San Francisco Values

by James Turner

  “Missus Giselle go nowhere,” Safada declared. “She say she hostess today. She come downstairs after dressed.”

  Ella groaned. “May I go up and speak to her before we open the gates?”

  “She no one see now, you her see when descend.”

  “OK then, whatever you say.”

  By now both the carousel and Ferris wheel operated in full swing, and Ella could hear excited whoops from outside the gate. She met up with Mark at the tropical themed bar. They’d hardly spoken since Lona Gishaw’s gossip column, with Ella rebuffing all efforts at contact. But now she’d begun to miss him.

  “Isn’t it a little early to imbibe, or does one need to fortify oneself to spread confidential gossip.”

  He set his cocktail down on the bar. “I told you how sorry I…”

  “Your personal trainer, my god, Mark, you know they can be indiscreet. Candell Jorrison told her trainer she was screwing her gardener, and look where that got her.”

  “I know, divorced and broke. Ironclad pre-nup.”

  “And frozen out of Pacific Heights forever.”

  “I ran into her though, at a supermarket in Pacifica. She’s a checker there.”

  Ella laughed derisively.

  “Anyway, Candell chatted and seemed happy, totally unembarrassed. If I didn’t know any better I’d say she was happier scanning canned peas.”

  “Happier as a checkout clerk, I doubt,” said Ella.

  “How bored must she have been to hop into bed with the lawn mower guy?”

  “We’re getting off the subject,” Ella said. “You blabbed, and embarrassed me.”

  He took a sip of his Bloody Mary. “I’m so, so, sorry, I fucked up. What can I do to make it up to you?”

  “Be a friend when I need one.”

  Mark looked stung. “You’re right. Can I have one more chance? Please, please?”

  Ella sighed. “I need you, you know.”

  “You can trust me, I swear, it’ll never happen again.”

  Not wanting to reward Mark’s indiscretion, Ella failed to mention getting a call from the Swats and Paddles Sex Club as a result of the gossip column. A large heterosexual concern, the club was moving to larger quarters and hired Ella to list their current South of Market “torture chamber,” potentially a $10 million sale. They also offered her a complimentary lifetime membership, which she politely declined.

  “How’s Marcos?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your date at the opera that fateful night.”

  “Oh him. History. He had a little crystal meth problem.”

  A clanging bell grabbed their attention. They looked toward the house, and Ella whistled under her breath. “Oh boy, here we go.”

  Giselle Frackle stood outside the front door, ringing an ornate, hand held bell. Her wrist wobbled dangerously, and she nearly dropped it before her youthful lover Sanjay reached in to assist. They continued ringing in tandem. Ella admired Sanjay’s subtle, handsomely cut dark suit and bright red tie. Giselle’s outfit on the other hand, could suitably clothe a most startling and effective scarecrow. She had forced herself into a long sleeved, blood red jumpsuit. It clung to her enormous belly and dropped down in enormous bell bottoms to cover her tiny feet. Flat red shoes matched the ribbons in the higher altitudes of her blonde wig. As always, her lipstick glowed a brilliant shade of crimson, and she’d topped it all off with a gigantic pair of sun glasses, trimmed in cherry. The overall effect created a sharp contrast against her deeply etched white skin.

  “Jesus Christ,” Mark said. Ella exchanged glances with Lt. Rothschild, as if to confirm the reality of such an apparition.

  “Attention, everyone, now is the time,” Giselle said, looking straight at Ella. “Let the buyers in.” Ella turned around and waved the OK to Elton at the gate, who had donned a red polo shirt. The scarlet theme struck Ella as strange, considering all the blood spilled in the name of selling the mansion, but she made no attempt to second guess the odd little clan inhabiting the Frackle home.

  The band strummed softly to life just as the first open house attendees arrived at the top of the driveway. The crowd bottlenecked at the little bridge over the creek, and several people waded across to beat rush. “The Girl from Ipanema” emanated from the stage, sung in its original, stirring Portuguese by a young man in dreadlocks.

  Ella bristled when she spied the Action News 12 van parked just inside the gate, where venomous reporter Chirley Wixon busied herself setting up for a live shot.

  “Just a minute, I’ll be right back.” She took off quickly with the lieutenant in hot pursuit.

  “Wait, I’m going with you,” Mark said.

  “You, what are you doing here?” Ella asked imperiously when she got to the van.

  Chirley whirled around, her heavily sprayed hairdo not flexing by even a strand. She smiled deliciously, as if looking at buffet table full of rich desserts. “Why, if it isn’t Ella Barker, in the flesh.”

  “You are not welcome here, this is private property. If you have to do your dirty work, make it outside the gate. Now.”

  “What’re ya gonna do, beat me up, rough trader?”

  Ella nearly did just that, coming within a hair’s breadth of hauling off and smacking smug Chirley across the face. “Wouldn’t you just love that? It’d give you another sleazy headline.”

  “We’ve got permission to be here,” Chirley said, opening her reporter’s notebook. “Let me see, here it is, yes, a Miss Safada da Silva OK’d our entry.”

  Ella sighed, feeling beaten back at every turn in her efforts to hold a dignified and productive open house.

  “There she is now,” Chirley continued, “She’s an easy one to remember.”

  Safada stood about 50 yards away, jumping up and down like a little girl, waving at the news van excitedly.

  Mark tapped Ella on the shoulder. “Just let it go,” he whispered. “Call as little attention to yourself as possible and take advantage of the free publicity.” She backed off, turning to leave.

  “Whatever he said, I’d follow his advice,” Chirley said. “You real estate agents think you own the world, you hype the values, make it where no one can afford a home, for instance someone who comes from a small town in Oklahoma for an exciting, new job. You encourage people to get into debt they can’t afford. It’s gonna stop, you’ll see. Wait ‘til our exposé next month during ratings sweeps.”

  The idea of a ratings week exposé didn’t bother Ella so much as once again being called an agent. She was a broker, why couldn’t people get that through their thick heads?

  “That explains her vindictiveness in reporting about you,” Mark said, once out of earshot.

  “She’s just another poor, little priced-out crybaby.”

  By now a line formed at the front door of the mansion, and the amusement park rides spun and twirled in full swing. Children screamed and dogs barked, the whole celebratory scene filtered with the band’s tropical South American tunes. Safada and Elton samba’d away in the driveway, cutting a racy, elegant vision.

  Just outside the front entrance to the house, Giselle and Sanjay greeted the masses as if heading up a royal procession line. Standing side by side, they shook hands with each and every adult, welcoming and thanking them for coming. Some of the younger children however, broke into tears at the sight of the overly made-up Giselle.

  “No, it’s not a scary clown,” Ella overheard heard one anxious parent stage-whisper. But Giselle appeared unfazed. In fact she glowed radiantly, at least as radiant as a 91-year old could glow.

  Inside, Giselle’s only concession to Ella’s demands was the posting of security guards. Much like in a museum, men and women in dark, ill-fitting suits sat vigil in every room, walkie-talkie in hand. The lieutenant faithfully trailed Ella as she took up her post in the living room, where she chatted and handed out color brochures to the more presentable passers-by. People ooohed and aaahed at the view and furnishings, and many groups stopped to pose for photos. T
he vast majority made no pretense whatsoever of having any actual interest in buying the property. But at least no violence or gunshots shattered the festive atmosphere either.

  “So far, so good,” she said, giving Rothschild a wink, “I’m still here.” The lieutenant nodded and returned a curt smile, his eyes busy scanning the room.

  “Ella dahling, how are you?”

  Ella turned to see an unpleasant sight. Delicia Cardosa oozed across the living room, her broad shoulders swinging a path through the crowd. Ella swallowed the bile in her throat, attempting a lame smile. Delicia showed now, the little bump in her belly a dagger in Ella’s healing heart.

  “Delicia, what a surprise.”

  She had on a shimmery, tight fitting skirt and white shirt with heels. Even with the pregnancy, her buxom figure stood out. Her full lips glistened a dark, ruby color, while her dyed blonde hair fell sumptuously down past her shoulders.

  “I had nothing better to do today, so I thought, why not go see the famous mansion. Of course I’ve been here before on social occasions. But it is Sunday, a fine day get out and take some air,” she said, literally looking down her nose. “I guess that doesn’t apply to those who must work.”

  Ella smiled, Mona Lisa-like.

  “Hank couldn’t be here, he’s off at the polo fields,” Delicia added.

  Polo fields?? Hank had never expressed any interest whatsoever in polo. Ella had had about enough of this pretentious hooey. “How nice for him,” she said. “I didn’t even know he knew how to ride a horse.”

  “People tend to blossom under the right circumstances.”

  “Delicia, your outfit’s beautiful, so formal though, for this time of day. It reminds me of one of your country’s famous TV soap operas.”

  Delicia glowered at Ella, catching the inference to the melodramatic, tacky by American standards, soap opera art form. Delicia had obviously run from that culture, but still something in the way she dressed and comported herself recalled the small screen close-up of a suffering Latin beauty. She tossed her hair aside. “Colombia’s novelas are pure genius,” she said with great flair. “You should be so lucky as to even understand the language of romance in which they are written.”

  Across the living room, Mark attempted conversation with a cute security guard. Ella sensed his extreme distraction however, knowing he couldn’t keep his eyes off her and Delicia. She waited for Delicia to leave, but the other woman didn’t move.

  “How’s your, what was he, mortgage maker?” Delicia asked disdainfully.

  Ella ignored the question. “Well since you’re here, do you have a real estate broker? Are you and Hank in the market for a new home?”

  Delicia lifted her chin high. “I am not yet working with anyone. If we should be interested in this mansion, which by the way needs a lot of work, I would most certainly contract my own representation. There’s no reason for you alone to get all those IPO dollars.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Finally Delicia started to walk away, but Ella stopped her. “Tell me, Delicia, why do you feel the need to treat me this way? What’s in it for you? You’ve got my husband, and for god’s sake, you’re even going to have the baby I never had with him.”

  Delicia turned to face Ella. “Because one is never kind to one’s rivals. And you, Ella, will always be a rival. I don’t underestimate you.”

  *******

  Later on, Ella wandered back out to the front lawn, curious as to the state of the entrance lines. From what she could see, people still poured through the gates at a constant rate, but the ticket takers kept the flow to the agreed upon 200 per hour. So far as she knew, not one serious buyer had taken advantage of the open house. Naturally anyone with the sort of stratospheric sums necessary to buy the mansion would request a private viewing, so Ella chalked the day up to an old woman’s folly.

  She looked around, taking the whole scene in; the lines, the band, the children playing, the rides. A glance at the Ferris wheel jolted her though, when one of the riders caught her attention. She dug into her purse and pulled out her distance glasses. It was none other than Starka Littlefeather-Jones, her purple pixie haircut cut adding to the colorful diorama of the day. The unbalanced Roberta protectively hugged the tiny Starka as the two women went round and round in one of the flimsy, yellow Ferris wheel carriages. A cold shudder raced through Ella’s body when she recalled the hard smack of Roberta’s fist on that awful night in jail.

  Whatever argument and violence between the two that led to Roberta’s arrest seemed to have passed, as the couple looked happier than ever spinning around above the mega-million dollar Sea Cliff estate. Ella hoped that happiness now extended to their own upcoming real estate purchase. She had assigned another agent in her office to deal with the couple since the jail incident, and hadn’t had any updates in a week or so.

  “Isn’t that a cute domestic picture?” Mark asked, slinking up next to Ella holding an icy cocktail. Safada hung off his shoulder like an oversexed leech, repeatedly kissing him on the neck, each sexy smooch moving a little closer to his jaw line. He tilted his head to the side, giving the Brazilian beauty better access. He looked at Ella, and raised his drink. “When in Rome,” he said with a slight slur.

  Ella didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed for Mark or jealous because Safada ignored her. Before she could figure that one out, the Ferris wheel groaned to a stop and the Littlefeather-Jones’ bounded over. Ella stepped back warily from Roberta before making the introductions.

  “You don’t have to worry about Roberta anymore, she’s taking her medication again,” Starka said, eyeing Safada.

  Ella looked dubiously at Roberta. “I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better then.”

  Roberta grinned back, her eyes large and glassy. “You know, maybe I overreacted, kinda, in the slammer, uh.” She looked at Starka, who nodded encouragement. “So I guess I’m sorry for beltin’ ya.” Then she brightened up considerably. “But ever since we made friends with Sal and Tawona, I’m feeling a lot better, we’re getting a few things worked out. What’re you lookin’ at, Starka?”

  “Mark,” Safada interrupted, “me you come with now. You ask see room of Elton chauffer over garage, we go. It very privacy.”

  Mark winked at Ella. So that explained his tipsy cooperation with Safada. They sauntered off, arm in arm, chatting like old friends.

  Ella returned her attention to Roberta and Starka. “Excuse me, Sal and Tawona? I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “The sellers, man, the sellers of our new house,” Starka explained.

  “What? How did you meet them? What sort of things are you working out?” This was a major breach. Real estate gospel dictated that the buyer and seller never have any sort of personal contact. Brokers and agents worked diligently to make sure all offers, counter offers, acceptances, messages, questions and changes worked their way through the accepted lines of communication. If the buyer had an inquiry, buyer asked buyer’s agent who in turn asked seller’s agent who in turn asked seller. And vice-versa. The buyer and seller were only referred to as such, never by real names. True names existed only as intangible concepts written on the various contracts and deeds. Emotions could become heated if the principals entered personally into contact or negotiations. More important, without the realtors, people might realize they could make their own deals and this had to be avoided at all costs. This threat rang especially true in the Internet age, which made property exposure, research and communication so damned easy.

  “They may not need the whole year rent free, maybe not at all,” Starka said. “Roberta offered to do some of the construction work on their houseboat, if it’ll speed things along.”

  “But how did you meet them?”

  “Duh, we knocked on the door. They’re pretty cool actually.”

  “Oh and their dogs, how sweet,” Roberta said, “though one or two don’t look so good.”

  “We’ll just be digging up a couple more if t
hey croak before we’re moved in,” Starka said.

  Ella blanched. “Really, it’s better if either myself or someone from my office communicate with the seller, these things can be very complicated.”

  Roberta, momentarily distracted by an elegant woman passing by, whipped around. “You just wanna to protect your commission.”

  Ella jumped back in fear.

  “Roberta, remember, deep breaths,” Starka said. “By the way Ella, I’m sure your boyfriend already told you, but we’re approved for the loan. As soon as Roberta’s pregnant, the bank’ll fund it. We implant tomorrow.”

  Ella didn’t know whether or not to offer congratulations. Before she could answer, a disturbed cry cut through the air.

  “Please someone, help us,” Sanjay cried.

  Ella, the Littlefeather-Jones’ and hundreds of others turned to see Sanjay trying to help Giselle up off the lawn, where she’d fallen onto all fours. One of her bright red, wide wale corduroy bell bottoms resisted, fighting against some kind of snag.

  “It’s a sprinkler head,” Roberta said.

  “What?” Ella asked.

  “Her Santa pants are caught on a sprinkler head.”

  Giselle bellowed while several onlookers worked to free the trapped hem. But the old woman’s howls didn’t hide another, more ominous sound. A loud clap, some sort of a clipped boom, thundered through the giddy, carnival-like atmosphere. Before Ella could even think, Lt. Rothschild appeared out of nowhere and knocked her to the plush lawn. He covered her body with his own, pushing the side of her face into the grass. She moaned uncomfortably. People gasped and murmured, until Starka Littlefeather-Jones started laughing.

  “No one’s trying to off you, Ella Barker. “Look over there.”

  From her prone vantage point Ella saw a small boy twenty or thirty feet away holding a small pop gun. He wore a mask and cape, most likely honoring some video game hero. Ella and the lieutenant clambered to their feet, dusting themselves off.

  “Sorry about the false alarm, Mrs. Barker,” Rothschild said.

  “That’s quite alright,” she replied, removing blades of grass from her hair. “Though why someone would allow a child to bring any sort of weapon to a murder scene is beyond me.”