“Not like you, eh, Vikki?” He teased. “What legs! Whooo-wee!” He turned to Wapinski, said, “She gets those legs from running that Cataract Trail.”
“I was talking about that ruling,” Dawn said, “that killing an unborn fetus doesn’t constitute murder.”
“Come on, Hon.” Brandon shook his head, sat beside her. “Let’s not get into that. Nobody wants to talk about that stuff.”
Victoria gracefully removed her lingerie, stepped into the tub, moved to the far side. Red and Gino stripped and slid in next to each other on the near side, and Bobby, feeling lost, removed his clothes quickly and dropped into the only space left—between Red and Victoria. For a moment everyone ooohed and aaahed as the air jets blasted the 101-degree water onto knees and backs and shoulders.
“You know,” Dawn began, seriously again, “they were also talking about that crazy guy in Burlingame who the police shot.”
“Give it a break,” Brandon said lowly. To the others he said, “She gets a little distant on grass.”
“He was a former army captain who went nuts because his wife didn’t come home one night and—”
“God!” Brandon snapped. “If you’re going to talk about it at least get it straight. It wasn’t Burlingame. It was Burlington. Burlington, Connecticut.”
“Hey, did you hear the one about the newlyweds”—Gino overpowered the tiff—“who didn’t know the difference between Vaseline and putty?” Red put her hands to her face covering a shriek. In the water Bobby could feel Victoria’s calf and foot caressing his. Gino finished, “All their windows fell out!”
Red laughed, coughed. Brandon handed her the bottle. She took a short swig, passed it back.
“How come no one wants to talk about real stuff?” Dawn did not look at them but kept her eyes on the bubbling water. Unseen, beneath the dark roils, Victoria’s fingers lightly brushed Bobby’s left thigh.
“Do you really run Cataract Trail?” Bobby asked Victoria, trying to control himself.
“We could talk—” Red began, blushed, finished, “about women’s orgasms.” Brandon’s foot stretched across the middle of the tub, brushed by Bobby’s and Victoria’s knees on its way to Red’s legs. Suddenly Red shot up with a loud, “Ooooo!” Then she laughed and settled back in.
“I try to do at least a race a month,” Victoria said to Bobby. Her hand found his cock and began stroking it. “I’m getting ready for the Dipsea at the end of August. Do you run?”
“We could talk about Charles Manson and that new crucifixion stance of his....”
“Dawn, Honey, we’re naked. We’re not going to talk about those things.”
“A little,” Bobby said. Her hand felt wonderful. Careful not to show the slightest movement of his left shoulder, he moved his left hand between Victoria’s legs and slowly allowed his middle finger to nestle between her labia. “I did a lot of hiking but lately I’ve done nothing but sit. Either in the office or in my car.”
“We need more wine,” Gino said. “I’ll be right back.” He got up and left, and Red stood, her small breasts red from the hot water. “I’ve got to sit out for a minute,” she said. “I’m getting light-headed.” She raised one foot to the seat to step out, swayed. Brandon popped up, grabbed her shoulders. “I’ve got you,” he said gallantly as he pressed the front of his body to her back. “Just lay down right there.” He indicated the deck. “Sometimes the heat gets to me, too.”
Red lay on her stomach, her legs together, her hands under her chin.
“Take a few deep breaths.” Brandon continued to help her. He sat beside her, gently rubbed the small of her back.
“Oh.” Red sighed. “That feels much better.” She arched her head back then pushed up with her arms, raising her torso from the deck. She inhaled deeply, held it, slowly let the air escape and lowered herself to the deck—seemingly oblivious to Victoria and Bobby though cognizant of Brandon, and of Gino who now knelt by her with the chilled bottle and let her hold it to her forehead before she took a swig.
“I’m too hot, too,” Dawn said. She stood exposing her large breasts. “Did you hear about the hippie protestors up by The Res?”
“Ah, no.” Gino eyed her, expecting a joke.
“They busted their asses—” Dawn giggled, “for smoking grass.”
After the hot tub party Bobby and Red had returned to their trailer, in silence; had made love without talk, Bobby, so stimulated, ejaculating only seconds after penetration, and Red, still intoxicated, in no mood to give him a chance to recharge before falling asleep. In the morning they had had their first full-blown argument.
“You didn’t tell me Gino and Victoria were so classy.”
“What’d you expect?” Red snapped. She jammed an orange juice carton back into the refrigerator, slammed the door.
“Well ...” Bobby paused. He was not ready for her anger. “You know, I thought they’d be like Tim and Suzie.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“C’mon, Red. You know.”
“What?”
“Suzie was a slob. That house was filthy, and like, you know, half the stuff she had in the refrigerator was covered with gray fuzz.” He opened the refrigerator, removed the O.J., poured himself a coffee cupful. “I couldn’t wait to get out....”
“Well, you could have cleaned it up.” She turned her shoulder to him.
“Aw ... that’s not the point.” He stood over her, sounding like a father lecturing a thirteen-year-old. “I just wasn’t expecting, you know, last night.... Such a nice place. I thought they’d be more like ... hippieish.”
“You certainly seemed to be getting along with Victoria. She was hanging all over you.”
“Me! I didn’t even know we were going to take our clothes off!”
“What do you think you do in a hot tub?”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t think ... For one thing I didn’t think you’d let those guys rub your ass.”
“Like you and Victoria weren’t playing footsie in the hot tub!”
“I didn’t start—Geez, you went up there to get naked with those two guys. I don’t think we should go—”
“I didn’t do anything but have a good time. And I don’t have to justify that to you!”
His voice rose. “I’m not saying you’ve got to justify it. Just tell me first.”
“Why?! Do you own me?”
“Oh geez!” His hands flew in the air. Orange juice splashed from the cup. “Wouldn’t it be common courtesy—”
“You just want to piss on my fire. If I break out, even a little....”
“Aw hell”—he flicked the back of a hand at her—“break out all you want.” Wapinski stalked off toward the bedroom, grabbed a towel, stomped to the bathroom, snarled, “I’ve got the Pierces coming in today at one. I’m showering.”
“On July Fourth?!”
“Yeah. On July Fourth! He doesn’t get a lot of days off.”
For the next six hours Wapinski had again concentrated on the needs and capabilities of “his” buyer, on the availability and suitability of MLS homes. By seven he’d shown John and Joan Pierce a dozen homes—four the Pierces could afford but didn’t like, four that would be a stretch, three they could afford only if John’s father gave them the down payment, and one in Golden Vista which was out of the question. Joan Pierce wanted the home in Golden Vista.
Bobby had returned to the trailer exasperated and drained. He’d met Red returning from North Bay Mall with a new kitchenette set tied to the roof of her pistachio-colored Pinto. The incident at Gino’s was sidestepped, repressed.
He sat there, not actually surveying the conference room table but feeling the presence of each individual, feeling the positive charge of their interaction, sensing them as a team, a platoon, almost as a family. At the head of the table was Peter Wilcox, Great Homes Realty’s dynamic, nearly manic, office manager. Then eleven salespeople including Bobby and petite, bubbly Bea Hollands.
Bobby listened as various conve
rsations went on around the table, caught bits and pieces, lost most because his damaged hearing could not sort out single voices amid cacophony.
Alfred Bartecchi and Dan Coleman were evidently against it but Ernest Schnell argued, “I hope they do legalize gambling here. Why not? Why should all the money go to Nevada? Imagine how much this building’d be worth if it were a casino.”
“Yeah, but imagine what would happen to the properties if every place along The Strip had one-armed bandits.”
“Value is determined by the amount of income the property produces—” Ronald Colson chimed in.
Coleman cut him off. “San Martin’s desirable because we don’t have a bunch of ticky-tack. You bring that trash in here ...”
On the other side of the table stocky Lisa Fonari was baiting Tom Houghton, using her impressive cleavage to befuddle him. “I’d strike too if they sprayed that poison stuff on me while I was working,” she said.
“It’s harmless and it controls the weeds. Those sixteen in Tulare ...”
“They sprayed it to kill bugs, not weeds.”
“I think it was that 2,4,5-T stuff. Weed killer.”
“If it’s bad enough for them to ban it, they shouldn’t spray it. They should destroy the remaining stock ...”
“... I think they got sick from food poisoning. They leave their lunch bags in the sun ...”
“Yeah. That’s what the growers want you to believe. Ya-di ya-di ya.”
Beside Bobby, Red conversed with Peter Wilcox. “Really, I think it would be wonderful to live in San Francisco. In the Marina. I love it there.”
He patted her hand. “Then you should go for it,” he said.
“Or maybe Sausalito,” Red added. “I think that would be exciting.”
“There’s nothing holding you back.” Peter looked deeply into her face, smiled his perfect smile.
Bobby glanced over the unsigned deposit receipt he’d prepared for John and Joan Pierce, but he did not read it. “Okay, people,” Peter began. The conversations spurted as the salespeople attempted to get in their last phrases. “Come on, quiet down. We’ve got a lot to cover.” Bobby glanced past Jane Boswell to Dan Coleman. For a week he’d been meaning to ask Dan if anyone in the office was going to run the Dipsea. “Let’s go over the status of our listings.” Peter began with the standard agenda. Over and over again the listers lamented, “No action,” or “Not even shown,” or “I could use some help on this one.”
“Listen people,” Wilcox finally said. “I know there’s a lot of talk about the recession reaching us but don’t believe it. You bring in a deal and I guarantee you we’ll get the financing.” Wilcox eyed each salesperson. “You’ve got to realize we’re in the demand path. People have to buy. People have to sell. When they can’t buy in Marin they come up here or go to the East Bay. Great! Send them there. Set it up with Concord or Danville or Livermore. But put it through Concord. The central office has to know for you to receive your referral. You all know how it works, right?”
Red raised a shy hand, one finger extended, about two inches above the table. “I don’t,” she said sweetly.
“Lisa—” Peter Wilcox turned to Fonari who screwed her eyes up toward the chandelier, “will you go over that with Red?”
Lisa clicked her tongue. “Why not?” She smiled, waved an arm bedecked with bracelets at Red. “Don’t get frazzled over it, honey.”
“Look, people,” Peter continued, “we should be in a warm-weather blitz. Into the home stretch before school starts. People are moving. We’re better priced than Marin. We’re closer in than Sonoma. First-home buyers can’t buy into Marin. Nor can people who need bigger homes. Get em up here. Sell em on San Martin. Let the San Rafael office list their home. Twenty percent referral. Twelve hundred and five homes sold in our area last year. We did twenty-one percent of that. But, damn it, this year, of five hundred seventeen closings we haven’t even been a part of ninety. Eighty-seven for thirteen salespeople! That’s less than seven each in seven months! Jon, can you live on six thousand a year?” Jon Ross lowered his eyes. Wilcox fixed his eyes on Liza Caldicott. “What about you?”
“Henry makes enough for us to get by.” Her voice was loud, miffed.
Wilcox gasped. “Some of you aren’t even paying for your desk space.”
“Pete—” Al Bartecchi challenged the office manager, “cool it.”
“Damn it, Al. You guys have got to sell. Sell! Sell! Maybe you, Dan and Ernie are doing okay but I want you all to be rich. Money!” Wilcox rapped the table. “Money! Money! Money makes the world go round. Listen people, I’ll get your buyers financing. Just bring in somethin reasonable. We’ll make it fly. Okay?” No one answered. Red nodded. “Okay, that’s that. Anybody have anything else?”
No one spoke up. Those with pads and pens began gathering them. A few comments wafted between the salespeople.
“Ah—” Bobby Wapinski stuttered. He wasn’t certain if he, the new guy, should ask, should change the subject. “What’s going on up at the reservoirs? I’ve heard the town’s going to open them up for development.”
“Who’d you hear that from?” The question shot from Ernest Schnell’s mouth.
“No way!” Lisa Fonari squawked. Then she laughed. “My great grandfather would roll over in his grave.”
“There’s been rumors about that for years,” Peter Wilcox said. “Just talk. By the way, did the Pierces sign the deposit receipt on that Golden Vista place?”
“No.” Bobby picked his pad and pen from the table. “His father drew the limit at six thousand. They’re asking her mother for four more.”
Peter collared Bobby. The others cleared the room. “I’ve got an old client up there who’s been thinking of selling. If I can get them to put the house up, say for forty-four—”
“Pheew! I’m stretching them at forty-two five....”
“But listen. If it’s our listing, there’s a twenty-six hundred and forty dollar commission ... let’s see, that’s about eight hundred to Concord ... that’d let us give them back eighteen hundred as a hidden second. Particularly if the sales price is forty-two thou but we get Hinderman at S. M. S. & L. to appraise it at forty-four. We can make this thing fly.”
“You mean ...”
“Yeah. The extra two grand covers their closing costs, plus they get our eighteen hundred. At twelve percent.”
“I don’t know if they’d go for that. They’re pretty straitlaced.”
“See me on it tomorrow, Bob. I’ll make a few calls. Tell em the other place—who’s got it, Everest?—tell the Pierces Everest took a deposit on it.”
He had not expected any of it: the charge card bills, the articles, the letters, the magic brownies, his own bizarre reaction. It was a bright, clear, beautiful mid-September morning. Sun rays filtered through the sheer curtains Red had bought—“but they were on sale”—and hung over the large window. Wapinski was preoccupied, serious, exhausted, attempting to work through it. He sat at the new table in the single-wide trailer in Bahia de Martin Mobile Home Park. Sunlight bathed the bill box and personal financial files Bobby had spread out. He’d ignored so much the past few months it was imperative he take the day off, re-entrench.
Since July he had sold and closed two more homes, and had listed and had sold by others three. His commissions to date totaled $6,930, a yearly rate, if he could keep it up, of nearly $17,000. And he had thus far managed to avoid—on the advice of both Coleman and Bartecchi—the pitfalls of taking commissions as hidden second mortgage notes, or helping buyers create financing beyond their means. Unfortunately he had not avoided the pitfalls of preferring the comfort of self-deception to the anguish of truth.
Wapinski sorted the stack of bills. On the back of an envelope he listed each: rent, Red’s car payment, auto insurance, medical insurance. When he came to the credit cards he listed total balance and minimum due—thinking it would be best to pay the minimum due, except that the mortgage company might pick up unpaid balances—still $125 to the
Emporium ... What the—? What’d she buy? He pulled the statement from the household receipt file: Estée Lauder—$43.58; women’s undergarments—$56.40; cutlery—$37.50. He pulled the BankAmericard statement: Le France Boutique—$109; Mitchell’s Jeans and Tops—$86.50. Crocker Master Charge: Sausalito Food Factory—$36.80; S. L. Davis European Design Furniture—$266.67. Goddamn it! We’re supposed to be saving!!! He bit his lip, fumed beneath his breath. “Necessities!” He growled. He wrote out minimum checks, filed the receipts, suppressed his anger.
Red was out shopping, again. She was no longer associated with Great Homes, no longer in the real estate business.
“That bastard,” she’d seethed one August evening.
“Who?” Bobby’d asked.
“Wilcox,” she’d stammered. “He told me I could make twenty thousand a year. That’s like forty sales. More than three a month! Nobody can do that! I bet even Schnell doesn’t make that.” Bobby had been silent, empathetic. “I can’t even close one every other month.” Red had plopped down on their study-work-reading mattress. “And once you do sell one, it’s over for five years.”
“Well, you build up a clien—” he had begun.
“I’m going to sell insurance. I talked to the most wonderful man. At least in insurance the commission comes in every time people renew. And you get a base salary.”
It was her fourth job in ten months. Red was now training across the bay in Richmond with People’s Life and Casualty. By October she’d be working out of the Larkspur branch office, fifteen miles south. Today, however, she was playing hookey, out shopping—out, Bobby prayed, only window shopping—for items for their “maybe-new-home.”
Bobby rose, poured himself another cup of coffee. Dishes from breakfast, from last night, the night before, were all in the sink. The trailer needed vacuuming, dusting, a general pickup. It seemed to him the more time Red spent in the trailer, the messier the place became.
In July Bobby had listed a fixer-upper at 506 Deepwoods Drive in Martinwood Estates for $29,900. For a month he’d held open houses, advertised, prodded other salespeople to show it. He’d even offered a fifty-dollar bill—on Peter Wilcox’s suggestion—to any agent bringing in an offer. “The owner’s old,” he’d told all during an office meeting. “Eighty-two. She’s not in good health. And she needs the proceeds to get into a nursing home. She really needs help.”
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