“This is to show how serious we are about acquiring the property,” Squires explained, “and to expedite the negotiations. The people I represent are eager to get started immediately.”
Clara Markham was in a bind. She’d heard nothing over the weekend from JoLayne Lucks. Their friendship was close—and JoLayne was an absolute saint with Kenny, Clara’s beloved Persian—but the real estate agent couldn’t permit her personal feelings to jeopardize such a huge deal.
She waved a hand above the cash and said, “This is very impressive, Mr. Squires, but I must tell you I’m expecting a counteroffer.”
“Really?”
“There’s nothing in writing yet, but I’ve been assured it’s on the way.”
Squires seemed amused. “All right.” With a well-practiced motion he quietly closed the briefcase. “We’re prepared to match any reasonable counteroffer. In the meantime, I’d ask that you contact your clients and let them know how committed we are to this project.”
Clara Markham said, “Absolutely. First thing after lunch.”
“What’s wrong with right now?”
“I… I’m not sure I can reach them.”
“Let’s try,” said Bernard Squires.
Clara Markham saw that stalling was fruitless; the man wouldn’t return to Chicago without an answer. Bernard Squires settled crisply into a chair while she telephoned the attorney for the estate of Lighthorse Simmons. Five minutes later the attorney called back, having patched together a conference call with Lighthorse’s two profligate heirs—his son, Leander Simmons, and his daughter, Janine Simmons Robinson. Leander dabbled in fossil fuels and Thoroughbreds; Janine spent her money on exotic surgeries and renovating vacation houses.
Leaning close to the speakerphone, Clara Markham carefully summarized the union’s offer for Simmons Wood, the key detail being the figure of $3 million.
“In addition,” she concluded, “Mr. Squires has delivered to my office a substantial cash deposit.”
On the other end, Leander Simmons piped, “How much?” He whistled when the real estate agent told him.
An old pro at conference calls, Bernard Squires raised his voice just enough to he heard: “We wanted everyone to know how serious we are.”
“Well, you got my attention,” said Janine Simmons Robinson.
“Me, too,” her brother said.
On behalf of JoLayne Lucks and the doomed wildlife of Simmons Wood, Clara Markham felt compelled to say: “Mr. Squires and his group want to build a shopping mall on your father’s land.”
“With a playground in the atrium,” Squires added coolly.
“And a Mediterranean fountain in front,” the attorney chimed, “with real ducks and geese. It’ll be a terrific attraction for your little town.”
From the speakerphone came the instant reaction of Leander Simmons: “Personally, I don’t give a shit if you guys want to dig a coal mine. How about you, Sis?”
Said Janine: “Hey, three million bucks is three million bucks.”
“Exactly. So what the hell are we waiting for?” Leander demanded. “Just do it.”
Bernard Squires said, “We’re ready to go. However, Ms. Markham informs me there may be another offer.”
“From who?” asked Janine Simmons Robinson.
“How much?” asked her brother.
Clara Markham said, “It’s a local investor. I intended to call you as soon as I received the papers, but they haven’t arrived.”
“Then screw it,” said the attorney. “Let’s go with Squires.”
“Whatever you wish.”
“Now just hold on a second.” It was Leander Simmons. “What’s the big rush?”
He smelled more money. Bernard Squires’ expression blackened at the prospect of a bidding duel. Clara Markham noticed some fresh veins pulsing in his neck.
As it happened, Janine Simmons Robinson was on the same opportunistic wavelength as her brother. “What’s the harm in waiting a couple three days?” she said. “See what these other folks have in mind.”
“It’s your call,” said their attorney. Then: “Ms. Markham, will you get back to us as soon as you hear something—say, no later than Wednesday?”
“How about tomorrow,” said Bernard Squires.
“Wednesday,” said Leander Simmons and his sister in unison.
There was a series of clicks, then the speaker box went silent. Clara Markham looked apologetically first at Bernard Squires, then at the eel-skin briefcase on her desk. “I’ll deposit this in our escrow account,” she said, “right away.”
Gravely Squires rose from the chair.
“You don’t strike me as a deceitful person,” he said, “the sort who’d try to jack up her commission by cooking up phony counteroffers.”