawked at the black Mercedes.

Sammy, Richie, and Mike got out of their double-parked vehicles with hazard lights blinking and walked to the entrance of the three-story apartment complex. Sammy carried a packet of papers stapled together. Richie was on one side of Sammy, carrying a sledgehammer, and Mike was on the other. The hallway smelled of yesterday’s fried potatoes, cigarettes and stale beer. When Mike and Richie got to a door they stopped. Mike pounded on it with his fist. Within seconds, a middle-aged Black man wearing pajamas opened the door.

Good morning, Tyrone, said Sammy, We’re here to remind you that you have until four o’clock today to collect your stuff and vacate your apartment. Tyrone wasn’t a large man, but he looked menacing.

What the fuck are you talkin’ bout, man? I got rent control. He started to close the door, but Richie stuck his foot forward to stop its swing.

Sammy stepped forward. I own this fucking building now. Your rent control went bye-bye when I bought it. You and your shit and whoever else you got living in there need to be gone by four this afternoon. The renter stared at Tyrone, who stared back. And, because I’m a nice guy, I brought a moving truck for you to put your stuff in, and we’ll take it wherever you want.

Go fuck yourself, Tyrone growled, and slammed the door. Savelli turned to Richie and nodded. Sammy and Mike stepped back. Richie made one big swing and knocked a dent in the door. The second swing punched a hole the size of a basketball, and the third ripped off the lower part of the door completely. Richie dropped the sledgehammer to his side and the three men stood waiting.

In about fifteen seconds, Tyrone tentatively opened the door. His eyes were wide with fear. You say you got a truck down there?

Savelli gave him an evil smile. Back door of the truck is open. Start moving.

Richie looked at Sammy. Who’s next?

Savelli scanned the second page of the papers in his hand. Number 218, up one floor. They went upstairs to the next apartment and Mike knocked on the door. After twenty seconds, a tiny, feminine voice was heard from inside the apartment. In broken English, she said, Who it is?

It’s Sammy Savelli…uh, Sammy consulted the paper in his hand, Mrs. Chang. I’m the new owner of this building. There was a long silence, then an elderly and frail-looking Asian woman with a walker opened the door. She looked up at the two large men with alarm, and then fixed her gaze on Savelli.

My name Chong. Chong, she emphasized.

I really don’t give a shit what your name is, ma’am. I’m here to tell you that you gotta get out of this apartment. Now. Today. Chop-chop. Get it?

The elderly woman’s mouth dropped open. What you mean? I live here thirty-eight years. Always pay rent on time. Every time. She looked at the three men in front of her and began to tremble, then her legs buckled, and she collapsed onto the floor. She lifted a hand and tried to speak, but couldn’t.

Give 911 a call, Mike, for Madame Butterfly here. After the ambulance leaves, you guys pack up her shit and put it in the truck. Mike made the call, and then the three men moved down the hall and up the stairway to the next floor.

Last one, boys, said Savelli, panting as they headed up another flight of stairs and down the hallway. Number 350, at the end.

Mike rapped on the door. Opera music could be heard inside. Half a minute passed, and Mike knocked again, harder. Another thirty seconds and still no response. Mike gave the door three swift blows with the hammer, and what remained of it swung open. Savelli and his two accomplices sauntered in.

Two men sat in bathrobes at the kitchen table, expressions of shock and fear on their faces. One man extended his hand and placed it atop the other man’s wrist.

Morning, darlings, said Savelli in a sing-song voice. Are we interrupting anything? Well, too bad. His tone became vicious. You ladies have until four o’clock today to get your fudge-packing asses out of this apartment.

Savelli gave the immaculately appointed apartment the once-over. I should thank you for making our work so easy. The place is gorgeous! But I’m pissed that you made us break down your door. We’ll be able to fix that, though, with your deposit money.

Sammy turned and walked out, followed by Mike and Richie. All three men began to chuckle as they disappeared down the hallway.

Chapter 2

Same day, 12:10 p.m. Concord, California

The Concord Athletic Club parking lot was filled as usual with local working professionals and business owners from the surrounding community. From 5:30 a.m. until well after dark, the hectic hordes descended on the private club to get their daily fix of exercise; basketball, swimming, racquet ball and workouts, as well as a posh restaurant, and outdoor tennis courts.

Added to the club’s already congested parking lot this morning were the vehicles of the New Year’s Day Resolution warriors, who came for no more than four months each New Year to lose weight. They were here to achieve their dream of getting that high-school body again after glancing at the covers of glam magazines at the grocery store checkout stand or watching infomercials during the holiday bowl games that assured them how easy it would be. The private club required members be eighteen years or older. It offered free amenities, including fresh, plump towels as well as ample grooming products such as aftershave, hair dryers, hair gel, combs, mouthwash, soap, shampoo, and shaving cream. Even a free shoe-shining service was always available.

On this particular overcast Friday, the parking lot was yet again full with business owners and white-collar employees. On the court, you could find District Attorneys, CPAs, financial advisors, the Water District manager, firefighters, police officers, the city building inspector, real estate and mortgage company owners, bank managers, attorneys… the list went on. Tracking the number of players who showed up over a given period of time gave a good indicator of the economy. More guys=better economy. Everyone was known on a first-name basis, and some of these club relationships spanned many, many years.

Behind their backs, the lesser-skilled players were called guppies by the more accomplished players. Instinctively, the guppies arrived early to write their names on the chalkboard dedicated to pickup games that hung in the basketball gym. They were typically the first guys to get on the court, because they knew their existence in the game would be short-lived. The pecking order was generally clear on this court. Most of the guys understood their roles and limitations. If you were a guppy, God forbid you should take a shot. You better do it early in a game and be wide open, because the worst thing a guppy could do was allow the other team to steal the ball from him or turn it over when the game was tight. However, win or lose, each Monday and Friday—devoted as churchgoers—guppy or not, the players came back with a fresh attitude, looking to compete again. The game was therapy for most of the guys, and it gave them a much-needed break in their working lives.

At 12:10 on this particular Friday, the pickup games were well underway. Outside, two cars sped around the club, frantically looking for an open parking spot. One of the cars, driven by Sal Marchese, a guppy player in his late sixties who owned a travel agency in Walnut Creek, found an open spot and pulled in. Sal exited the car quickly, swinging his gym bag while adjusting his glasses the dashed toward the club. Twenty feet behind Sal was Carl Freck, another guppy in his early sixties who was just as focused and frantic to get into the club and play some ball. Huffing along with his basketball goggles swinging around his neck, Carl realized that not only did Sal have a substantial lead on him but Carl, a lawyer with a dumpy demeanor, would most likely be playing on the same team as Sal. Shit!

Carl ambled rather than strode across the parking lot due to his weight. His graying blond hair fell in an ersatz, David Bowie-style shock across his forehead. To add to the overall nonathletic impression, he wore thick goggles on the court. Carl was loud and talked about himself with confidence, although he didn’t exude much. His basketball-playing abilities were pathetic, which he attributed to the fact that he needed cataract surgery on his left eye.

Carl slowed his pace and paused as he saw an angel pulling into the club parking lot. The vehicle the angel was driving seemed bathed in bright light, as if recently arrived from heaven. This wasn’t really an angel, but for a guppy ballplayer, it might as well have been. Brian Taylor arrived late, just like Carl. Gazing at Brian’s car with a huge smile on his face, Carl stood, giddy, and waiting patiently for Brian to find a parking space. Although Carl had arrived late, he’d most likely be guaranteed to be paired with a thirty-two-year-old, top player. This was what guppies dreamed about.

Brian walked toward Carl, who greeted the younger man with a warm hello and handshake. Carl put his left hand on Brian’s back and patted him while the handshake continued.

Boy, it’s great to see you Brian, Carl said in his overly loud voice.

Brian, caught off-guard by the enthusiasm, sheepishly replied, Yeah, great to see you too, Carl. Brian knew Carl, and his basketball skills—or lack thereof—and it always seemed that he and Carl were on the same team, much to Brian’s chagrin.

Brian Taylor, a six-foot-two, one-hundred-and-ninety pound athlete with a trim, athletic build and neatly cropped hair, exuded confidence and intelligence. He’d worked as a mortgage loan officer at a bank in Walnut Creek, but was about to open his own mortgage company. He was the epitome of a sharp and ambitious businessman, self-motivated and competitive, but also a well-liked team player who knew his own mind and stood his ground. He’d been a star basketball player in high school and was now one of the Monday and Friday Basketball regulars.

As the two men made their way to the front of the club, a black Mercedes with tinted windows swung into the parking lot and double-parked at the entrance. Out of the passenger seat popped Mike Taggart. Carl and Brian looked over and waved. Mike was known more as a banger, with an average basketball-skill level. Carl knew he had his golden ticket right next to him and there was no need to wait for Mike.

As Carl and Brian walked into the club together, Mike reached through the open window on the driver’s side of the Mercedes and shook the hand of the man behind the wheel. He then fetched his gym bag from the trunk before the car zipped off. Mike headed into the club.

Carl and Brian made their way to the locker room and to their respective lockers to get into their basketball attire. But Carl understood there was no rush to get to the court; if he signed up right away, there was a good likelihood he’d be paired with Sal, and he didn’t want that. Two guppies on the same team was the kiss of death. He’d stick with his sure thing.

From the look on Brian’s face he was not happy to be on the same team as Carl. Even though this game was meant to be simply a venue for exercise and camaraderie, it irked Brian that Carl was such a bad player, especially since he’d been playing for years and hadn’t improved a bit. It seemed he was content to be lousy on the court, and this sort of attitude didn’t sit well with Brian.

Brian knew Carl had made sure to time his exit from the locker room to coincide with his, and this pissed Brian off even more. Clenching his jaw, Brian strode out of the locker room and into the gym with Carl alongside. Carl was yammering about something, but Brian ignored him.

They were greeted in the gym by the sound of squeaky basketball shoes. A five-on-five pickup game was underway. A few of the players glanced over and saw Brian coming through the doors and smiled, acknowledging that better competition had just entered the room. Brian sat down on the bench, and Carl made a landing right next to him. Brian talked a little trash to a few of the players on the court. He knew most of these guys had sharp ears, and getting into their heads before he played them was part of the subtle craftiness that made Brian so good. Carl nodded his approval of each of Brian’s cracks.

Within ten minutes, the game ended and the five guys from the winning team remained on the court for the next game. They slugged down some Gatorade and wiped their faces. The losers raced to the chalkboard to write down their names, then found places on the bench.

The new group of five that walked onto the court consisted of Sal, Tim Simons, Bill French, Joe McDonald, and Mike Taggart. He gave Carl a smug look, then glanced at Brian and nodded.

Brian eyed Mike. It always looked to Brian as if Mike was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, giving him an older and more worried look. Brian knew that Mike had owned a large and established mortgage company in Concord for many years. Although Brian had considered making a point of talking to Mike after a game, he never had. Mike was a notch above a guppy, but there wasn’t much that was fun about him. He played the game as if it was some sort of penance and as though his mind was always on his crime, whatever it was. Like Brian, Mike was tall, and his basketball attire seemed meant for a man that was a few sizes smaller. His pasty, Irish-white skin had faded freckles that had begun to increase in distance from one another over the past few years, suggesting that his eating habits and possibly daily stressors were getting the best of him. With his dark reddish hair and melancholy look, Mike would have had a pleasant-enough appearance if his brow wasn’t constantly creased.

The game began, and it was immediately clear that Mike’s team was faced with a big problem—it lacked talent and was no match for the other team. Mike’s pale skin flushed red as he thundered up and down the court. Sal, small and frail, wore goggles, two knee pads, a tank top, and shorts, and was outmatched in every way. As the game progressed, he disengaged from the play at times, like he was giving up, and this generated irate comments and glares from his teammates.

Carl relished the beating the guppy-heavy team was taking, because it validated his belief that if a guppy had patience and used strategy when signing up on the board, his efforts would be rewarded. Tact and self-control were never Carl’s strong suits, but all creatures adapt to survival sooner or later. Within what seemed minutes of entering the court, Mike and Sal’s team lost, 7-0.

Mike shuffled to the board to write down his name, and then took a seat on the bench. His face, as usual, was expressionless, although, at the moment, beet red. Three of his other teammates also signed up, but Sal walked slowly off the court like a beaten-down dog. He looked at the guys on the bench—in particular, Carl, who was giving him a cruel grin—and knew he’d be in for an onslaught of harassment from both the witnesses of