San Francisco Values
Page 5
“Call her on her cell phone,” he said turning to motion in the next few people waiting in line. “If you want to get in, go to the end of the line.”
Her patience already next to gone after the parking ordeal, Ella quickly palmed several twenties out of her pocket and grabbed the bouncer’s hand, sliding the notes between his stubby fingers. “She doesn’t have her cell phone with her.”
He looked down quickly, then motioned her inside. She’d just paid ten times the posted cover charge to get in but couldn’t have cared less. She walked slowly into the darkened club. Dark reds and blues beamed out from subtly placed spotlights. A nonstop bartender rushed back and forth behind a long, polished wood bar, packed four deep with clamoring hipsters. Rock music blasted from speakers in every corner. Surprisingly, some of the cute young guys in the place checked her out, a most unexpected development. She patted her hair delicately, and made her way through the crowd to the staircase. Mark said he’d be upstairs with Safada listening to the band.
Ella found herself enjoying the live music as she scanned the second floor. A lively, melodic samba drifted through the crowd, and the dance floor teemed with energetic aficionados. A few dancers flailed around, their arms clumsily darting out in all directions, but most really seemed to know how to move. Ella admired quite a few well formed asses swishing back and forth, the intoxicating sensuality of youth hitting her deep inside, though in a considerably more positive manner than the teenaged parking guardians.
That’s when she saw what she saw. Mark sat at a table with a sleek, sexy, dark haired woman straddled across his lap, running her fingernails down the side of his face, the other hand delicately toying with the buttons on his shirt. She’d never seen Giselle Frackle’s maid before, but this was one knockout of a housekeeper. Mark’s eyes flashed, then narrowed when he caught sight of Ella staring in fascination.
She quickly walked over and put her hand on his shoulder. “Mark, I’m so sorry for the delay.” She extended her hand to Safada. “Hello, I’m Ella Barker. You must be Safada.” Ella had to shout over the live music.
The exotic beauty lifted her long, elegant fingers from Mark’s shirt and shook Ella’s hand. Her eyes were deep green jewels set in a light olive complexion, her teeth straight and white. She smiled, giving Ella a quick up-down.
“Hi, my name Safada da Silva.” She extricated herself from Mark’s lap and stood up. She wore a light green, very tight, short skirt and a low cut, white top. Her heels matched the skirt, calling attention to her long, tan legs. Gold earrings dangled off each ear. “Mark says we have little talk. I love little talks.”
Mark also stood, offering his seat to Ella. “You may want to take a seat Ella,” he said sarcastically, “it’s taken you so long to get here, you must be tired.”
“Parking,” she replied with an embarrassed shrug, smiling at Safada. “You know how it is in San Francisco.”
“I don’t not drive, taxi or Mrs. Giselle car bring everywhere.”
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Mark said, then promptly fled. The band announced a break, and the noise level dipped enough to permit reasonable conversation.
Ella sat down, setting her purse on the table. Safada looked straight at her, or more accurately, into her. Giselle’s maid had an intensity in her eyes that made Ella a little uneasy. Safada smiled lazily, and leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of wine. If Ella didn’t know better she’d swear this young woman was flirting with her. Maybe she should go out more often, she hadn’t been hit on this much in one night in years. Though most definitely heterosexual, she smiled back.
“So Safada, did Mark tell you why I wanted to meet you?”
“I think I know. You’re real estate person, I told Mark my boss want to sell her house, now you want talk me.”
“Tell me, how long have you been in the United States?”
“What, you with immigrations?”
“Nothing of the sort. I’m just interested in what your dreams and plans for the future are.”
Safada only held her unnerving gaze, saying nothing for a moment. “Why you care? You don’t know me.”
“I’m a curious person, Safada, and I think there may be a way we can work together and make some money. Perhaps a lot of money.”
Safada leaned forward in her chair, just a little bit. “What you have in mind?”
“I’m looking for a little information, maybe a referral. You as they say, are on the inside. I’m prepared to reward you handsomely for your help.”
Safada interrupted Ella. “Missus Giselle already have real estate person.”
“What, who?”
“But she mad with him now.”
Mark returned from the bathroom, put a round of drinks on the table and pulled up a chair. Each glass had lots of ice and lime slices.
“Who’s mad with who?” he asked.
“Thank you for the drinks,” Ella said.
“Yes, obrigada,” Safada said.
Ella shot him a look, taking a sip of her sweet, citrusy drink. “Safada was just saying that Missus Giselle already has a real estate broker.”
Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Ella turned back to Safada. “But why is she mad at him?” She had to know who it was.
Safada sighed dramatically. “She about to tell him sell house for her in Sea Cliff, but she not happy with news on TV.”
“What news?” Mark asked.
“She say she don’t want someone die while sell house.”
Ella looked incredulously at Mark. “Gordon Elway,” she said.
“Well that figures,” responded Mark, “the little high society ass kisser was working on Giselle.”
“It fits.” Ella looked back at Safada, reaching into her purse.
“You know Safada, you’ve already been very helpful. I’d like you to know how much I appreciate this little conversation we’re having.” Under the table, Ella passed the envelope she’d taken from her purse. She intended to slip it into Safada’s lap, but instead brushed the inside of her thigh, causing the young beauty to sit up straight and smile broadly.
“Excuse me, dear,” Ella said trying to regain her composure. She pulled her hand back and gave the envelope to Safada directly across the table.
“That was discreet,” said Mark.
“No comments from you,” she replied, taking another sip from her drink. “What’s this drink called anyway, I love it.”
“It’s from Brazil, a caipirinha,” Safada said in a beautiful accent. When she spoke in her native Portuguese, her speech instantly turned lovely and lilting.
“I might just want another one of these.”
“Tenha cuidado, be careful.” Safada once again turned her lascivious look on Ella. “They very strong.”
Ella looked over at Mark as if to say “what’s up with this chick?” Mark looked back, amused. Safada opened Ella’s envelope, taking a long glance inside. She appeared satisfied, and quickly slipped it into a little purse.
“So Safada,” Ella continued, “do you think Gordon Elway still has a chance to be your boss’ real estate agent?”
“I didn’t say name. But she is mad with him. I think he loose.”
“Is there anyone else in the running?”
Safada obviously understood English better than she spoke it because nothing got by her. “No, Missus Giselle say she looking for other. Going to talk to Kearney, her son.”
“Safada, I want to ask you something. And please keep in mind what’s in that envelope I just gave you is only the beginning. If you’re able to help out, there’s quite a bit more where that came from.” Ella was beginning to feel the drink. “Do you think you can recommend me? My agency will represent Giselle very fairly and get her the most possible money for her beautiful home.”
“Why she listen to me?” Safada said coyly. “I just maid.”
“Because you’re with her every day, and she does listen to you. You can tell her you met me, and you liked me.”
Mark watched the exchange with obvious relish. Ella jumped when Safada’s knee grazed slowly against hers under the table. She gulped down nearly a quarter of her drink. The band started to play again, and the music sounded great.
“Let’s dance,” said Safada. She grabbed Ella and Mark’s hands and pulled them on to the dance floor.
Chapter 6
The prospective home of Roberta and Starka Littlefeather-Jones sat back from the street, giving passers-by an unstinting view of the cemented over front yard and unkempt landscaping. Ella waited for Jeff Arnold out in front on the sidewalk. They both planned to meet with the appraiser. Ella didn’t usually attend to such mundane matters personally, but with her clients having second thoughts she wanted to make sure the deal went well, and Jeff had asked to check the property out on behalf of the lending bank. At $1 million, the purchase price stretched even the most generous comparison to recent sales of similar homes in the neighborhood, but then again so did nearly every other home sale in San Francisco, with prices on such a steep upswing.
A comparable house down the block, in the same shabby condition and an equal number of bedrooms, closed earlier in the week for $435,000. An agent in Ella’s Pacific Heights office represented the seller.
A year earlier most properties in the neighborhood sold in the mid-200’s, but things had really started skyrocketing during the past six months. If the Littlefeather-Jones deal were to close for $1 million, it would represent a month over month neighborhood appreciation rate of approximately 125%. Ella intended to mine this for the marketing gold that it was, proving that Barker Brokers could bring in top dollar faster than anybody else.
She didn’t see Jeff pull up in his Jaguar XK, as she’d been distracted trying to find the front walkway of the Littlefeather-Jones house through all the brush and weed overgrowth. She’d just spotted some cracked cement visible through the fox tails when he broke her concentration.
“Hey beautiful,” Jeff said with a big smile.
Ella turned and smiled back. “Hey, yourself.”
“What a palace.”
“I see potential, don’t you?”
Jeff looked at Ella with twinkling eyes. “Yeah, there could be some potential.”
She blushed. “Do you think the buyers will qualify?”
“Who couldn’t qualify for one of these loans? I only suggested tagging along because I want to ask you out.”
Straight and to the point, Ella liked that. She felt flattered but not completely surprised. She had a pretty good sense of mutual attraction just before the shot rang out at the Noe Valley open house. She opened her mouth to respond when a very large and menacing looking Roberta Littlefeather-Jones suddenly appeared behind Jeff.
“Sorry to interrupt your sweet, little pre-fuck moment. We’re not so sure we want to qualify anymore,” Roberta said. Her fine boned lover Starka skulked at her side, saying nothing.
The turn of events surprised Ella, and pissed her off. She had not invited the buyers along.
Roberta seemed to sense this. “We have every right to be here.”
Ella recovered quickly. “Of course you do, this is your new home.” She didn’t mean it. Remorseful buyers tagging along could do nothing but negatively affect the appraisal by pointing out every possible defect. Her job now was to close the deal at the agreed upon sales price. Roberta and Starka had signed on the dotted line, and they had a responsibility to perform, as the legal term would have it.
Jeff looked at Ella, eyebrows raised.
“You seemed so excited when we made the offer,” Ella said.
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
Quiet, delicate Starka shouted at the top of her lungs. “Before we realized we’d lost our fucking minds, OK?”
Ella flinched. For such a little thing, Starka possessed a bold and knifelike voice when angry.
“I mean, look at that piece of shit in the driveway,” Starka added. “We’re obligated to leave it there forever?”
They all turned to look at the plywood clad recreational vehicle which the sellers had so painstakingly constructed.
“This is nothing new from when you saw the house last week,” Ella said.
Now it was Roberta’s turn. “And the dogs buried in the yard, dozens of ‘em. I believe in spirits and animal rights, and this is just plain wrong.” Her look of anger changed to one of confusion, then sadness. “It was the first house we looked at.” Now she almost cried.
“This ladies, is the San Francisco real estate market,” replied Ella.
Roberta growled. “We want our money back. Every last penny, all one hundred thousand dollars of that deposit.”
“Are the sellers home?” Jeff asked.
She shook her head, glancing to her left to see the appraiser Bill Reilly, arriving on foot.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “What’s going on here?”
Ella held up her hand for Bill to wait a minute. She turned to the women. “You are welcome to accompany the appraisal, you’re paying for it. However as your broker I must warn you that any effort to void the contract at this late date…”
“Late date?” Starka asked. “We just signed a few days ago.”
“Any date is late after signing a contingency-free sales contract,” Ella responded. “I’m only protecting you by telling you this. If you try and back out now, you’ll lose your deposit. The sellers can and will sue you. After your attitude on the phone the other day Roberta, I took the liberty of inquiring, without saying why, to see if maybe, just maybe, they might release you from the contract.” Of course Ella had done no such thing. “However the sellers are resolute about going through with the sale. You’ll either lose your money or end up in court, and be forced to buy the house.”
“We’re already being forced,” said a shaken looking Starka.
Ella smiled vibrantly. “Look at the bright side. This house,” she said waving like Vanna White toward the overgrown, falling down wreck and homemade motor home, “is going up in value every day. You’re going to make a lot of money.”
*******
The appraisal went off without a hitch. Roberta and Starka were desultory company but kept quiet while the appraiser did his work. Bill Reilly had worked with Ella for years, and his appraisals always came in at the sales price, or very, very near. He knew how to price in an appreciating market. He’d questioned one or two things about the property, but as they’d walked out the front door he’d given Ella a quick, surreptitious nod, code for “don’t worry.” As part of his remuneration, Bill received a quite profitable holiday card from Ella every year.
To top it off, Ella accepted Jeff’s dinner invitation for the coming Saturday night.
*******
When Ella returned to the office, her secretary Bootsie handed her a message from Giselle Frackle, provoking an electrifying jolt of adrenaline. The nocturnal meeting with Safada and subsequent hangover might just well be paying off.
“The caller had a very strong accent, I couldn’t understand her all that well,” Bootsie said.
“That would be Safada, Giselle’s maid.”
“Well, she called about a half hour ago. I think she said she wants you to come to the mansion at 4:00 tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you Bootsie, I’ll call back and confirm myself.” Ella would wait a couple of hours before confirming. She didn’t want to appear too eager.
In the meantime, she had several open houses to attend that afternoon. Open houses used to be primarily on Sundays, or perhaps the occasional Tuesday. Now they blossomed all over the city every day of the week, in an effort to cope with the burgeoning crowds. Weekdays drew somewhat fewer people, with advance ticketing generally not necessary.
Her clients, the Sandersons, hailed from the outer Sunset neighborhood near Ocean Beach. A couple and their three-year old child, they wanted
to live in a sunnier and more central location, away from the wind and fog that typified San Francisco’s perpetually cool coastal environs.
Ella hadn’t yet personally met the Sandersons. But when she saw the little family waiting in front of the townhouse complex in Corona Heights, she instantly recognized their rather unattractive child, the same little brat who’d been drawing on the pastel walls of the Noe Valley murder house.
Ella braced herself as she extended her hand. “You must be the Sandersons, I’m Ella Barker.”
“Hi, I’m Paloma, this is my husband Servinko,” said the perky 30-something wife, “and this is our son Taylor.” A rather unusual combination of names, Ella thought, as she took in Servinko. He was in his chunky mid-50’s with dark, unkempt hair falling onto his forehead. He sweated while he drew deep, rapid drags off a cigarette. Smoking in California these days had become a highly stigmatized, nearly illegal activity, and those who dared indulge often found themselves victims of righteous, liberal backlash. Servinko grunted in the way of greeting.
“Hi Taylor,” said Ella, doing her best to smile at the child, who pulled his mother’s hair and squirmed wildly as she tried to hold him.
“Down!!” he wailed.
Ella soldiered on. “Shall we go in? This is really a lovely home. Since it’s the first one we’ve seen together, I’ll be interested to see what you think.”
They walked up to the front gate. It was a large and confusingly laid out complex, so the listing agent, in an effort at creative assistance, had wound a wide pink ribbon from the main gate up several twisting outdoor staircases, leading to the front door of the open house.
“What’s this?” Servinko asked in a gravelly voice, fingering the femininely colored ribbon in his rough hewn hands.
Ella began carefully. “We are very close to the Castro district here, and the listing agent, I guess…” she shrugged with a half smile, “just wants… to fit in,” she finished brightly.
“You mean they only want fags to buy the joint?”