Killer Move

short legs. It was bare, aside from a fat book of Sudoku puzzles and an ornate wooden box. “I got more than enough stuff to deal with in the real world. Don’t have time for all that doubya doubya doubya crap.”

He took a cigarette from the box and indicated to me that I should do the same if I was so inclined. I shook my head, privately amazed that there were people who still possessed such objects. Back in Thompson’s youth—he was a hale and hearty sixty-eight, and famously took a five-mile run on the beach every morning—they’d doubtless been quite the thing, along with onyx table lighters and station wagons with faux wood–paneled sides. The decor of the rest of the apartment was Florida Beach Traditional: tiled floors, pastel furnishings, coral collages on the walls, and wooden statues of pelicans on every shelf that wasn’t lined with paperback thrillers. The air-conditioning was turned up to STUN.

“I thought you smoked.”

“Gave it up,” I said.

“What the hell for?”

“It’s bad for you. So they say.”

“Bullshit,” Thompson said. “Never done me any harm.”

“Not everyone has your constitution, sir,” I said, realizing I was sounding a kiss-ass, and minding, but knowing also that that was precisely what I was here to do.

Thompson lit his cigarette and settled back on the white leather sofa. “Okay. I’m grateful for the wine, Bill. You did good. But what’s your point?”

“I wanted to talk to you about the decorative state of the resort,” I said.

“You telling me it looks like shit?”

“Not at all,” I said calmly. Prior experience had forewarned me that Thompson conducted conversations the way some people deal with cockroaches. “Compare it with facilities from the same era—Tradewinds, Pelican Sands, you name it—and it’s in great shape. Overall. But—”

“Let me save you some time,” Thompson said. “We’re not going to be redecorating this year. End of story. Anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“May I ask why?”

“Three reasons. Money, money, and money.”

“I hear you, and they’re all good reasons, but I’m going to lay it right out for you, sir. You got owner discontent. And it’s on the rise.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you,” I said.

Thompson frowned, sending sun-and-cigarette cracks across his broad, leathery face. “Thought you were just a Realtor, Bill. Didn’t realize that involved an oath of confidentiality. You a doctor on the side? Or a lawyer? I got a goddamned priest selling my condos now?”

I smiled. “No sir. Just a Realtor. But if I start blogging every conversation with my clients, pretty soon people will stop telling me anything, right?”

He appeared to concede the point. I pressed on. “Folks care about their properties. It’s where they live, who they are. I respect that. I respect their privacy, too. Anyone tells me anything, I’m where it stops.” I paused to let that point hit home—that I was a man who could keep his mouth shut in the interests of a greater good. “But I will tell you the chatter is not just coming from people who are looking to sell. With those folks, they’re out of here already. Screw ’em, right? I’m talking about the families who are happy owning their corner of The Breakers, who want to stay a part of it.”

“You’re really not going to give up some names?”

I hesitated again, this time to give the wily old fucker reason to suspect that, under exactly the right circumstances, I might spill a name or two.

“No can do,” I said. “But you know the economic climate as well as I do, sir. Far better, uh, of course. It makes people twitchy. Everybody loves The Breakers. You built an amazing community here. Even the people I’m selling for, ninety percent wish they didn’t have to let their properties go. But they also have expectations. You let the feel-good factor drift, and . . . It’s a social network, old style. People sit around the pool and they talk. You need the core community to remain stable—and to believe it’s being listened to and valued. Otherwise it all starts to feel random, and then someone says, ‘Hey, that new place on Lido has got a bigger hot tub, and it’s just a short walk from St. Armands Circle . . . ,’ and people decide to vote with their feet. En masse.”

“Are you saying that—”

“We are not at that point. Not yet, sir, not by a long shot. But nobody wants that to happen, either.”

“What’s your angle, Bill?”

“Sir?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

I went for broke. “I want what you’ve got.”

Thompson’s mouth opened, closed. He cocked his head on one side and stared at me. “Say again?”

“What are you worth, sir, financially, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I surely fucking do.”

The skin on the back of my neck felt very hot, despite the frigid air. “I respect that, sir, and I already know it’s in the tens of millions. Depending on how it’s accounted, and who’s asking.”

One side of his mouth moved upward about a quarter of an inch. He looked like an alligator that was trying to decide whether to eat something right away, or if it might be worth watching its prey just a little longer, to see if it did something else funny.

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t want to be manning a desk at Shore forever,” I said. “Right now, I’m capital light. That means my focus is on assisting those who already have. Protecting their position and investments, getting them a little more on top. Sometimes a lot more. And that means The Breakers, most of all. The better you do and the happier you are, the better I look and the happier I will eventually become.”

The gator still didn’t bite.

“The bottom line is that the talk I’m picking up is not Shore Realty’s problem. Matter of fact, the more people who sell, the more commission my company gets. But I don’t think I’d be doing my job if I didn’t give you a heads-up that you’ve got a situation brewing here.”

I stopped talking. Not before time.

“The people you’ve been hearing this from . . .”

“Are not just the ones who whine about every damned thing, no. Otherwise I wouldn’t be bothering you with it. You’ve been in this business a lot longer than me. It’s your game, and you can play it exactly how you want. But if you like, I could talk to a few of the key players. Diffuse the chatter, press the pause button. Suggest it’s worth waiting a little longer before getting too het up about the situation.”

He thought for a moment.

“I’ll discuss this with Marie,” he said, standing. “Not going to promise more than that. But that I will do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson.”

“The name’s Tony,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. “As you know. You may as well start using it.”

Fifteen minutes later I was standing at the end of the pier on The Breakers’ beach, surrounded by the flatness of the ocean. I still had an hour before my appointment down on Siesta Key, in reality nothing more than a meet-and-greet and something to tweak Karren White with. I’d take the meeting, of course—a key tenet of the Bill Moore brand is that if he says he’ll do something, it gets done—but right now it seemed very unimportant.

There were a few couples meandering up and down the water line, and a group of kids twenty feet away being encouraged to look for shells. Most people were indoors, out of the noon heat.

My hands were now still. For ten minutes after the meeting they’d been shaking. Sure, I’d planned to get man-to-man and cards-on-the-table with Tony at some point—but not today. The bottle of wine had been intended merely as an opening gambit. I’d logged the name and year, put out a notice on a beginners’ wine board I found on the Internet. A guy got in touch, declaring himself able to supply one and to also be in possession of another