By any measure, Scott Wilson was a very wealthy man. He lived in what can only be described as a mansion high up on a hill in the western Los Angeles suburb of Santa Monica. The Spanish-style home was enormous and looked even more imposing sitting on the crest of the ridge. The home was surrounded by lush Royal Palms, cypress trees and a variety of shrubs that were meticulously manicured by a professional lawn service. At night the landscape lighting gave the house and grounds a "Disneyesque" feel. Tiny white lights also twinkled in the branches of the numerous trees on the grounds.
The mansion was protected by a large wall around the entire property and portions of the wall had shards of metal or glass on top of the wall for anyone stupid enough to try to go over the wall. Video cameras were spaced around the large, ornate and wrought iron gates where a key pad protected entry from any unwanted guests. Inside the house was a security room where the video cameras sent the images from around the spacious property.
Inside the house the ceilings were anywhere from 13 to 18 feet high depending on the room. The entryway featured a large, round wooden table decorated with an elaborate, live floral arrangement and lit from above by an expensive Italian glass chandelier. Oriental rugs graced the polished marble and wooden floors throughout the house. Expensive furnishings and a wood paneled library complete with a floor to ceiling movable ladder added to the ostentatious nature of the mansion. In spite of its grandeur, the mansion was devoid of warmth and homey touches. It was obvious the house had been decorated by a professional decorator and not an inhabitant of the home.
On this night Scott Wilson paced the floor in his very manly library. He sat in a straight back chair covered in fine Italian leather. The dark green leather chairs added to the cozy nature of the room. It was his favorite room in the house. He sipped his expensive single malt scotch and waited for his guests to arrive.
Around 9:30 PM the gate alarm sounded and the guest announced his presence. Wilson went to his antique desk and pushed the button that would open the gates to allow the car to enter. The video monitor confirmed that the guest was his old friend from high school and college, David Moore and his lovely wife, Laura.
Mr. and Mrs. Moore drove their Mercedes-Benz up the hill to the courtyard in front of the mansion. They parked on the pristine concrete driveway which looked as if very few cars had ever been parked on it. David and Laura walked to the 15 foot tall, wooden front door and as David reached for the doorbell, Scott Wilson opened the door. Wilson was attired in a navy blazer with a white, button down collar shirt, tan trousers and Gucci loafers with no socks. He greeted his guests with a big smile and a handshake for David and a perfunctory hug for Laura.
Laura Moore was a gorgeous woman. At 5 feet, 8 inches tall her perfectly coiffed, shoulder length blonde hair framed her lovely face. With beautiful blue eyes and perfect albeit surgically enhanced breasts, the rest of her body was toned and tanned representing years of hard work in the gym and thousands of miles competing in triathlons.
Laura actually dated both men in high school but in her senior year she made a commitment to David and had been with him ever since. This issue was always a part of the dynamic between the two men as Scott Wilson still coveted the lovely Mrs. Moore.
Wilson welcomed the attractive couple into the foyer and urged them in to the expansive library. He asked if they wanted a drink and David took a glass of the single malt (neat) and Laura asked for a glass of red wine. After exchanging pleasantries and the obligatory social chatter, David began to move to a more serious discussion.
David was acutely aware that Scott Wilson had made millions of dollars from prostitution, drugs, illegal weapons, check cashing stores, ghetto housing and perhaps even more serious transgressions that he did not want to know about. While Scott Wilson was fabulously wealthy from his illicit activities, David Moore had done well himself as a high profile criminal attorney. He was nationally known and had been featured on several magazine covers and television shows as a result of some high profile criminal cases in Los Angeles. The two men had played football together at Palisades High School in west Los Angeles and both had attended UCLA where they remained friends. Once David went to Law School at Loyola their paths began to diverge. Wilson went towards drugs and women and had no sense of morality when it came to making money. Moore had an enhanced sense of justice and morality and used his social sense to represent criminals; particularly those who he felt had not received a fair shake from the justice system.
Scott Wilson had been trying to schedule a personal meeting with David for weeks. They had accidentally met at a recent fund raiser and Wilson insisted that David and Laura drop by his house after another event nearby. Moore reluctantly agreed as he had an inkling of what Wilson wanted. He really did not want to meet with Wilson but it had simply become too awkward to put him off any longer. After all, their relationship spanned over 25 years.
Wilson knew that the time had come to talk to Moore. He asked David if he would be willing to ask his wife to excuse them for a few moments. David politely asked his wife if she would excuse them and the moved into the foyer so that could talk privately.
"David, thank you for coming by tonight; I have wanted to talk to you for quite some time."
Moore looked at his old friend squarely in the eyes. "Scott, I have an idea what you want to talk about and I am somewhat uncomfortable with this conversation."
The always charming Wilson smiled broadly. He had always gotten by with his good looks, charming personality and his ill-gotten money.
"David, you don't even know what I want to discuss. Would you please just listen to me and give me a chance?"
Moore reluctantly agreed. "Okay, five minutes, Scott."
"David, we go back a long time and we are both very, how shall I say it, successful in our selected endeavors." At that moment, the doorbell rang. Wilson looked puzzled as he had not cleared anyone through the massive gates.
As Wilson approached the huge wooden doors they flew open violently. In through the doors rushed two very rough looking men and a much younger male who trailed almost apologetically behind the two thugs.
"Hello, Scotty Boy.......do you remember me?"
Scott remembered all too well. It was Luther Morris. He was malevolent looking with prison tattoos on his neck and face. His hair was slicked back and greasy. He was formidable at about 6 feet, 2 inches tall with thick with muscles honed in a prison gymnasium. His sidekick was Hispanic and also a large and muscular thug. He too had prison tats and a pock marked face. His eyes were soulless and dark brown, almost black. He looked mean and emanated evil from every pore.
Scott Wilson also remembered all too well that he had orchestrated a shootout between Luther's brother, who was killed in the gun fight, and a rival drug dealer. Luther was part of the ensuing bust that sent him to prison for 15 years.
Scott tried to overcome his shock and stuttered..........."Uh, he...hello, Luther.......... Ho.....how long have you been out?"
Luther moved up to Wilson about two inches from his face. He snarled at Wilson and said, "Been out of the joint about 3 months planning this little surprise party for you, Scotty boy." As he spat the words out of his mouth he suddenly and viciously punched Wilson in the stomach, doubling him over in pain.
David Moore, always the diplomatic attorney, tried to intervene. "Look fellows what is it you want here. I'm sure we can work something out."
Luther leered at Moore and then punched him in the gut as well.
Hearing the commotion in the foyer Laura Moore walked into the entryway. "What's happening here?"
Luther looked up at her and smiled. "Well, well, well..............what have we here? Is this Mrs. Wilson?"
Moore quickly recovered and said, "No, this is my wife, Laura."
Luther leered at the gorgeous woman. "You're just in time for the party Laura. Let's all move into this big room and get comfortable."
The Hispanic man who answered only to the name "Ortega" grabbed the small duffel bag from the younger man and quickly extracted three pairs of handcuffs. He quickly and expertly slapped the cuffs on to the three very surprised individuals and ushered them into the library.
Luther pushed them roughly into the chairs in the room and walked nonchalantly to the bar. "What are you drinking, Ortega?"
"Vodka" was the reply. Luther pulled the tall bottle of Grey Goose from the back of the bar and quickly opened the bottle. He handed it to Ortega who drank large gulps straight from the bottle.
Luther finally acknowledged the younger man.
"This here's my half-brother. He ain't quite right in the head but he is my brother." The younger man grinned weirdly at Luther as Luther put his arm around the younger man.
"His name is Marcus and we have the same Mother. We don't know who our fathers are but he hangs with me. Hope ya'll will extend him the same hospitality that you do me."
Scott Wilson was greatly concerned. He knew Luther had a reputation for extreme violence and he certainly had a score to settle. "What do you want, Luther? I have money if that's what you want."
Luther sneered at Wilson. "I don't want your fuckin' money. I want your ass Mister."
