“Well, I’m dying to speak to Mr. Tom Krome.”
“It won’t be long now,” Katie said lightly. “But we do need to make a couple of stops. One for gas.”
“And what else?”
“Something special. You’ll see.”
29
On the morning of December 6, Clara Markham drove to her real estate office to nail down a buyer for the property known as Simmons Wood. Waiting in the parking lot was Bernard Squires, investment manager for the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. As Clara Markham unlocked the front door, JoLayne Lucks strolled up—jeans, sweatshirt, peach-tinted sunglasses and a baseball cap. She’d done her nails in glossy tangerine.
The dapper Squires looked uneasy; he shifted his eelskin briefcase from one fist to the other. Clara Markham made the introductions and started a pot of coffee.
She said, “So how was your trip, Jo? Where’d you go?”
“Camping.”
“In all that weather!”
“Listen, hon, it kept the bugs away.” JoLayne moved quickly to change the subject. “How’s my pal Kenny? How’s the diet coming?”
“We’ve lost two pounds! I switched him to dry food, like you suggested.” Clara Markham reported this proudly. She handed a cup of coffee to Bernard Squires, who thanked her in a reserved tone.
The real estate broker explained: “Kenny’s my Persian blue. Jo works at the vet.”
“Oh. My sister has a Siamese,” said Squires, exclusively out of politeness.
JoLayne Lucks whipped off her sunglasses and zapped him with a smile. He could scarcely mask his annoyance. This was his competition for a $3 million piece of commercial property—a black woman with orange fingernails who works at an animal hospital!
Clara Markham settled behind her desk, uncluttered and immaculate. JoLayne Lucks and Bernard Squires positioned themselves in straight-backed chairs, almost side by side. They set their coffee cups on cork-lined coasters.
“Shall we begin?” said Clara.
Without preamble Squires opened the briefcase across his lap, and handed to the real estate broker a sheaf of legal-sized papers. Clara skimmed the cover sheet.
For JoLayne’s benefit she said, “The union’s offer is three million even with twenty-five percent down. Mr. Squires already delivered a good-faith cash deposit, which we put in escrow.”
They jacked up the stakes, JoLayne brooded. Bastards.
“Jo?”
“I’ll offer three point one,” she said, “and thirty percent up front.” She’d been to the bank early. Tom Krome was right—a young vice president in designer suspenders had airily offered an open line of credit to cover any shortfall on the Simmons Wood down payment.
Squires said, “Ms. Markham, I’m not accustomed to this… informality. Purchase proposals on a tract this size are usually put into writing.”
“We’re a small town, Bernard. And you’re the one who’s in the big hurry.” Clara, with a saccharine smile.
“It’s my clients, you see.”
“Certainly.”
JoLayne Lucks was determined not to be intimidated. “Clara knows my word is good, Mr. Squires. Don’t you think things will move quicker this way, all three of us together?”
Disdain flicked across the investment manager’s face. “All right, quicker it is. We’ll jump to 3.25 million.”
Clara Markham shifted slightly. “Don’t you need to call your people in Chicago?”
“That’s not necessary,” Squires replied with an icy pleasantness.
“Three three,” JoLayne said.
Squires closed the briefcase soundlessly. “This can go on for as long as you wish, Miss Lucks. The pension fund has given me tremendous latitude.”
“Three point four.” JoLayne slipped from worried to scared. The man was a shark; this was his job.
“Three five,” Bernard Squires shot back. Now it was his turn to smile.
The girl was caving fast. What was I so worried about? he wondered. It’s this creepy little hole of a town—I let it get to me.
He said, “You see, the union has come to rely upon my judgment in these matters. Real estate development, and so forth. They leave the negotiations to me. And the value of a parcel like this is defined hy the market on any given day. Today the market happens to be, quite frankly, pretty good.”
JoLayne glanced at her friend Clara, who appeared commendably unexcited by the bidding or the rising trajectory of her commission. What was evident in Clara’s soft hazel eyes was sympathy.