have, especially since I didn’t have to pay for it. I couldn’t imagine what Gordon would do with the place, but it was just the sort of gamble he liked. Of course, he liked every sort of gamble.
Back at the office, I saw that Bobby had picked up my note and the papers. His desk was clear except for a manila file folder labeled BURNS, M. On my desk was a note from him:
Call Sloans,
856-3245
,
2
P.M. It was after five now. I picked up the phone but then, instead of calling, I put it back on the hook and went over to Bobby’s desk and opened the cover of the Marcus Burns file. Right on top were his tax returns from ’79 and ’80. I picked them up and looked at them. Name, Marcus Burns; spouse’s name, Linda Burns; gross taxable income, $125,678 and $102,345, about $30,000 each year from her. She was a teacher. They had lived in Hempstead, on Long Island. He had been, as he said, employed by the IRS. He also had investment income, capital gains, and interest income. He owned his own house and deducted $10,000 mortgage interest. He used both his cars for work, depreciated them, and deducted mileage. He took a large sales tax deduction, because he lived in New York, and claimed seven dependents, including himself and his wife. At the back there was an oil depletion allowance deduction. The forms ran many pages. In ’79 he had paid $15,935 in taxes, and in ’80, $13,986. I picked up the mortgage application just beneath the tax forms. He was now employed as a financial advisor and investment consultant, with some work as a free-lance tax specialist on the side. His estimated income for 1981 was $135,000. He was applying for a 90 percent loan, $25,000 down to be realized from the sale of his previous home. His payment, at 12 percent interest, would be about $2,000 per month. He was prequalified. The expected closing date was June 1. I stacked the tax forms and the mortgage application together and replaced them inside the folder. He was, to all appearances, fully capable of buying Gottfried Nuelle’s pride and joy and raining income upon this office. In addition, I didn’t think he needed my help (my taxable income for 1979 was more like $72,000) to pay for his fence. I went to my typewriter and tapped out another note:
Tell buyer if he doesn’t buy Gottfried intends to put the house back on the market for ten thousand more, since present price doesn’t cover his costs to date. Quibbling about the fence probably will kill the deal.
This was actually a good idea, and if Gottfried hadn’t thought of it, I would certainly suggest it if Marcus Burns made a fuss. Ah, I was in a wonderful mood. I decided to call the Sloans in the morning.
CHAPTER
4
B Y EARLY MAY, I had Salt Key Farm advertised everywhere—
Town and Country, The New York Times Magazine,
even
The Blood-Horse
and
The Chronicle of the Horse,
as a working horse-breeding establishment. Jacob Thorpe, or rather his assistant and his housekeeper and his stable manager, were friendly and cooperative about photographs, and I had a six-page fold-out brochure printed up with something like twelve or fifteen views of various aspects of the property, including the paneling in the library, which was, as Gordon had said, a work of art or, as I said, “the work of master craftsmen, whose skills have long since vanished.” I saw Jacob Thorpe once, and he was friendly and apparently sane; he had sparkly blue eyes, a rather abstracted demeanor, and feathery white hair that stood up around his head. He sat down with me at a dining room table that had the depth and shine of honey and signed the purchase agreement, which gave Gordon four months—until the end of August—to come up with $250,000 and gave the Thorpes until October 1 to vacate. It was all very friendly. When I told him I was taking photos for Gordon’s sales brochure, he beamed with apparently sincere benevolence, and said, “Well, you just go about your business, and we’ll help
Back at the office, I saw that Bobby had picked up my note and the papers. His desk was clear except for a manila file folder labeled BURNS, M. On my desk was a note from him:
Call Sloans,
856-3245
,
2
P.M. It was after five now. I picked up the phone but then, instead of calling, I put it back on the hook and went over to Bobby’s desk and opened the cover of the Marcus Burns file. Right on top were his tax returns from ’79 and ’80. I picked them up and looked at them. Name, Marcus Burns; spouse’s name, Linda Burns; gross taxable income, $125,678 and $102,345, about $30,000 each year from her. She was a teacher. They had lived in Hempstead, on Long Island. He had been, as he said, employed by the IRS. He also had investment income, capital gains, and interest income. He owned his own house and deducted $10,000 mortgage interest. He used both his cars for work, depreciated them, and deducted mileage. He took a large sales tax deduction, because he lived in New York, and claimed seven dependents, including himself and his wife. At the back there was an oil depletion allowance deduction. The forms ran many pages. In ’79 he had paid $15,935 in taxes, and in ’80, $13,986. I picked up the mortgage application just beneath the tax forms. He was now employed as a financial advisor and investment consultant, with some work as a free-lance tax specialist on the side. His estimated income for 1981 was $135,000. He was applying for a 90 percent loan, $25,000 down to be realized from the sale of his previous home. His payment, at 12 percent interest, would be about $2,000 per month. He was prequalified. The expected closing date was June 1. I stacked the tax forms and the mortgage application together and replaced them inside the folder. He was, to all appearances, fully capable of buying Gottfried Nuelle’s pride and joy and raining income upon this office. In addition, I didn’t think he needed my help (my taxable income for 1979 was more like $72,000) to pay for his fence. I went to my typewriter and tapped out another note:
Tell buyer if he doesn’t buy Gottfried intends to put the house back on the market for ten thousand more, since present price doesn’t cover his costs to date. Quibbling about the fence probably will kill the deal.
This was actually a good idea, and if Gottfried hadn’t thought of it, I would certainly suggest it if Marcus Burns made a fuss. Ah, I was in a wonderful mood. I decided to call the Sloans in the morning.
CHAPTER
4
B Y EARLY MAY, I had Salt Key Farm advertised everywhere—
Town and Country, The New York Times Magazine,
even
The Blood-Horse
and
The Chronicle of the Horse,
as a working horse-breeding establishment. Jacob Thorpe, or rather his assistant and his housekeeper and his stable manager, were friendly and cooperative about photographs, and I had a six-page fold-out brochure printed up with something like twelve or fifteen views of various aspects of the property, including the paneling in the library, which was, as Gordon had said, a work of art or, as I said, “the work of master craftsmen, whose skills have long since vanished.” I saw Jacob Thorpe once, and he was friendly and apparently sane; he had sparkly blue eyes, a rather abstracted demeanor, and feathery white hair that stood up around his head. He sat down with me at a dining room table that had the depth and shine of honey and signed the purchase agreement, which gave Gordon four months—until the end of August—to come up with $250,000 and gave the Thorpes until October 1 to vacate. It was all very friendly. When I told him I was taking photos for Gordon’s sales brochure, he beamed with apparently sincere benevolence, and said, “Well, you just go about your business, and we’ll help
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