The Trade. Shirley Palmer

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      CHAPTER 4

      “See what I mean? It’s a prime piece of property.” Mike Greffen of Downtown Realty Associates, was resplendent in a well tailored gray suit, white shirt, Hermes tie. He gestured toward the vast empty interior of the almost derelict building. In spite of the brilliant fall day outside, the late afternoon sunlight barely penetrated the second floor windows, multi-paned and washed with a thin film of brown paint. The place reeked of excrement, human and animal, rats, stray cats, the unwholesome stink of the transients who used the place to drink and vomit and crash. “Know what they say about location. Still can’t beat it, gentlemen.”

      Ned stamped a foot tentatively on the splintered wooden planks of the uneven factory floor. A small cloud of dust coated his Nikes. He and Matt wore their usual working clothes, blue jeans, polo shirts, sneakers.

      “Wow. Nearly went through there. What do you think anyone can do with this piece of industrial wasteland? Matt, you got any ideas?” Matt recognized Ned’s opening salvo for negotiation on the price. Ned managed their financial affairs, bank loans, mortgages. There wasn’t a real estate broker or a banker alive who could best Ned. He could wring the last penny out of any deal.

      Matt shrugged. “I’d call in the bulldozers.” His cell phone buzzed and he excused himself, walked over to the bank of darkened windows.

      “Matt Lowell.”

      “Matt, it’s Bobby. Listen, a heads-up. Better you don’t contact the coroner about that matter we talked about last night. Something’s come up. Okay?”

      “What’s happened?”

      “I’m at the desk, I can’t talk now. Just hang tight, don’t make any calls, okay?”

      “Too late. I called this morning.”

      “Shit. Did you leave your name?”

      “Of course I left my name.”

      “Shit,” Bobby said again. “Oh well, maybe it won’t make any difference. They lose bodies all the time down there, chances are they’re no better with telephone messages.”

      “What bodies? What are you talking about?”

      “I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you tonight. Better yet, I’ll come by. Meantime, don’t make any more calls to the coroner.” He rang off.

      Slowly, Matt returned the cell to his pocket. He cleaned a circle in the filthy window with the heel of his hand. Across the street stood a mirror image of the four-story building he was standing in. Someone had enough faith in the neighborhood to try to do something with it, but not enough to trust the neighbors not to make off with anything they could get their hands on. Surrounding the old factory was a new ten-foot chain-link fence topped with a concertina of razor wire.

      Matt walked over to rejoin the two men.

      “Mike tells me we can turn this dump into luxury apartments,” Ned said. “You’re the design and structural arm of the firm.” For Matt, the thrill of his job was in seeing the aesthetic possibilities in the crumbling buildings they restored. He was good at it, had the imagination to see what could be, probably got it from his father. It also enabled him to see the absence of opportunity, such as this building.

      Matt laughed. “Mike, you don’t believe that.”

      “Sure I do. Would I lie to you guys? This is a wicked piece of property. Great potential.”

      “Yeah, potential to go from bad to worse.”

      “That building you were looking at, Matt? Across the street there? Sold in less than a week, asking price, and I hear it’s going to be gutted and refitted as apartments. It will bring the whole area up.”

      “In your dreams, Michael,” Ned said. “Who’d you sucker into that deal?”

      “Unfortunately, I didn’t have the listing, but I hear it was bought by some outfit from Canada. I could have offered this one to them, but we’ve been doing business for a long time. I wanted to give you guys first crack at it.”

      The three men navigated the dark filth-encrusted stairs and stepped out into the sunshine.

      “So don’t wait too long, guys,” Mike said. “This is a primo piece of downtown real estate, a steal at the price.”

      He slid into his late model Lexus, tapped his horn at a kid running across the street, and drew away.

      “Shall we go for it, Matt?” Ned’s tone was doubtful.

      Matt eyed the street scene. A couple of guys selling foam-rubber pads and remnants of fabric from the back of a beat-up truck to small round women a long way in time and distance from their Aztec roots. Men with the same flat features leaned against walls, hats tipped over eyes, waiting for God knows what. In the middle of the block, kids converged on an old guy selling ice cream from a handcart that looked as if it had been in use since the fifties.

      “Pass. Let someone else take the hassle.” Matt looked again at his watch. “See you tomorrow.”

      Matt put the Range Rover into the now doorless garage, walked down the side deck past Bobby’s Harley, a Softail, parked in the middle of the ruined front garden, and let himself into the kitchen.

      Bobby was sprawled on the overstuffed sofa in the living room, a box of crackers on the table in front of him, watching a ballgame on television, Barney at his feet. The Lab got up as Matt came in, gave him a swift, enthusiastic greeting, and went back to monitoring Bob’s hand-to-mouth motion. Bob held up a warning finger. “USC, Arizona, flag on the play. Oh, damn. USC’s offside.” He clicked off the set.

      Bobby tossed Barney a Ritz and swung his feet to the floor. “You’ve got to find a new hiding place for the house key. That flowerpot’s history.”

      Matt threw his briefcase onto the kitchen counter. The key had always been kept in a flowerpot. “I’ll get a new one.”

      “And get the fence fixed while you’re at it. You’re totally exposed to the street, your neighbors are never here and this place is barely more than a shack. A quick push on the kitchen door, and you’re cleaned out in minutes.”

      “You try getting anything done. Half of Malibu’s in line ahead of me.”

      “What about one of your own work crews?”

      “Ned would have СКАЧАТЬ