***
I’ve had Kat dig up properties in price points ranging from $3 million to $10 million. Ron has looked at all of them with an open mind. Every time I ask him how he feels about the price, he gives me a throwaway comment about his business manager, Steve, who keeps him in cash and out of jail.
Not helpful.
So in mid-July, just a week away from when I absolutely must launch the Canyon Drive piece, I decide to turn things around. Instead of me asking questions and hoping he’ll tell me what I need to know, I’ve figured out a way for him to want to give it to me. Because if I don’t get this information soon, it’ll be too late to launch anything.
“I’ve always wanted to invest in real estate, not just sell it,” I tell Ron. We’re sitting in traffic on the 405, heading back into Santa Monica from the valley, where we’d looked at an apartment building for $3 million. The car is where we’ve had our most productive conversations. And by productive, I mean conversations where Ron spouts misogynistic, racist bullshit while I nod along, fantasizing about how it all will end.
“You should buy the building we just looked at,” he says. “It’s too far outside LA for my portfolio, but it would be a nice little investment for you.”
I look over my shoulder, contemplating the diamond lane, which is as backed up as the one we’re in. “A good idea in theory,” I say. “But I don’t have the cash to put up for something like that, and my credit’s not that great.”
I wonder what Ron would think if he knew how much money I really have. That my credit score is perfect, because when you’re busy conning people, it’s important to always pay your bills on time.
“I looked you up online,” I admit. “Right after we met. I read that you took over your father’s business when you were twenty-five and turned it into the biggest construction company in Los Angeles.” I glance at him. “It’s pretty impressive, what you’ve done. But not everyone has that kind of seed money. And if the banks won’t give it to me…” I trail off, hoping he’ll finish my sentence for me.
“If the banks won’t give it to you, then you have to get creative. You should start your own real estate firm, not work for another company. Then you can structure the money how you want.”
Heat fills my chest, remembering how Ron creatively stole my family home. How my mother and I had to live in our car, showering at shelters or the high school locker room. How we would get our food from the food bank, Big Macs from McDonald’s a once-a-month splurge. I squeeze the steering wheel as tight as I can, then force myself to relax, knowing that, when I’m done, Ron will have lost Canyon Drive as well. “I don’t understand what you mean by ‘creative,’” I say. “You either have the money or you don’t.”
Ron shifts in his seat so he’s facing me, in what I’ve come to think of as his true confession stance, where he spouts off about politics （Democrats and their socialist liberal agenda）， the homeless problem in Los Angeles （You have to round them all up, sort out the crazies from the druggies, and then arrest as many as you can）， and women （I’m not sexist, but I’m sorry, now I can’t even compliment a woman without getting slammed for sexual harassment?）。 “It’s a delicate dance,” he says. “And a quiet one. One of the easiest ways I keep the cash circulating is to undervalue my properties with the IRS, and overvalue them with the banks. This keeps my tax liability low but my borrowing power high.”
I give him a dubious look. “Isn’t that tax fraud?”
He laughs and says, “Believe me, if the IRS cared, they’d be prosecuting it. But they don’t have the time or the money to come after everyone. And we all do it, every single one of us.”
Traffic begins to open up and I accelerate.
“If you own your own business, there are other ways you can get cash quickly,” Ron continues. “Six or seven years ago, I had an investment opportunity, but I didn’t have the liquid cash to invest. It was too good to pass up, so I pulled it from my company’s retirement fund.”