by James Turner
San Francisco Value$
by
James Turner
PUBLISHED BY:
San Francisco Values
Copyright © 2010 James Turner
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Chapter 1
Ella Barker pulled her black Mercedes S600 sedan up onto the sidewalk in front of the broker’s open house. The V-12 purred as she inched up over the clean swept Nob Hill curb. San Francisco’s notorious lack of parking didn’t pose a problem for Ella. She considered parking tickets a cost of doing business as one of the city’s top real estate brokers. Though she headed up the large brokerage house which bore her name, and could be running things from up on high, she still loved to get out of the office, hunt clients and listings, and handle deals herself for the thrill of the sale, the competition.
Ella deducted the fines from her income taxes, somewhat honestly in her mind, a justifiable business expense itemized as “parking fees.” And besides she usually flew in and out of these broker opens before she could be ticketed. There was the one ugly incident with the tow truck and the resulting mention in Matier and Ross’ column in the Chronicle, but generally 10 or 15 minutes in front of some complainer’s driveway wasn’t a big deal.
Ella strutted into the lobby of the 12 story condo building. Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she raced to catch the elevator.
“11th floor open house, Walter,” she called back to the doorman.
“Sure thing Mrs. Barker, with you on the job it’s as good as sold.”
“Let’s hope so,” Ella replied as she knifed through the closing doors.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Ella.”
The smile on Ella’s oft-lifted face froze into a mask of restrained distaste. She’d unwittingly trapped herself inside the elevator with Gordon Elway, known to all in San Francisco’s real estate biz as a gossipy, social climbing, know-it-all.
“I mean with everything that’s happened and all...” he said with a slight smile.
“I believe Gordon, in letting bygones be bygones.”
Gordon’s arched his eyebrows and smiled enigmatically.
“Anyway,” she said, anxious to change the subject, “who’s this listing agent here, Tiffany Reynolds? I’ve never heard of her.”
“She comes from the Bayview district. Started out with Red Carpet. Now she’s with CB Prudential Union Zephyr.”
“How on earth did she get this listing?”
“Her family’s been in San Francisco forever. She’s Latin-Irish, comes from a long line of city firefighters and is ambitious as hell.”
“But still, Delicia Cardosa’s apartment…” Ella hissed the name through clenched teeth. Despite her misgivings about the seller, she couldn’t resist a quick peek owing to her experience selling in the building. Or maybe she’d fallen victim to her own morbid curiosity. Either way, a sale was still a sale, and if she could pull any commission out of Delicia it would be a sweet poke in the eye.
“How exactly did you find out...?” Gordon began.
The elevator doors slid open, thankfully cutting their conversation short.
Ella fled Gordon’s clutches for her good friend Mark Allen, a professional home stager and consistent source of profitable tips and leaks. Mark, in his late 30’s, looked great as usual. Trim and well groomed with a cleft in his chin, he took great pride in his appearance. But then again, he was gay so this attention to personal detail fell within expected San Francisco norms.
“Thank god you’re here,” Ella said. “Gordon’s asking too many questions.”
“Sure he is, he’s digging for fresh material.”
Ella sighed. “Sometimes I can’t stand the sight of that little shit.”
While not wanting to admit it, the apartment made quite an impression and would sell quickly Ella felt sure, for considerably over asking. Framed by floor to ceiling living room windows, the view featured the usual flashy Bay Area landmarks. Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge and Marin County hills all gathered gloriously around sailboats bobbing on the blue waters of San Francisco Bay. Where many people saw a gorgeous view, Ella saw billions of dollars worth of residential real estate. All of it would be bought or sold at some point, and she was getting her not-so-small piece of it.
Maybe 20 or so brokers and agents milled through the elegant halls and current de rigueur furnishings and fixtures. A few stared at Ella, obviously wondering why she would step foot in Delicia’s apartment. Ella ignored them. She and Mark headed toward the kitchen, Ella slyly eying the décor along the way, much of which she found ostentatious. In the kitchen, a sprawling affair with a center island, they quickly took in the black pearl granite counters (slab not tile), the Vikings, Sub-Zeros and Wolfs, cherry wood cabinets and stove mounted water faucet with folding extension.
“Don’t you think all this stuff is getting to be too common?” a tinny female voice said to no one in particular. The woman’s charm bracelet rattled as she flung her arm about. “I mean, every house looks like the other, where’s the originality? Like, this kitchen stuff is going to date itself in a few years, and just like now when we see Formica cabinets with wood rails we know it’s the 80’s. And I mean these water faucets over the stoves, sure, it’s convenient to fill a giant pot with water, but then what happens when the noodles are done? How do you carry this boiling monster over to the sink?”
Ella stopped in her tracks and glared. She found herself looking at a slender woman in her late 20’s, wearing a short skirt and stilettos with blond hair flowing onto her shoulders. Her face was pretty, but with a certain wide oddness to it.
“Who in god’s name is that?” Ella whispered to Mark.
“That’s Tiffany Reynolds.”
“She’s the listing agent and she’s knocking the place?” Ella asked incredulously, snapping her business card next to the gleaming commercial espresso maker.
“And who might you be?” Tiffany asked, looking straight at Ella as she crossed the kitchen, her bangled arm extending in an elongated pre-handshake.
“Ella Barker, President, Barker Brokers.”
Tiffany stopped just as their hands joined together, the handshake frozen, a confused smile splayed across her face. “Ella Barker?” she replied, tilting her head. “Aren’t you, and uh, Delicia…?? Do you really think you should be here?” Then she found her footing. “I mean, are you two friends?”
By now many of the other agents and brokers, Gordon Elway chief among them, had stopped talking and stared openly in a state of gossip fueled excitement.
“And you are?” Ella replied, ignoring the question.
“Oh, sorry, Tiffany Reynolds, CB Pru-U-Zee. This is my listing,” she said pertly.
“Nice to meet you, Tiffany, how… unexpected.” Ella motioned to Mark. “And this is my colleague Mark Allen.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, winking at him.
“Likewise,” Mark said. He squeezed Ella’s wrist in a show of mutual disdain.
Ella turned
her attention back to Tiffany. “Don’t you think this apartment might be a little overpriced at 12 million for two bedrooms? It doesn’t even have Retrax.”
Retrax was real estate lingo for retractable walls and ceilings, the latest must-have accessory for buyers in the ten to twenty million dollar price range. Walls and ceilings would literally disappear with the touch of a button, essentially turning one’s home into a giant deck. While admittedly a problem with the city’s constant wind and fog, like so many other things in the high priced world of San Francisco trophy homes, it was more about being able to say you have the accessory rather than actually using it.
Tiffany smiled. “The plans are drawn up and city approved, not to mention the home is already equipped with high speed internet toilets and bidets.” Tiffany tilted her head again. “All by Williams-Sonoma.”
Chapter 2
Dear Sellers:
We are writing with heartfelt appreciation for you having allowed us to view your lovely home this morning. Actually, it was only 15 minutes ago but we feel the need to make an offer immediately as yours is the first house we’ve looked at since arriving from Anchorage last night, and well, we’re stunned with the simplicity and beauty of your property and accompanying motor home. As buyers, we’ve studied the San Francisco real estate market intensely, and we realize that there are many other worthy purchasers competing for your “little piece of paradise.” We are hoping that since your house just came on the market this morning we will be one of the first to be considered. We are offering fifty percent over your quite reasonable asking price, because we know as sellers you deserve the most advantageous return possible as you “strike out” in new directions.
What we want to show with this letter is our commitment to preserving all that you have built and left essentially unchanged during the past sixty years of successive family ownership. We promise not to put wheels on the motor home you so creatively constructed or try to move it from the driveway, and we are absolutely agreeable to your wish that this restriction be placed on the home’s deed. We were utterly charmed to find out from your son Timmy that at least thirty household pets, mostly large breed dogs and various housecats have been laid to rest in the backyard over the years. How at home we’ll feel knowing all the love that will surround us!
Then of course there’s the charming architecture. The slanting floors really make your house a “home,” and we understand and agree to your wish that no effort be made to change or otherwise make any kind of structural repair or upgrade, owing to the historical value of the 1989 earthquake “damage.”
In closing, we ask you to please, please consider our attached written offer. You will not be sorry, your family home of so many years will be in trusted hands!
With humility and respect,
Roberta and Starka Littlefeather-Jones
Ella looked up from the letter at the two women sitting across from her.
“This is good,” she said, “you followed my instructions practically to the letter. Though I’m going to take out the word ‘house’ here in first paragraph and change it to ‘home.’ It sounds more personal, don’t you think?”
“Sure, whatever you say. But do we really have to keep the motor home?” asked Roberta, a kind looking woman despite her shaved head, lip piercings and morbid obesity.
“Oh god no,” Ella replied. “Once escrow closes and you have possession, you can apply to have the deed restriction removed based on the Eyesore Statute.”
“Actually I think the dead animals are really creepy,” Starka Littlefeather-Jones said. “I’d wanna get rid of ‘em right away.”
Ella looked at Roberta’s partner Starka, a petite, pixyish woman with fine boned hands. She wore small, round tortoise frame glasses, and dyed her bowl haircut a shocking shade of purple. Ella wondered how she kept from being completely crushed during the two women’s amorous explorations. “You can call in a backhoe and dig up every last one of them once the place is yours.”
Ella put the letter to one side and picked up the nearly completed written offer. They sat in her lavish office in the South of Market neighborhood, an elegant, all glass corner suite overlooking Yerba Buena Gardens, one of four Barker Brokers offices in the city. Just six months ago there’d been only this one office. Now she also had agents, secretaries and assistants working in Pacific Heights, Sea Cliff and St. Francis Wood. Her offices were located in actual homes in these prestigious and exclusive San Francisco neighborhoods, giving potential buyers a real feel for living there. She’d ironed out bothersome issues like residential-only zoning by charming and cajoling city officials at various cocktail parties around town.
“Let’s go over the offer one more time before I fax it to the seller’s agent,” Ella continued. “He’s waiting in his car for it now in front of the house.” The sellers had also stayed in close range, knowing they had to be available to deal with the torrent of offers soon to fall into their hands.
Thankfully one of Ella’s own agents represented the seller. With an in-house agent on the other side of the deal, Ella’s personal cut would be much larger than if another real estate brokerage brought the buyer to the table. Should the Littlefeather-Jones offer be accepted, the sale price would a modest $1 million. She didn’t usually take on such low priced listings personally, but knew how quickly it would sell and she needed new clothes.
“Let’s see,” Ella said, looking over the offer. “You do agree to the seller’s demand of remaining in the house for one year after closing, rent free?”
“Oh yes,” the two women said quickly.
“What about a loan contingency?” Starka asked.
Ella lowered her head, casting Starka a stern look over the top of her reading glasses. “There will be no contingencies.”
“Termites, title report…?”
“Nothing, zip, nada. Unless you don’t want the house, that is.”
Roberta and Starka looked at each other and sat back in their seats like humiliated school children.
“What if we don’t get the loan, I mean, we’re putting a hundred grand deposit in with the offer,” said Roberta.
“Which reminds me,” Ella interrupted, “you do have the deposit with you now, in a cashier’s check?”
“Yes, of course. You made that very clear.”
Ella went on. “If you’re unable to secure financing, you’re still committed to buying the house.”
Starka cast her eyes about, looking nervous. “But we don’t have that much money,” she said quietly.
“Look, I’m setting you up with my mortgage broker Jeff Arnold. He’s very good, and will find the right loan for you. You’ll be approved in a week, don’t worry. Worst case scenario you kiss the $100,000 goodbye and start looking again.” Ella took off her glasses and held them in one hand, elbow resting on the desk. “But of course that’ll never happen.”
The lesbian couple from Alaska looked frightened, but leaned forward pens in hand to sign the offer.
*******
Ella’s cell phone rang while Roberta and Starka signed.
“Ella,” Mark said breathlessly, “have you heard about the Frackle listing?”
Her ears perked up like an eager dachshund being offered a piece of steak.
“What are you talking about?” She knew nothing about any Frackle listing and Giselle Frackle was big news in San Francisco. Ella swiveled her leather chair around so that her back faced the women. Their piddling shack sat on the crappy south side of Potrero Hill, while Giselle Frackle owned the foremost mansion in Sea Cliff, an acre of ocean front property with a 14,000 square foot brick home. It luxuriated on a cliff top promontory with breathtaking views of the Golden Gate Bridge, Pacific Ocean and Marin Headlands. Surrounded by golf course quality lawns, the house hadn’t been on the market since Giselle and her now deceased husband Edgar bought it back in the 60’s for a quarter million. In Ella’s quick estimation it would fetch somewhere in the neighborhood of $70 million today.
“It�
��s not listed yet from what I’ve heard, but the old lady’s in the market for a broker.”
Ella’s heart jumped. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been working on Giselle’s remodel in Stinson. Her slutty little Brazilian maid Safada told me, who by the way is doing her damndest to get me into bed. I’ve flat out told her I only sleep with men but that only seems to turn her on more.” Mark tended to become distracted while talking, but he’d always eventually return to the subject at hand. At the moment however, Safada or Mark’s sexual escapades didn’t interest her in the least.
Roberta “uh-hummed,” and fidgeted, giving Ella the opening she needed to move things along.
“Mark, why don’t we just meet? I’m with clients right now. How about coffee in,” she stopped to check her watch, “one hour, at Red Tin Coffee in the Ferry Building?”
*******
Ella spied Mark just inside the airy coffee house, holding a tray with two paper coffee cups in one hand and several shopping bags in the other. Red Tin served every stripe of luxury brew, with outposts scattered throughout the better Bay Area neighborhoods. Plate glass windows looked out at the Oakland-Bay Bridge and Yerba Buena Island.
The café made up but one of many upscale offerings in the gorgeously restored, century old Ferry Building, a long, hulking waterfront structure said to be modeled after a great Venetian piazza. Architecturally speaking, a graceful clock tower rising from the center saved it from mediocrity. The building now shined as one of San Francisco’s crown jewels after hiding for decades in the grimy shadows of an ill advised and ugly elevated freeway. The city demolished the freeway after the 1989 earthquake, opening the Embarcadero up to redevelopment. A wide, palm lined boulevard now ran in the freeway’s path, with street cars, tourists and runners plying the waterfront promenade.
Mark greeted Ella with a kiss on the cheek. “You’re sure quick to set up a meeting with the right motivation.”
“My curiosity has led to many a closed escrow,” she replied with a smirk.