The Girl in the Tiny House
Chapter One
The Uber driver stopped at Perry’s Steakhouse on Seventh Street, and I stepped into the blazing furnace that was Austin in late September. I tipped the driver on my phone and strode into the cool, dark restaurant. I was ten minutes early and went to the bar for a glass of iced water. Two other men sat on stools studying their phones.
The Texas Rangers were losing five-zero to the White Sox in the top of the third inning. A boss had once told me the Rangers would never win a World Series until they ponied up for an enclosed stadium. Of course, they had such a stadium now, but the glory era had yet to arrive.
For the umpteenth time, I wondered about the email I’d received that morning from a Texas state lobbyist. Would I meet him that evening to discuss a potentially lucrative engagement? The nature of the project demanded a face-to-face conversation. The word lucrative caught my eye, as undoubtedly intended by the lobbyist. My summer in Santorini—though relaxing at certain times and stressful at others—had done little to fatten my savings. Time to get back to work.
From internet research, I had discerned a murky picture of Branson “Buddy” Sanborn. He lived in Dallas but had no website; however, his name showed up on organizational documents for several political action committees supporting corporate-friendly causes—lower taxes, regulatory reform, and so forth. An article in the Texas Tribune archives described top-tier Texas lobbyists. Buddy had been hanging around the statehouse for decades supporting various industries—energy in the early days, but increasingly, he worked for high-tech interests.
I found a photo of Buddy at a high-end charity event. He smiled big for the camera with his arm around a millionaire and a wineglass in his other hand. An obese man of medium height, I guessed his age in the mid-seventies. He had a round head, big jowls, and a toothy grin. A good old boy from his boot heels to his receding hairline.
A hand touched my shoulder, and then Buddy was smiling at me.
“Might you be Joe Robbins?”
“Yes.”
“Buddy Sanborn.”
His hand was big but not strong. A film of perspiration shone on his forehead, and he breathed heavily. From his weight, age, and general lack of physical fitness, I gathered he grew short of breath whenever he moved. He was dressed old-school casual in a collared shirt, a sports jacket, and khakis. I wore chinos, a black polo shirt, and loafers with no socks.
Buddy tilted his head toward the other guys at the bar. “Not hard to spot you in this crowd. My contact said you were tall and strong with curly hair.”
“Nice to meet you. Who is your contact?”
“Let’s get a table and a drink before we talk business. Sound good?”
Without waiting for an answer, Buddy turned, approached the maître d’s station, and addressed him by his first name. Within moments, we were seated at a corner table for four. The steak crowd was so-so at Perry’s on a Wednesday in September, and the tables around us were half occupied. A waiter appeared as if he’d been waiting for us to arrive. Buddy ordered a martini, and I opted for a Maker’s Mark on the rocks.
When the waiter had left, Buddy returned to my question. “The person who referred you to me wishes to remain anonymous.”
Huh. Strange.
I could feel my face frowning. Who would want their name kept out of a referral, and why? One possibility came to mind. My friend Rico Carrillo was in charge of the homicide department for the APD. He had referred business my way on other occasions—some of it on the sketchy side—but he had always tipped me off about it first.
“Your expression suggests you’re not keen on the secrecy,” said Buddy.
“It’s puzzling.”
“Nevertheless, you came highly recommended. And if there’s one thing I respect, it’s confidentiality. Information is the greatest currency in the capital house. Let’s discuss the engagement first, and then you can decide how much you’re bothered by the anonymity bit.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
The drinks came, and Buddy paused to sample his martini. Filled to the brim of a traditional martini glass, the drink was at least a double and perhaps more. Buddy took a large swallow and smacked his lips. “Perfect.”
The bourbon was served in a rocks glass with a large ice cube. I swirled the drink to give the ice a chance to melt before taking my first sip.
A food server delivered a basket of warm bread. Buddy reached for a sourdough roll, spread a healthy scoop of butter down the middle, and took a big bite. Not wishing to appear conspicuously health-conscious, I sampled a roll as well.
“Do you know a blogger named Tori Canada?” he asked. “Big following.”
“No.”
“Not surprising. Few people know her real name. Her social media handle is The Girl in the Tiny House. She’s an environmental activist.”
“Yes, I recognize that name.”
My daughters, Chandler and Callie, had acquired an interest in environmental issues, at least in part because of the Girl in the Tiny House. She lived in a diminutive house in East Austin and published blog posts on issues related to climate change and other environmental topics. Once a week, she suggested a small action that followers could take to shrink their footprint. She called them “Tiny Steps from the Tiny House.” My daughters had started drinking almond milk and cut back on red meat.
The Girl in the Tiny House had first gained notoriety in Austin several years earlier, when she proposed to build a small home in the fast-gentrifying eastern section of the city. A residential dwelling of less than two hundred square feet violated the city’s housing code, but when the city rejected her housing permit, she rallied her followers. The ensuing public relations battle, with the young blogger on one side and developers of all stripes on the other, drew nationwide attention. Some sort of deal had been worked out—the details of which I could not recall—but Tori Canada got her tiny house, and her following continued to grow.
Buddy said, “I have a group of Texas corporate clients that have asked me to do some background research on Ms. Canada. They say they want to explore common interests with Tori.”
The way Buddy said the name Tori struck me as odd; it was as if he had already met the young activist and knew her well.
“What common interests would corporations have with Canada?” I asked. “Companies want growth. She wants contraction. Their objectives are in direct conflict.”
Buddy waved his hand in dismissal. “That’s all bullshit. My clients pretend to be interested in alignment, but what they really want is dirt on Tori Canada. And they’ll use that dirt to put a dent in Tori’s popularity.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they are afraid of her. The world is changing, and the powers that be are always afraid of change. Tori has five million followers and acquires more every day.” Buddy paused to bite his roll and chew. He raised his eyebrows and swallowed. “Followers mean influence. My clients favor influence that comes from marketing dollars, not social media.”
I watched Buddy make short work of the roll. The man knew how to eat. But so far, his project sounded like a snoop job. Buddy’s clients had asked him to hire someone to dig into Tori Canada’s life. They wanted to know her secrets. Habits. Behaviors. Personality characteristics that didn’t fit with her minimalist image. And they would use that information against her. It was good work, I supposed, for someone out there with the right kind of talent, but it was a far cry from my usual gig.
“I think you’re better off hiring a private detective,” I said. “This sort of project is not in my wheelhouse.”
Buddy shook his head. “Nope. I’ve used private guys lots of times over the years. They’re good for some jobs, but not this one. This project demands a certain level of sophistication and absolute discretion. I want you, and the money is good. How much do you usually charge?”
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
By that time, Buddy was well into his second roll. In between bites, he said, “Let’s order. You know what you want?” And then he signaled a server that we were ready. We ordered salads and baked potatoes and steaks. From the wine list, Buddy selected an expensive cabernet.
After the waiter left, Buddy took a gulp of his martini and then placed his thick forearms on the table.
“There’s something you need to understand about this project,” he said. “It has nothing to do with my corporate clients. Picture them over here to the left. I have a relationship with them. But you are over here to my right. You work for me, not for them. Got it?”
“I’m not sure. What’s your point?”
He sighed heavily and smiled. “Yeah. That was vague, wasn’t it? Okay, here’s the truth. Tori Canada is my granddaughter. And my corporate clients don’t know that.”
“Your granddaughter?”
“Yep. Very few people know that, because Tori’s grandmother and I divorced soon after Tori’s mother was born, and I haven’t been much of a father or a grandfather. Tori’s been a rebel since high school, and she hardly speaks to her parents, let alone me.”
I rubbed my chin.
Buddy said, “I can see you’re confused.”
“Yeah. What is the assignment?”
“At a high level, the project is simply this. Keep Tori safe.”
“Keep her safe?”
“Yes. I have reason to believe she’s in danger. Let me explain. I mentioned that corporate interests are afraid of her. But there’s more. Recently, protesters have begun gathering on the street in front of her house, and the protesters carry guns.”
“Guns? What are they protesting?”
“Tori is becoming more vocal with her followers about what she wants them to do. She’s made a list. Top Ten from the Tiny House. You’ll understand when you read her stuff.”
“And you think these protesters want to harm her?”
He scrunched his nose and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe. There are a lot of things going on at once. My daughter—Tori’s mother—told me Tori’s begun dating someone, an older man. For some reason, they’re keeping their relationship confidential. Tori won’t even tell her mother who it is. That sounds weird, right?”
“Unusual, I guess.”
Buddy held up one finger. “The clandestine relationship.” He put up a second finger. “The gun-toting protesters outside her house.” Then he showed me three fat fingers. “And my corporate clients asking for background information they can use to discredit her. Maybe it’s nothing, but I’ve worked as a lobbyist for too long to like coincidences I don’t understand. The situation smells like a setup. How much do you usually charge?”
“To do what? Keep her safe? I’m a finance guy.”
“Okay. But according to my sources, you’re more than that. They tell me when things go badly wrong, you’re the guy to have around.”
“Maybe you should hire a bodyguard.”
Buddy put a hand up to stop me. “No. Tori can’t know I’m doing this. She’ll reject any offer of help from me. She thinks I’m a bad person. She thinks all of us are bad people.”
“All of who?”
“The baby boomers. All seventy-odd million of us. She considers us the greediest generation of all time. We have done more to destroy the earth than all of the humans that lived before us.” He lifted his glass. “Here’s to conspicuous consumption.”
The American dream. Work hard. Become successful. Buy a big house. It sounded simple, but the brochures left out the part about destroying the planet.
Buddy absentmindedly picked a few bread crumbs from the table and tossed them to the side. Then he shook his head as if to throw off the bad thoughts.
“But forget all that,” he said. “I want you to treat this project as if you were working for my corporate clients. Find out whatever you can about Tori that is not public information. Follow her around. Figure out the boyfriend angle. Take lots of photos and report back to me. If you sense danger or perhaps hidden hypocrisy in Tori’s life, I want to know before anyone else.”
It was a strange engagement, to be sure. Keep Tori Canada safe. The Girl in the Tiny House. But I needed the work. With freelancing, you never knew when the work would dry up. Savvy consultants kept that in mind when opportunities came along, no matter how weird they sounded. And if I didn’t take the project, Buddy would find someone else to do the work.
“You never answered my question,” said Buddy. “How much do you generally charge?”
“Twenty-five hundred a day, plus expenses.”
“Okay. I’ll pay double your usual rate to retain you for ten days. That’s fifty thousand. I’ll also front you ten thousand on expenses that we’ll consider non-refundable. You keep it whether you spend it or not.”
Sheesh. Sixty thousand up front. That sounded a lot like a bribe.
“That’s not a bribe,” said Buddy, as if he could read my mind. “It is incentive pay. I realize this is an odd assignment, but I want results. I’ve been a successful lobbyist, but I don’t have a lot to show for my life other than a big pile of money. So I’ll do whatever I can to keep my granddaughter safe.”
Keep her safe. A shiver ran down my spine. As part of a previous assignment, I had acted as a security guard for a celebrity. The job was to keep the star safe, and it had ended badly. Rico had said it wasn’t my fault, but I harbored lingering doubts.
“Are you sure you want to hire me?” I asked.
“Absolutely. I need someone good on this. Someone I can trust. And as I said earlier, you come highly recommended.”
“Who was that again?”
Buddy smiled and shook his head. “He called you a bit of an action junkie. Good with numbers, of course, but he said your unique skill is dealing quietly with unorthodox situations. Also, he said you’re not afraid to color outside the lines.”
Those words sounded vaguely familiar. Had Rico said that once? I couldn’t recall. Anyway, the short-term money was good.
“All right,” I said. “Give me the night to think it over?”
Leaning back with a smile on his face, Buddy said, “You bet. I’ll send you a contract to review later tonight. The statement of work will read as a background investigation. I’ll leave the security work out of the formal contract—that part is between you and me. You must report to me only. Oh, good, here come the salads.”
#
After the meal, Buddy ordered carrot cake and port.
The man could hold his liquor too. Outside the restaurant, breathing heavily from the short walk, Buddy asked whether I cared to accompany him to the Four Seasons for a nightcap at the lobby bar. I begged off, knowing I’d reached my limit before risking a hangover. One of the few cabs left in Austin rolled to the curb, and Buddy shook my hand. His eyes were clear and his stance steady.
“Thanks, Joe.” And then, as if I had already accepted the job, he said, “I look forward to your reports.”
Thank you for reading Chapter One of The Girl in the Tiny House. This is the final installment of the Joe Robbins Series and will be available on Amazon on January 15. The rest of the series is available now. Check it out here.