San Francisco Values

by James Turner

  “Expecting anyone?” Jeff asked.

  “Not now,” she smiled, “he’s already here. Could you get that?”

  “Sure.” He pushed his chair back and went to the front door, Ella tagging along a few feet back.

  Jeff opened the door, only to be met by the dour, intimidating, Eskimo-like countenance of Roberta Littlefeather-Jones. Her tiny lover Starka stood off to the side.

  “Why hello,” he said in a wary tone. “It’s the Littlefeather-Jones’. What an unexpected surprise.”

  “Liquifying soils,” bellowed Roberta in a deafening basso profundo, her hands set powerfully on her ample hips.

  Ella flinched noticeably at this unexpected development. Starka swooped in next to Roberta and started to walk through the front door. When Jeff put up his arm to block her, she deftly ducked under and scooted into the entry hall. There she stood, facing Ella, like a determined kewpie doll, her purple hair hanging in front of her glasses.

  “It’s because of you,” she said in a strident tone, “that our life savings are going down the drain in that hellhole.”

  Ella looked over at Jeff, still blocking the door. Roberta’s expression had switched from angry to sad, and she made no effort to blast past Jeff from her position on the doormat. She’d been so kind when they’d met, but since then had frequently jumped between threatening and forlorn states of mind. Classic passive-aggressive, Ella determined in a flash of amateur psychological diagnosis. She motioned for Jeff to let Roberta in.

  Jeff lowered his arm and Roberta walked over to Starka, taking the little woman’s hand. Ella didn’t like clients coming to her home, much less unannounced, but the real estate business was very emotional by nature, especially now with the amounts of money involved and the lack of power accorded to buyers. She didn’t even know how they got her unlisted address.

  “OK, let’s calm down. Tell me what’s going on,” Ella began, thinking about the rapidly cooling dinner on the table.

  “Even though we couldn’t put any contingencies in our offer, we went ahead and hired a geology expert to take a look at the place,” Starka said.

  Roberta cut in. “He basically just went and stood around outside and showed us some maps.”

  “He said he didn’t need to go inside, thank you, he could see quite enough from the street,” Starka continued.

  Ella knew where this one led. Jeff shut the door against the cool night air and followed the exchange closely.

  Roberta nearly shouted. “In the event of a catastrophic earthquake, the ground beneath our home slash pet cemetery could turn into liquid!” Her forlorn expression contorted again toward the aggressive side.

  Starka took another turn. “He said the house would sway like a swooning drunk before falling down in a thousand pieces.”

  Roberta: “That it was amazing it’d survived the ’89 earthquake.”

  Ella made a mental note to find out who the inspector was and blacklist him.

  “That’s obviously a worst case scenario,” Jeff said.

  “Of course it is, it’s been nearly twenty years since we had a good shaker,” Ella added in her most comforting voice.

  “You mean since the Marina district went up in flames, which also happens to be in a liquefaction zone?” Starka asked.

  Ella had to diffuse the situation, even though she wasn’t really worried about the sale since the women remained locked into an airtight contract.

  Roberta already had a solution in mind. “We want you to buy the house,” she said, in a somewhat more kindly tone.

  “What?” Ella replied incredulously.

  “We think since you got us into this, you should buy the place and accept responsibility for the shitty contract that came along with it.”

  Ella’s back went up. “I’m not the one who signed the contract.”

  Starka whipped fiercely around to face Jeff. “And since you so conveniently happen to be here, god how incestuous, the real estate agent is fucking the mortgage broker, we need to talk about the loan. We are not mortgaging our child’s future.”

  “I’m actually a real estate broker, not an agent,” Ella interjected.

  “Yeah whatever,” said Roberta.

  “You have a child?” Ella asked, truly bewildered.

  “Haven’t you heard?” said Starka with a sneer. She hooked her thumb back toward Jeff. “Mr. ‘get-a-mortgage at all costs’ says we qualify for the I-V loan.”

  Ella looked quizzically at Jeff.

  “It’s one of the latest and most innovative products,” Jeff said comfortably.

  “I-V as in In Vitro,” Roberta said.

  “The In Vitro 20-50, to be more specific,” Starka said sarcastically. “If you can prove you have a fertilized egg in storage and a confirmed appointment to implant, the mortgage goes on the embryo’s social security number.”

  “Since when can an embryo get a social?” Ella asked.

  Roberta explained further. “Starka’s brother came down to Anchorage from Prudhoe, and well you know,” she leered, “took care of things in a little room at the clinic. Anyway, it took with my egg. I head in for the implant in a couple of weeks.”

  Ella looked to Jeff for clarification. “The embryo repays the loan,” he said, “post partum of course, starting anytime between 20 and 50 years of age. We apply for what’s called a provisional SSN,” he explained.

  The bankers were getting more clever every day, Ella reflected.

  “That otta make the right-to-life crowd happy as hell,” said Starka. “No better way to prove you’re alive than take out a mortgage before you’re born.”

  “But the fact is, your income as agitators for a free Tibet just doesn’t cut it,” Jeff said. “This way you get the house, and your child gets a secure home in which to grow up.”

  “Fuck it!” Roberta screamed, now fully reverting to her aggressive side. “So how about it, you buy our house, complete with motorhome and earthquake damage? Do it, and we leave you alone,” she added ominously.

  Starka motioned to Ella’s impressive living room and glittering nighttime view. “If you can afford this crib, you sure as hell can afford the dump we’re buying.”

  “No,” Ella said forcefully, “that’s absolutely ridiculous. If I had to step in every time one of my clients got the jitters, I’d have been broke a long time ago. If you insist on taking this outrageous and intimidating approach to buying your home, then you leave me no choice but to engage our firm’s legal counsel first thing in the morning. They will work in tandem with the seller to enforce the sales contract. As is.”

  Roberta started to advance. “You think threats are going to work?”

  “I’m not the one who came bursting uninvited into your home, ranting and raving. And I have a witness,” she said, looking at Jeff.

  Roberta’s face suddenly switched gears and she looked as if she were about to cry. “But you’re supposed to be on our side,” she mewled weepily.

  “Oh honey, I am,” Ella said more softly to the burly skinhead. “I admit it, this is a cruel market we’re in right now. But it’ll work out, you’ll see.”

  “Oh my god, Roberta, how could you fall for the oppressor’s shit? Let’s get out of here.” Starka Littlefeather-Jones took her unbalanced girlfriend by the hand and the two women left without another word.

  *******

  The pasta gummed up considerably after undergoing reheating in the microwave, but Ella and Jeff nonetheless managed to enjoy the rest of the meal. After a glass or two of wine, they laughed about the Littlefeather-Jones home invasion, as they took to calling it.

  “Laughing’s probably the best way for me to deal with problem clients like them,” Ella said as they cleared the table. “There’s not a lot I can do to help right now.”

  “Like you said, they signed on the dotted line,” Jeff said.

  “They seemed so happy the day we made the offer. But now I’ve gone from friendly realtor to oppressor.”

  Ella stood in front of th
e double sink scraping the plates into the garbage disposal. Jeff caught her completely unaware when he slid his hand down her ass and deep into the nether zone between her legs. She jumped, dropping the plates into the sink with a clatter. He pushed himself against her, grabbing the kitchen counter on either side of her waist. He’d pinned her against the sink, she couldn’t turn around if she tried.

  “Slap me,” he said quietly into her ear. “That’s the only way I’ll let you go.”

  “My hands are wet.”

  “I don’t care. Do it.”

  He backed off slightly so she could turn. Something inside told her “this is not good.” But she couldn’t help herself. She spun around and slapped him hard across the face. Her hand stung from the force of his sharp whiskers against her palm.

  He jerked slightly but only stared at her, his dark eyes boring unflinching holes into hers. They breathed softly, urgently into each other’s faces, just inches apart. She didn’t move, her right arm still raised. Jeff lifted his right hand slowly, palm open. Ella followed it closely with her eyes. He brought the hand to her cheek, and softly slapped her back, a little tap only. She stared directly at him. He waited for her to stop him, and when she didn’t he slapped her cheek again, this time a little harder. She stared even more deeply, feeling the heat rise rapidly within her body. She raised her hand in return, and gave him another hard smack on the cheek.

  This is wrong, she thought, what was she doing? He grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her forcefully. Her back arched and a chill ran down her spine. She reached down between his legs and took a probing feel. She wasn’t disappointed.

  Jeff picked Ella up, literally sweeping her off her feet, and carried her out of the kitchen into the best night of her life.

  Chapter 10

  Late Wednesday morning the phone chimed on Ella’s mahogany and glass desk at her Yerba Buena Gardens office. She’d been occupied looking over the latest QuickPrice report, a respected industry bulletin out of San Diego. It reflected yet another month of stunning residential property price appreciation. To buy the average house in San Francisco, a typical buyer now needed an income of at least $500,000 in order to qualify for a conventional 100 year, fixed rate mortgage. This allowed for the industry standard of 75 percent of income going toward housing. On top of such traditional financing, eager and ever-creative lenders continued to dream up an increasingly imaginative mix of less conventional borrowing options, the type of which the Littlefeather-Jones deal depended.

  Ella punched the speaker phone. Her secretary Bootsie sweetly intoned that Ella had a visitor.

  “I don’t have any appointments right now, who is it?”

  Bootsie whispered. “It’s a police detective, Lieutenant Rothschild. He wants to talk to you and won’t tell me what it’s about.”

  She should have expected this. Of course the police were going to talk to everyone who knew Tiffany Reynolds. Ella Barker was just another on the list of professional acquaintances. She took a deep breath. “Send him in, please.”

  She stood up, smoothed her skirt and patted her hair quickly into place. Despite her self-assurances, Ella’s heart pounded and she felt scared. Should she tell the truth about seeing Tiffany’s body? Before she could think or strategize any further, the office door opened and in walked Lt. Rothschild of the SFPD.

  The detective was a short, compact man, probably in his early 50’s, but without the dignified comportment his name suggested. A giant belly hung over his belt and he wore steel rimmed glasses, though Ella immediately spotted quick, vigilant eyes darting back and forth behind the thick lenses. His hairline receded to the crown of his head, leaving a floppy mix of graying hair falling down the backside of his skull. He had sharp, pointy features which contrasted with his jowly lower face. His grey suit fit poorly. Central casting couldn’t have come up with anyone more appropriate for the quintessential messy detective.

  Ella greeted the cop with her most gracious smile. “Please come in, Lt. Rothschild. I’m Ella Barker, owner and proprieter of Barker Brokers Real Estate Group.”

  The cop extended his hand, and she couldn’t help but compare his limp, sweaty grasp to Jeff’s masculine, intoxicating grip. “Guy Rothschild, SFPD.” He flashed his badge and slapped a business card onto her desk.

  Bootsie stood near the open door, watching with a curious smile. “That’s all, Bootsie, thank you,” Ella said.

  “Certainly Mrs. Barker,” she said, shutting the heavy office door behind her.

  “Please, have a seat,” Ella said.

  “Looks like a successful operation, you have here,” the detective said, sitting down in one of the client chairs opposite Ella’s desk.

  “Yes, we are doing well, after all, the market is soaring.”

  “I’ve been looking for a place myself, but on a cop’s salary, there’s not much out there.”

  Ella briefly considered mentioning some of the creative financing options but thought better of it. “Just keep looking, something always comes up. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, two people associated with the real estate industry in San Francisco have been murdered recently. We’re trying to gather as much information as possible to find out who did this and bring them to justice.”

  “Of course, it’s scary for all of us in the business.”

  “Your colleague, Tiffany Reynolds, is the most recently deceased. Did you know her?”

  “Yes, we met on several occasions.”

  Lt. Rothschild smiled vaguely, saying nothing. Ella nervously nattered on. “She was relatively new to the business but doing quite well, from what I understand. I wouldn’t exactly call her my colleague though, she worked for a competing firm.”

  “Colleagues in the sense that you worked in the same field, then.”

  “Oh sure, yes.”

  “Can you think of any reason someone might want to cause her harm, or harm the young man killed two weeks ago at the open house?”

  “No, not at all. I mean the young man, while he may have had an unusual occupation, I can’t think for the life of me why someone would make such a public spectacle out of murdering him. I was there that day, as you probably know.”

  “Umm hmm. What do you mean, unusual occupation?”

  “Well, the listing broker Gordon Elway told me, and it’s been all over the news, what was the boy’s name, Grosso? That he was an actor in pornographic films. Maybe that had something to do with it.”

  “We are aware of Mr. Grosso’s occupation,” he replied with a wry smile. “What about Miss Reynolds, any ideas?”

  “I don’t know what to say, I hardly knew her,” Ella lied, too frightened to say anything more.

  “One last question, Mrs. Barker.”

  “Fire away,” Ella said, immediately regretting her choice of words.

  “What kind of car do you drive?”

  *******

  Ella whipped the Mercedes into a handicapped space a block from the Opera House, a very rushed fifteen minutes late, not wanting to keep Jeff waiting. She looked forward to the evening too much for things to start off awkwardly. Aside from the performance itself, most of the Opening Night festivities, including cocktail reception and dinner-dance took place at a resplendent City Hall, across Van Ness Avenue from the War Memorial Opera House. This year’s performance, a highly anticipated, though controversial Germanic adaptation of the 1963 cinematic comedy “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World,” was said to fuse tragedy into the original wacky movie theme.

  The film, starring Ethel Merman, Spencer Tracy and Milton Berle, told a rip roaring comic tale that veered wildly in many directions, none of them tragic. Early word of the four hour operatic version hinted of dark robed, chanting choralists. Ella did not anticipate enjoying the performance. She’d always found opera supremely boring, but put up with it once a year, considering it a professional obligation.

  She’d arranged to meet Jeff on the Polk Street steps of City Hall,
already a scene out of a Hollywood premiere, only with socialites and politicians replacing the more familiar screen stars. Rotating Klieg lights shot into the sky, and hundreds of people ascended the grand outdoor staircase, heading for the pre-performance cocktail reception under City Hall’s mighty rotunda.

  Ella stopped for a moment to take it all in, standing near the red carpet leading up the stairs. A string quartet played pop classical near the entrance. She felt proud to fit in with such an august setting. She wore a rather flashy dress, a step away from her normally more conservative style, but she’d been feeling pretty jazzed up and confident with all the sexual energy percolating lately so she’d taken the plunge on a ball gown designed by one the city’s hottest young fashion designers. The dress even had a name, the Anthurium. All bright red satin, the garment was an open shoulder full length affair, which clung tightly to Ella’s top half before blossoming out at the hips to descend groundward in a brilliant, twirling cascade. A ruby colored hibiscus-like bolt of material burst out from between her breasts. Matching satin and rhinestone ankle strap sandals added three inches to her height. She’d piled her hair on top of her head in a formal, swept up manner.

  “You look smashing, what are you doing standing here all by yourself?”

  She turned to see Jeff, who’d appeared out of the crowd looking magnificent in a beautifully cut, traditional tuxedo.

  “Just observing,” Ella replied, looking at Jeff with a delighted wariness. He put an arm around her waist, and they started up the stairs.

  “There’s Giselle Frackle,” he said, nodding toward drop off area at the base of the red carpet.

  “She hasn’t missed this night in fifty years.” Giselle’s little entourage once again accompanied her, though with a new addition, her son Kearney.

  No one would call Kearney Frackle young, having been born when his fossilized mother was just twenty years old. Now in his early 70’s and a geriatric as well, neither had he ever been considered handsome. His general appearance fell under the description of bald and round. But his positive attributes included extreme wealth and a reasonable intelligence, still an unbeatable two out of three combination when it came to scoring beautiful women one-third his age. Kearney took full advantage of this ability, having married and divorced six times in his life, each wife successively younger than the last. Currently single, he hoisted himself out of his mother’s imposing sedan bearing a twig of a young woman in a scanty silver dress, whose luxurious red hair and porcelain skin gave her a delicate, elfin appearance.