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Rex Rutherford’s Land

Derek V. Hunter

    The lazy heat glowed over and into the three-story apartment complex on 11^th and Westmoreland in the middle of January. This year, as for most years, there wasn’t much gloom in the skies during a month when the rest of the country was frosty and dark. It was true that even June was gloomier in Los Angeles. This January just had sporadic shots of heat that weren’t very shocking, thus, the laziness of it. The apartment building sponged the heat, though, letting whatever warmth there was creep in easily to the apartments.
    The building was built in the early ‘70’s by less than thorough developers from New Jersey, who believed Korea Town would be the next Beverly Hills. They waited two years for the transition to take place, then split, having left the building in a haphazard state. While the City made certain demands, Rex Rutherford was able to convince them only a few were necessary. It was Korea Town after all, and at least he wasn’t as bad as those Koreans normally were. Therefore, to this day, air conditioning and proper insulation were among several things absent in the building.
    Tenets in apartments 4, 8, and 20 considered leaving after a few months of occupation. Hot water would frequently not be available; faucet handles broke easily; fridges were in bad shape, making strange, gurgling, animalistic noises; and cockroaches had constant celebrations of their dominance. All this for $1,600 a month one bedrooms. Rex Rutherford would argue that $1,600 in early 2008 was cheap in the context of the market - somehow cheaper than the already over-priced average of $1,000 in that area – and that “expectations had to be proper to the location.” Rex was planning to evict the Nigerian tenets in apartments 3 and 7 for being late on rent for the second month in a row. He also suspected they had extra, unreported (and probably illegal) people living in both apartments.
    Rex Rutherford’s father had moved to New York after WWII from Leeds, England, then settled down in Los Angeles with a well-established American bird. This bird’s father was quite the entrepreneurial landowner, back when there was much to be got in old L.A. When this man died in the 1950’s, all he had property-wise passed down to Rex’s dad. Two decades of property conquests (mostly just the continuation of the properties inherited) ended when Rex’s father died at the age of 58. This threw onto the 22 year old Rex a fair amount of land.
    While his father lost an unfortunate number of properties right before his death, there were still exceptional heaps left. Friends of Rex’s dad helped the young man establish himself. They gave him pointers on proper landowner procedures, business practices, and, most important of all, discussed the proper business mentality. Whatever illusions he was used to as an aspiring young spy novelist, a successful landowner had no place for them.
    Rex’s first acquisition was the profitable apartment building on 11^th and Westmoreland. Not much was spent on the upkeep, so the profit margin was higher than most buildings. There was always a sentimental, gut reaction when he saw this building. It was still his after 35 years. What Rex inherited were 15 apartment buildings, 9 restaurants, 5 coffee shops, and a movie theater. He lost some of these over the years, but would end up gaining more. At present, Rex owned 22 apartment buildings, 12 restaurants, 8 coffee shops, the movie theater, and his most momentous triumph, 14 jean shops. This was the business he was most proud of. 14 all claimed under his hand. His father didn’t have even one.
    In 1980, one venture was a bit more complicated than what he had done up until that time. By his late 20’s, Rex had completed four spy novels, none of them published. Still with a vital creative spirit, his friends would tell him, he acquired an independent bookstore in Mt. Washington. Many of the employees and customers were wary of this acquisition, but Rex promised he was “one of them.” He was a struggling writer himself, so they should know where his sympathies lay. By his early 30’s, though, Rex had given up writing altogether. Soon after this creative abandonment – two years after buying the land the bookstore was on – he raised the rent beyond the capacity of what the bookstore could possibly match, forcing the property to be taken over by a jean shop. This was jean shop number four.
    The bookstore stretched itself financially for several months, clinging to the location for as long as possible owing to the popularity amongst the locals. After the boot from it’s original location, the bookstore closed down completely. The bookstore’s owner had kept the ship going for 22 years, but stood no chance against the likes of Rex Rutherford. Many Mt. Washington locals started calling the landowner “Rich Ruthless.” The nickname began to stick and spread. Being the tough businessman he was, Rex allowed these insults to fall off his shoulder like water. He was even unfazed by the death threats he received after the Mt. Washington bookstore shut down.
    “Rich Ruthless” had practiced similar business procedures elsewhere, leading to similar reactions. With the tenets at his apartment buildings, Rex boasted of 384 evictions in 35 years. Fellow landowners openly denounced such ruthlessness but secretly admired his audacity. They joked with him in private he must have inherited his father’s tactful balance of prudence with cruelty. In a similar British fashion, Rex was discreet in class distinction. Of the 384 evictions, 12 were in properties in Malibu, Pacific Palisades, Brentwood, and Marina Del Rey. 22 were in Santa Monica and Mar Vista. The rest were in Korea Town, Mid-City, and some other blotches of lower income Los Angeles neighborhoods.
    There were other “confrontations” - Rex always referred to them in quotation marks - after the bookstore in Mt. Washington. There was Mel’s, a restaurant, bar, and jazz club in Marina Del Rey that was frequented by locals and internationals alike. It was world-renowned for it’s choice selections in seafood, interior design, customer service, and entertainment since the late ‘40’s. Rex’s father was a regular. After 40 years of business, Rex booted them out. He had an offer from Denny’s. It was a hard decision but, in the end, the financial pressure of the best in populist fine dining won out. Again, Rex received death threats, this time from places as far away as Lausanne, Switzerland, and Toronto, Canada.
    There was also Carl’s Coffee in West L.A., which became a Starbucks; Melinda’s Bakery in Culver City became an Applebee’s; and the Venice indie music store, Station to Station, became jean shop number 9. “Rich Ruthless” had made his presence known in the three decades of land conquests. One of the most important aspects to Rex’s success - besides the convenient situation of inheritance - was how his personal presentation contradicted his nickname. He was a gentleman.
    Anyone who knew only of his business dealings thought he deserved not just his nickname but also something much worse. All those who interacted with him for only a few minutes were instantly impressed with his Anglo-American gentility. In personal attire, housing, vehicles, and any other possessions, he gave the impression of low-key, moderate, Middle-Class Joe Smith. Not tasteless, just average and unassuming.
    He almost always wore a Dodgers baseball cap, Nike shoes four to five years old, and a limited variety of shirts, shorts, pants, and sweaters. Rex rarely ever wore a business suit or a sports jacket. Even his physicality was average. He stood at 5'10, weighed 170 pounds, had short brown hair, brown eyes, no facial hair, was in decent but not great shape, and his face was non-descript. He married an unassuming woman from Minnesota, dutiful and loyal to him for 17 years. They lived in a moderately large house in Marina Del Rey, owned two 2004 BMW’s, and had one golden retriever named Ike. Let it not be mistaken by this humility, though, that Rex was bashful. Rex knew what to do with his money. He invested in all the right places and made it work for him.
    And in terms of business practices, there was always one location he boasted of having integrity: the small independent movie theater in Santa Monica he inherited from his father. Decades went by of, at best, moderate profit one year here or there because of some hit or other. It was the only property he owned which had a business typically in the loss column. He could have raised the rent to boot them out, but he chose not to. Some people assumed he must’ve been an indie or foreign movie buff, but he wasn’t. He never traveled inside the theater to watch a movie, nor did he do so in any indie theater. Rex and his wife were loyal patrons of AMC, Mann, Loews, and Pacific Theaters.
    So why did he hang onto the theater when he could have easily chosen not to, as he did with other properties? Nobody knew, and his wife never asked. But now, in the last couple years, things changed. The indie company who’d been running the theater for years had new ownership and a new direction. There was the company’s new Mega-Multiplex at the Westside Pavilion mall that opened the year before. Three other Los Angeles theaters in the chain closed down in the last 18 months. Rex’s Santa Monica theater was the last. All efforts by the company were to shift to the Mega-Multiplex. Unlike the other three theaters, which Rex did not own, he would not allow other theater companies to move in.
    Instead, Rex wanted to demolish the building and put in two competing jean shops, number 15 and 16. There were protestors who, having found out Rex’s intentions, wanted the City of Santa Monica to stop the demolition from happening. There was some question as to whether the beautiful construct was old enough to qualify as a historical site. Perhaps the City could even force Rex to put a theater at the location.
    Rex was driving to his Marina Del Rey home from a meeting in San Diego when he realized the decision – historical site, yea or nay - was made earlier in the day by the Santa Monica City Council. He decided to give his secretary a ring to find the result - she was at home in the evening but always on call - and also get last year’s profits from his properties. The following day he’d go over the numbers in detail with his business accountant, but he liked listening to the casual tone of his secretary first. Her voice made those numbers seem more human, more tender.
    “Good evening, Mr. Rutherford. How was your trip to San Diego?” Rutherford’s secretary’s voice came from his headset cell phone. Rex didn’t answer her query, even though the trip to San Diego went well. He didn’t call her to chat about his trip to San Diego. His lack of a response unsettled her, but then she had to remind herself, even after three years, Rex Rutherford was a practical businessman, not her best friend. “Good news, Mr. Rutherford ...”
    “The Santa Monica City Council decided ... ?”
    They both kept the lingering pause going, as if there was a silent drum roll.
    “They decided the building is not a historical site!” The secretary exclaimed in excitement, instantly instigating cheers.
    “Yahhoooo!”
    “The City is certainly on the mark, Mr. Rutherford.”
    “This time they are. While I’ve got you on the phone, there is some other news which arrived today.”
    “Oh yes, of course. I’m so sorry, I almost forgot.”
    “You almost forgot?”
    “I know, silly me.”
    “So what do we have?” Rex asked gently but sharply. “Let’s start with Santa Monica, since we were just talking about it.”
    “Apartment complexes and condominiums, net profit total ... you don’t want the individual properties, right?”
    “That’s correct. Tomorrow will be the day for details. Is something wrong? You don’t seem to be responding as quickly as usual.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Rutherford, maybe I’m acting weird because I’m a little emotional right now ...”
    “Oh, why?”
    “... My mother passed away earlier today ...”
    “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
    “It was the first heart attack she ever had, and just like that ... I’m sorry to bother you with my personal life, it’s just that it’s been so hard ...”
    “It’s very heavy, my dear. I understand. If you would like to postpone this conversation, we can.”
    “No, no, it’s ok. I can keep going.”
    “Ok then, please continue.”
    Rex would look into getting a new secretary in the coming days. He hated drama and he knew his secretary would probably be a wreck for a few weeks now.
    “So, net profit,” the secretary began, gathering herself together, “total for apartment and condominium complexes in Santa Monica: $1,694,302.”
    “I did spend quite a bit on Ocean Park and 6^th.”
    “The profits aren’t down for Santa Monica from last year are they? They seem -”
    “Oh, no, no. Just not as much ‘up’ from last year as I would have liked. No worries. Next, please.”
    Rex Rutherford’s secretary continued with the various profits in the various areas. After the apartment buildings in Santa Monica were the restaurants, the jean shop, and the coffee shop in Santa Monica. Then came the apartment buildings, restaurants, jean shop, and coffee shop in the Pacific Palisades. Then came Brentwood, Malibu, Marina Del Rey, Mar Vista, and the other areas. Total net profit for all properties in all areas: $25.8 million. Not quite as high as he hoped, but it was early 2008 and the mortgage crisis was putting everyone on edge. He couldn’t raise rent as high as the natural growth of the market should allow him to. That was fine. Rex Rutherford was a good man, a good businessman, and a good landowner. He knew his limits.
    Besides, he had an excellent taxman who’d help ensure his capital would be healthily protected. Which reminded him, after finishing the conversation with his secretary and turning into his driveway in Marina Del Rey, he needed to call the taxman. Always best to start early with taxes. Get them out of the way. Once the car was parked, Rex dialed into his cell while carrying his briefcase and walked to the front door, still with his headset on. Entering his home, the taxman answered on the other line, while Rex saw his wife watching TV and talking on her cell. Man and wife blew happy kisses to each other. As Rex began to walk to his office, his wife gave him a signal to hold on. He stopped to look at her as she touched her lips with her fingers, then pointed to him. They needed to talk.
    Rex nodded in affirmation then went down the hall to his office, as they both continued their separate phone conversations. Rex knew his wife wanted to discuss the move to Minnesota again, to be closer to her aging mother. He was expecting she would not as easily accept a “no” from him like past times. He wasn’t looking forward to the conversation. Fortunately, he could delay it a little longer. He had to go to the movie theater in Santa Monica. Now with the OK from the City, there was no time to waste on the demolition and construction process. Unfortunately, a City ordinance stated 24 hours must pass before anyone, even the owner, could go onto the property after the City’s decision. Well, it was his land, after all.
    Soon, Rex retrieved the paperwork on the building and put it in his briefcase, then left the house, still on the cell with his taxman. Back in the car, Rex and his taxman had finally finished with their “how is so and so,” “what about so and so,” and “I heard so and so.” The casual pleasantries aside, it was time for business. The taxman had some unpleasant news for Rex. He was no longer going to be his taxman. In fact, he was no longer going to be anyone’s taxman. He actually quit the “tax evasion business,” as he called it. Instead, he was now working for an organization that fought against corporate tax loopholes. Rex was taken aback while driving north on Lincoln blvd. towards Santa Monica, but made sure not to show any hint of shock in his voice.
    “I’m working for the other side now, Rex.”
    “Oh, the good guys? The ‘other side’ is a colossal and just as greedy bureaucracy posing as a regulatory service for the public. You’re making a big mistake, Harry. I thought you knew better.”
    “Wealth is one thing, Rex, but you know as well as I that –”
    “I’d like to hear your reasons for the big change, but I’ve got some work to do. Good night, Harry, and good luck with your ‘good fight’.”
    The ex-taxman was about to say something when Rex turned off his cell phone. Rex took off his headset, tossed it onto the passenger seat, and continued to drive towards Santa Monica.
    Ten minutes later and he was at the theater. It was dark out and not much traffic on Wilshire blvd. near 14^th. Certainly not much foot traffic in this not very popular section of Santa Monica. Rex parked his car then walked to the shut down, fenced off theater. He carried with him the papers for the building, his keys, and a large, black, metallic flashlight (to tap on the ground to scare rats, if need be, as well as for illumination). The gate opened with the keys, then the front entrance to the theater came soon after. Rex surveyed the small lobby and concessions area with the flashlight. Eventually he found what he was looking for: a switch-box for breakers to turn on the theater’s lights. He didn’t know which switches turned on what, so he turned them all on, including those with timers.
    There was something in auditorium #2 he needed to check before he called the demolitionist. While entering the auditorium, he cleared his throat loudly, abnormally so. Rex had a certain emotional anxiousness, left from the excitement of the Santa Monica City Council decision, the annual profits estimates, the awkward, unexpected chat with his taxman (and his secretary), and the lingering expectation that his wife wanted to move to Minnesota. A mixture of emotions was not something Rex particularly liked. So, like how he often would when uncomfortable, he cleared his throat. Editors complained the characters in his youthful spy novels were two-dimensional, not complicated enough. If complexity in characters was what they wanted, he’d respond, why was it that most popular spy novels had simplistic characters with exciting plots? The plot was the key for Rex Rutherford. Leave complex characters and themes to Shakespeare and Dostoevsky.
    Now it was plots of land always on Rex’s mind, to which the current one had a problem. Near the exit on the right of the auditorium, close to the screen, there seemed to be something there that didn’t belong. As he walked towards it with the flashlight (the auditorium’s lights missed certain areas), he realized it was a homeless person, sleeping with various bags and other items surrounding it.
    “Thrrweeeeeeet!” Rex whistled loudly to awaken the slumbering vagrant. “Wake up!”
    Rex took a few steps closer and couldn’t see a face, nor tell if it was male or female. But there definitely was a person there, and it was breathing. Then it coughed, and then it moved to one side a bit.
    “Hey, come on! Get out of here!” Rex demanded.
    The vagrant didn’t respond.
    “I know you’re awake! Get up and get out of here! This is private property! Go to the Promenade to take your nap!”
    Eventually, the vagrant jostled around, grumbled, snortled, sat up, then spat on the ground.
    “Fucking hell ...” Rex said quietly to himself.
    The vagrant jostled around some more, it’s back to Rex, and then it farted. The smell was awful.
    “Aw, Jesus Christ, get out of here, why don’t you?”
    He couldn’t call the police, because, technically, he himself wasn’t allowed on the property until tomorrow because of the 24 hour City ordinance. It was a ridiculous triviality that unfortunately resulted in Rex having to deal with this filthy lump by himself. Perhaps just threatening to call the police would help inspire the vagrant to move faster.
    “If you’re not off this property in three minutes, I’m calling the cops. The exit is right in front of you there.”
    Soon, the vagrant turned around and showed it’s dirty, old, male face. The face was so filthy it was hard to distinguish which race it belonged to. The large, bulging eyes tried hard to discern the identity of the angry landowner before him.
    “What the hell’re you looking at?” Rex exclaimed. “I told you I’m giving you three minutes before I call the cops.”
    The eyes of the vagrant lit up as if struck by an epiphany. A strange, animalistic sense of irony overcame the vagrant, and he began to laugh. He laughed for a while, which made Rex uneasy, then the vagrant stopped laughing and said,
    “Rich Ruthless.”
    Then the vagrant went back to laughing.
    “What did you call me?”
    “Rich Ruthless.”
    “Look, buddy, I’m serious. I want you off my property right now. I’m not waiting anymore.”
    “Call the cops. I don’t care.” The vagrant grumbled as he went back to lie down.
    Who was this? How did he know of that stupid nickname? The vagrant obviously recognized him upon inspection. But Rex had no idea who this was. It could be anyone from the past. Rex hated being known without knowing the knower. And he was known by a homeless turd, as well.
    “Look, you piece of shit ...” Rex began.
    “Don’t call me that, Rich Ruthless. Rich Ruthless ... Rich Ruthless ...” The vagrant repeated again and again in an angry taunt, then farted again. The vagrant began to laugh continuously.
    “God damn it!” Rex exploded.
    Rex almost never lost his Anglo-American cool. Now was one of those rare times. Then suddenly the auditorium lights turned off. One of the switches which was on a timer must have been for this auditorium. The vagrant kept laughing in the darkness, then continued with his taunt,
    “Rich Ruthless, Rich Ruthless, Rich Ruthless ...”
    “God damn it, shut up!!” Rex barked as he turned the flashlight back on, shooting the light onto the vagrant.
    There was a peculiar noise coming from the homeless man ... a wet, mushy noise ... As Rex got closer and smelled what the noise had produced, he realized what the vagrant was doing.
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Rex yelled in disgust.
    He continued to shine the light on the vagrant and took a step closer, seeing the liquidy yellowish brown mess oozing from under the layers of the homeless man’s clothes. The vagrant had diarrhea. As Rex made a quick step backward in disgust, he tripped over one of the auditorium seats, which made his body react with a jerk forward. The awkward momentum of both movements, the darkness, and his extreme disgust with the lump of an animal in front of him, made Rex lose his balance and fall forward. He’d gotten so close to the vagrant by this point that the fall forward made Rex fall almost completely on top of him. Instead of falling on top of the vagrant’s body, though, Rex’s face fell inches from the diarrhea.
    “Oh shit, shit!” Rex yelled in fright, disgust, shame, and anger. There was almost a high-pitched squeal in the way Rex yelled. Some of the diarrhea got on his nose.
    “That’s right, eat my shit.” The vagrant grumbled.
    Something triggered in Rex a violent anger he never knew. This pathetic excuse for a human being had pushed the landowner into a realm of humiliation and disgust Rex never, ever wanted to enter. In seconds, Rex gripped the large, metallic, black flashlight and began to beat the vagrant’s body with it. The vagrant yelled and screamed in defiance and pain, but Rex was ruthless with his blows. He got on his feet, giving him the proper leverage, and took a good crack at the vagrant’s skull ... Rex hit the skull again and again until it was obvious the homeless man was dead.

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