by James Turner
Servinko scowled as they walked through the front door, which directly faced a stairway. Instantly a very thin man in his late 30’s ran down to greet them. He had a finely trimmed beard and wore a name tag over his heart. Ella would never require her agents to wear a name tag, they weren’t slinging espresso behind a counter, after all.
“Hiiiiii,” he practically sang, “I’m Joffrey Thatcher. Welcome, come on in.” Ella wasn’t sure how this was going to work. Paloma may have been pushing the diversity thing, but the agent exuded extravagant femininity. It may have been only ten minutes by car, but Serv had come a long way from the outer Sunset.
“Oh my god,” Joffrey shrieked. “A cigarette!”
Little Taylor smiled and did a remarkably accurate imitation of Joffrey’s worried cry. “O my god, a cigawette!!” he screeched in his shrill little voice.
Joffrey smacked his lips, and put his hands on his hips. “You can’t smoke in here, I’m sorry but the owners, Gregory and Randall, just wouldn’t stand for it.”
Servinko looked around, then at the floor as if scouting for a place to put out the smoke. Joffrey shook his head adamantly. “Outside,” the agent mouthed theatrically, pointing back out the door. Serv got rid of the cigarette.
“Now, how about we all go upstairs and I’ll show you around,” Joffrey said cheerily, his shoulders swinging slightly back and forth as he spoke.
“It can’t be any worse than the last place we looked at, someone got blown away with a shotgun,” said Serv.
The effect of the killing at the Noe Valley open house would reverberate for a while, Ella could tell.
“Were you there, Ella?” asked Paloma.
“On my way out, actually, when the ruckus started.”
“We’d already left, the Lord be praised.”
“You call someone getting their head blasted off a ruckus?” Serv asked gruffly.
Joffrey interrupted. “Let’s talk of happier things, shall we?” He began his tour. “This is the fireplace, and over behind you is the kitchen with granite counters and GE Monogram appliances. And you’ll notice the powder room down the hall…”
Ella hated it when an agent stated the obvious, and the Barker Brokers training program forbid it. Buyers really didn’t need guided tours, as far as she was concerned. She liked to let clients look at a home without interruption, get a feel for the place themselves, and then ask questions as necessary. Apparently Serv felt the same way.
“Hey, can it, alright? We’re just going to look around on our own. You two wait here,” he commanded.
Joffrey looked wounded but shut up. The family headed upstairs up to the third floor, Taylor staggering along behind, liberated from the lock of his mother’s arms, free to commit whatever atrocities he might see fit.
“So,” Ella said once they were out of earshot, “what’s with the pink ribbon?”
“This is a gay neighborhood, you know.”
“And for that reason you’re willing to alienate a large number of potential buyers? My client reacted poorly to it.”
Joffrey adjusted his name tag. “I don’t know if he’d be comfortable here in any case,” he sniffed.
“You’re asking $2.2 million for this townhouse and it’s been on the market for three weeks. That’s an eternity. It hasn’t even been staged. The owner’s belongings are still here.”
“Tenants, actually. It’s the lawsuit that’s holding things up…”
“Every realtor who works this neighborhood knows about the lawsuit against the developer of this complex, the shoddy contruction, the waterfall in the garage when it rains, the possible million dollar assessment per unit.”
“That’s why the asking price is so low.”
“Well then why are you turning off potential buyers with a pink ribbon? It smacks of exclusion. This is San Francisco, everyone should be welcome.”
Servinko’s low, angry voice interrupted Ella’s dress down. “We’re leaving. Now.” A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Paloma stood behind, once again carrying the squirmy Taylor.
“No smoking!” wailed Joffrey.
“Let’s move on to the next home, then?” Ella said.
“Not today, Ella, we’ve seen enough,” Paloma added weakly. “I’ll call you to set something else up.” Her clients took off for the front door.
“You never should’ve shown us this place,” Serv declared in parting.
Ella turned to look at Joffrey, who stood with his forefinger bent between his teeth, giving Ella a “who, me?” look.
She rushed upstairs to see what had so upset the Sandersons. In the master bathroom, lining the tub, stood an impressive collection of jumbo sized, multi-racial dildos, all pointing eagerly to the sky.
*******
The week’s prevailing winds did not bode well, with the deteriorating Littlefeather-Jones situation and the Sandersons turning into runaway clients. But Ella didn’t worry much about her income, money still poured in. After all she personally profited from every closing Barker Brokers Properties successfully negotiated. Of course she carried high expenses but there seemed to be no end to the price appreciation and clamor for properties. And on top of all that sat the tantalizing prospect of the Frackle listing.
On the stairs heading out of the condo complex she ran into Gordon Elway.
“Ella, just the person I want to talk to. Did you get my message?”
“No, you left one?”
“I did. Have you got a minute?” He edged her conspiratorially off to one side.
“Sure, why not? Though first I should warn you, you might want to take a look at the townhouse master bath before sending any clients through,” she said.
“Thanks, I’ll check it out, though I’m here on my own now, scouting for a prospective buyer. But anyway I wanted to ask you something.”
“Of course.” She knew Gordon well enough to know he was either fishing for information or looking to spread a malicious piece of gossip or two.
“The murder at the open house has been very hard on my business.”
“Oh?” Ella responded noncommittally.
“Yes, I lost the listing, what did I have to do with the boy dying?
“I don’t know, Gordon.”
“Even while I still had it, I couldn’t get anyone in to see it anyway. The police had that yellow tape all over the place.”
“Crime scenes can be a barrier to multiple offers.”
“New clients haven’t exactly been flocking in my direction. So, the reason I wanted to talk to you,” he said with a deep sigh, “I have a deal to propose.”
“Go on.”
“There’s a hush-hush listing coming up, huge, I mean this one is huge. They don’t come any bigger. I had it in my pocket and now the seller’s running scared after that mess in Noe Valley.”
“Really?” Ella responded, her antennae rapidly going up. If he intended to discuss the Frackle mansion, she had to put a stop to it quickly before treading in legal quicksand. Hearing it from Gordon before she signed with Giselle Frackle could very well put her in a position of being forced to share the commission with him. Should she be awarded the listing, that is.
“We both know we’re not the closest of friends,” he said, “but I do respect your position in the real estate community. There aren’t many better than you, Ella.” His naked flattery gave her a rolling, nauseous feeling.
“I was thinking, maybe if I passed the tip to you and you were able to sign the listing, you could cut me in after the fact.”
“You mean Giselle Frackle’s home in Sea Cliff, Gordon?” She watched him physically deflate.
“How… how did you know?”
“You know how word travels in this town.”
“Giselle told me she wasn’t interviewing any other brokers.”
Ella didn’t mention her upcoming appointment. “However it plays out, I’m already aware Giselle Frackle is talking about selling her home. Were I to somehow get the listing there would really be no rea
son to ‘cut you in,’ as you say.”
“Who told you? Tiffany Reynolds?”
“Tiff…?” Ella caught herself. This one had thrown her. “So I’m not the first realtor you’ve tried to make a deal with?”
“Tiffany’s been snooping around like an old hound dog, I didn’t tell her but she’s got a strong inkling. Says she knows Kearney, Giselle’s son, that he mentioned my name.”
Gordon spoke aptly when he mentioned an old hound dog. San Francisco’s real estate breezes were rife with the sweet perfume of obscene profit, and soon every broker, agent and freelance know-nothing in town would lift their snouts toward the heavens, seeking to pick up the scent of Giselle Frackle’s $70 million Sea Cliff mansion.
Chapter 7
At precisely 3:55 p.m. the next day, Ella waited patiently in the driveway between the massive stone pillars flanking the tall, bronzed gate at the Frackle mansion on El Camino Del Mar, one of two principal oceanfront drives in Sea Cliff. The Mercedes hummed in contentment at such luxurious surroundings, while Ella studied the materials she’d brought along for the meeting. She had photos, printouts and newspaper clippings with her, just about everything she could think of, from what few comparable properties might exist to a complete dossier on Barker Brokers, as well as her personal curriculum vitae. She would push the gate buzzer at exactly 4:00.
Early in Ella’s career, she’d taken an MBA at UC Berkeley and it had been worth every penny of the huge student loans she’d used to finance the degree. Right from the beginning, the MBA had given her status and set her apart from the legions of housewives and out of work salesmen who dropped in and out of the real estate business with dependable regularity. Once most of them realized how much honest-to-god hard work selling homes required, coupled with the loss of weekend personal time, they simply disappeared.
She lowered the window to push the gate button, but someone had beaten her to it, and the opaque metal monster started to grind open on its own. The verdant grounds of the mansion came into view, as did a glimpse of the ocean beyond. In the foreground however, a car waited to exit. A servant or employee no doubt, had opened the gate to leave just as Ella reached to buzz for entry. A BMW waited on the other side, also black, maybe a couple of years old, 5 series. A lesser car undoubtedly than Ella’s impressively crouched, very new S600, but still quite respectable transportation for someone involved in the care and feeding of Giselle Frackle.
But when the gate opened completely and Ella got a look at the driver, she froze. First the blonde hair, then the perky smile struck her. Tiffany Reynolds of CB-Pru-U-Zee Real Estate Experts held the wheel of the BMW, on her way out of the Frackle mansion grounds. How did the newbie little bitch worm her way into competing for this deal?
The women sat face to face, Mercedes to BMW, grill to grill, both cars idling. Tiffany tilted her head, smiled even bigger and held her hand up to wave, fingers wriggling back and forth individually. Ella smiled graciously and nodded her head in acknowledgement. Tiffany did not seem in the least surprised with Ella’s arrival. Ella put her hands on the top of the steering wheel, waiting for Tiffany to back up and allow her entry. Tiffany did the same. Ella inched the Mercedes forward, an indication of her superior status in the real estate hierarchy. She stared in disbelief as Tiffany also advanced her BMW, only Tiffany rolled several feet closer all at once, then stopped abruptly, an obvious and aggressive challenge. All the while Tiffany kept the same idiotic smile plastered on her face. The two cars now idled about three feet apart, and Ella could clearly see Tiffany’s siliconed boobs wrapped in a tight, red sweater. Ella flipped her car into Park, crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat.
She glanced at the clock. It was 4:02 and she couldn’t be playing games for much longer. She felt a sudden, small jolt. She looked up to see that Tiffany had rolled forward again, bringing the two luxurious automobiles into physical contact. Even a small scratch on the Mercedes would cost an easy twenty-five hundred to repair, of that Ella was sure.
She threw open her door, and started to get out, one elegant, high heeled leg just about reaching the ground. But then she thought better of it, pulled herself back in and slammed the door shut. She put the transmission into Drive and accelerated directly against the BMW. Thank god the rolling hills of the mansion’s grounds blocked a direct view of the gate.
For the first time Tiffany seemed fazed. The 36-valve V-12 Mercedes engine growled louder and the two cars began rattling as Ella’s powerful car pushed against the BMW’s front bumper. She accelerated a little more. But Tiffany held her ground, and her brake pedal. Ella figured Tiffany would back off quickly if it came down to real damage to her car. She was newer in the business and the BMW had to have been a big investment. Ella could go out tomorrow and pick up another Mercedes without a second thought. She accelerated even more and her rear wheels began to spin, smoke rising from the burning rubber. The Mercedes began to slowly push the BMW backward. Something cracked loudly, an alarming sound like snapping metal.
Tiffany held up her hands in surrender, a look of panic replacing the obnoxious smile. She reached down and put her car in reverse. Both cars lurched suddenly when the resistance broke. Tiffany raced backward away from the Mercedes, while the S600 jumped forward, Ella deftly swerving around to the right of the defeated Beemer.
As Ella roared past Tiffany, she glanced over to see that the young realtor, oddly enough, was grinning again.
*******
Ella wound her way up the drive, crossing over a one lane wooden bridge and small river which cut through the grounds, ending in a picturesque manmade waterfall. The falls cascaded off the high cliff in front of the house to the rocks and sea below. The river and waterfall had been added in the 1940’s by a previous owner. An unusual addition in and of itself, the river was supplied with saltwater from the ocean in front of the house. Powerful pumps had been built into caverns at the base of the cliff, which ran 24 hours a day, their noise forever concealed by the incessant crashing of waves. Decried by present day activists as an environmental monstrosity, the falls had long since become a well known attraction and tourist guides crossing the Golden Gate Bridge never failed in pointing out “Frackle Falls” to wide eyed visitors.
Ella stopped in the circular drive and descended from the Mercedes, the sales materials gathered in her leather briefcase. She surveyed the front of her car, observing only a small scratch on the bumper and license plate. A small price to pay for asserting authority, she thought.
She looked up at the house, a grand Tudor Revival, reproduced on a massive scale. The front, appearing to run the approximate length of a full city block, was clad in ancient red brick and covered in ivy. While most certainly attractive, present day building codes no longer permitted such feeble construction in earthquake prone San Francisco. Ella felt sure unreinforced masonry held up the façade, and would be subject to terrible damage or even complete collapse in the event of a strong earthquake. In fact, seismic maps showed the ocean front area of Sea Cliff as prone to landslides in a violent earthquake. Ella did not bring up the subject of earthquakes in her conversations with clients, and surprisingly few asked, at least until they received that damned state mandated Homeowner’s Guide to Earthquake Safety, which listed many frightening and potential problems.
The Frackle Mansion featured several roof peaks at varying locations, all steeply pitched. Timbering and leaded glass windows completed the Tudor effect. Ella strode to the imposing front door and could find no doorbell, so she banged the heavy lion’s head door knocker. The door opened quickly, and she found herself once again face to face with Safada da Silva, Giselle’s maid. Safada was dressed in an unusual manner, a curious mix of conservative business attire with stripper sleaziness. She wore a dark green, knee length skirt and matching blazer, Armani from the looks of it, though she had no shirt or bra on underneath. Ella couldn’t help but notice Safada’s perfect breasts, visible well into their ample cleavage, nearly to the nipples. Tinted panty hose covered he
r striking legs and stiletto heels sealed the deal. Her long brown hair hung voluptuously to one side of her neck. Ella wondered how she cleaned the house in such attire, or if she was in fact actually a maid.
Safada lowered her head and gave Ella a smoldering gaze. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Barker,” she said in her distinctive accent. “Giselle are expecting you.” She smiled as she beckoned Ella to enter. “I really like dance with you,” she whispered. Ella looked at Safada aghast, she hadn’t intended for their evening at the Skirbo Room to end up in the party it had. Ella attempted a smile but said nothing.
They walked down the wide entry hall with its highly burnished, deeply intricate parquet flooring and heavily paneled walls. Ahead Ella could see the ocean and Golden Gate Bridge through picture windows in the palatial size living room. Various groupings of French Provincial furniture dotted the interior landscape here and there. From a gilded frame above the giant fireplace, Edgar Frackle himself presided. Ella looked around but the living room appeared to be empty. Safada nodded to her right.
“Over here,” a voice crackled from a far corner.
Ella looked again. In a wing back chair that nearly swallowed her sat Giselle Frackle. Giselle motioned enthusiastically for Ella to come over.
“Get yourself over here,” she said pushing herself up from the chair. Ella had met Giselle several times before at various social gatherings, but she really hadn’t gotten a sense of the woman in the crowded settings. Other than the wig, that is. Giselle was tiny, under five feet. She had thick makeup plastered across her broad face and wore bright, red lipstick. Her blue eyes sparkled, and she smiled wide. Her small structure and delicate arms were broken up by an enormous belly, contained within a tight, tweed suit combo. Matchstick legs extended from her skirt to black, patent leather high heels, upon which she seemed to totter. She wore a thick string of pearls around her neck. But it was the wig which made her instantly identifiable. Blonde and beehive, it towered high, and Ella feared if Giselle tipped even slightly to one side, she’d plunge straight to the floor. Ella briefly thought of Beach Blanket Babylon, the San Francisco theatre institution known for its extravagant, colossal hats. Giselle would be a natural for the cast. But Mrs. Frackle held her own, extending a hand in greeting. Her eyes held no sign whatsoever of recognizing Ella.