‘yeah’ as if this were some vacant lot we’re talking about. This is bona fide river property.”
“It’s an old house.”
“On an older river. What size lot?”
“I never measured.”
“When you cut Dad’s grass—just give me an estimate on this—how long does it take you to go from the front to the back, from one side to the other? Do you use a power mower or a manual? Just give me a rough estimate.”
“I never cut no grass.”
“Too big a job? That could be in your favor if it was too big a job.”
“Yeah, it was too big a job.”
I whistle. “How many bedrooms?”
“Two.”
“Two? Only two on an enormous estate like that?…Are you an only child? This could be important.”
“Yeah, there’s just me.”
“Better and better. Look, son, think carefully, try to remember, is Mom dead or alive?”
“Yeah, I remember. I’m an only child and Mom’s dead.”
“Son, you’re an heir. You’re a son, son.”
“The old man hates my guts.”
“There are deathbed reunions. The ball game isn’t over till the last man is out. All right, let’s inventory this thing. We’ve got a good piece of riverfront property, a magnificent two-bedroom house and an only child. Now. Tell me. You look a stocky, sturdy guy. You take after your father? You built like Pop?”
“I’m taller. We weigh about the same.”
I squeeze the flab around his belly, palm his gut like a tit. “A hundred ninety? One ninety-five?”
He shakes me off. “One seventy-two.” The fat fuck lies.
“We’ll call it one eighty. How old’s your daddy?”
“I don’t know, he don’t invite me to his birthday parties.”
“Easy, son, easy. Pa in his sixties? Fifties?”
“I don’t know. Fifties.”
“He smoke?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s good. I’ll tell you the truth, I’d have been a little worried if you’d told me he was in his sixties because that would have meant he’s beaten the actuarial tables. There’s no telling how long you can go once you’ve beaten the actuarial tables, but in his fifties, and a smoker, that’s something else…All right, is there insurance?”
“Who knows?”
“Fair enough. Is he self-employed or does he work for someone?”
“He’s a baker. He’s got a little bakery.”
“Hey. You didn’t say anything about a bakery. That’s terrific.”
“It’s a dump.”
“It’s a small business. It’s a small business and it’s insured. Okay, up to now we’ve been talking about potential collateral. What would you say he’s worth, right now, alive? Any stocks or bonds?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. Do you ever see him reading the financial pages? Does he rail at Wall Street?”
“No.”
“All right. Does he read the sports section? Following scores often indicates an interest in the fluctuation of dollars.”
“He reads the funnies.”
“I’m beginning to get a picture. Owns a piece of riverfront property which at today’s prices could be worth fifty or sixty thousand to a developer. He has a small business which means he probably banks his money. He an immigrant?”
“Yeah.”
“Sicily? Italy?”
“Yeah, Sicily, Italy.”
“An immigrant. Came to this country in the late twenties as a youngster. Saw the stock market crash and learned a good lesson. Worked and saved till he owned his own small bakery. Banks his money, likes to see it grow—watch the numbers get bigger. Sure. By this time there could be thirty or forty thousand in his account. At the inside your pop’s worth a hundred grand, not counting any possible insurance.”
“Gee.”
“Plus maybe a car, probably a small delivery truck.” The kid nods. “The equipment at the bakery, of course. The industrial ovens alone could be ten or fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Gosh.”
“That kind never throws anything out. The old-country furniture might be worth another couple grand. These are optimum figures. All in all between a hundred and seventeen and a hundred and
“It’s an old house.”
“On an older river. What size lot?”
“I never measured.”
“When you cut Dad’s grass—just give me an estimate on this—how long does it take you to go from the front to the back, from one side to the other? Do you use a power mower or a manual? Just give me a rough estimate.”
“I never cut no grass.”
“Too big a job? That could be in your favor if it was too big a job.”
“Yeah, it was too big a job.”
I whistle. “How many bedrooms?”
“Two.”
“Two? Only two on an enormous estate like that?…Are you an only child? This could be important.”
“Yeah, there’s just me.”
“Better and better. Look, son, think carefully, try to remember, is Mom dead or alive?”
“Yeah, I remember. I’m an only child and Mom’s dead.”
“Son, you’re an heir. You’re a son, son.”
“The old man hates my guts.”
“There are deathbed reunions. The ball game isn’t over till the last man is out. All right, let’s inventory this thing. We’ve got a good piece of riverfront property, a magnificent two-bedroom house and an only child. Now. Tell me. You look a stocky, sturdy guy. You take after your father? You built like Pop?”
“I’m taller. We weigh about the same.”
I squeeze the flab around his belly, palm his gut like a tit. “A hundred ninety? One ninety-five?”
He shakes me off. “One seventy-two.” The fat fuck lies.
“We’ll call it one eighty. How old’s your daddy?”
“I don’t know, he don’t invite me to his birthday parties.”
“Easy, son, easy. Pa in his sixties? Fifties?”
“I don’t know. Fifties.”
“He smoke?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s good. I’ll tell you the truth, I’d have been a little worried if you’d told me he was in his sixties because that would have meant he’s beaten the actuarial tables. There’s no telling how long you can go once you’ve beaten the actuarial tables, but in his fifties, and a smoker, that’s something else…All right, is there insurance?”
“Who knows?”
“Fair enough. Is he self-employed or does he work for someone?”
“He’s a baker. He’s got a little bakery.”
“Hey. You didn’t say anything about a bakery. That’s terrific.”
“It’s a dump.”
“It’s a small business. It’s a small business and it’s insured. Okay, up to now we’ve been talking about potential collateral. What would you say he’s worth, right now, alive? Any stocks or bonds?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. Do you ever see him reading the financial pages? Does he rail at Wall Street?”
“No.”
“All right. Does he read the sports section? Following scores often indicates an interest in the fluctuation of dollars.”
“He reads the funnies.”
“I’m beginning to get a picture. Owns a piece of riverfront property which at today’s prices could be worth fifty or sixty thousand to a developer. He has a small business which means he probably banks his money. He an immigrant?”
“Yeah.”
“Sicily? Italy?”
“Yeah, Sicily, Italy.”
“An immigrant. Came to this country in the late twenties as a youngster. Saw the stock market crash and learned a good lesson. Worked and saved till he owned his own small bakery. Banks his money, likes to see it grow—watch the numbers get bigger. Sure. By this time there could be thirty or forty thousand in his account. At the inside your pop’s worth a hundred grand, not counting any possible insurance.”
“Gee.”
“Plus maybe a car, probably a small delivery truck.” The kid nods. “The equipment at the bakery, of course. The industrial ovens alone could be ten or fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Gosh.”
“That kind never throws anything out. The old-country furniture might be worth another couple grand. These are optimum figures. All in all between a hundred and seventeen and a hundred and
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