Dirty Talk

by Lauren Landish

  Finishing my dinner, I pull my laptop into my lap and start searching for potential properties. It was one of the first things that helped Oliver start to place trust in me. I’m always looking for the next deal, and I routinely find potential properties for him. But my next goal is to do a flip from start to finish . . . find the property, research it, renovate it, and sell it on my own. It’ll be my little jump forward on Oliver’s trusting me to be independent.

  I get lost in the listings, and before I know it, it’s almost midnight. I click Save on a few of the listings that I want to drive by this weekend and crash into bed, happily exhausted. Maybe it’s not a night on the town, but I feel like I’ve accomplished something.

  Caleb

  “Ugh,” I mutter involuntarily with a wince, holding my hand over my mouth. It doesn’t help much. I still feel like the stench is a physical blanket that’s assaulting my mouth, nose, and eyes to the point I’ve got tears running down my cheeks. I’ve got a pretty strong stomach. I’ve choked down plenty of disgusting stuff in my time, and I have no problem going elbows deep in a clogged toilet if I have to . . . but this is pushing the limits.

  The house is a mess—trash in the corners, holes in the walls, a decided slope to the floor from the front of the house to the back, and a wretched putrid smell that seems to be soaked into every square inch of the walls. When the listing said the house was a ‘fixer-upper’, I think they were being generous. No wonder Oliver got it so cheap.

  I pull out my phone, dialing Oliver. He wanted me to give him a call as soon as I could give him a work estimate. While I wait for him to pick up, I try the window next to me, but it’s jammed. Gagging, I head to the back door, but the metal screen door is stuck until I put my boot on the lock and break it off. Fuck it, that’s the least of the concerns for this place.

  “Hey, Caleb, how’s it going?” Oliver greets me. In the background, I can hear the lively conversation in the coffee shop & deli that is Mindy’s Place. It’s a weird thing about Oliver. He has a perfectly good office upstairs that he could use, but he spends most of his creative time either in the basement taking up a corner of the metal table the pizza chefs use for rolling dough, or a seat in the shop if things aren’t too busy. “You’re quick on the call. You have an estimate for me already?”

  “Hey, Oli, and yeah. How’s the restaurant today?”

  “Good,” he says. “Mindy had the idea of running a panini lunch buffet, and she’s got a line out the door. So the grill guys are going nuts. How’s the house?”

  “Man, how big is your bank account?” I ask, gulping down the sweet clean air of the backyard. It’s a total mess too, but at least the smell isn’t so bad. “Actually, check that. I know you could afford it. But if you want my best advice, get a couple of Molotov cocktails because this house needs to be burned down and rebuilt. It’d be faster and cheaper than trying to fix it.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  A squeaking noise behind me reminds me of another thing, and I’m glad that I always wear some old military surplus combat boots when I go into places like this. “I’m not even joking about how bad this place is structurally. And it’s got rats, not mice, fucking Lower East Side sewer-size rats in the kitchen. You owe me for this one. I’m gonna need two showers to wash the stench off. And I’m thinking of burning this shirt.”

  I can hear the wheels whirring in his mind. It’s what I respect about Oliver. Some people, they’d be pissed off that the house is so much worse than advertised. He isn’t. He knows how to make a profit on this deal no matter what. “You up for lunch? If I smell another panini being grilled right now, I’m gonna lose it. Meet me at the taco stand over by the hotel in ten so we can stay outside. And I’ll stay upwind of you.”

  I laugh. “Hey, at least you can see what a real man smells like instead of that fancy cologne shit Mindy has you wearing. But I’ll take the tacos. See ya in ten.”

  Oliver laughs, and we hang up. Walking around the house to avoid upsetting the local rodents, I peel off my shirt and toss it into my tool carrier. I was serious about ditching the damn thing. I grab the bottle of antiseptic gel I keep in my glove box for emergencies and squirt my entire chest and arms. It’ll dry out my skin some, but it’ll at least cut the smell and make sure I don’t get some funky ass fungal growth. I get my upper body as best I can before discreetly getting my balls and deciding that’s enough. Pulling on my spare t-shirt, an old high school football shirt that’s seen better days but still keeps a sentimental place in my rotation, I drive over to the taco truck that’s a mainstay in the downtown area near the Grand Waterways Hotel and Park. Oli’s there a few minutes later, pulling up in his new car, a Lexus GX in silver gray.

  “I see you’re driving the soccer mom-mobile,” I greet him, slapping hands with him. “What, Mindy’s got the Ferrari?”

  He’s never had a Ferrari. He wouldn’t blow his money on something like that, but he laughs. “Yeah, well, it’s still stylin’. Come on, the tacos are on me.”

  The taco truck’s famous around town for their fried shrimp tacos, and we get two each. Finding a spot on a nearby planter to sit down, I take a moment to inhale the aroma and to just enjoy the warm day. Now it’s time to eat.

  “So tell me about the place,” Oliver says after we’ve both stuffed our faces. “I mean, I get your point. Firebombing the place would be easiest, but that’s not exactly what I can put in an email without having the police knock on the door.”

  I fill Oliver in, and he winces. “Trust me, man, best thing to do would be to raze the place and start over. I’d bet even the foundation’s screwed up.”

  “Okay,” Oliver says casually. When I don’t reply, he laughs. “Caleb, I know it’s not because you’re bullshitting me or being lazy. If you say it can’t be renovated as is without being massively expensive, then that’s what the deal is. Okay, it’s settled. When I go back, I’ll call the heavy equipment guys. You got another job lined up this afternoon?” Oliver asks, and I smirk. “Figured you were getting busy.”

  “It’s not bad once you get past your mom’s friends trying to get a little extra sugar to go with their repair work,” I reply before telling him about Mrs. Barnes trying to seduce me with lemonade and cookies. “But other than that . . . business is booming.”

  Oliver chuckles. “Good, good, but what else you got going on, man? Every time we talk, you’re about work. Rewiring this, tiling that, painting the other. What else is going on? You too busy working to get out?”

  If there’s anything about Oli that’s a pain in the ass, it’s his insistence on being a big brother to me. I get it. With Tony gone and Oli being a father now, he’s got that instinct going strong in him, but damn, he can get a little nosy sometimes. “I literally just told you I’m getting propositions left and right, even with snacks! What about you and Mindy? Are the kids keeping y’all up all night still?”

  Oli drops it. He can see I’m not in the mood, and besides, he can’t pass up the chance to gush about the kids. “They’re doing great, man. You gotta see them with their Grandma when she visits. It’s pure comedy. It seems weird to think that we’ve got one starting preschool soon, though. Man, I’m telling you, you need to get one of your own. They’re a hoot!”

  Oliver stops, seeing the expression on my face, and I know he’s seeing the warning flash in my eyes before he covers his faux pas with a smile. I let it go and give him a grin back. “Kids aren’t in my future, or at least, no time soon. That’s why I love to spoil yours rotten . . . and then send them back. I’m fun Uncle Caleb who lets them eat cake for breakfast, stay up all night, and jump on the couch!”

  Oliver’s eyebrows shoot to his forehead, and he half chokes on his limonada that we’re having with our tacos. “You . . . let my kids eat cake for breakfast? Now I know why they came back last time begging to go spend the night at your place. Best keep that between us and not let Mindy know.”

  “What can I say? Your daughter gives me those big puppy dog eyes of hers and
I can’t do anything except turn on the cartoons and go get some cake.”

  Oliver laughs, nodding. “Yeah, she’s good at that. Okay, we’ll keep it between us because if Mindy finds out, you won’t get a chance to babysit again, and I happen to like being able to take my wife out on the town every once in awhile. If you ever find a woman you want to marry, don’t forget to do date nights. Keeps things solid, sane, and spicy.”

  “Sounds like a recipe for a good taco too,” I wisecrack, and Oliver shakes his head. He knows I’m not listening, and he knows why.

  “Okay, well thanks for checking on the house this morning. I’ll have Martha get in touch with the heavy equipment contractors, see what we can get out there. As soon as I know, I’ll get in touch with you on another property. Sure you won’t do more scouting for me?”

  I shake my head, offering him my hand. “No dice, Oliver. Besides, I heard Cassie’s been doing well for you guys on that. She even skipped our run last weekend because she was, and I quote, ‘gonna impress that man if it’s the last thing I do.’ Apparently, you’re that man. Lucky bastard.” I laugh.

  Oliver nods. “Yeah, well, you should find the time for more than sharing a coffee downstairs. Seriously, both of you have momentum now. You can let off the gas a little bit and hang out for a change.”

  “You trying to play matchmaker with me?” I ask, and Oliver laughs. “What?”

  “Caleb, I would be a horrible matchmaker. No, that’s just general advice, and I know you two are friendly, that’s all. Find the time when you can and hang out a bit. Be good for both of your mental health.”

  I think about it and nod. “If I find the time, sounds good. She’s fun to joke with—you know how she is. Thousand and one laughs, and then I want to kill her.”

  “Yeah, I know someone just like that,” Oliver says, meaning his wife, and I roll my eyes. “Anyway, take care, and don’t eat too many of those cookies. You never know if one of my mom’s friends has slipped something into the mix. You might find yourself tied up in someone’s basement.”

  I laugh. “Sounds more like something Mindy or Roxy would do. Should I check your basement sometime for ropes, whips, and handcuffs?”

  Oliver growls mockingly, shaking his head. “Think I gotta get back to work. See you later, Caleb.”

  Cassie

  “Hey, Martha, it’s Cassie,” I say into my phone as I check that I’ve got everything I need. I’m quite the packer. Even going to the grocery store involves a packing list for me. And airports? The security guys there hate me with a passion. “Listen, I’ll be out of the office today. I’ve got my eyes on three different properties that might be good purchases.”

  It’s not a total lie. I do plan on spending most of the day working, but if I get done early, I still have some shoes to buy. I tell Martha a few details just in case she needs to get ahold of me, then I hang up and plug my phone into my dash dock where it’ll work as my navigation if I need it. I’m terrible with driving directions. I don’t think I could get myself from the office downstairs to the cafe if I didn’t have it sometimes. Thankfully, I already input the three addresses for today’s journey, and I check my other supplies. Laptop in case I need to send a serious email or something—check. Frappe from Mindy’s Place for my morning caffeine buzz—check. Shoulder bag with my camera, wallet, and of course, all the other stuff I need to make sure I look good if I happen to run into Tom Hardy while I’m out—check. Always gotta be prepared. That’s my motto.

  I fire up my engine, and Roxy’s cover of Hallelujah starts up. Damn, that girl can sing, and while she’s not my entire playlist, it’s a great way to start the morning. I cruise, letting my body relax as I get ready for a day in the ‘mobile office’. I’ve always enjoyed this part of my job, working outside the office. Investigating new properties is fun. I always feel like I’m part Sherlock Holmes, part Storage Wars, and part True Detective. House Hunters? Please. I’m serious with this. I’m not going to be worrying if the kitchen has granite countertops or not. I’m looking for the deal.

  It’s probably the most fun part of my job. Most people, when they go looking for a house, they want the good stuff. They’re looking for new carpets, fresh paint, all the bells and whistles. We’re not. I want to find the worst house in the best part of town, pick it up at a steal, sink fifteen thousand into it, and either rent it out or flip it for twenty percent profit. In fact, the best way to get Steele Solutions to cut a check for your property is to make sure the carpet needs to be replaced.

  It takes me about fifteen minutes to get to the first house, a two-bedroom for sale by a couple that’s moving up and out. It’s adorable and I love the all-brick construction, but as I get out of my car, I make sure to lock the doors. Our small town is nowhere near as bad as some of the nearby big cities, but every town’s got ‘that area’, the part of town where the folks who just don’t fit in live. Unfortunately for this couple, their house is right on the edge of ‘the tracks’, as we call it. On the edge, and looking around at the other houses, not in a good way either.

  It’s a shame too, because looking at the house itself, it’d be a place I’d love to live and start a family when the time’s right. There’s even a fireplace, and to me, nothing is more romantic than cuddling up in front of a real fire on a winter’s night. But no amount of renovation to the house will make up for the decidedly unsafe street it resides on.

  Hurrying back to my car, because Mama didn’t raise no fool, I’m off to property two. Pulling up out front, I feel a little tingle of excitement. The house has got hidden appeal, as it’s almost completely covered by a huge shaggy tree in the front that drapes down to meet the overgrown weeds standing as tall as I am. And while I’m on the shorter side, that’s for a woman, not for a weed!

  I get out of my car, checking my notes on my tablet before I try and fight my way through the jungle that is the yard. The house is in a good-ish neighborhood. It was just caught up in a court battle for years. An old man died, and his two sons fought over the family home. Finally, the probate court said fuck it, and the property’s up for sale.

  I walk up to the house, trying my best to keep to the cracked walkway. It’s a shame, really. The two sons could have gotten a lot higher value for this place if they’d just agreed to split the sale or to just have one of them sell it. Fuck, flip a coin. Don’t let a house get like this! Thank God for jeans that make my ass look good and light hiking boots.

  My initial excitement fades as I get inside. While the pictures that the website displayed showed the good side, they certainly hid the bad. All of the plumbing fixtures are corroded. The whole place will have to be repiped, and I bet from looking at the outlets, it’ll have to be rewired too. I didn’t think anyone even had outlets like that in their houses anymore.

  As I make my way upstairs, I’m tallying a list of projects for the house, and even before I get to the spare bedroom that has no ceiling because a leaky roof collapsed inward, I realize it’s not a money-making option. There’s light damage that can be replaced and repaired economically, and then there are total renovations that cost more than they’re worth. This house is definitely part of the second group. Damn it. Zero for two today. Off to the third on the list . . . and it’s nearly an hour out of town, just over the county line.

  I get on the Interstate and start to cruise. As I do, I realize that I’m not that far from the town where I lived as a little kid. I didn’t always live near the big city. In fact, for the first ten years of my life, I was a country girl. I spent my summers swimming in the river, riding my bike like a crazy person, and camping in the backyard of what was the best house ever. Two stories, it was an old farmhouse that my parents had bought and renovated before I was born. While the farm itself wasn’t ours, we still had a full acre to ourselves, a big garage, and a playset that gave me some of the best memories I could imagine. I haven’t stopped by since moving back to work with Oliver. The memories are a little too painful to think about. Still, I’m pulled toward check
ing it out.

  On a whim, I decide to get off the highway and head over to my old place. I haven’t been back here in over fifteen years, not since my mom got a new job and we had to move, but the turns are familiar to me. The street curves. A few of the houses have changed, but I can still identify some of them.

  When I see 614 Douglas, I’m slow driving, just sort of intending to do a drive-by of the old home. I’m certainly not intending to spend much more time than that. I have to get out to this third property for Oliver before the afternoon wears on any longer. But as I see the property, I hit my brakes, stunned. The house looks just like it did before, with the wide front and almost Alpine-steep roof that’s broken up by two jutting outcroppings. I’ve always thought they looked like eyes over the long porch that wraps around the whole front. The railing is just like it always was, a sort of off-white that made me think the house was a smiling face.

  But what causes me to smack my brakes isn’t the house, but the sign out front. I blink, rubbing my eyes, but when I open them, it’s still there, just like it was before.

  For Sale by Owner.

  Holy shit. My childhood home’s for sale.

  Cassie

  I stare at the house from the curb, my brain swept away on a flood of memories, some good, some bad. Here, twenty feet away from me, is the oak tree that Mama didn’t want me playing in, but I still did every chance I got since the trunk was split. She said it was because of storm damage when she was pregnant with me, but whatever the reason, thick branches started not that far off the ground, and to a little girl who loved to climb, it looked like a ladder to the sky. I scrambled up that ladder so often I knew every twist, nook, and cranny in the branches. At least, I thought I did until I was eight and slipped and fell. I’m lucky I got away with nothing but a small scar under my chin. In fact, it’s still visible if you know where to look.