“Right now, only two or three, but I think it’s gonna pick up. I got a lot more in the pipeline. Hey, how come you guys don’t do the foreclosures yourselves? What do you need me for?”
Bruce sang him a song about the firm being concerned about protecting its image, then grabbed the check and got up to leave. “By the way, ever sold anything at the auction?”
“Not yet. I mean, would you buy without an inspection and with no guarantee on the title? Plus closing in 21 days? And then evict the family? It’s tough. You’d have to be a real shark to buy under those conditions.”
* * *
After lunch with the foreclosure attorney, Bruce headed northeast toward the North Shore instead of driving south back to the office. He took Route 128 to Rockport, then turned back south along the shore roads. He had made this drive many times, yet was still awed by the size and majesty of many of the homes that rose up along the shores of the Atlantic. As he approached Marblehead, specific homes became familiar to Bruce, and resentment and a bit of anger replaced his awe as he allowed his childhood memories to wash ashore along with the waves of the Atlantic.
Bruce was twelve. Grandpa had decided that it was time Bruce learned the truth: The woman Bruce called Mom wasn’t really his mother. Bruce felt shock, then relief—the revelation answered a lot of questions that had kept a young Bruce awake deep into the night. It was tough to hear that your mother had abandoned you at birth, but it was a hell of a lot less traumatic than crying yourself to sleep because your mother kissed your brother goodnight every night and never did the same to you.
A few years later, Grandpa filled in the details. “Your dad was out at a convention in Las Vegas. I guess he had too much to drink or something, and the next thing he knows he’s gone back to his room with one of the dancers. Your real mother. Now this kind of thing was way out of character for your father, but knowing your mother, I mean your stepmother, it’s hard to blame him too much. Anyway, three months later, he gets a letter from the dancer. Of course, he does the right thing—he flies your real mother into Boston, and he makes sure she gets proper medical care and all. The plan was for this dancer to live in Boston with you to be near your father, but after a few months it was clear that the arrangement just wasn’t working out. Your stepmother was making life miserable for everyone. So your real mom agreed to fly back to Vegas and leave you here. They told everyone you were adopted—the truth would have been a bit tough to live with, your dad being a guidance counselor in town and all. But after that, we never heard from your real mother again. I tried to find her about five years ago, because I thought she should be part of your life. I tracked her as far as some modeling agency in Los Angeles, but then she seemed to have just disappeared. Somebody said they heard she went to Argentina.”
Bruce remembered his response. “That doesn’t sound like Dad.”
Grandpa had chuckled. “Well, your father wasn’t always so ... boring. And rigid. He used to have a fun streak. But he’s not a happy person, I’m afraid. Your stepmother is not an easy person to live with, as you know. I think your father’s way of dealing with his unhappiness is to simply refuse to have any emotional reaction to anything at all. It’s like he’s barricaded himself in a box—no emotions can come in, and none get out. He avoids the ocean, and the ocean avoids him.”
Unfortunately, by the time Grandpa told Bruce the true roots of his family discord, a young Bruce had already reached some conclusions of his own. Things were different, he had noticed, at his friends’ houses. They ate dinner together at a table, instead of in front of the television. They sat cuddled together on the couch. They talked about their days. And they kissed each other good night.
And what made his friends’ families different from his own? The answer was clear, arrived at with a degree of certainty that only a ten year-old, lying awake night after night listening to his parents fight about money, can attain: Bruce’s family didn’t have as much money as others. Other families went to Disney World. They belonged to the yacht club. They went on ski vacations. They had three bathrooms and a cleaning lady. These things required money, and these things made for a happy family. The conclusion was unavoidable: Bruce’s family simply couldn’t afford happiness.
Looking back, Bruce was honest enough with himself to admit that his childhood could have been a lot worse. His father took a general interest in his life and well-being. His mother provided three meals a day and dressed him warmly. And, on weekends, Grandpa picked him up and taught him how to sail and fish and laugh. Hardly a sob story.
But it was his story. And it had become his obsession. He had vowed that someday he would return to Marblehead to raise a family in the style and fashion of the town’s wealthiest residents. In retrospect, he knew that it was nothing more than an angry childhood promise, that his loveless household had nothing to do with a lack of money. But he also knew that his past was both who he was and what he had become.
CHAPTER 16
[November 13, 1989]
Roberge had not spoken to his father for two weeks, since the story ran in the Herald. Or, more accurately, his father had not spoken to him. Through his mother, Roberge knew that the article—especially the Hitler comment—had seriously damaged his father, both professionally and personally. Megan, after her initial shock and a solid week of crying, finally agreed to go ahead with the wedding provided that Roberge immediately be tested for AIDS and that he promise never to see Charese again. Luckily for Roberge, Megan’s family lived in California and hadn’t seen the article, and most of her friends didn’t read the Herald. For Roberge, the story was starting to die.
But the financial repercussions were not. His attorney—actually, his father’s attorney—had asked for a $25,000 retainer from Roberge to handle the case. And Roberge needed another $20,000 to pay for the wedding and honeymoon. He had assumed his father would pay for the wedding since his job as a museum curator only paid $30,000 a year and Megan’s parents—well-off, but not wealthy—were currently paying close to $60,000 yearly for her three younger siblings’ private education. But now he would be lucky if his parents even attended—he and his mother were close, but his father had never taken much of an interest in his second son, especially as Roberge’s interests turned more toward the arts and away from sports and business. Finally, he and Megan planned to buy a house, for which they would need at least a $20,000 down payment, and he didn’t relish the thought of telling Megan that because of Charese they couldn’t afford it.
The obvious solution was to sell the South End condo. But to do so he would need to evict Charese, and his attorney doubted a judge would order an eviction under the present circumstances. But there was a second option: It would be a simple matter to get a mortgage of $150,000 on the $200,000 condo. That would give him enough money to pay for the wedding and the legal bills, go on a honeymoon, and make a large down payment on a new house. They would put the house in Megan’s name to protect it from Charese. Then, he and Megan would quickly produce grandchildren, hopefully before his father had time to re-write the will. By spring, everything would be on its way back to normalcy.
He picked up the Sunday newspaper and found an advertisement from an out-of-state bank. He called the 800 number and spoke to a loan officer. The bank would lend him an amount equal to 70% of the Boston property tax assessment. Or, if he chose, he could hire an independent appraiser to determine the value of the unit—the bank would then lend 80% of that appraisal. Roberge tried to picture Charese greeting an appraiser at the front door of the condo with lemonade and cookies. Not likely. The 70% figure would have to suffice.
The loan officer promised a $147,000 mortgage loan would be ready to close in a couple of weeks.
CHAPTER 17
[December 1, 1989]
It was the day after Thanksgiving. Charese spent Thanksgiving alone, General Tsao’s Chicken the closest she could get to a turkey dinner. She was huddled on the bed in her apartment, wrapped in an electric blanket with the thermostat turn
ed down to 50. Ever since the newspaper story ran her case seemed to have stalled, despite Shelby’s efforts to speed it along. Only her hatred of Roberge—and now of Reese Jeffries—sparked her out of bed in the morning.
Shelby had phoned before the holiday to check on her and to update her on the lawsuit. As she was in the habit of doing, Charese had let the answering machine pick up the call. She picked up the phone next to her bed only when she heard Shelby’s voice on the machine in the living room; her laziness had the unintended effect of the machine recording their entire conversation.
Charese clicked off the soap opera she was watching and trudged into the living room. The play button on the answering machine felt cold as she pressed it.
Shelby’s was the only message on the machine, so Charese was able to quickly fast-forward to the meat of their conversation. “The other reason I called was I’ve been trying to understand exactly why Reese sabotaged the settlement offer.”
“You and me both, girl. You and me both.” Charese cringed at the sound of her own slang.
“Well, I’ve asked around—professors who deal with LAP, a couple of friends of mine who were in the program last year, a classmate who used to date a lawyer on their staff.”
“Not Reese, I hope for her sake.”
Shelby laughed. “No, not Reese. Anyway, everyone’s comments were similar. Basically, they all said that the LAP lawyers are called ‘Lapdogs’ because they’re so devoted to their liberal agenda.”
“Lapdogs. I like that.”
“Well, the problem is that sometimes their agenda is so important to them that they forget their own clients. And one of the top things on their agenda is rent control. You saw the office—there was that ‘Housing is for People, not for Profit’ poster on practically every wall. That’s just the way it is in Cambridge—landlords are evil, tenants are good, end of discussion.”
“I used to cut a woman’s hair, and she lived in Cambridge and told me a story about buying a condo and the city telling her she couldn’t live in it. Does that make any sense?” Charese asked.
“Believe it or not, it’s true. In Cambridge, there are a bunch of condos that, if you own them, you can’t live in them.”
“What if you do?”
“If they catch you, they can fine you something like $100 a day for every day you lived there.”
“Wow. But what does all this have to do with my case?”
“Well, I think in your case Reese is looking at a much bigger picture. He had an opportunity to seriously damage Wesley Krygier. And Krygier is leading the fight to repeal rent control in Boston—both with his money and his clout with the local politicians. Reese knows that if he can knock Krygier out of the picture, that will tilt the balance in favor of the tenant activists.”
“So what am I, some kind of foot soldier to be sacrificed for the greater good?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, I’ve got news for Mr. Reese Jeffries. I’m not his foot soldier, and I don’t take kindly to being sacrificed.”
Charese stopped the recording, rewound it quickly, hit the play button again. Her words echoed in the apartment a second time. Angry words. Defiant words. Inspirational words. “Well, I’ve got news for Mr. Reese Jeffries. I’m not his foot soldier, and I don’t take kindly to being sacrificed.”
But as she plodded into the kitchen to warm herself by the open oven, she prayed that Shelby would be able to come up with some kind of strategy to save her.
* * *
Pierre stood blowing on his hands under a dim autumn sun. The play was designed for the quarterback to throw the ball to him, and he wanted to make sure he had feelings in his fingers. He glanced over at the bleachers—Carla and Valerie, almost a year old now and already beginning to walk, were bundled under a blanket with the other wives and girlfriends. The spectators were getting bored and cold, and Pierre and his old high school friends had agreed that this would be the last play in this year’s annual Turkey Bowl game. After the game they would all go home and shower, and then meet in the North End for dinner. It was a Thanksgiving Friday tradition, and Pierre wondered how many more years he could pressure the group—already complaining about sore backs and pulled muscles—into playing.
And it wasn’t as if he was dealing from a position of strength. He had been the one to break ranks on the first part of the Thanksgiving Day tradition—the group serving meals at a homeless shelter. Not that he really had a choice; Carla’s mother had insisted they come to Connecticut. We think it’s wonderful that you kids want to help the unfortunates. But this family has been celebrating Thanksgiving together since, well, since there was a Thanksgiving. You know that there were Spurrs on the Mayflower, don’t you Pierre? Now we’ll expect you here by noon, that’s when the Bordens will be here. And we’ll send you a nice check that you can forward to the homeless center. Pierre had to tip his hat to Carla’s mother—she never missed an opportunity to zing him, and to do so expertly. Pierre was zero for three on the Spurr family checklist: his blood wasn’t blue, he bank account wasn’t plush, and his name wasn’t Chip Borden. There was nothing he could do about his lineage, but maybe he could someday out-earn the chinless Chip and gain some measure of acceptance from Carla’s parents.
At least they had returned from Connecticut in time for the Turkey Bowl. The quarterback stood behind the center and coughed out the signals. “Hut, hut, hut.” Pierre ran diagonally down the field, on an intersection course with one of his teammates running diagonally from the other side. The plan was for Pierre and his teammate to lock arms as their paths crossed, spin each other around, and slingshot past the bewildered defenders to catch a pass for a sure touchdown. This was the famous “do-si-do” pattern Pierre invented when they were kids after seeing a square dance on TV. And it still worked years later—not so much because the play deceived the defenders, but because the defenders were so busy laughing that one of the receivers was usually able to break open.
Pierre and his teammate ran toward each other, locked arms, spun around, and broke apart. The quarterback arched a wobbly, high pass in Pierre’s direction, and he sprinted toward it. As he made his cut, he felt his sneaker land in something mushy, and his leg slipped out from under him. He tumbled to the ground and skidded a few feet, knowing without looking at his foot that some jerk hadn’t cleaned up after his dog. The defender continued running another few yards, then turned just in time to see the football falling from the sky. The defender reached up to grab the ball, but his reaction wasn’t quick enough, and the ball bounced off his shoulder. Pierre, still lying on the ground, raised himself to one knee and lunged toward the ball, catching it just inches from the ground. He rolled to his feet, whooped in delight, and scurried into the end zone for a touchdown.
Carla was waiting for him on the sideline. “Take off that shoe and Valerie and I might give you a kiss.”
Pierre removed the shoe and tossed it into a garbage can. “Now, where are my hugs and kisses?”
Valerie wobbled over to him, and he scooped her up. She wrapped her little arms around his neck and buried her head on his shoulder. “Da, da,” she cooed.
Carla was right behind her and kissed Pierre tentatively on his dirty face. “You’ll get a real kiss after your shower.”
“Just a kiss?” She arched an eyebrow in response. “What’d you think of that last play?”
“Want the truth? Stuff like that scares me. Ever since I’ve known you, I’ve seen you step in shit and come out smelling like a rose. But those things tend to even out in the long run.”
Carla had said it in a light tone, but Pierre could see that she was semi-serious. He thought about how his business had slowed over the past few months. Was his luck turning bad?
* * *
At dinner that night, Pierre made a point of sitting next to Patti, the new girlfriend of one of his old friends. Patti was a legal secretary at a medium-sized downtown firm, and Pierre knew that she worked for a partner who represented a number of lo
cal mortgage lenders.
“Hey Patti, mind talking shop for a minute?”
Patti smiled at Pierre. Pierre had been one the first of the group to make her feel welcome. And it flattered her that Pierre seemed to value her insights into the mortgage lending business. He guessed that the only time any of the lawyers asked for her opinion at work was when they needed to buy a gift for their wives. “Talk away.”
“I was just wondering how busy you guys are. Real estate has been dead the last few months.”
“Yeah, us too. We used to do seven or eight closings a day. Now maybe it’s two or three. This one New York lender we represent, they just called to say they weren’t doing any more loans.”
“Really? None at all?”
“Well, they were only doing second mortgages to begin with. You know, poor people in Roxbury who need money right away. This lender would close quickly, but they’d charge twenty points.”
“Did you say twenty?”
“Yeah. Unbelievable, huh? But that’s not the half of it. Check this out.” Patti pushed her plate away and picked up her glass of wine. “I can’t use any names, but here’s the story. The partner I work for gets a list every week of the people who are in trouble—you know, being foreclosed on or filing for bankruptcy. You know there’s a newspaper that lists this stuff?”
Pierre nodded.
“Anyway, we send a letter to them offering them a loan. Like I said, they pay twenty points, and the interest rate is 18 percent, and my boss charges them $3,000 for the legal work.” Each point equaled one percent of the loan, and a normal mortgage lender usually charged two or three points. So, for example, for a $50,000 loan, twenty points would equal $10,000. And the normal fee for legal services for a loan was around $800, not $3,000.
Patti continued. “But what are these people going to do? If they don’t take the loan, they lose their house. So they pay the fees. But here’s the other thing. The lender—it’s some group of investors in Miami—requires an appraisal before making the loan. The appraisal has to show that the property is worth at least 25% more than the amount of all the mortgages on the property. So my boss hires his wife to do the appraisals! She gets paid another $500 for each appraisal. So how many times do you think the appraisal comes in too low?” Patti looks at Pierre to make sure he sees the point.
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