Pierre took a shower, then sat down at the kitchen table and shared a banana with Valerie. Carla teased him. “So, how is my King of the Vultures doing this morning?”
“Don’t laugh. The notoriety is killing me at the auctions.”
“What do you mean?”
“Three times in the past couple of weeks I outbid the bank, only to have some coattailer jump in at the last minute and raise my bid. It happened at that Charlestown condo that I bought with Howie—it cost us an extra $12,000. And the last two times I lost the property entirely. And I know the guys who outbid me—they never would have bid if I hadn’t bid. But when I did, they figured it must be a good deal. One guy even came up to me after the auction. Told me he knew it must be a solid property or else I wouldn’t have been bidding.”
Carla was silent for a moment. “Remember how you explained to me once the whole idea of wrestling? You know, using the other guy’s leverage and momentum against him?”
“Yeah. If you’ve got a guy who’s pushing toward you, it’s easier to just pull him along and get him off-balance than it is to push him back.”
“Well, I have an idea. But you have to be willing to do a little acting.”
“Fine. I’ve been playing it straight so far, unlike most of the guys. You should hear some of the stories they make up to try to scare the other bidders away. One guy last week was telling a couple of women that a convicted rapist was living in the building. Anyway, I’ll give it a shot. What’s your idea?”
Carla relayed her idea to Pierre.
He nodded. “It’s a good plan. But it seems a little dishonest.…”
She sighed. “Honey, listen. I know you set high moral standards for yourself, but this is the real world out there, and times are getting a little desperate. You did right by Howie, walked away from a $45,000 commission, saved him hundreds of thousands of dollars, and what did it get you? A twenty-two percent interest rate. You work hard and carve a nice niche for yourself at these auctions, and what happens? The other bidders attach themselves to you like leeches. It’s nice to be a good guy, but people are taking advantage of you. I’m not saying you need to turn into a criminal, but you have to be willing to take at least one step into the gray area or we’re going to have to move in with your parents.”
Carla was right. His first responsibility was to his family. Even if it meant the loss of a little self-respect. “All right. There’s an auction scheduled later that week, and I know it’ll be well-attended. It’s a condo in the South End. I haven’t been in the unit, but I’ve been inside other units in the building. The building’s an old brick church—it was renovated by a pretty well-respected developer. Even won a few architectural awards. There’ll be a decent crowd.”
The next morning, Pierre slipped into his rollerblades, threw on a windbreaker and, darting around pedestrians and between cars, skated downtown to the Registry of Deeds building. Bruce was not the attorney for this auction, and the first thing Pierre wanted to do was make sure the title was clear. He quickly found what he was looking for—the property had been purchased four years earlier in an all-cash transaction. Then, last November, the owner took out a mortgage for $147,000. There were no other mortgages or liens on the property.
This seemed odd to Pierre. He was used to seeing foreclosures where the property was “under water”—that is, where the property was worth less than the mortgages. Here, Pierre guessed that the property was worth about $210,000, or $60,000 more than the only mortgage. Why didn’t the owner just sell the property and pay off the mortgage? And why was the foreclosure occurring so soon after the mortgage was given? It was almost as if the owner never made a single mortgage payment….
Pierre looked again at the documents—the owner’s name was Roberge Krygier. He remembered a newspaper story last fall about one of the Krygiers being sued by his transvestite lover. Could this be the same Krygier? It might explain the foreclosure—if his ex-lover still lived in the condo, Krygier might have stopped paying the mortgage.
Pierre wanted the rest of the story. He took the elevator down to street level and slipped into his rollerblades again. He navigated his way between the moving cars and roadside slush of Beacon Hill, careful to avoid puddles that would cause his wheels to lose traction. The pathways in the Common had been cleared of snow, and he cut across Beacon Street into the park. He glided downhill, away from the State House and diagonally across the park, dragging his right heel to keep from gaining too much speed. On the opposite corner of the Common, he passed through a wrought-iron gate and onto Boylston Street. He turned right and skated toward the Public Library, barely visible five blocks away in Copley Square.
He reached the Library, then sat on the front steps to remove his skates and put on his shoes. While he did so, three homeless men approached him separately for money—more evidence of the slumping economy. Years ago, Pierre and Carla had stayed up late one night with some friends and argued over what to do when asked for money by a homeless person. To do nothing, they agreed, was immoral. But to give them money, which many would simply use to buy alcohol, was often counterproductive. Their solution had been to purchase McDonald’s gift certificates. So today, as always, Pierre handed out a couple of one-dollar gift certificates to each of the homeless men—enough for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. As bad as things were financially for him and Carla, at least they weren’t living on the street.
Inside the library, he found the newspaper article about Roberge Krygier. The story was accompanied by a picture of Krygier, his father and his lover, Charese Galloway. Pierre scanned the article quickly—sure enough, Krygier and Charese shared a condo together in the South End. Then came the breakup, followed by the filing of a lawsuit in the Suffolk County court. Pierre made a copy of the article and stuck it in his backpack.
The Suffolk County courthouse was located in the same building as the Registry of Deeds, so Pierre simply reversed his course and headed back up Beacon Hill. It was a tougher skate, uphill, but Pierre didn’t mind. It was a great day to be outside, and a little exercise was always welcome.
Pierre waited five minutes before a clerk of the court shuffled into the file room to retrieve the litigation file for him. He read the Complaint—blue blood real estate heir leaves transvestite lover to marry country club preppie. Nothing had happened in the case since it was filed last September, other than an injunction preventing Krygier from selling the condo until the suit was resolved. Which explained why the unit wasn’t on the market.
Pierre returned the file to the clerk, then walked over to a pay phone and called information—they had a listing under Krygier’s name. Pierre dialed the number. On the fourth ring, a tired-sounding voice answered. Pierre couldn’t decide if the voice sounded male or female.
“Could I speak to Charese Galloway please.”
“This is Charese. Who is this?”
Pierre hung up the phone. So she was still there.
* * *
The next morning, Pierre and Carla dropped Valerie off at his parents’ house, then swung by the bank. They withdrew the $20,000 they had borrowed from Howie and purchased two separate bank cashier’s checks, each in the amount of $10,000, made payable to the holder.
From the bank, they drove to the local BMW dealer. Pierre was friendly with the owner, and he had arranged to rent a top of the line model for the day. Bright red.
Carla drove, inbound on Route 9, careful not to ding the car. When they reached Copley Square, Pierre jumped out. He put on his rollerblades and skated toward the South End. It was 10:50—the auction was scheduled for 11:00. At 10:55, Pierre glided to a stop in front of the building.
Pierre saw three other auction regulars who, like himself, had made attending foreclosure auctions a full-time job. The three other regulars and Pierre exchanged greetings—they were competitors, but also potential allies. One of them had already suggested that the four of them—along with a fifth regular who was absent from today’s auction—agree to work together in som
e kind of syndication. “Why bid each other up?” he had asked. “If we work together, we can all benefit by keeping the bidding down. I mean, most of the time, one of us buys the property if the bank doesn’t. If we don’t bid against each other, the only one who loses is the bank.” The idea was strategically sound, but Pierre was uncomfortable entering into partnerships with stranger, and he had so far been non-committal.
Pierre leaned against a railing and removed his skates. He kept an eye out for Carla, and she appeared a few minutes later. She played it perfectly. She stopped the red BMW in front of the building, double parked, put on her flashers, and stepped out of the car. With an attitude. Fur coat, leather pants, heels, sunglasses. Big hair and even bigger jewels.
Pierre looked over. “Hey, look. A rich bitch came to buy a condo. I wonder if Daddy gave her the money.” He didn’t usually use such crude language, but, well, he was referring to his wife, and the whole thing was her idea, so it was okay. The other auction regulars laughed. Pierre continued. “Well, I bet she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into. Check this out.”
He handed a copy of the newspaper article around. The other regulars eyed it warily—they had never known Pierre to not play it straight, but you never knew. As they scanned the article, Pierre watched Carla register to bid. She was now holding a cigarette with an ebony cigarette holder. He laughed to himself. Had she found that in his mother’s closet along with the fake fur and the costume jewels?
One of the regulars turned to Pierre. “So this is Krygier’s condo?”
“Yeah. I actually went to the courthouse to check out the lawsuit. I mean, the Krygiers have more money than God. So why would Krygier be getting foreclosed on? Well, it turns out that his transvestite lover is claiming that she should get to keep the condo. You know, like if you divorce your wife she tries to keep the house. The court put an injunction on Krygier so that he couldn’t sell it, so she must have a pretty good case. Plus, what so you think the chances are a transvestite in the South End doesn’t have AIDS? Try to evict her, and watch the gay groups rush to her defense. I’m staying real low on this one; you guys can have it if you want.”
The others eyed Pierre. One of them challenged him. “Well then why did you register?”
Pierre turned to him. “You’re right.” He laughed. “If it goes for fifty grand or something stupid like that, I probably would buy it. Otherwise it’s yours.”
The group continued to study him. He knew they were wondering if he was bluffing. If so, it wasn’t a very smart bluff. They could call him on it by simply waiting five minutes until the auction began to see how he was bidding.
Pierre guessed the bank would bid close to the $150,000 they were owed. He had instructed Carla to bid up to $155,000, but no higher. Based on a property value of $210,000, that would give them a profit margin of $55,000, although they would still have to deal with Charese. But Pierre figured they could buy Charese off for five or ten thousand, or else evict her if they had to. He had embellished the story a little bit for the other regulars—as far as he knew, Charese didn’t have AIDS. Then again, he hadn’t actually come right out and said she did….
Other than Carla, Pierre and the other regulars, there was only one other registered bidder, a young couple with a baby. They were asking a lot of questions, and couldn’t understand why they weren’t being allowed to go inside to view the unit. The auctioneer was trying to be patient with them.
“We can’t let you in because we don’t have a key. Remember, the bank doesn’t own the property yet—it’s just foreclosing on the mortgage. After the auction it will own it, unless one of you buys it today. All I can do is show you a copy of the floor plan—it shows that there are two bedrooms and two bathrooms and that the unit is 1150 square feet. And it comes with an underground parking space.”
The couple seemed frustrated by the process—they were used to being coddled by a broker. Pierre guessed it was their first auction. Still, he was worried. He had overhead them talking—apparently they had almost purchased another unit in the building. So they knew the building, and they knew what units were worth. He hoped they would be too nervous to pull the trigger. He walked over and handed the wife a copy of the newspaper article, smiled kindly, and walked away.
The auctioneer declared the auction open and asked for an opening bid. Nobody moved—it was a common scenario, bidders hoping to gain some kind of advantage by waiting until the last possible moment to make their bid. The auctioneer knew Pierre from previous auctions, and looked to him for an opening. Pierre usually complied; it was a good way to curry favor with the auctioneers. “Mr. Prefontaine, do you have an opening bid?” The other auction regulars also eyed Pierre, waiting for his move.
Pierre responded. “First, I have a question. My understanding is that the property is the subject of litigation between the owner and the current occupant. Is the bank willing to guarantee that the property will be vacant at the time of the closing?” Pierre knew the answer, but he wanted the young couple with the baby to hear it.
The bank attorney stepped forward, right on cue. “The bank makes no representation regarding the occupancy of the property. It will be the successful bidder’s responsibility to evict any occupants of the property.”
Pierre sighed disappointedly. “All right, I’ll start then. But you’re not going to like it. I bid $50,000.”
The auctioneer didn’t like it at all—he was working today on a commission basis. “Fifty thousand? Please, sir, we are here today to sell the property, not to rent it.”
Pierre quickly responded, good-naturedly but with an edge to his voice. “That’s fine, but you’ll have to sell it to someone else then. I’m not getting into the middle of this mess. That’s my final bid.” He knew he was jeopardizing his relationship with the auctioneer, but so be it.
Carla glanced disdainfully over at Pierre and the other regulars. Haughtily, she spoke. “I’ll make a bid.” She raised her chin slightly. “One hundred twenty thousand dollars.”
Pierre snorted derisively. He whispered to the other regulars in a squeaky voice. “And Daddy will make sure that naughty tenant leaves.” They all laughed. They were with Pierre so far.
The bank attorney stepped forward again. “The bank bids one hundred forty-one thousand, three hundred twenty-two dollars.”
Pierre laughed out loud. In fact, he hoped he did so rather rudely. In a voice loud enough for Carla to hear, he spoke. “Well, that’s it boys, the bank wins again. Even the princess over there can’t be that stupid.” He sat on the ground, took off his shoes and began putting on his rollerblades.
But the princess was exactly that stupid, and she raised her bid to $142,000. As she made her bid, she folded her arms across her chest and glared at Pierre. The perfect, petulant spoiled brat. The other regulars laughed—they were enjoying watching Pierre bait her. So far, they were ignoring the auctioneer, who was asking for further bids. Even so, Pierre was concerned. They all knew the property was worth over $200,000, and they all knew that the bank’s odd-numbered bid usually was a sign that the bank would bid no higher. So somebody still might jump in.
Pierre played the last card in his hand. He stood up, rolled forward a few inches, and spoke to Carla. “Listen. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. You should withdraw your bid. It’s not too late. Just say, ‘I withdraw my bid.’ Trust me on this.”
Carla began to respond, but before she could, the auctioneer raised his voice. He saw his fee disappearing—he earned no commission if the bank was the high bidder, and three percent if the property sold to a third party. “Going-once-twice-sold.” He spit out the four words as if they were one, glaring at Pierre.
Pierre looked at Carla and laughed. “Sorry, too late. Looks like you just bought the farm. Good luck.” And he skated away.
* * *
An hour later, Carla arrived at their Brookline apartment. She immediately called Pierre’s mother and asked her to keep Valerie for a few more hours.
Twenty minutes later, she heard Pierre’s key in the door. She opened the door for him, saw the sadness in his soft brown eyes. She greeted him with a long, deep kiss, then wiped the sweat off his face.
She took his hand and led him up to the roof deck, motioning to him to remain silent. When they had first bought the condo, they had agreed to splurge on a hot tub for the deck. They hadn’t used it much since Valerie was born, but they kept it clean and full of water. Carla had started it immediately upon getting home; it was now hot and bubbling.
Silently they undressed and hopped into the tub. Carla reached up and grabbed a container of strawberries from a ledge. She put one in Pierre’s mouth and, before he could finish chewing, pulled him to her in a sweet, juicy kiss. They finished off another dozen strawberries in the same fashion, then a cool wind blew over them and they sank deeper into the hot bubbles.
Twenty minutes later they cried out in relief, as hot bubbling water splashed over the sides of the frothing tub.
CHAPTER 30
[March 19, 1990]
Bruce had been expecting it, but the headline still screamed at him when he picked up the Boston Globe early Monday morning:
$200m Gardner Museum art theft
2 men posing as police tie up night guards
So Gus had pulled it off, just as he said he would. Bruce read through the details—it had gone done just as he and Gus planned it three months ago. The biggest art theft in U.S. history. Amazing. Even if Gus had to dump the pieces at only a penny on the dollar, it was still two million bucks for Gus and his partner to share. More likely, the son-of-a-bitch had lined-up a buyer and would receive many times that amount. If he didn’t get caught.
Either way, the theft was sure to be a major pain in Bruce’s ass. If Gus got caught, Bruce would be dragged into it because of his past association with Gus. And if he didn’t get caught, Bruce’s name would be near the top of any list of local suspects, which would mean that he would be the subject of constant attention and surveillance.
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