Killer Move

I sent a clipped e-mail to Karren saying how delighted I was to hear she’d been there to get onto meeting Warner’s needs, and that I looked forward to working with her on it. Then I hesitated, and did a little editing, making it friendlier and backing off the irony a tad. Thinking about it, David Warner had struck me right off the bat as a high-maintenance vendor. He was hefty, bluff, black hair flecked with gray and swept back, a man who had clearly supped long at the font of self-confidence: local boy made good (in the sense of “wealthy”), and convinced he could outthink and outexperience everyone on every goddamned thing—and sell his house better and faster and more lucratively himself, moreover, were he not too busy being so very rich the whole time. The more Karren had her hands full over the next few weeks, the less likely she would be to notice what I was doing with Tony Thompson.

I sent the e-mail, feeling satisfied. I’m all for being in the moment, but sometimes you have to take the longer view. Had I been Janine, for example, instead of bovinely accepting that Jonny Bo’s was out of my range, I would have saved for weeks or months to get in—and Steph would have been there with me, taking the chicken and drinking iced water and skipping dessert. You move forward in life by throwing a foot up onto the next rung, then hauling the rest of you up after, time after time.

There wasn’t much other mail to deal with. A couple of no-whats (as in “No, I’m not looking to sell my condo right now—what, in this market, are you insane?”), general crap and updates from the main office, plus a notification from Amazon that some order of mine had been shipped. I couldn’t even remember what was in it, so that hardly qualified as headline news.

I gave Janine a few pointless things to do and then left for a walk around the resort. Since the advent of cell phones, e-mail, and push notifications, sticking to your desk is a sign not of diligence but of inertia. I took a notepad with me and jotted down every single little glitch, snag, and imperfection I could find.

Two hours later I was sitting outside The Breakers’ market with an iced coffee and a head full of half-formed plans, when I saw Karren’s car coming round the circle. She parked, saw me, hesitated, then walked over.

“Thanks for picking up on the Warner meeting,” I said. “Glad you were there to do it.”

She glared down at me, then reached into her little briefcase and pulled out a pad. She ripped off the top few pages and dropped them on the table.

I leaned forward and peered at them. Notes on a house, in Karren’s tidy hand.

“He . . .” She bit her lip.

“Yes?”

“He thanked me for taking the time to come out,” she said coldly. “And said that he looked forward to dealing with you over the actual sale.”

I leaned back, being careful not to allow any hint of expression to make it to my face. “That sucks,” I said, reaching for my phone. “You want me to give him a call? Put him straight on what century we’re living in?”

“Fuck you,” Karren said, and stormed away.

I managed to hold back the laughter until she was back in the office, but it was hard.

Boy, it was hard.

I’d just climbed into the car at the end of the day when my cell rang.

“Mr. Bill Moore?”

The voice was young, female, professional.

“That would be me. How can I help?”

“I’m Melania—David Warner’s assistant.”

Melania? Was that even a real name? “What can I do for you, Melania?”

“Mr. Warner was a little disappointed that you weren’t able to make the meeting today.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Let’s hit pause. Not my bad, okay? He called the office—after I had told him my cell was the best way of getting hold of me—and said he wanted a meeting right away. He agreed to meet with my colleague. Who he managed to alienate more than a little, if you want to know.”

I didn’t give a crap about Warner having pissed off Karren (and had savored the idea more than once in the meantime, as a matter of fact), but you have to make it clear to other people’s minions that you’re not down on their level, and are not available to be bossed around.

There was a slight pause. “He can be that way.”

“Yep. It’s how they roll,” I said, making my tone a little more friendly, implying that men (and women) of a certain age, and of a certain wealth, seem to think that their possessions act like spells, empowering them to behave toward others without fear of resistance or reprisal, most of the time.

She understood what I was saying.

“And we love them for it.” Her voice sounded a little warmer now, too. “Okay, well, the bullet point is that Mr. Warner would like to pursue matters. Could you meet with him at nine this evening?”

“Nine? That’s kind of late.”

“I know. He has a dinner engagement ahead of that. But he really wants to get the ball rolling.”

I was tired, and the wine hangover had come home to roost, despite a few fistfuls of aspirin. Steph would be mildly pissed at the late notice, too, more as a matter of form than because it would materially inconvenience her. An eight-million-dollar house is an eight-million-dollar house, however, as I believe it points out in the Bible somewhere.

“No problem,” I said. I noted down the address of the property when she reeled it off. Then I called my wife and told her I wasn’t going to be back until late.

“What’s up?”

“Remember I told you about a guy I met in Krank’s? Couple, three weeks back? Might be wanting to sell a house on the key?”

“No,” she said. “It must have slipped my mind.”

“Well, I did. And he does. Wants to talk about it this evening. I’m going to take the meeting. Wouldn’t normally, but it’s a big house. Could go up to ten mil.”

“Can’t Karren do it? She’s single, right? Surely she can take the evening shift.”

“Not really,” I said. “Less I want her to take the commission, too.”

“She going with? To the meeting?”

“No. This is a solo flight.”

“Well, grab something to eat in between, because the fridge is empty and the situation will not have improved by the time you get back.”

“I’ll do that.”

“And be good, tycoon-boy.”

Then she was gone, leaving me wondering what that was supposed to mean.

CHAPTER SIX

I got home at a little before midnight, and by then—if I hadn’t been so tired—I would have been pretty mad.

After talking to Steph I drove down to the Circle and killed half an hour shooting the breeze with Max, the guy who looks after a lot of the commercial property there. He had no new listings, and answered the inquiry with a slight smile. I’d been talking to Max for over a year, looking for the kind of place that might work for Bill Moore Realty when the time came. Previously he’d been enthusiastic—he didn’t handle residential, so there’d be no conflict of interest—but this time I got a strong hint of “yeah, right,” in the way he dealt with me—as if he was starting to get the idea that me setting up on my own (as he’d done ten years before, also after a period working for Shore) was a dream that was becoming more insubstantial by the month. I kicked against this by dropping hints that I was on the verge of big things Any Day Now, which left me feeling exposed and vulnerable and something of an ass.

He also asked whether I was sure I’d got the right name for the business, given that Bill Moore could be heard as “bill more,” which is not what you want in a Realtor, or indeed anyone in a service industry. Annoyingly, he had a point. Having spent the last six years getting myself known around town as Bill rather than William, however—Bill being much more direct and personal and can-do—it was too late to change. I put a pin in the problem and set it aside.