San Francisco Values

by James K Turner

  She hadn’t gotten to her place in the world by sitting on the sidelines. Ella needed a plan to get close to Giselle Frackle.

  Chapter 5

  An hour later Ella got out of her car and walked up the driveway of Barker Brokers’ St. Francis Wood office. From all outside appearances, the office was just another beautifully manicured home in the stately, well established neighborhood. Brightly colored impatiens lined the driveway next to the well clipped lawn, birds chirped and trees rustled lightly in the breeze. She smiled to herself when she glimpsed the stately double B logo positioned discreetly near the doorbell. When she opened the heavy oak front door however, everything changed, the neighborhood tranquility outside vanished. Office cubicles filled every square foot of the enormous living room, phones rang and people bustled about. Ella paid a visit to each office once or twice a week, more so if she had personal involvement in a deal based out of one particular branch. Joe Gold, the office manager, came running up to Ella, concern etched across his face.

  “Ella, good morning, are you OK? That must have been horrible yesterday.”“Really Joe, I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Everyone’s been talking about it…”

  “I’m sure they have, but we do have business to attend to. What I want to know now is if we’ve heard back from the seller on the Littlefeather-Jones offer.”

  ‘Yes, it was accepted, the fax came in a little while ago.”

  “Get me the buyers on the line, please, and bring me the offer papers.”

  Ella didn’t have a formal desk in any of her satellite offices, she’d just take over an empty cubicle and log on to the computer. Joe brought her the faxed copies of the signed offer.

  “Roberta Littlefeather-Jones is holding on line one,” he said.

  Ella picked up the phone. “Congratulations Roberta. You and Starka must be very happy.”

  “Uh, I guess so,” Roberta responded uncertainly, “now that we’re on our way to owning a million dollar pet cemetery and homemade motor home.”

  Ella laughed. “You’ll make it your own in no time.”

  “You mean after the owners live there for a year rent free?”

  Ella grimaced. “That’s the market these days…”

  “Well at least we didn’t get shot while we were lookin’ at the place.”

  She sensed a distinct change of attitude in the kindly Roberta. She hoped it wasn’t a case of buyer’s remorse, which could sour the deal for everyone, even if it went ahead and closed. But the couple’s $100,000 deposit would keep Roberta and Starka in line, of that Ella was sure. “You’ve got Jeff Arnold’s number, right.”

  “The mortgage broker? Yeah, I’ll call him this morning.”

  “Really Roberta, you’ll be very happy in your new home.”

  But Roberta Littlefeather-Jones had already hung up.

  *******

  “You want me to do what?” Mark asked incredulously.

  “Ask Giselle Frackle’s maid to meet you, tell her you have something you’d like to talk to her about. Then once you’re together you can set it up that you’ve invited a friend, and I’ll make my appearance.”

  Ella cruised down Upper Market, on her way to the office at Yerba Buena Gardens. Her cell phone routed Mark Allen’s voice through the car’s stereo speakers while a built-in microphone picked up her voice, leaving both of Ella’s hands free for other duties, from sipping coffee to applying mascara, even steering.

  “In case you don’t remember, she trying to get me into bed, she makes me nervous.”

  Ella turned down the volume on the car stereo. “You won’t have to worry about that, she’ll forget all about sex once I start talking money.”

  “You don’t know Safada. Why don’t you just call Giselle yourself and propose a meeting?”

  “And say what? Your maid told your designer who told me you’re planning to sell your house in Sea Cliff, and by god, I’d like a shot at the listing? Mark, you know it doesn’t work that way, I’m surprised you’d even suggest it. I can’t just call Giselle up like some ambulance chasing lawyer. She’d want to know how I found out, and where would that put you? Perhaps in the position of being indiscreet? Unprofessional maybe? You’re working in her home and spreading inside knowledge? You’re just getting into interior design, moving away from staging…”

  “OK, OK,” Mark said.

  “You couldn’t have a more prestigious client. Success with Giselle will land you jobs for years to come. You could mess it up if you’re not careful.”

  “You don’t seem to mind my indiscretion in telling you.”

  “Telling me was not indiscreet, it was smart. We’re going to make this work for both of us. You know you stand to profit as well, if a successful deal comes out of this. I’ll take very good care of you.”

  “Sounds agreeable. And I wouldn’t want Safada to take any heat for having told me.”

  “Exactly. You say Giselle relies on her for pretty much everything?”

  “Oh yeah. They’re alone in that mansion for days on end together. Safada wields powerful influence, there’s no question about it.”

  “I think we’ve got something to work with here. So what do you say?”

  Mark held his thoughts for a moment. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Work your magic, Mark. Let’s make a killing on this one,” Ella said softly

  *******

  The rest of the week went by more or less smoothly. The police interviewed Ella about what she’d seen and heard at the Noe Valley open house but it hadn’t gone any further than that. The cops and the press appeared baffled. Breathless TV reporters gushed on about an untraceable bullet and possible ties between the dead man and the Italian mafia, but the latter appeared to be more baseless speculation.

  As Friday rolled around Ella prepared for her meeting with Mark and Giselle Frackle’s maid, who’d agreed to meet at the Skirbo Room, a live music club on Valencia Street in the Mission District. Ella didn’t frequent the area, though her various offices occasionally sold the odd seven figure teardown in the neighborhood. Safada insisted on the location, telling Mark she had just one night a week off and wanted to hear a favorite band from her native Brazil. Ella had lobbied unsuccessfully for a more sedate setting, perhaps drinks at the Four Seasons. To make matters worse, Mark scheduled the liaison at 10:00 pm, telling Ella to drop by 20 minutes later. At this hour Ella was normally home in bed, going over papers or polishing off another chapter of a novel before dropping off to sleep.

  After fretting for some time about what to wear, she finally decided on designer blue jeans and a black blouse with the top couple of buttons left open. She accessorized simply, with a gold chain around her neck and open-toed, low heeled sandals. Night driving glasses in hand, she climbed into the Mercedes, and began her descent down the hill to the Mission District.

  Ella knew San Francisco practiced draconian parking enforcement in the area on weekends and didn’t want to risk being towed. She had no intention of winding up the evening with a midnight trek to a grimy tow yard. Therefore finding a legal parking placed loomed as the only practical option. She turned off 17th Street onto Valencia, and spotted the Skirbo Room immediately, across the street on her left. It was 10:10 pm, just in time for her planned drop in. A rather long line at the door dragged down the block. Ella frowned as she drove past.

  Valencia Street on a Friday night reigned as a 20-something restaurant goer’s paradise. Trendy eating establishments and bars lined the street, all of them packed, most deafeningly loud. Stylish young people crowded the sidewalks, often in large groups, talking and laughing in piercing, excited voices. Even with all the nightlife advantages, the neighborhood, like much of San Francisco, faced a stark and yawning lack of parking. Few garages populated the area. This created a situation of supply and demand for on-street parking, with demand exceeding supply on weekend nights by roughly 1000 to one.

  Ella circled the block. Right off the bat, she passed a couple of spaces where she co
uld have squeezed in with a smaller car, but these spaces would barely contain half her S600 sedan. She continued along the side streets, in a series of unrelenting right turns from one block to the next. In front and behind her, other drivers competed in the same brutal contest, creeping along in their cars, slowing quickly at a suspected space, then moving on in dejected disappointment after spotting that perpetual parking hog, the fire hydrant. All she saw block after block, were parked cars lining the streets. Cars belonging to people who had already found parking spaces.

  Ella glanced at the dashboard clock. It was just past 10:30, and still she hunted for parking. She blocked out the line of people she’d seen at the door of the club. One thing at a time. She barked out Mark’s name and the car dialed his number. It rang five times before banging loud music from the Skirbo Room jolted out of the 14 high fidelity speakers that comprised the Mercedes’ stereo. Mark’s voice could be heard somewhere within the racket.

  “Ella?” he shouted.

  “Yes, it’s me. Mark, I’ve been here nearly a half hour, I’m looking for…”

  “Ella?” he screamed again.

  “Yes, I’m here,” she responded, raising her voice.

  “Ella?” His voice sounded strained and desperate. “If you can hear me, get the fuck in here.” The line went dead.

  By this time, she seethed with contempt for her fellow players in the parking game. She passed a man smoking a cigar and his pretty little trollop of a girlfriend. They clambered down out of a Hummer, theirs the most gigantic of the several gigantic Hummer models available. “How in the hell did they find a space?” Ella wondered angrily. She glared at them as she cruised past.

  Suddenly she glimpsed it; an open parking space of the necessary magnitude to house her California King of a car. She accelerated quickly to head off any contenders but miraculously had it to herself. She came to a quick jolt of a stop just past the coveted space, preparing to parallel park, a skill some found difficult but a motoring art at which Ella had always excelled. She flipped the steering wheel mounted gear shift, and the reverse lights switched on, casting a bright glow behind. She threw an arm over the passenger seat and turned to look over her shoulder.

  But she didn’t back up. Two teenage girls, about 17 years old, stood squarely in the middle of the space, giggling loudly and chattering on cell phones. They wore low cut, extremely tight fitting jeans and tops with plunging necklines that left very little to the imagination when it came to their luscious and ripe young bosoms. For a fleeting moment, Ella looked enviously through her rear view mirror at their creamy, pre-operative bodies. Was she ever that young? In return they glowered at her car, tossing long, golden manes to one side. Their glittery lip gloss reflected in the glare of the reverse lights. Ella recovered, and began to back up, expecting them to move out of the way. Instead they pulled the cell phones away from their ears and shouted at her in tone deaf, adolescent voices.

  “Hey,” one of them said, “get outta here. We’re saving this space.”

  “Yeah, move it, our boyfriends will be here like any minute,” the other girl added, before dropping to the ground, landing cross legged on her butt.

  “We’ve been here twenty minutes, no old lady in a Mercedes is gonna steal it now.”

  Ella winced at the girl’s words and stepped on the brake, the rear end of her car about a quarter of the way into the parking space. The long hood now angled out into the middle of the narrow street, blocking passage in both directions. She lowered her window a crack to better hear their ridiculous babble. Looking back at their defiant expressions, she released the pressure on the brake slightly, allowing the car to inch backwards.

  “Hey,” the first girl screamed even louder. “Stop. Killer, hey people, anyone, this lady is trying to run us over.”

  The second girl apparently decided against her strategy of sitting on the ground behind a moving car. She sprang to her feet and ran forward, placed both hands on the trunk, legs stretched out behind. She dramatically pushed against the approaching vehicle, and in the rear view mirror Ella saw the girl’s contorted face looming large in the fiery red cast of the brake lights. “This is our parking space,” she screamed, sounding like an escaped lunatic.

  Warning alarms beeped inside the Mercedes cabin, as the car’s reverse direction sensors picked up the human obstructions. Ella stopped, put the car in Park and got out. She stood next to her open driver door, directly facing the two snorting, fanatical young women.

  “Look,” she said forcefully. “A parking space without a car in it is available. You have no right to be blocking it this way.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “This is a public space, and I fully intend to take advantage of that. No teenage monsters are going to stop me.”

  The second girl nodded slowly with her mouth open. “Ahh, hahh,” she said sarcastically. The first girl had by now also placed her hands on the trunk of the car, positioning her body in a similar blocking position as her compatriot.

  Ella reached inside the car and grabbed her cell phone off the center console. “If you like, I’ll call the police right now. Let them sort it out. Or you can move out of the way, it’s your choice.”

  The two girls exchanged glances. Ella sensed victory, and gave them her best, granite stare. Then she heard the overpowering, deep thumping bass of a car stereo on steroids. The two girls heard it too, and smiled at each other. They removed their hands from the trunk of Ella’s car, and stood back with their arms crossed, cocky smiles splayed across their suburban faces.

  The source of the racket, some kind of a large, dark colored SUV, approached from behind, stopping next to their little confrontation. The deafening bass thumped rhythmically and piercingly, deep into Ella’s bone marrow. The girls smiled even more broadly. One of them motioned to the space, while the other one ran over to the SUV passenger window and stuck her head inside.

  The driver door opened, and a very tall, thickly built young man of undetermined racial makeup got out. He carried some kind of a club, or perhaps a baseball bat from what Ella could discern.

  “Get the FUCK out of here,” he boomed at her.

  “Yeah, get the fuck out outta here,” one of the girls shrieked delightedly, while the other laughed in uncontrolled hysterics.

  The boyfriend approached Ella’s Mercedes, and raised his weapon high over the gleaming trunk. Her victorious moment more fleeting than expected, she jumped into her car and sped off, an unaccustomed casualty of the San Francisco parking wars.

  Shaken but not defeated, she continued her search.

  The next block was somewhat quieter, but still she saw little opportunity, with nothing but the inexorable rows of immobile automobiles lining every available inch on both sides of the street. All of a sudden a reflection caught her eye, a quick, unexpected flash of light, the second coming of the parking god. A set of car keys dangled from the hand of a young man walking down the sidewalk. Hallelujah, she thought as she slowed her huge car at his side, lowering the passenger side window.

  “Are you leaving by any chance?” Ella asked as nicely as she could, considering her mood.

  The young man turned. He was in his early 20’s, wearing a knit cap and dressed in baggy pants and an oversized t-shirt. She could see him taking in the Mercedes in all its shiny, expensive glory.

  “Yeah,” he said slowly, raising his arm in a lazy, half hearted effort to point ahead. “Just up the block.”

  “Uh, thanks,” she replied, praying the space would be big enough. “I’ll just ride along next to you if you don’t mind.”

  He continued walking, quite slowly, making absolutely no effort to quicken his pace. Ella felt like a chauffer in a mobster movie, trailing her boss at walking speed while he spoke to an acquaintance about the relative merits of life versus death.

  The kid finally left the sidewalk and walked around to the driver’s door of an ancient Ford pickup. Thankfully it was full sized and would leave enough room for Ella to park. The kid put the
key in the lock, then hesitated, looking back toward Ella waiting in her Mercedes. He pulled the key back out of the door, and walked over, motioning for her to lower her window. She did, part way.

  “You know, man, it’s a busy night here, there’s not much parking,” he began in a lazy, stoner’s drawl.

  “No, there isn’t. I applaud you on your observation.”

  “So like, I was wondering, like maybe I changed my mind and I’m gonna go back to my friend’s place.”

  Ella understood right away where the punk was going with this but didn’t say anything. She just looked back at him expectantly, with big eyes.

  “Like what I’m saying is I might not move my truck, man.”

  Ella quickly glanced in the mirror, scanning the street again. No other spaces had miraculously appeared.

  “Well gee, then,” Ella responded, “like, if you don’t move your car where will I park?”

  “I don’t know man, like I could move my truck, but...”

  “Oh for god’s sake,” Ella said grabbing her purse, “how about a little gas money, that might help you move your truck.” She thrust a twenty out the window. “Now.”

  He snatched the bill in half a second flat.

  *******

  Ella finally made it to the now much longer Skirbo Room entrance line at 10:55. Mark was most likely very unhappy with her by now. Instead of going to the end of the line, Ella went right to the front, straight to the burly bouncer who, naturally due to the nature of his job, sported a slithering nest of snakes tattooed across one of his massive biceps.

  “Excuse me,” Ella said, looking askance at the line of people half her age, “I was wondering if you could help me?”

  The bouncer looked back coldly. “Yes?”

  “My daughter is inside, and you see, we have a family situation, it’s an emergency really. I need to get a hold of her right away.”