San Francisco Values

by James Turner

  “Safada, bring us a toddy,” Giselle cackled by way of introduction. “Here, have a seat,” she added.

  Ella took a seat opposite Giselle, a highly polished coffee table occupying the space between them. Giselle lowered herself back into her chair.

  “So, I summoned you because as you know by now I want to sell my home.”

  Giselle’s spoke in a low and gravelly voice, like someone who’d smoked for many years. Ella glanced around the living room, but didn’t see any ashtrays. “Yes, that’s what I understand,” Ella replied.

  “I’m moving in with my boyfriend,” declared Giselle.

  While a somewhat startling admission from a 91-year old woman, Ella had lived in San Francisco for a long time and at this point little of human behavior surprised her.

  Ella cleared her throat. “Oh really?” she asked.

  Those who ran in society circles knew that Giselle frequently drew from a stable of single men to squire her about San Francisco, from glamorous benefits to cultural events and openings. Gossip raged around one of her escorts, a dashing young man known for flinging cash around like water, a supposed gay cocaine dealer entertaining himself with the city’s bold named crowd. But Ella hadn’t heard anything about a serious relationship in Giselle’s life.

  “Yes, not many people know about our dalliance.”

  Not wanting to appear overly curious, Ella didn’t ask who it was.

  “That’s very exciting, you must be thrilled.” She didn’t know what else to say regarding Giselle’s romantic confession. “But first of all, let me thank you for the opportunity to meet with you today. As you know, you own one of San Francisco’s most magnificent homes, and I’m confident we can assist you in finding a qualified buyer.”

  “His name is Sanjay Govindpuri.” Giselle said, still focused on her love life. “You may have heard of him, he’s related to a Maharaja in India, and he’s big banker over in Mumbai.”

  “His name is familiar,” Ella responded uncertainly.

  The old woman rattled on. “He’s buying a little place for us in Pacific Heights. But first we’re going to camp out in his condo, in San Ramon.”

  This news did rattle Ella’s heard-it-all-before attitude. Giselle Frackle planned on living in a middle class East Bay suburb? In a condo?

  “I’m not getting any younger you know, gotta live for the moment,” Giselle said.

  Safada reappeared carrying a silver tray bearing two tumblers full of a yellowish-orange concoction, each glass dressed up with a pineapple spear and maraschino cherry. Giselle’s toddy had arrived. Safada went around to Giselle’s side and placed a coaster on the coffee table near her boss. She started to place one of the festive glasses in the coaster.

  “I’ll take that if you don’t mind.” Giselle stretched out a bony hand and accepted the cocktail. She looked up at Ella. “Edgar and I moved happy hour from 5 to 4:00 back in ’72. Don’t just stand there Safada, give our guest her drink.”

  Safada slunk around to Ella’s side. She kneeled down, leaning forward. Her Armani blazer fell away from her bare, sumptuous busom, giving Ella a full shot of the Brazilian aureola. Safada looked deeply into Ella’s eyes, one side of her glistening, upper lip slightly raised. She set the Mai-Tai or whatever it was on the coaster.

  Ella snapped her head back in Giselle’s direction, her eyes wide open. “Let’s talk about this fabulous house.”

  “First take a sip of your drink, child.” Giselle had already downed a third of her giant glass.

  Ella raised the glass to her lips. She never drank during the day, much less at a meeting of such monumental importance. She only wet her lips with the cocktail, swallowing nothing. Even then the powerful mixture of light and dark rums puckered her mouth, provoking a quick, involuntary shudder.

  She set the glass down. “Umm, good.” Under social circumstances Ella would have enjoyed the drink.

  Safada slid off to one side, about to take her leave. “More anything now, Giselle?” she queried.

  “No, but go start mixing me up another drink.”

  “Yes, you’re welcome,” Safada responded mixing up her niceties.

  Giselle turned to Ella.“What do you think this old place is worth?”

  “Well, Mrs. Frackle, I..”

  “Call me Giselle, I like that better.”

  “OK, Giselle, I brought some materials for you to take a look at.” Ella opened her briefcase.

  “Safada, wait,” Giselle shouted, her gravelly voice echoing across the vast chamber. “What’s a sex worker?”

  Giselle obviously had some form of Attention Deficit Disorder, Ella suspected. Were they ever going to get anywhere? And why this bizarre question, though Giselle was most likely asking the right person.

  Safada turned. “Sei lá, I don’t know,” she responded huskily.

  Giselle focused back on Ella. “You know, I heard that on the TV after that boy died where Gordon was working.”

  “Gordon Elway?”

  “Yes, he’s a dear, dear friend, such a lovely escort to the opening of the Opera last year he was.”

  “You mean the terrible murder at the open house?”

  “Yes, yes,” Giselle said impatiently, waving her hand. “You girls are slow on the uptake.”

  Who were “you girls?” Then Ella remembered Tiffany Reynolds had also just met with Giselle. Or did she mean Safada?

  “So they called Gordon’s poor dead creature a sex worker, which is what?” Now Giselle had turned imperious.

  Ella hesitated. She didn’t anticipate explaining sexually charged politically correct vocabulary to Giselle Frackle. “Really,” she said softly, “it means either a prostitute or an actor in pornographic films.”

  “At his place of work, Gordon had such a person?” Her question was not altogether unreasonable. “He told me it was an employee, was Gordon hiring boy prostitutes? I thought he liked girls.”

  Again the conversation drifted miles from the subject at hand, but Ella had to tread lightly.

  “I’m sure Gordon’s intentions…”

  “I love Gordon, I do, but that’s why I fired him. It’s obvious he lacks judgment.” The she bored her large eyes into Ella’s. “Do you lack judgment, Mrs. Barker, what about that Delicia Cardosa woman stealing your husband? Research on you, I’ve done. My husband never strayed, I kept him happy.”

  Ella bristled with anger and hurt, but kept a straight face. She comforted herself with the thought of the commission on the mansion. “That’s a private matter. Please.”

  Giselle continued looking straight at Ella. “OK,” she declared with finality. “We don’t talk about it any more. But you wouldn’t hire any boy hookers, or girls for that matter, to come to my open house?”

  “Of course not, but really an open house is not something I would recommend for a property of this caliber. I’d prefer to pre-qualify any potential buyers before allowing them to see the home.”

  “I want open houses. I love meeting people. Throw the doors open. You never know who has cash these days.” Her insistent and stubborn tone echoed across the vast living room.

  By now Ella had doubts about Giselle’s mental stability. Still seated, “San Francisco’s Grandma” began stomping one foot on the carpeted floor in front of her chair.

  “Where is it?” She continued stomping around, lifting her wobbly right knee repeatedly. “I can never find the darn thing.”

  “What are you looking for,” Ella inquired delicately.

  “Ah, there it is,” Now she stomped incessantly on the same spot. She looked at Ella. “Can you hear it? I can’t, but who’d expect me to, I just want it to work.”

  Ella listened. She heard a far off buzzer ringing somewhere within the bowels of the mansion, each ring corresponding to Giselle’s stomping foot. She hadn’t seen one these servant bells in ages. Built into the floor at strategic locations around some of the older, grander homes, all it took was a discreet touch of the master’s foot to call the help from distan
t servant’s quarters. Only in Giselle’s case discretion played no part, with the buzzer maddeningly hidden beneath the thick carpet, making it quite difficult for her to find.

  “Safada, where is she? That scalliwag sometimes sneaks out for a cigarette.”

  Ella began laying out her sales materials on the coffee table.

  “Be a doll, will you Mrs. Barker, and go fetch Safada from the kitchen?”

  Ella looked up. “Sure, where is it?” Would she ever be able to talk to Giselle about selling the mansion?

  “Just go through that door at the end of the living room, through the dining room and straight into it you’ll run.”

  Ella took a deep breath and smiled. She did not relish the idea of seeing Safada in a private setting. “I’ll be right back.” She stood up to go in search of the maid.

  “Tell her I want another drink. Now.”

  Ella walked to the end of the lengthy living room, through a paneled archway into the dining room. An antique, mahogany table with seating for twelve dominated the room, which also looked through plate glass windows at the bridge-saturated view. She went around the table and opened a swinging door, passing into the kitchen.

  Unlike the modern rage of granite counters and cherry wood cabinets, this kitchen served as an unremodeled servant’s affair. Though quite large with long stainless steel counters, two built-in dishwashers and an electric range, it projected a stark and utilitarian feel. Old style white wooden cabinets lined the walls with spotless, polished Mexican pavers covering the floor.

  “Safada, are you here?” No response, though she heard a faint sound, some kind of a low moan. She walked to the far end of the kitchen, and opened another door. There in the laundry room, she found Safada in the arms of a very handsome young man, deep in the throes of a passionate, tongue twisting kiss. They stopped and looked at Ella. Safada smiled, panting slightly.

  “Want join us?”

  “No, I do not want to join you. Though from the looks of things you don’t really care who you do it with.”

  “Careful, Ella Barker, be nice with me,” Safada said with a slight warning in her eyes. “I help you, no forget.”

  Ella did not want to discuss anything in front of the young man. “Who’s your paramour?”

  “This are Elton, chauffer. He’s just a friend.”

  And Giselle worried about Ella hiring hookers and porn stars. “Pleased to meet you,” Ella said. “You’re Giselle’s driver?”

  “Yes, I am,” he responded with a dazzling smile and clear American accent. He could have posed in an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog.

  “Elton, see you later,” Safada said. He took the hint, tipped his head to Ella and slipped out a side door.

  “Does he live here as well?”

  “He have little bed over garage.”

  Ella didn’t say anything but it was clear that Safada somehow managed to entertain herself during the cool, foggy Sea Cliff nights.

  “Giselle would like another drink, that’s why I came looking for you.” Safada responded by walking languidly out of the laundry room and over to the kitchen counter, her designer skirt swishing expensively. She opened a cabinet and pulled out several varieties of rum.

  “I like you more now. You know how fight.”

  “What do you mean?” Ella’s eyes swept around the kitchen. Safada’s purse sat on the counter, top flap open. Ella took a quick peek while Safada mixed Giselle’s drink.

  Safada motioned to a corner. A small television on the counter showed alternating views from the mansion security cameras. One view squarely pictured the front gate and driveway.

  Ella tried not to show her displeasure. “You mean when Tiffany Reynolds tried to ram my car? Did Giselle see it?”

  “No, only me in kitchen. Good entertainment.”

  “What was Tiffany doing here? I thought I was the next realtor to interview.”

  “I no miracles.”

  “What?”

  “Giselle know Tiffany from her son. Kearney tell Giselle speak Tiffany also.”

  An unforeseen sense of urgency descended over Ella, what with Tiffany a confirmed competitor, and recommended by Giselle’s son no less. She needed to get back out to the living room, and fast.

  “Well Safada, you’ve been, uh, most helpful. I appreciate it. Oh, and don’t forget Giselle’s drink.”

  Safada crossed the kitchen, looking at Ella with a friendly smile. “I no forget, don’t worry.”

  *******

  Giselle fumbled with a cordless phone when Ella returned to the living room. Her efforts grew more frantic, and she punched randomly at the keypad before handing it to Ella. “Turn this darn thing off, will ya?”

  Ella took the phone and pressed the “off” key.

  “My son Kearney, always looking out for me.”

  Ella wondered what Kearney thought of Sanjay Govindpuri, his mother’s prospective live-in lover.

  “So,” Ella began, “let’s get back to the sale of your home. I’d like to continue with my presentation.”

  Gazing out the window, Giselle looked alarmingly bored while Ella spoke. “You know I’ll miss watching the ships go by, but it all reminds me so much of my dear Edgar.”

  “It sounds like you have an exciting new life ahead of you,” Ella responded, striking her as an odd thing to say to a nonagenarian.

  Safada returned, bearing another tray of cocktails. She set one in front of Giselle, taking up her employer’s previously drained glass. She set the second cocktail next to Ella’s untouched first drink. Ella held up her hand. “That’s alright, I don’t need another one, thank you.”

  “Just in case,” Safada said quietly.

  “Safada, rub my shoulders,” ordered Giselle.

  Ella watched in amazement as Safada set the silver tray down on a small side table and walked behind Giselle’s wing backed chair. Her anxiety heightened as she considered how to best continue her presentation. Safada dramatically raised her arms to stretch, then brought them down in wide arcs over the back of the chair, her hands landing softly on Giselle’s tweed covered shoulders. She began to kneed Giselle’s neck and shoulder area in a back and forth rolling motion.

  “Ahhhh,” Giselle moaned in a disturbing cry that mixed pleasure and pain, her eyes closed.

  Ella plunged forward, despite the dysfunctional domesticity playing out before her. “So what I’d like to do first is tour the house in order to…”

  “SSSHHHH,” Giselle said harshly, her eyes flying open. “I need tranquility. I’m old, don’t forget that little miss.” She closed her eyes again.

  Ella sat back in her chair, a certain grim resolve setting in. So far Giselle’s moods had alternated between friendly, insulting, haughty and condescending. But she severely lacked focus. Ella still hoped to finish her pitch, so she organized her sales materials while Giselle moaned and Safada eyed Ella. This continued for about ten stilted minutes, until Giselle opened her eyes and called a halt to the proceedings.

  “That’s enough, Safada.” The maid removed her hands from Giselle’s shoulders and picked up the tray from the side table. Giselle turned to Ella. “Thank you so much for coming today. You’re a very nice agent.” She slurred slightly now.

  Ella had been dismissed, and called an agent to boot. As an accomplished broker, she resented the reference. Brokers held a clear and defined position higher up the food chain than an agent. “We really haven’t gotten started yet,” she protested.

  Giselle cut her off. “We got started all right. You’re my number two. If Tiffany hires blue movie actors or someone dies on her watch, I’ll call you.”

  Ella was flabbergasted. “With all due respect, Giselle, Tiffany Reynolds is very new to the real estate business. Barker Brokers has the expertise that comes with our lengthy experience in San Francisco. And I intend to personally handle this sale.”

  But Giselle had already drifted away, looking out the window at a passing ship, her nearly empty second cocktail about to fall out of he
r hand. Safada gently removed the tumbler from Giselle’s tepid grip. The old gal seemed to be in another world entirely, her face blank. Ella looked up helplessly at Safada, who stared back with big eyes, giving her only a resigned shrug.

  Chapter 8

  Ella smoldered while getting ready for her dinner date with Jeff Arnold. Just the thought of Tiffany Reynolds’ idiotically confident smile during their driveway duel left her enraged. Instead of a fair shot at the listing, she’d only gotten a scattered meeting with a confused Giselle Frackle. The whole mess constituted a humiliating loss to a virtually unknown agent in the hottest real estate market in history. Tiffany would surely let everyone who’s anyone know about her besting of Ella Barker.

  Ella could still sell the mansion, if she could manage to bring in a buyer. But that uncertain outcome in no way matched the prospect of being the listing broker, which guaranteed a sizable chunk of the enormous commission no matter who reeled in the buyer.

  Sighing, Ella sat down at her computer and opened CB-Pru-U-Z’s homepage. She nearly wretched when she saw Tiffany’s obnoxiously happy face leering out at her, emblazoned next to an oversized photo of the Frackle Mansion in all its glory. Tiffany wasted no time in posting the listing. She’d gotten a hold of an aerial photo, with the massive Tudor residence, the sea, waterfalls and Golden Gate Bridge all spectacularly visible. While perusing the ad, the site played a quiet string version of Pachelbel's Canon. The copy read:

  This oceanfront 1928 Tudor Revival manor house is one of San Francisco’s most legendary homes. Famous for its dramatic waterfalls which plunge to the sea below, the 15 bedroom, 21 bath villa sits on an unheard of one acre in the heart of the coveted Sea Cliff neighborhood. With breathtaking views of the Golden Gate, Marin County and the Pacific Ocean beyond, the property offers the ultimate in seclusion and convenience. The extensive grounds are tended by landscapers from the world famous Pebble Beach golf course in Carmel. On the market for the first time in over 40 years, this extraordinary mansion presents an unparalleled opportunity to own a piece of California history. Why not say “you’ve arrived” to the envious masses using the most stunning of statements, 9900 El Camino Del Mar. Yours for only $70,000,000.