San Francisco Value$
by
James Turner
PUBLISHED BY:
James Turner on Smashwords
San Francisco Values
Copyright © 2010 James Turner
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Chapter 1
Ella Barker pulled her black Mercedes S600 sedan up onto the sidewalk in front of the broker’s open house. The V-12 purred as she inched up over the clean swept Nob Hill curb. San Francisco’s notorious lack of parking didn’t pose a problem for Ella. She considered parking tickets a cost of doing business as one of the city’s top real estate brokers. Though she headed up the large brokerage house which bore her name, and could be running things from up on high, she still loved to get out of the office, hunt clients and listings, and handle deals herself for the thrill of the sale, the competition.
Ella deducted the fines from her income taxes, somewhat honestly in her mind, a justifiable business expense itemized as “parking fees.” And besides she usually flew in and out of these broker opens before she could be ticketed. There was the one ugly incident with the tow truck and the resulting mention in Matier and Ross’ column in the Chronicle, but generally 10 or 15 minutes in front of some complainer’s driveway wasn’t a big deal.
Ella strutted into the lobby of the 12 story condo building. Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she raced to catch the elevator.
“11th floor open house, Walter,” she called back to the doorman.
“Sure thing Mrs. Barker, with you on the job it’s as good as sold.”
“Let’s hope so,” Ella replied as she knifed through the closing doors.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Ella.”
The smile on Ella’s oft-lifted face froze into a mask of restrained distaste. She’d unwittingly trapped herself inside the elevator with Gordon Elway, known to all in San Francisco’s real estate biz as a gossipy, social climbing, know-it-all.
“I mean with everything that’s happened and all...” he said with a slight smile.
“I believe Gordon, in letting bygones be bygones.”
Gordon’s arched his eyebrows and smiled enigmatically.
“Anyway,” she said, anxious to change the subject, “who’s this listing agent here, Tiffany Reynolds? I’ve never heard of her.”
“She comes from the Bayview district. Started out with Red Carpet. Now she’s with CB Prudential Union Zephyr.”
“How on earth did she get this listing?”
“Her family’s been in San Francisco forever. She’s Latin-Irish, comes from a long line of city firefighters and is ambitious as hell.”
“But still, Delicia Cardosa’s apartment…” Ella hissed the name through clenched teeth. Despite her misgivings about the seller, she couldn’t resist a quick peek owing to her experience selling in the building. Or maybe she’d fallen victim to her own morbid curiosity. Either way, a sale was still a sale, and if she could pull any commission out of Delicia it would be a sweet poke in the eye.
“How exactly did you find out...?” Gordon began.
The elevator doors slid open, thankfully cutting their conversation short.
Ella fled Gordon’s clutches for her good friend Mark Allen, a professional home stager and consistent source of profitable tips and leaks. Mark, in his late 30’s, looked great as usual. Trim and well groomed with a cleft in his chin, he took great pride in his appearance. But then again, he was gay so this attention to personal detail fell within expected San Francisco norms.
“Thank god you’re here,” Ella said. “Gordon’s asking too many questions.”
“Sure he is, he’s digging for fresh material.”
Ella sighed. “Sometimes I can’t stand the sight of that little shit.”
While not wanting to admit it, the apartment made quite an impression and would sell quickly Ella felt sure, for considerably over asking. Framed by floor to ceiling living room windows, the view featured the usual flashy Bay Area landmarks. Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge and Marin County hills all gathered gloriously around sailboats bobbing on the blue waters of San Francisco Bay. Where many people saw a gorgeous view, Ella saw billions of dollars worth of residential real estate. All of it would be bought or sold at some point, and she was getting her not-so-small piece of it.
Maybe 20 or so brokers and agents milled through the elegant halls and current de rigueur furnishings and fixtures. A few stared at Ella, obviously wondering why she would step foot in Delicia’s apartment. Ella ignored them. She and Mark headed toward the kitchen, Ella slyly eying the décor along the way, much of which she found ostentatious. In the kitchen, a sprawling affair with a center island, they quickly took in the black pearl granite counters (slab not tile), the Vikings, Sub-Zeros and Wolfs, cherry wood cabinets and stove mounted water faucet with folding extension.
“Don’t you think all this stuff is getting to be too common?” a tinny female voice said to no one in particular. The woman’s charm bracelet rattled as she flung her arm about. “I mean, every house looks like the other, where’s the originality? Like, this kitchen stuff is going to date itself in a few years, and just like now when we see Formica cabinets with wood rails we know it’s the 80’s. And I mean these water faucets over the stoves, sure, it’s convenient to fill a giant pot with water, but then what happens when the noodles are done? How do you carry this boiling monster over to the sink?”
Ella stopped in her tracks and glared. She found herself looking at a slender woman in her late 20’s, wearing a short skirt and stilettos with blond hair flowing onto her shoulders. Her face was pretty, but with a certain wide oddness to it.
“Who in god’s name is that?” Ella whispered to Mark.
“That’s Tiffany Reynolds.”
“She’s the listing agent and she’s knocking the place?” Ella asked incredulously, snapping her business card next to the gleaming commercial espresso maker.
“And who might you be?” Tiffany asked, looking straight at Ella as she crossed the kitchen, her bangled arm extending in an elongated pre-handshake.
“Ella Barker, President, Barker Brokers.”
Tiffany stopped just as their hands joined together, the handshake frozen, a confused smile splayed across her face. “Ella Barker?” she replied, tilting her head. “Aren’t you, and uh, Delicia…?? Do you really think you should be here?” Then she found her footing. “I mean, are you two friends?”
By now many of the other agents and brokers, Gordon Elway chief among them, had stopped talking and stared openly in a state of gossip fueled excitement.
“And you are?” Ella replied, ignoring the question.
“Oh, sorry, Tiffany Reynolds, CB Pru-U-Zee. This is my listing,” she said pertly.
“Nice to meet you, Tiffany, how… unexpected.” Ella motioned to Mark. “And this is my colleague Mark Allen.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, winking at him.
“Likewise,” Mark said. He squeezed Ella’s wrist in a show of mutual disdain.
Ella turned her attention back to Tiffany. “Don’t you think this apartment might be a little overpriced at 12 million for two bedrooms? It doesn’t even have Retrax.”
Retrax was real estate lingo for retractable walls and ceilings, the latest must-have accessory for buyers in the ten to twenty million dollar price range. Walls and ceilings would literally disappear with the touch of a button, essentially turning one’s home into a giant deck. While admittedly a problem with the city’s constant wind and fog, like so many other things in the high priced world of San Francisco trophy homes, it was more about being able to say you have the accessory rather than actually using it.
Tiffany smiled. “The plans are drawn up and city approved, not to mention the home is already equipped with high speed internet toilets and bidets.” Tiffany tilted her head again. “All by Williams-Sonoma.”
Chapter 2
Dear Sellers:
We are writing with heartfelt appreciation for you having allowed us to view your lovely home this morning. Actually, it was only 15 minutes ago but we feel the need to make an offer immediately as yours is the first house we’ve looked at since arriving from Anchorage last night, and well, we’re stunned with the simplicity and beauty of your property and accompanying motor home. As buyers, we’ve studied the San Francisco real estate market intensely, and we realize that there are many other worthy purchasers competing for your “little piece of paradise.” We are hoping that since your house just came on the market this morning we will be one of the first to be considered. We are offering fifty percent over your quite reasonable asking price, because we know as sellers you deserve the most advantageous return possible as you “strike out” in new directions.
What we want to show with this letter is our commitment to preserving all that you have built and left essentially unchanged during the past sixty years of successive family ownership. We promise not to put wheels on the motor home you so creatively constructed or try to move it from the driveway, and we are absolutely agreeable to your wish that this restriction be placed on the home’s deed. We were utterly charmed to find out from your son Timmy that at least thirty household pets, mostly large breed dogs and various housecats have been laid to rest in the backyard over the years. How at home we’ll feel knowing all the love that will surround us!
Then of course there’s the charming architecture. The slanting floors really make your house a “home,” and we understand and agree to your wish that no effort be made to change or otherwise make any kind of structural repair or upgrade, owing to the historical value of the 1989 earthquake “damage.”
In closing, we ask you to please, please consider our attached written offer. You will not be sorry, your family home of so many years will be in trusted hands!
With humility and respect,
Roberta and Starka Littlefeather-Jones
Ella looked up from the letter at the two women sitting across from her.
“This is good,” she said, “you followed my instructions practically to the letter. Though I’m going to take out the word ‘house’ here in first paragraph and change it to ‘home.’ It sounds more personal, don’t you think?”
“Sure, whatever you say. But do we really have to keep the motor home?” asked Roberta, a kind looking woman despite her shaved head, lip piercings and morbid obesity.
“Oh god no,” Ella replied. “Once escrow closes and you have possession, you can apply to have the deed restriction removed based on the Eyesore Statute.”
“Actually I think the dead animals are really creepy,” Starka Littlefeather-Jones said. “I’d wanna get rid of ‘em right away.”
Ella looked at Roberta’s partner Starka, a petite, pixyish woman with fine boned hands. She wore small, round tortoise frame glasses, and dyed her bowl haircut a shocking shade of purple. Ella wondered how she kept from being completely crushed during the two women’s amorous explorations. “You can call in a backhoe and dig up every last one of them once the place is yours.”
Ella put the letter to one side and picked up the nearly completed written offer. They sat in her lavish office in the South of Market neighborhood, an elegant, all glass corner suite overlooking Yerba Buena Gardens, one of four Barker Brokers offices in the city. Just six months ago there’d been only this one office. Now she also had agents, secretaries and assistants working in Pacific Heights, Sea Cliff and St. Francis Wood. Her offices were located in actual homes in these prestigious and exclusive San Francisco neighborhoods, giving potential buyers a real feel for living there. She’d ironed out bothersome issues like residential-only zoning by charming and cajoling city officials at various cocktail parties around town.
“Let’s go over the offer one more time before I fax it to the seller’s agent,” Ella continued. “He’s waiting in his car for it now in front of the house.” The sellers had also stayed in close range, knowing they had to be available to deal with the torrent of offers soon to fall into their hands.
Thankfully one of Ella’s own agents represented the seller. With an in-house agent on the other side of the deal, Ella’s personal cut would be much larger than if another real estate brokerage brought the buyer to the table. Should the Littlefeather-Jones offer be accepted, the sale price would a modest $1 million. She didn’t usually take on such low priced listings personally, but knew how quickly it would sell and she needed new clothes.
“Let’s see,” Ella said, looking over the offer. “You do agree to the seller’s demand of remaining in the house for one year after closing, rent free?”
“Oh yes,” the two women said quickly.
“What about a loan contingency?” Starka asked.
Ella lowered her head, casting Starka a stern look over the top of her reading glasses. “There will be no contingencies.”
“Termites, title report…?”
“Nothing, zip, nada. Unless you don’t want the house, that is.”
Roberta and Starka looked at each other and sat back in their seats like humiliated school children.
“What if we don’t get the loan, I mean, we’re putting a hundred grand deposit in with the offer,” said Roberta.
“Which reminds me,” Ella interrupted, “you do have the deposit with you now, in a cashier’s check?”
“Yes, of course. You made that very clear.”
Ella went on. “If you’re unable to secure financing, you’re still committed to buying the house.”
Starka cast her eyes about, looking nervous. “But we don’t have that much money,” she said quietly.
“Look, I’m setting you up with my mortgage broker Jeff Arnold. He’s very good, and will find the right loan for you. You’ll be approved in a week, don’t worry. Worst case scenario you kiss the $100,000 goodbye and start looking again.” Ella took off her glasses and held them in one hand, elbow resting on the desk. “But of course that’ll never happen.”
The lesbian couple from Alaska looked frightened, but leaned forward pens in hand to sign the offer.
*******
Ella’s cell phone rang while Roberta and Starka signed.
“Ella,” Mark said breathlessly, “have you heard about the Frackle listing?”
Her ears perked up like an eager dachshund being offered a piece of steak.
“What are you talking about?” She knew nothing about any Frackle listing and Giselle Frackle was big news in San Francisco. Ella swiveled her leather chair around so that her back faced the women. Their piddling shack sat on the crappy south side of Potrero Hill, while Giselle Frackle owned the foremost mansion in Sea Cliff, an acre of ocean front property with a 14,000 square foot brick home. It luxuriated on a cliff top promontory with breathtaking views of the Golden Gate Bridge, Pacific Ocean and Marin Headlands. Surrounded by golf course quality lawns, the house hadn’t been on the market since Giselle and her now deceased husband Edgar bought it back in the 60’s for a quarter million. In Ella’s quick estimation it would fetch somewhere in the neighborhood of $70 million today.
“It’s not listed yet from what I’ve heard, but the old lady’s in the market for a broker.”
Ella’s heart jumped. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been working on Giselle’s remodel in Stinson. Her slutty little Brazilian maid Safada told me, who by the way is doing her damndest to get me into bed. I’ve flat out told her I only sleep with men but that only seems to turn her on more.” Mark tended to become distracted while talking, but he’d always eventually return to the subject at hand. At the moment however, Safada or Mark’s sexual escapades didn’t interest her in the least.
Roberta “uh-hummed,” and fidgeted, giving Ella the opening she needed to move things along.
“Mark, why don’t we just meet? I’m with clients right now. How about coffee in,” she stopped to check her watch, “one hour, at Red Tin Coffee in the Ferry Building?”
*******
Ella spied Mark just inside the airy coffee house, holding a tray with two paper coffee cups in one hand and several shopping bags in the other. Red Tin served every stripe of luxury brew, with outposts scattered throughout the better Bay Area neighborhoods. Plate glass windows looked out at the Oakland-Bay Bridge and Yerba Buena Island.
The café made up but one of many upscale offerings in the gorgeously restored, century old Ferry Building, a long, hulking waterfront structure said to be modeled after a great Venetian piazza. Architecturally speaking, a graceful clock tower rising from the center saved it from mediocrity. The building now shined as one of San Francisco’s crown jewels after hiding for decades in the grimy shadows of an ill advised and ugly elevated freeway. The city demolished the freeway after the 1989 earthquake, opening the Embarcadero up to redevelopment. A wide, palm lined boulevard now ran in the freeway’s path, with street cars, tourists and runners plying the waterfront promenade.
Mark greeted Ella with a kiss on the cheek. “You’re sure quick to set up a meeting with the right motivation.”
“My curiosity has led to many a closed escrow,” she replied with a smirk.
Mark handed Ella her coffee. “Ever since they fixed this place up, I’m a sucker to drop fifty bucks just walking in.”
Ella could hardly contain herself, wanting to ask about Giselle Frackle, but before she could ask Mark handed her a small, chocolate candy. “Here, have a taste.”
She popped the whole thing in her mouth. “Umm,” she murmured, nodding.
“You might as well be eating an M&M for all the finesse and appreciation you put into it. That bite you just gulped cost fifteen bucks at Truffle Eiffel,” Mark said.
“I thought it was an M&M,” Ella said, peering into another of Mark’s shopping bags. “What do we have here?”
He quickly pulled it out of reach. “Excuse me, these are free range mushrooms from Champignon Sonoma. They’re grown by an old woman in the valley who’s been into the organic thing for eons. She produces only three pounds a year, they just came in this morning. The line went on for miles, not nearly enough for everyone.”
“And you got some?” Ella asked dubiously.
“Contacts. You of all people know how that works.”
“What you’re trying to say is then that you and the counter boy….”
Mark raised his eyebrows. “That’s enough, Mrs. Barker.”
“Let’s sit,” Ella said, getting down to business. They opened the double glass doors out to the bay front patio, taking seats at a café table. “Now, what’s this about Giselle Frackle listing her mansion?”
“Who said it was the mansion?” Mark’s said with teasing eyes. “I just said the ‘Frackle Listing.’ That could mean her Tahoe place, her Stinson beach house, her…”
“Come on, you wouldn’t be talking about anything else other than Sea Cliff. Those vacation places are chicken feed.”
“Ella, you’ve been in the business for twenty-five years. I’d have thought Giselle would be calling you herself, offering the listing to you on one of her many silver platters.”
“Anyone who can say they’ve been doing anything for 25 years is getting old.”
“You’re not even 50 yet, you look great.”
“That’s kind of you but maybe we should thank my Beverly Hills doctor.”
“I’ll be 75 soon myself.”
Ella looked up from her coffee. “You mean your 40th birthday?”
He fingered the dark hair near his forehead. “Do you think my hairline is receding?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“My dad is completely bald.”
“It comes from your mother’s side, so don’t worry. She’s not bald.”
Mark came from a mixed African American-Jewish marriage. He’d acquired the most attractive physical traits from each of his parents, a spin of the hereditary lottery not so generous with his siblings, according to photos Ella had seen.
Mark’s father loomed large in his life, and for this reason Ella suspected he’d worked especially hard to shine under the patriarchal shadow cast by Richard Allen, the California State Attorney General. The son oversaw an increasingly successful interior design business, seemingly the idealistic opposite from his macho, conservative father but recently an ironic and unexpected beneficiary.
In the previous election, Mark became known as Richard’s “San Francisco homosexual decorator son,” labeled as such by the liberal Democrat opponent during a debate. This comment, intended to alienate Richard’s conservative Christian support, instead backfired, creating a boon for Mark. Richard trounced his opponent, and many of Mark’s “debate clients” as he called them, hailed from the conservative reaches of the political spectrum.
But success in his professional life still didn’t save Mark from obsessing about his fading youth.
“Forty should be illegal.”
“You don’t know how young you are,” Ella said. “Anyway, I’ve met Giselle a couple of times. Just what did this maid have to say about her selling her house?”
“She said,” he replied lowering his voice, glancing around in an overly dramatic fashion, “that Giselle is making some kind of big change in her life, God only knows what. And that the time had come to sell the old Sea Cliff place.”
If Ella had been a younger woman, such thrilling talk would take her near the edge of sexual excitement. But sex had been off her radar since before the divorce, and she didn’t even know if her body could or would respond given the opportunity. And her solitary efforts to find out had been singularly unsuccessful.
“I haven’t heard a word about Giselle selling. It’s certainly not listed formally or I’d know about it.”
“That means it’s up for grabs,” Mark said.
Chapter 3
Before even glimpsing the Open House sign, they saw the line stretching half a block long down 23rd Street in Noe Valley. Ella’s client, a Manhattan advertising executive, had flown out for the weekend in advance of a transfer to San Francisco. She needed to quickly find a home for herself and her two young children.
“Oh my god, look at that line, what’s that for?”
“That, my dear, is where we’re headed,” Ella replied.
“The Open House? This is insane.”
“Don’t worry, we don’t have to wait.”
The real estate boom created a new breed of open house entirely, turning the long standing tradition on its head, requiring security, crowd control and other ancillary measures. Lazier realtors claimed open houses didn’t result in sales, in order to avoid holding them, while more attentive agents insisted on any and all exposure.
As one of several innovations cementing Ella’s leadership position in the real estate community, she had pioneered online ticket sales in an effort to control the pandemonium that surrounded open house culture. Only the most egregiously overpriced or truly appalling abodes escaped the hot breath of the desperate rabble, so some kind of calculated access became a matter of necessity. Her office also turned out a highly respected daily report sent via text and email announcing the latest day over day price increases in San Francisco.
A competing brokerage held the listing for the house they’d come to see, so like everyone else Ella ordered her tickets online. But as the owner of her company she and her client didn’t have to pay, benefiting from professional courtesy. Most everybody else had to fork over ten dollars to gain entrance, the money going as a credit to the seller should the open house result in a signed sales contract that day, otherwise the income helped offset the listing broker’s marketing costs.
Ella parked in her usual manner, pulling headfirst into a neighbor’s driveway, the nose of her Mercedes blocking the sidewalk. A young couple pushing a baby carriage detoured out into the street to get around the S600. They glared as they passed but said nothing.
On open house days Ella always paid special attention to her appearance. Today she’d dressed in a knee length cashmere skirt and silk blouse that showed off her slender, trainer-toned figure to its greatest advantage. She’d pulled her expensively natural blonde hair back with a barrette, where it fell to just above her shoulders.
“Let’s go,” she said to her client.
The crush at open houses necessitated the controlled entry. Generally no more than 250 people were allowed in at any one time. Lesser brokers and agents than Ella had to endure the humiliation of standing in line, with wait times sometimes exceeding two hours. As Ella and her client crossed the street, an elderly man using a walker complained to the line monitor.
“Can’t you do something young man, it’s hot in this line, and I’m thirsty and feeling weak.”
“Just stay in line, sir,” he responded sternly. “No one skips ahead.”
Except Ella and her client, who marched straight to the front of the line and presented their entry passes to the burly guards at the front door. Before they stepped across the threshold, Ella caught a glimpse of Tiffany Reynolds, the newbie agent representing Delicia Cardosa, waiting in line with a dashing, investment banker type and his obviously irritated, yet pampered looking wife. Probably 20 minutes or so still yawned between them and the front door. Tiffany shot Ella a straight on, confident look, a direct challenge if Ella didn’t know better.
Ella smiled dismissively, turned and went in.
The open house was a restored Victorian three bedroom, two bath, and by the looks of things Ella expected more than a thousand people would go through before 4 p.m. Just inside the front door she picked up a glossy color flyer off a side table. It listed all the features and details of the house, though the price had changed since Ella looked at the Multiple Listing Service. A thick, black X slashed through the $2.6 million asking price, replaced with “$4.1 million” printed boldly to the side. Ella raised her eyebrows and passed the flyer to her client.
“Are we still in your league?
“I do need a place to live with my kids, don’t I?” replied the client, a rather severe looking woman.
Ella smiled, and shrugged. “Let’s take a look then.” Ella herself had two open houses running the same day, but eager, lesser agents in her office handled the crush at those locations.
People pushed past them in both directions, making no effort whatsoever to walk on the clear plastic runners lining the hallways and rooms. Ella recognized her friend Mark’s staging abilities right away. She understood the concept of staging well, but did not altogether agree with it. To get top dollar and generate the greatest amount of buyer hysteria, sellers had to erase all signs of personal existence from their homes, often moving out altogether during the sales process. No photographs of cute kids or smiling groups on ski trips. Diplomas were stripped from the walls and toaster ovens and coffee makers whisked off kitchen counters. Generally useless items replaced these everyday practicalities, usually artistic looking vases or tasteful, yet abstract wooden sculptures.
Everything ended up blandly attractive in the Pottery Barn mode. Dark woods and light pastels metastasized through every open house in the city, choking off creativity while creeping from one neighborhood to another like a predatory weed. An obligatory nursery turned up in every staged home, even in the gayest of neighborhoods. Ella found no originality in thought or practice.
For his part though, Mark accepted all this cheerfully and wholeheartedly. “Hey, I give ‘em what they want. If today’s buyer wants to pay more just so they can look like everyone else, I’m in.”
Mark specialized in softly colored polished rock door stops and framed prints featuring watercolor landscapes of early California. The prints hung on double wires dropping down from chic little iron ceiling rails. Quite a few buyers would insist on keeping the rented furnishings and artwork that Mark utilized in his staged houses, to which he readily agreed, buying it himself from the rental outfit then marking it up four or five hundred percent. Staging a house could run from $1,000 for a simple one day clean up and reorganization to tens of thousands of dollars for a complete, temporary re-do.
Once Ella and her client fought their way to the kitchen area, they heard confused murmurings among the throngs of lookers.
“Are the owners at home, trying to live through this madness?” a young man asked his female companion.
He was referring to a very pretty woman, about 30 or so, working in the kitchen. She wore a cook’s apron over stylish pants and sweater, while stirring a large 1940’s reproduction mixing bowl with a wooden spoon. A little girl about five stood at her side watching. The sweet, unmistakable aroma of chocolate chip cookies wafted from the oversized, restaurant grade oven.
“I’ve heard talk of this, but haven’t seen it yet,” Ella said to her client.
“Who are they?”
The little girl’s shrill voice interrupted their conversation. “Cheryl, I have to go pee.”
The woman looked askance at the crowd watching and replied in a stage whisper. “I’m supposed to be your mother, remember, call me Mommy.”
The little girl only repeated her demand even louder.
“Cheryl,” she whined even louder, “I have to make pee pee.”
Cheryl or Mommy, or whoever she was, abandoned the mixing bowl and took the little girl by the hand and led her out of the kitchen.
“They’re model residents,” Ella explained. “They’re hired by the listing agent to give the home a feel of people actually living here. A developer in the East Bay tried it first about a year ago. They populated their model homes with all these actors,” she said waving a hand at the mixing bowl and stove, “and buyers seemed to take to it.”
“Amazing,” replied Ella’s client. “I should recommend it to my friend Meryl in New York. She’s in real estate and very aggressive.”
Ella didn’t doubt this last remark. She’d met more than her share of New York City realtors at various conferences, and a little of the “aggressiveness” her client described went a very long way. Ella didn’t care for her Gotham counterparts in the least. Most of them had strong accents and would tell outlandish stories about selling apartments in Manhattan. “I tawled the cloiyent ‘The apahrtment gets so much siun I hiad to put moy sunglasses on when I wawlked in.’ The cloiyent put in a full prwice offa, and puwrhcased the cawndo sight unseen, based just on my woird.” Ella shuddered at the memory.
“She’d love this model idea, though one of her last open houses was a 300 square foot two bedroom off Madison in the sixties that drew hundreds in the first hour. I’m not sure there’d be enough room for the models.”
“Hmmm, I’m not sure either,” Ella said noncommittally.
“Still, it was a spacious and well laid out space.”
Mommy and her “daughter” returned from the bathroom break, and the little girl smiled now. A nice looking man about 35 or so politely weaved his way through the crowd into the kitchen. He looked adoringly at the woman and child, and leaned in to give his wife-for-a-day a peck on the cheek. The woman smiled back, then removed the latest batch of freshly baked cookies from the oven. The tumult of lookers crushed any remaining opportunity for improvised, familial dialogue. Using a spatula, Mommy put the cookies on a ceramic platter, and placed them on the counter for the cattle to feed.
“Please, help yourselves,” she said gracefully to the multitude. Greedy hands snatched the cookies up within 30 seconds.
Ella and client wound their way through the carefully staged two story house. In the second floor hallway a boy of about three scribbled with a black crayon on the freshly painted light peach wall, his arm making long, jagged movements. “Taylor,” a woman’s voice gently said, “that’s not how we behave in other people’s homes.” She tried to pull Taylor away from the wall, but he tugged and screamed at the top of his lungs. Wanting to escape, Ella directed her client into the master bedroom. Large and luxurious, expansive plate glass windows afforded a forested view to the professionally landscaped backyard and hot tub.
“Where’s the bathroom?” asked her client.
“It must be in here,” Ella said. “I don’t know why all the doors are closed.”
The sound of a toilet flushing echoed from behind one of the freshly painted doors, and a moment later it opened, disgorging a very large, sloppily dressed overweight man, about 6’5”. He closed a box of kitchen matches, and the smell of sulphur wafted in their direction. Ella looked at her client with a horrified expression and they fled the master bedroom.
Having reached the fresh air and relative space of the back yard, they both inhaled rather lustily. Ella’s client surveyed the scene. “The hot tub looks nice, especially with that couple in it. More models?”
“It looks like it. Either that or we’ve got some prospective buyers here having a heck of a party.”
A very attractive couple in their early 20’s lounged in the hot tub. Holding champagne glasses, laughing giddily and toasting each other, they appeared to be having quite a good time. Too good of a time, Ella thought. The girl, a voluptuous tanned brunette wearing a bright yellow bikini, set her champagne flute down and leaned over closer to the young god pressed next to her in churning, steaming water. While the fascinated crowd in the garden watched, she languidly pulled her hair up on top of her head, pinning it back with a gold clip. Then she lowered her face to his sculpted bronze chest and ran her tongue up between his pecs, cleanly licking up a fine line of sweat that dripped slowly down his smooth flesh. He groaned lightly, with obvious pleasure. She looked up at him and smiled lasciviously.
Though admittedly riveting, Ella glanced around to gauge the crowd reaction. All eyes were on the couple, and Ella noticed that even some of the neighbors in adjoining yards also took in the show, peering through windows and gathering eagerly onto their decks.
“Think this’ll sell the place?” a voice asked from behind.
Ella turned to see Gordon Elway, the listing agent on the property.
“Aren’t the models getting a little out of hand?”
“Oh no,” Gordon quickly answered. “They’re just doing their job. They’re porn actors.”
Now Ella had heard it all. Fortunately her client had wandered away to inspect the landscaping.
“I got ‘em for a discount on the weekend. I said, make it hot.”
“They seem to take their work seriously.”
Her client returned. “I think it’s been long enough and I’d like to go back upstairs and get a look at the master bathroom now.”
“Was there a problem?” Gordon asked.
“Nothing that a few minutes of fresh air won’t take care of, Gordon, don’t worry.” Ella turned to her client. “Let’s go back on up.”
“That’s OK, you stay here, I wanna look around on my own.”
“Sure, of course,” Ella said.
The black-clad Manhattanite wandered off through the clusters of people, looking out of place in the more brightly dressed San Francisco crowd.
“Do they still dress like that in New York?” Gordon asked. “It seems so 80s.”
“I don’t know, Gordon.”
The hot tub couple toned things down for the time being and people started to mill around again.
“You think she likes the place?” Gordon asked.
“Maybe, it’s a little early to tell.”
“She better make up her mind quick.”
“Gordon, what’s with the four percent commission on this house?”
Gordon sighed dramatically. “The sellers wouldn’t give me the standard six.”
“We might not be in the same office and we’re often competing for the same listings, but ultimately we all feed out of the same trough. We’ve got to fight this ugly trend.”
“I know that Ella, but what was I supposed to do? For them it’s all about how fast prices are rising. They came whining at me with the argument ‘well my salary hasn’t quadrupled in the past four years, I’m not going to pay you six percent.’”
“They must be in the wrong line of work then,” she replied curtly. “Just because they work for peanuts doesn’t mean I have to.”
“Ella, if your buyer snaps this house up today for four point one, you’ll clear a bundle, it’s not bad.”
“I don’t think in terms of ‘not bad’ when it comes to commission. I think in terms of stunning. At six percent I’d make an even bigger bundle off my split. You too. Think about that the next time you give away you and your colleague’s money.”
“Give me a break, Ella,” Gordon said with a pressed smile. “Excuse me, I’ve got clients to talk to.”
She went back in the house. Jeff Arnold, the latest mortgage broker of choice, held forth at the slate topped dining room table. He had various brochures spread out and spoke earnestly to a very pregnant woman.
“You may think you can’t afford to buy now,” he said in a friendly manner, “but I might have just the loan product for you.” He handed her a brochure while his eyes flickered down to her bulging belly. “It’s easier than you think. This loan is called the Mega Double Zero. Zero down, zero payments for up to twenty-five years. Once your children reach working age or 21 years old, whichever comes first, they’ll start making the house payments.”
Chatting excitedly, the pregnant woman waddled off with a small pack of girlfriends.
Maybe a year or two younger than Ella, Jeff kept himself in great shape. She’d seen him running at Crissy Field and wondered what he was like in bed. Good and tasty, from the looks of him. He had graying hair and a strong jaw.
Jeff, from what she knew, was divorced with grown children. He’d only arrived on the San Francisco scene maybe three years ago from Maryland or somewhere back East, but quickly established himself as one of the mortgage brokers of choice. His quick success had to do with his reputation for getting results. Buyers sent to Jeff almost always were approved for some type of loan.
“Hey there,” Ella said with a welcoming smile. “How’s business?”
Jeff turned to look at Ella, and if she wasn’t mistaken, his eyes twinkled and he returned her greeting with a sexy, flirtatious smile. Ella’s insecurities kicked in right away, thinking he just wanted to keep the mortgage referrals coming and what better way than to make the old girl feel sexy? Though relatively new to being single, an utter nightmare at her age, she knew from first hand experience she was about 20 years too old for any desirable middle aged man. Delicia Cardosa however, with her coffee fortune millions and Latin charms, seemed to be an exception. She was in her early 40’s and had walked off with Ella’s beloved Hank.
“It’s not looking bad,” replied Jeff, snapping Ella out of her spiraling self pity.
She started to speak when a loud, sharp crack stung her ears. A woman in the yard screamed in piercing, unrelenting tones. Gasps from the crowd outside followed, and people started pushing through the wide French doors to get out of the yard into the house. Jeff jumped up and strode around to a side door, with Ella following close behind. They walked quickly along the side of the house to the backyard. The female model/porn star sat frozen in the gurgling waters of the hot tub, shrieking hysterically, her hands pressed full force against her cheeks, not unlike Macaulay Culkin in “Home Alone.” The object of her distress was the bronzed god she’d so delightedly licked a few moments earlier. Now he slumped down in the water, blood pouring from his neck, eyes wide open in a blank stare. As Ella and Jeff gaped, the hot tub transformed into a boiling, scarlet cauldron.
“He’s been shot,” said Jeff.
Ella looked around in shock, her eyes rapidly scanning the surrounding back yards and homes, wondering if the shooter had finished yet.
By now full fledged panic hit the crowd. “Let’s get out of here,” Jeff said. Ella nodded and they ran out through the side yard to the street, bypassing the door which led back into the house, avoiding the worst of the crush.
From the street they surveyed a surreal scene. The crowd rushed down the front steps, nearly stampeding. Very few lookers had discovered Jeff and Ella’s side yard escape route, so the front door bore most of the fleeing, upper middle class masses. Ella didn’t understand her thinking at the moment, but she wasn’t absorbing the seriousness of the situation and thought to herself it was usually the other way around, people flooding into the homes, offers in hand. All these people running away contradicted currently accepted real estate logic.
Tiffany Reynolds ran up to Ella, excited and breathless. “What happened, did someone really get shot?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh shoot,” she said, tilting her head and thrusting her fists down in front of her, “my clients were about to make an offer.” She turned and raced off in another direction.
By now the majority of the crowd had escaped the open house, with people scurrying away in all directions. Cars roared to life and a traffic jam backed up in front of the impeccably renovated neighboring homes.
The meter maid ticketing Ella’s Mercedes muttered urgently into his portable radio while the sound of approaching sirens wailed in the distance. Ella looked back at the front door. The beautiful model from the hot tub raced barefoot down the front steps, sobbing and dripping wet, wearing only her yellow bikini. The listing agent, a confused Gordon Elway, tried to take her in his arms and soothe her, but only succeeded in staining his light colored shirt. The dead boy’s blood tainted the water running off the girl’s nubile body. She pushed him away and ran blindly away up the block.
Ella and Jeff stood across the street, watching the last of the potential buyers flee Gordon’s restored Victorian listing.
*******
The timing of the murder was fortuitous, in that pandemonium broke out before the meter maid could finish ticketing Ella’s illegally parked Mercedes. Her client from Manhattan straggled out of the house right after the surviving model, looking none the worse for the wear.
“I stayed behind to get a better look at the place,” she said. “You could finally see the rooms without mobs packing it to the rafters.”
The police took down their names and contact information, saying they’d be in touch to get statements. Ella drove her client back to the ultra fashionable Le Garlandique, San Francisco’s latest trendy boutique hotel. Neither said much along the way. When they pulled up in front of the hotel, her client turned to Ella before getting out of the car.
“Do you think they’ll take a low ball offer of full price? I’d even spring for cleaning the hot tub.”
Chapter 4
Ella herself lived in none of the exclusive neighborhoods where Barker Brokers maintained offices. As part of her divorce from Hank, she’d sold him her interest in their home, a Russian Hill penthouse in the Eichler-designed apartment building at 999 Green Street. After that she wanted to drop back and regroup. She found the perfect place, Edgehill Way in the Forest Hill Extension neighborhood. She’d always loved the area, a cozy retreat cut off by Dewey Boulevard from the more well known and traditionally-moneyed Forest Hill proper. Still a quite respectable address, Edgehill Way wound up to the top of a small, tree lined knoll southwest of Twin Peaks, off the beaten path yet fifteen minutes by car or subway from downtown. Not that Ella rode the subway.
Rustic, mountain lodge type re-models and older, meticulously maintained custom homes built in the 40’s and 50’s lined the street. Ella had swooped in on a 1959 one story, modernist, low slung A-frame clinging to the north side of the knoll. She paid nearly twenty-three commissions for it, as she liked to think of her income. Sheets of plate glass angled down from the peak of the vaulted ceiling, dropping to the floor, running the full breadth of the house. Sliding glass doors opened onto a spacious deck with views from the Pacific to the Golden Gate, all filtered through Monterey Cypress trees. Setting off the view, a freestanding double sided sandstone brick fireplace exquisitely separated the living and dining rooms.
In addition to her home, Ella had invested over the years, quite wisely as it turned out, in several rental houses scattered around San Francisco. This made her a small time landlord, but she left the day to day minutiae to the property management arm of Barker Brokers. Ella’s To Do list did not include dealing personally with tenants, most of whom bore an unfailing sense of entitlement in the city’s heavily controlled rental market.
She pulled into the carport of her home, turned off the engine and sat for a moment, her elegant hands still gripping the leather and wood trimmed steering wheel. Tonight couldn’t have been a better evening to retreat into her quiet hillside getaway. The house huddled under the trees, protected by a cool blanket of fog.
The tranquility of the moment broke when her cell phone jumped to life, singing and vibrating in her purse. Mark Allen’s name came up on the caller I.D.
She felt wary and distracted, not wanting to talk to anyone, but out of reflex she flipped open the phone.
“What the hell Ella, were you there?”
“I most certainly was.”
“It’s all over the news. I was just in that house this morning.”
“Well none of your bland furniture rentals are stained with blood if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried, jeez, Ella…”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a dead body, much less someone who’s been shot. It was really scary. For all we knew the killer was right there in the house, planning a Sunday afternoon massacre.”
“They’re saying on TV it was some kind of a distance shot from a high powered rifle.”
Ella hadn’t listened to the radio on the way home, but when she’d gunned the Mercedes away from the open house she’d seen TV news vans arriving on the scene.
“Whatever it was, somebody died, and it caused a full blown mass exodus.” She hesitated, confused. “There were people with kids there, it was so dangerous. And the blood, it was brighter, more red, than I ever imagined…”
“Ella, do you want some company? I can be there in a few minutes.”
“No, Mark, but thanks anyway, I just got home and haven’t even gone into the house yet. Let me get settled and we’ll talk later, alright? I’ll give you a call,” she said, ending the conversation.
She went into the house, set her purse on the kitchen counter and picked up the TV remote. The plasma screen in the refrigerator door blazed to life with the 6pm Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12, On The Scene and Ready To Report! Ellen turned up the volume as the anchor Thad Leader, preparing for the newscast, determinedly shuffled and organized papers until the intro music stopped. Ella had met Thad several times and had come away unimpressed.
Good Evening, I’m Thad Leader. One man is dead and hundreds of others are thankful for their lives tonight after a dramatic escape in San Francisco’s plush Noe Valley neighborhood. It all started on peaceful 23rd Street, at a real estate open house. A place in fact, where people go to look for a new home and plan happy futures. But as Chirley Wixon tell us, a fugitive with a gun and a grudge had other plans. Chirley?
Ella thought the introduction wild speculation, but still listened. She knew the reporter Chirley as well, they’d met at several Chamber of Commerce and charity for kids type affairs. She had a black sixties style schlacked hairdo, long and straight that curled up at the ends, a cute figure and exuberant energy. Chirley stood on the street in front of the open house. Seeing the home again reminded Ella of the Amityville Horror house of movie fame.
Thank you, Thad. That’s right, there were moments of stark terror here at this house behind me on 23rd Street. Police say a gunman hid away in an adjoining backyard and at approximately 3:00 this afternoon opened fire on the excited crowd of prospective home buyers.
Ella knew this to be an exaggeration, there had been only one shot and one victim. But exaggerating and creating drama made life more exciting for TV news producers and reporters, at least according to the burned out broadcast journalists she’d recently hired.
Now the TV switched away to Chirley’s pre-taped report. There were shots of the covered body being wheeled out, police milling around the back yard, the interior of the house, and a tray of half eaten chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter. The next images showed the hunky porn star in better days, pictured glamorously at some dubious looking awards show.
Action Eagle News Team 12 has learned that the man slaughtered in the hot tub was 23 year old Salchiço Grosso, a native of Italy. An aspiring film actor and sex worker, Grosso worked on the side as an open house model.
The camera switched back to the reporter, Chirley Wixon, showing a close-up of her face, without much visible background.
But today was Salchiço’s last day on the job. While luxuriating in the hot tub of this multi million dollar Noe Valley home, a gunshot pierced the idyllic afternoon, instantly obliterating Grosso’s spinal column. The bullet also shredded his jugular vein. In fact, the handsome young actor was very nearly decapitated.
Chirley wore a slight smile when she enunciated the last few words, while the camera began pulling back to show more of the scene. A curious bead of sweat ran down her forehead. As she continued her “stand up,” the camera revealed she was wearing a bikini top. The sound of bubbling water grew louder.
In the tub with Salchiço Grosso was another stunning model, Gracie Eesee. The gunman’s fatal shot just missed Ms. Eesee, before blasting into Salchiço’s neck.
Now the camera pulled all the way back, revealing Chirley Wixon actually sitting the very hot tub where the porn actor had been shot. Still an obvious murder scene, roiling, crimson bubbles churned around her buxom figure just above the midriff, as she motioned to where the unfortunate Salchiço had been seated. In her other hand she held a large microphone bearing the Action 12 News flag. Yellow police tape tied with a festive bow wrapped the circumference of the hot tub. Then the report switched to a police interview.
Ms. Easee was very lucky here, unlike the victim. We know the shot was fired with a long range, high caliber professional weapon. What we don’t know is who did it and why.
Then the man Ella had seen coming out of the master bathroom came on the screen. She felt repulsed seeing him again, and while he spoke he waved his hands around holding a roll of toilet paper.
I was upstairs and everyone just started screaming and running. So I did the same.
She’d had enough and switched channels. Much to her surprise, Tiffany Reynolds popped up on a competing newscast.
It was absolutely terrifying, I mean everyone was rushing out of there like charging bulls. All I could think about though, were my clients. I wanted to make sure they were safe and sound, out of harm’s way as they search for the home of their dreams. I can help anyone with their real estate needs, just shoot an email to “Tiff at CB-Pru-U- Z dot com.
A man’s voice interrupted Tiffany’s speel
Thank you Ms. Reynolds.
The scene cut to the reporter, this one the quintessentially stereotyped blow dried male mannequin. He also stood in front of the 23rd Street house.
A tipster turned in this next video, shot live at the scene, of the female model who cheated death in the hot tub. News All Night 10 apologizes for the quality, the tipster was filming on his cell phone.
The grainy, splotchy video showed the busty, soaking wet, sobbing porn actress push herself away from Gordon Elway, then take off running barefoot up the street.
The big question now in everyone’s mind is, will this house sell?
*******
Ella awoke somewhat refreshed, thanks to a 10 mg. Ambien. The murder loomed large in her mind but ultimately, thank god, it wasn’t her problem. Not her listing, and she hadn’t the vaguest idea as to why someone would want to kill the young man in such a dramatic fashion, whatever his shady profession.
Her Manhattan client sent an email early in the morning saying in the end she didn’t want to make an offer on the Noe Valley place. She had to return to New York, and would get back to Ella when she felt ready to look again.
No, what gripped Ella’s mind was Giselle Frackle, and how to get her hands on that Sea Cliff listing. Giselle Frackle claimed title to a legendary position in San Francisco society, as the city’s reigning grande dame and philanthropic matriarch. A lively and active 91 years old, Giselle had known extreme wealth from the day she was born, thanks to her family lineage and marriage to Edgar Frackle. West coast royalty, her family’s money came through railroads and silver, much of it earned on the backs of Chinese immigrants in the 19th century. To appease her guilt, Giselle donated millions over the years to various Chinatown charities. As if her family fortune were not enough, she’d married Edgar when she was 19. Edgar had gone on to found Frackle Business Machines in the 50’s, which grew into one of the world’s dominant computer manufacturers, from the dawn of the computer age to the present day. Always innovative and ahead of the curve, the family still held the multi-national concern privately.
The Frackle name adorned many of San Francisco’s cultural institutions, from the Frackle Opera House to the restored Frackle Museum in Golden Gate Park. Giselle outbid the de Young heirs for re-naming rights.
Giselle Frackle’s mansion in Sea Cliff made up but a small part of one the country’s most immense personal fortunes. A miniscule part really, Ella thought, and she could see no reason why six percent of it shouldn’t land directly in her bank account.
She hadn’t gotten to her place in the world by sitting on the sidelines. Ella needed a plan to get close to Giselle Frackle.
Chapter 5
An hour later Ella got out of her car and walked up the driveway of Barker Brokers’ St. Francis Wood office. From all outside appearances, the office was just another beautifully manicured home in the stately, well established neighborhood. Brightly colored impatiens lined the driveway next to the well clipped lawn, birds chirped and trees rustled lightly in the breeze. She smiled to herself when she glimpsed the stately double B logo positioned discreetly near the doorbell. When she opened the heavy oak front door however, everything changed, the neighborhood tranquility outside vanished. Office cubicles filled every square foot of the enormous living room, phones rang and people bustled about. Ella paid a visit to each office once or twice a week, more so if she had personal involvement in a deal based out of one particular branch. Joe Gold, the office manager, came running up to Ella, concern etched across his face.
“Ella, good morning, are you OK? That must have been horrible yesterday.”“Really Joe, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Everyone’s been talking about it…”
“I’m sure they have, but we do have business to attend to. What I want to know now is if we’ve heard back from the seller on the Littlefeather-Jones offer.”
‘Yes, it was accepted, the fax came in a little while ago.”
“Get me the buyers on the line, please, and bring me the offer papers.”
Ella didn’t have a formal desk in any of her satellite offices, she’d just take over an empty cubicle and log on to the computer. Joe brought her the faxed copies of the signed offer.
“Roberta Littlefeather-Jones is holding on line one,” he said.
Ella picked up the phone. “Congratulations Roberta. You and Starka must be very happy.”
“Uh, I guess so,” Roberta responded uncertainly, “now that we’re on our way to owning a million dollar pet cemetery and homemade motor home.”
Ella laughed. “You’ll make it your own in no time.”
“You
mean after the owners live there for a year rent free?”
Ella
grimaced. “That’s the market these days…”
“Well at least we didn’t get shot while we were lookin’ at the place.”
She sensed a distinct change of attitude in the kindly Roberta. She hoped it wasn’t a case of buyer’s remorse, which could sour the deal for everyone, even if it went ahead and closed. But the couple’s $100,000 deposit would keep Roberta and Starka in line, of that Ella was sure. “You’ve got Jeff Arnold’s number, right.”
“The mortgage broker? Yeah, I’ll call him this morning.”
“Really Roberta, you’ll be very happy in your new home.”
But Roberta Littlefeather-Jones had already hung up.
*******
“You want me to do what?” Mark asked incredulously.
“Ask Giselle Frackle’s maid to meet you, tell her you have something you’d like to talk to her about. Then once you’re together you can set it up that you’ve invited a friend, and I’ll make my appearance.”
Ella cruised down Upper Market, on her way to the office at Yerba Buena Gardens. Her cell phone routed Mark Allen’s voice through the car’s stereo speakers while a built-in microphone picked up her voice, leaving both of Ella’s hands free for other duties, from sipping coffee to applying mascara, even steering.