button-down blue shirt, khaki slacks, and black loafers. His hair was dark and curly, his skin pale and pasty. He was wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He seemed vaguely familiar.
The man said, “We had an appointment to see the house at three. We rang the doorbell, but no one answered.”
Scott checked his watch and climbed out of the chair.
“Sorry, I lost track of time.”
Scott walked over in his swim trunks, bare-chested and barefooted, and held out his hand.
“Scott Fenney.”
“Jeffrey Birnbaum. And my wife, Penny.”
Standing next to him was a pretty young Highland Park Junior League wife, perfectly made up and wearing a red sundress and red sandals. Her hair was jet black, her legs were bare and tanned, her body trim, and her lips matched her dress. Jeffrey had married up in looks, way up.
Penny said, “You’re famous.”
“Infamous is more like it.”
She smiled, that flirtatious smile so familiar to Scott Fenney, and he immediately knew Penny, because he had dated so many Pennys during high school and college: a nice Highland Park girl who had taken a walk on the wild side and was now ready to settle down with a nice Highland Park boy who could provide a nice Highland Park mansion. Scott motioned around at the motor court, garage, and backyard.
“Four-car garage, heated and air-conditioned, pool and spa, one-bedroom, one-bath cabana, all on one acre in the heart of Highland Park. Come on, I’ll show you the place.”
Scott led Mr. and Mrs. Birnbaum through his house, starting with the commercial-grade kitchen with the Italian tile floor, the mural of a French bakery scene on one wall, hand-painted on hundreds of six-inch tiles, and the walk-in freezer big enough to hold a side of beef. He proceeded through the butler’s pantry, the formal living and dining rooms, the den, and then down to the basement for the wine cellar, the home theater, the game room, and the exercise room with the framed blowup of himself running the ball against Texas, the one that had hung in his office for eleven years, leaning against the far wall.
“You’re a legend,” Penny said. “Did you really get a hundred ninety-three yards against Texas, like the paper said?”
“Sure did. You a big football fan?”
“Oh, I love football,” Penny said.
Jeffrey glanced at the exercise machines with indifference and walked out. Penny lingered behind, and as she squeezed past Scott at the door, she gave him a look and whispered, “But I love football players more.”
They found Jeffrey in the game room rolling billiard balls across the pool table, then they proceeded upstairs to each of the six bedrooms and six baths. The tour ended in the master suite with the stone fireplace separating the bedroom and the bathroom, the steam shower suitable for three adults, the Jacuzzi tub, and the sitting area overlooking the pool. Jeffrey was proving himself a royal pain in the ass, complaining about something minor in every room of the house and acting as if he could take it or leave it. But he wasn’t fooling Scott; Scott saw it in his eyes. This was the house Jeffrey had dreamed of owning his entire life. Scott knew because he had seen the same look in his own eyes three years ago, in the mirror of this same master bathroom. Jeffrey asked for the third time if the theater in the basement had Dolby Surround sound. Scott assured him it did, but Jeffrey said he was going downstairs to make sure.
Jeffrey departed and Penny said, “He likes to watch action movies,” then went into the master bathroom. Shortly, he heard Penny’s voice again: “Scott, what’s this, in the steam shower?”
Scott walked into the bathroom and over to the shower. The door was open; Penny was inside, sitting on the built-in bench.
“What?”
“This.”
Scott stepped inside to look, and without another word, Penny grabbed his swim trunks, yanked them down, and took him in her mouth like she knew what she was doing. She did. He was wrong about Penny: she hadn’t finished her walk on the wild side. Scott had not had sex in more than seven months and had been too depressed to masturbate since Rebecca left, so he did not last long.
“Jesus!”
Scott’s face was now plastered to the tile wall and he felt like a nap but-
“Penny!”
Jeffrey was back. Scott pulled up his trunks and Penny wiped her red lips with her hanky just as Jeffrey stuck his head in the steam shower and said with a big grin, “Wow, you do have Dolby down there!”
Scott stepped out of the shower, followed closely by Penny, who squeezed his butt as she passed. Fifteen minutes later, they were all standing at the front door.
Jeffrey said, “You don’t remember me, do you, Scott?”
Scott said, “No. Should I?”
“We worked a real-estate deal a few years ago. You were representing Dibrell, a garden office project in North Dallas.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re with Dewey Cheatham and Howe.”
“Dewey Chatham and Howe.”
“Oh, right.”
“You were pretty tough on us. But I learned a lot about negotiating from watching you in action.”
“I’ll send you a bill.” Jeffrey smiled and Scott said, “Just business. Nothing personal.”
“Then you won’t take my offer personally.”
“What’s your offer?”
“Three million one hundred thousand.”
“No, I won’t take it personally, Jeffrey, because I won’t take it.”
Jeffrey smirked. “Come on, Scott, your life story’s been in the paper. Everyone knows you’ve got to sell. You can’t expect top dollar.”
Scott reached over to the entry table and picked up a big brown envelope that contained his final bill from the country club for the last month, during which Rebecca had run up over $4,000 in charges. Scott held the envelope up to Jeffrey.
“I’ve already got an offer for three-point-three million.”
Jeffrey’s smirk vanished. “You’re kidding?”
Scott put on his most sincere look and said, “Nope.”
Jeffrey glanced at Penny. She gave him that pouty face mastered by Highland Park girls by middle school, a face that walked a fine line between obnoxiously whiny and incredibly sexy, between making her man want to slap her into next week or rip her clothes off and ravage her. Penny was very good. And Scott knew Jeffrey would find the extra money to make Penny a happy Highland Park wife.
“Three million three hundred ten thousand.”
Scott smiled. “Jeffrey, it’s nothing to be ashamed of if you can’t afford this place.”
Scott had learned years ago, when he was the poor kid on the block, that you could insult a Highland Park boy’s mother, his sister, his girlfriend, his athletic ability, and even the size of his dick without getting a rise, but question his financial standing in the community, and the fight was on. Jeffrey’s face was getting redder by the second, and not just from Scott’s needling; Penny was squeezing his forearm like she was checking his blood pressure.
“Can’t afford? I can afford this place! Three million four!”
Jeffrey should’ve paid closer attention to Scott during those negotiations because the boy obviously hadn’t learned much. First rule of negotiating, don’t bring your ego to the bargaining table. Second rule, don’t bring your wife. Jeffrey had violated both rules; now he would pay dearly. Scott stuck his hand out.
“You just bought yourself a house.”
Jeffrey said, “I want the appliances, the window treatments, and the black man.”
“What?”
“The appliances-”
“You can have the appliances, Jeffrey. What do you mean, you want the black man?”
