Chapter 1
I caught
most of it with a napkin until Ryan could arrive with a towel from behind the
counter. It never fails. Just when you've managed to spill the better part of
a double cappuccino all over your client files, that cell phone is bound to
ring.
"Sorry
about that," I said, pulling the impatient phone out of my purse as he
took charge of the sticky mess.
"No
problem," he said with that smile of his; the one that makes him look like
a black-and-white movie actor whose name always escapes me. "Are you
gonna get it?" he asked.
"Get
what?"
He nodded
toward the phone still playing a hip-hop ringtone in my hand. I'd been meaning
to change it to something more professional ever since receiving my real estate
license 18 months earlier. But then one listing turned into twelve listings,
turned into six closings, 80-something showings, 19 open houses and so on.
Figuring out how to download a ringtone would have to wait. Most days, it was
all I could do to answer the damn thing. Which I finally did.
"This
is Lauren," I said as if I weren't currently starring in a coffeehouse
shit-show.
"Did I
catch you at a good time?" His voice was new, but knowing. I generally
tried to call clients by name, even before they tipped me off, but this one had
me stumped. Too young to be Mr. Jankovich, too throaty to be Jimmy Wallis. I
didn't dare risk getting it wrong.
"I'm
sorry, who am I speaking with?" I asked as Ryan finished fixing my mess
and exited with a wink. I took my seat again and sipped what was left of the
cappuccino.
"You
don't know me," he said.
"Okay,"
I hesitated. "How can I help you, Mister…?"
Silence.
Didn't he know you're supposed to fill in the blank?
"Are
you there?"
"I'm
here," he said. "There will be time enough for names later. After
we've gotten acquainted."
Buyer?
Seller? Ax murderer? The real estate course hadn't covered this one. I
considered hanging up, but in a business where you're always one call away from
a five-digit commission, I wanted to be sure.
"Why
aren't you married?" he asked with startling nerve. "You look like
the marrying type."
Yep, ax
murderer.
Ryan showed
up with a replacement cappuccino and I reached for my purse only to have him
wave me off. "Thanks," I mouthed.
"Look,
I'm sorry but I'm walking into a meeting at the moment, perhaps you could give
me your number and I could call you back at a better time?"
"I
don't believe you," he said.
"I'm
sorry? You don't believe what?" I asked.
"That
you're walking into a meeting."
Commission
or not, I'd had enough of this guy. "Look I really have to go," I
said, taking a sip of cappuccino number two.
There was a
long pause. I looked at the face of the phone to see if it was still
connected. "Hello?"
"You're
sitting in a bistro on the corner of 14th and Maple," he informed me.
"With a brand-new skinny cappuccino, lovingly prepared by a young Errol
Flynn."
I looked out
of the large picture window at the front of the shop, not knowing what for
exactly. After all, even an ax murderer wouldn't be stupid enough to actually
wield his steely weapon in broad daylight.
There was an
old man sitting on a bench facing away from the storefront, petting a golden
retriever. Two teen girls were leaning on a newspaper box, whistling at a boy
on the far side of the street. Eight or ten parked cars lined 14th Avenue, all
appearing to be empty.
"Not
out there," the voice said, "In here."
I turned my
attention inside the shop, scanning the room for crazed psychos.
Of the
twelve or fourteen other customers, only two were using cell phones. One was a
female college student in front of a laptop computer.
The other
was a man in his early forties, impeccably dressed in Armani with the
accessories to back it up. He appeared to be reading a magazine from his right
hand, even as he held a phone to his ear with the left.
"Say
something," I asked. There was no response as I watched the man set his
magazine down, turn the page, and raise it back toward
I caught
most of it with a napkin until Ryan could arrive with a towel from behind the
counter. It never fails. Just when you've managed to spill the better part of
a double cappuccino all over your client files, that cell phone is bound to
ring.
"Sorry
about that," I said, pulling the impatient phone out of my purse as he
took charge of the sticky mess.
"No
problem," he said with that smile of his; the one that makes him look like
a black-and-white movie actor whose name always escapes me. "Are you
gonna get it?" he asked.
"Get
what?"
He nodded
toward the phone still playing a hip-hop ringtone in my hand. I'd been meaning
to change it to something more professional ever since receiving my real estate
license 18 months earlier. But then one listing turned into twelve listings,
turned into six closings, 80-something showings, 19 open houses and so on.
Figuring out how to download a ringtone would have to wait. Most days, it was
all I could do to answer the damn thing. Which I finally did.
"This
is Lauren," I said as if I weren't currently starring in a coffeehouse
shit-show.
"Did I
catch you at a good time?" His voice was new, but knowing. I generally
tried to call clients by name, even before they tipped me off, but this one had
me stumped. Too young to be Mr. Jankovich, too throaty to be Jimmy Wallis. I
didn't dare risk getting it wrong.
"I'm
sorry, who am I speaking with?" I asked as Ryan finished fixing my mess
and exited with a wink. I took my seat again and sipped what was left of the
cappuccino.
"You
don't know me," he said.
"Okay,"
I hesitated. "How can I help you, Mister…?"
Silence.
Didn't he know you're supposed to fill in the blank?
"Are
you there?"
"I'm
here," he said. "There will be time enough for names later. After
we've gotten acquainted."
Buyer?
Seller? Ax murderer? The real estate course hadn't covered this one. I
considered hanging up, but in a business where you're always one call away from
a five-digit commission, I wanted to be sure.
"Why
aren't you married?" he asked with startling nerve. "You look like
the marrying type."
Yep, ax
murderer.
Ryan showed
up with a replacement cappuccino and I reached for my purse only to have him
wave me off. "Thanks," I mouthed.
"Look,
I'm sorry but I'm walking into a meeting at the moment, perhaps you could give
me your number and I could call you back at a better time?"
"I
don't believe you," he said.
"I'm
sorry? You don't believe what?" I asked.
"That
you're walking into a meeting."
Commission
or not, I'd had enough of this guy. "Look I really have to go," I
said, taking a sip of cappuccino number two.
There was a
long pause. I looked at the face of the phone to see if it was still
connected. "Hello?"
"You're
sitting in a bistro on the corner of 14th and Maple," he informed me.
"With a brand-new skinny cappuccino, lovingly prepared by a young Errol
Flynn."
I looked out
of the large picture window at the front of the shop, not knowing what for
exactly. After all, even an ax murderer wouldn't be stupid enough to actually
wield his steely weapon in broad daylight.
There was an
old man sitting on a bench facing away from the storefront, petting a golden
retriever. Two teen girls were leaning on a newspaper box, whistling at a boy
on the far side of the street. Eight or ten parked cars lined 14th Avenue, all
appearing to be empty.
"Not
out there," the voice said, "In here."
I turned my
attention inside the shop, scanning the room for crazed psychos.
Of the
twelve or fourteen other customers, only two were using cell phones. One was a
female college student in front of a laptop computer.
The other
was a man in his early forties, impeccably dressed in Armani with the
accessories to back it up. He appeared to be reading a magazine from his right
hand, even as he held a phone to his ear with the left.
"Say
something," I asked. There was no response as I watched the man set his
magazine down, turn the page, and raise it back toward
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