Top Producer

by Laura Wolfe

I let out my breath. “Hi. Maybe I overreacted, but I don’t want to be kept in the dark. Can we put it behind us?”

  “Agreed,” she said. “We’re on the same team, Mara. Things between us will be an open book from now on.”

  I turned over the silver bracelet on my wrist. “Okay. Sorry I flipped out.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  Jacqueline’s words made the fine hairs on my neck bristle. She should have been the one apologizing to me. I dropped my phone into my purse, focusing on my breathing, and coming to terms with swallowing my pride. The situation was under control. No need to waste any more energy thinking about it. I pulled my BMW into traffic, stealing a final glimpse of the woman hunched on the bench, before turning toward the office.

  26

  It was a few minutes before 8 a.m., and a line of caffeine-addicted professionals extended out the door of Starbuck’s. I slid my chair closer and glanced at Jacqueline. She placed her cardboard cup on the tiny black table between us, the corner of her mouth twisting upward.

  “I have good news.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “You go first.”

  “CBR Magazine is naming me as one of the Thirty under Thirty in next month’s issue.” I kept my face still, not sure how Jacqueline would respond to me being in the spotlight.

  “No kidding.” She smiled and shook her head. “Nice to see hard work paying off. Congrats.”

  I exhaled. “Thanks. What’s your news?”

  “I sold a four-million-dollar penthouse unit to my elderly clients last night. A 4,200 square-foot condo that occupies the entire top level of the building at 800 N. Michigan Avenue.”

  “Wow.” I pulled my cup toward me, my stomach sinking. Jacqueline had kept the deal to herself. No referral fee.

  “When this deal closes, my numbers will be right on par with Natalia’s, especially since Don finally agreed to help me tie up her $24 million listing.”

  I nodded, remembering Jacqueline’s scheme from a few months earlier to take Natalia’s listing off the market with her fake buyer. The coffee cup scorched my hand, so I laced my fingers together and shifted my chair.

  “You should have seen Natalia’s face when I presented her with the contract so quickly. I could practically see the dollar signs flickering in her eyes. It’s been two months of delays, but she hasn’t figured out yet that Don won’t fulfill any of the contract terms. No increase in earnest money. No closing. I can already envision the angry phone calls and threatening letters from attorneys, but no one will be able to do anything about it. They’d have to go to court to sue for performance, and that could take years. She won’t be able to pin it on me. If anything, I’ll pretend to be on Natalia’s side. My buyer is the problem. My shady, no-good buyer who lied to me and over whom I had no control.” Jacqueline crinkled her nose and laughed. “Don’t you love real estate?”

  “Yeah,” I said, although it was becoming obvious Jacqueline and I didn’t love it for the same reasons.

  Jacqueline tapped her nails on the table and stared past my shoulder. “Our sales numbers are too close, though. I don’t know what other deals Natalia has in her pocket for the rest of the year. I need more inside information.”

  “I’m already following her.”

  “I’m thinking of something bigger. We need to get into the CCC.”

  “The Chicago Construction Club?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But only men can join the CCC.”

  Jacqueline scowled. “It’s such backward bullshit. The CCC is a cesspool of real estate leads, though. Natalia has her sources there. Everyone knows she got divorced because she had an affair with Howard Aldrich.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “He’s the slumlord who owns Chicago Rentals, the largest apartment rental company in Chicago. He gave Natalia the lead on her new $24 million listing. I’m sure of it. He must have heard about the deal from his cronies at the CCC. I need access.”

  My gut looped into a knot as I imagined what Jacqueline would do to get through the door of the all-male club. I braced myself for her to suggest I get a sex change operation.

  “I’ve been making friends with Lydia Burton. Her husband, Roger, is one of the founders of the CCC.”

  I remembered Lydia as the older woman sitting next to Jacqueline at Germania Place the night I discovered the spray paint in the trunk. Lydia’s husband, Roger, seemed like an asshole.

  Jacqueline checked her watch, then smoothed down her shirt. “Anyway, I’m hoping Lydia will change Roger’s negative opinion of me. I took her out for lunch last week, and we’ve already made plans to visit the Institute of Art next Tuesday. I was waiting for the perfect opportunity to slant our conversations toward real estate, toward me listing Roger’s developments, but it’s taking too much time.”

  “So, what are you thinking?”

  “No one will let me into the CCC. They know me too well, but you could slip under the radar and go to one of their events, then report back to me.”

  “How?” My hand bumped against my cup, splattering drips of coffee across the table. I searched for a napkin but had forgotten to take one.

  Jacqueline’s eyes fluttered toward the mess, then refocused on me. “Let me think about it. We’ll revisit this idea in a day or two.”

  I dropped my chin and pulled in a deep breath through my nose, hoping Jacqueline would get distracted with something else and forget about the CCC.

  A few minutes later, I’d mopped up my spilled coffee, and we headed down North Avenue back to the office. Twenty feet ahead, Tony slumped against the side of the building with a Styrofoam cup of change in front of him. I began to dig through my purse for some spare coins. Jacqueline stepped toward me with an angry look, but her toe caught on something, and she tumbled forward and fell to the sidewalk.

  “Ah!” She lay on the ground, wincing and clutching her ankle next to a gaping crack in the uneven cement.

  “Are you okay?” I leaned over her, retrieving the high-heeled shoe that had slipped off her foot.

  Deep, bellowing laughter erupted from Tony’s mouth, slowly transforming into raspy, wet coughing. It was the kind of cough that made me glad I never took up smoking. Tony wore too many layers of clothes for such a hot morning. Maybe to balance out his overabundance of clothing, he wore no shoes, and his yellowish toenails twitched dangerously close to Jacqueline’s eyes. His face was dirty and unshaven. Specks of white food or possibly garbage clung to his hair and beard. He looked toward me and pointed at Jacqueline, the violent coughing shaking his entire body and jingling the change inside his cup.

  Jacqueline sneered at him. “What are you looking at?”

  Tony laughed harder, choking on his saliva.

  She pushed herself up off the ground, then yanked the shoe from my hand and shoved her foot into it. “Why do people like him have to exist?” She placed her foot down and yelped before raising it again.

  My eyes found Tony, who had now stopped coughing. His still face waited for my response. “Sorry,” I said to him but held my arm out for Jacqueline to lean on. I teetered between them, not sure what to do next.

  Jacqueline’s fingers dug into my arm, squeezing tighter. I tried to guide her past Tony, but she resisted. Her leg reached back, then swung forward with a burst of force.

  “No!” I shouted, backing away from Jacqueline just as she kicked Tony’s cup of change.

  The cup flew into the air and rained down in a metallic shower. Coins scattered across the sidewalk, bouncing and rolling into the street as the tires of passing cars crunched over the man’s life savings.

  The breath left my lungs.

  Tony threw his arms in the air, his eyes bulging toward Jacqueline. “Hey! Why’d you do that? Why’d you do that?” He scrounged on his hands and knees, mumbling to himself and scraping the scattered coins into a pile.

  My muscles twitched, my stomach seizing. What kind of sick person would kick a homeless man’s jar of change? The speech Jacqueline had gi
ven at Germania Place about helping homeless people replayed through my mind. My stomach folded, confirming what I already knew. She was a fraud.

  Jacqueline smirked and continued limping toward the office.

  “You crazy bitch! Crazy bitch!” Tony yelled after her.

  My feet wouldn’t budge, my limbs weighed down with disgust as I watched Jacqueline hobble away. Tony’s soiled fingernails searched frantically through the cracks.

  “Let me help you.” I crouched down, shoulder-to-shoulder with him, my fingers shaking as they scraped against the hot cement to retrieve the man’s coins.

  27

  Despite being 11 a.m. and sunny, I’d turned on all the lights in Bill’s house. He’d taken Jacqueline’s advice and gotten rid of the books, boxes, and clothing that had previously lined the hallways. He’d vacuumed, too. The place didn’t look half-bad. I pulled the tray of deep-dish pizza from the oven, its doughy aroma competing with the flowery scent of the Febreeze Bill must have spritzed throughout the house before I arrived. I placed the pre-cut slices next to the tossed salad on the counter. The Broker’s Open House started in two minutes, and there’d soon be a crowd of hungry realtors showing up for free lunch, regardless of whether or not they had a potential buyer.

  As I arranged the food, I struggled to set aside yesterday’s drama. After spending fifteen minutes helping Tony gather his spilled change, I’d returned to the office where Jacqueline sat with her leg propped up, a bag of ice resting on her ankle, and half a dozen realtors gathered around her asking if she was okay.

  “I tripped on that horrible sidewalk,” she’d said with no mention of Tony or what she’d done to him. “The city is lucky I’m so busy. Otherwise, I’d sue them.”

  Missy Lantosa clicked her tongue. “They should really do something about those uneven sidewalks. I almost twisted my ankle the other day.”

  I’d shuffled papers as loudly as I could while Jacqueline pretended not to notice me. When the crowd around her had finally dwindled, my conscience had strengthened in protest, taking a grip of my throat and refusing to let the difference between right and wrong go unnoticed for a second longer. Jacqueline needed to hear it.

  I stepped in front of her desk, forcing her to look at me. “Why did you do that?”

  Jacqueline cocked her head. “Do what?”

  “Kick Tony’s cup? That’s all he has. Can’t you give the guy a break?”

  “He brought it on himself, Mara. He acted like a child, so I treated him like a child.”

  My jaw clenched.

  “And my ankle will be fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

  With my tongue thick in my mouth, I’d gathered my things, turned my back on my mentor, and headed out to my next showing.

  Now I surveyed Bill’s kitchen, thankful to have some space from Jacqueline, at least for a couple of hours. It was easier to focus on selling real estate than to dwell on how to deal with her misguided behavior. I’d only had a handful of showing requests at Bill’s property. Jacqueline had insisted on a Broker’s Open House as a way for us to gather agent feedback on the price point. If enough people told Bill his property was overpriced, maybe he’d consider lowering it.

  The front door opened, and two guys about my age walked in. One had slicked-back hair and wore a T-shirt and jeans. The other was tall and skinny and wore a suit. They looked around, admiring the front room as they made their way back to the kitchen.

  “Cool place,” said the one with the gelled hair, placing his card on the counter. The skinny guy did the same. They were with City View Properties.

  “Do you mind?” The first guy pointed to the pizza.

  “Go for it,” I told him.

  The slickster grabbed a paper plate and slid two slices of pizza onto it. His friend went for the salad first. They devoured the food as if they hadn’t eaten in days. I was guessing neither of them had a viable buyer for the property.

  “After you eat, take a look upstairs and let me know what you think of the price.” I pretended to check my phone as they ate. They seemed desperate. A pit formed in my stomach as I realized how easily I could have found myself in their place, trolling broker’s open houses for free food. As much as Jacqueline’s recent behavior bothered me, I’d probably be standing where they were if it hadn’t been for her taking me under her wing.

  “Sure thing,” said the slickster. They grabbed cans of Coke off the counter and headed upstairs.

  A minute later, three women about my mom’s age wandered through the door, talking loudly about the cost of parking permits. The one with her bangs cut too short approached me and insisted she might have a buyer.

  “This is exactly what he’s looking for,” she said. “I’ll take one of your brochures with me.” The women wandered around for a few minutes and then approached the kitchen island to ask if they could have some pizza and salad.

  “Help yourself.” I flashed my most realtor-like smile. “That’s what it’s there for.”

  The guys from City View sauntered past, telling me the price was too high. The women in the kitchen agreed and followed them out the door, thanking me for the food.

  I sat around for another fifteen minutes admiring the silky fabric of my new floral sundress and waiting for more realtors to show up. Sometimes agents with legitimate buyers brought them along to the open houses. Maybe someone would do that today. The door opened. I rearranged the pizza and salad on the counter.

  Footsteps clicked against the floor, and I looked up. A pair of dark and familiar eyes shot through me like bullets, causing me to stumble backward. Natalia Romanov stood in front of me. Alone. She wore high heels and a sleeveless black dress. Her brunette hair was cropped to chin-length and cut at an angle like the models in Milan.

  “So, you ended up with this listing?” She spoke with a slight Russian accent.

  “Yeah. Well, no.” My heart hammered in my chest as I struggled to spit out the words. “It’s Jacqueline Hendersen’s listing. I’m her assistant.”

  “I’ve seen you before.” Natalia’s black eyes were cast from iron. “You’ve been following me.”

  “No. I don’t think so.” I looked down, hoping she couldn’t detect the beads of sweat collecting on my forehead.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  Shit! She’d seen me. What if the rumors were true? What if Natalia was involved in the Russian mob. She could put a hit on me. Why had Jacqueline put me in this situation? It had been reckless.

  The Russian leaned toward me, speaking in barely more than a whisper. “You tell Jacqueline that whatever game she is playing, I do not like it. I am watching her very closely.”

  I nodded. “Okay. I’ll tell her. But there aren’t any games.”

  She glared at me. “I saw you outside my house a couple of weeks ago. I do not forget faces!”

  Every muscle in my body tensed. It took all my strength to stand upright, instead of hiding inside a nearby cabinet or racing out the back door. I inhaled, trying to think of what to say next. “I’ll tell her.”

  Natalia’s stare bore into me, her eyes unwavering. Finally, she turned away and strode toward the front entrance. Just before exiting, she flipped around, twisting her thin lips to the side. “You’ll never sell the property at this price. It is way too high.”

  28

  I shoved through Greystone’s front door and staggered toward Jacqueline, pushing my hair from my sweaty face. My heart still pounded from my encounter with Natalia. Jacqueline perched on the chair behind her desk.

  “She knows.” I leaned over her, my voice barely above a whisper. “Natalia. She saw me following her.”

  “What?” Jacqueline shook her head. “No way.”

  “Natalia stopped by the broker’s open to confront me.” My eyes grasped onto Jacqueline’s. “She figured it out.”

  Jacqueline stared out Greystone’s front windows and shifted her legs. Her ankle was wrapped in an ace bandage, which she’d tried to hide under her pant leg. “Why did you follow
her so closely? You should have been more careful!”

  My face burned. I cleared my throat, ignoring her comment. “Natalia said to tell you that she doesn’t know what kind of games you’re playing, but she’s watching you closely.”

  A sheen of perspiration formed on Jacqueline’s skin, her complexion fading to the color of ceiling paint. She tapped her nails on her desk and took a deep breath.

  “Don’t worry.” Her eyes flickered. “There’s nothing she can do. She has no proof.”

  I tipped my chin back and inhaled. “I don’t want to follow her anymore.”

  “Fine. It hasn’t been that productive anyway. We’ll move on to something else.”

  I shuffled toward my desk and took my seat, relieved that Jacqueline had let me off the hook and that my risky spy mission was officially over.

  Maeve had rescheduled this week’s office meeting for this afternoon, and Greystone’s realtors swarmed around me. Even the ones who hadn’t done a deal in a good six months, like empty nester, Ellen Barkley, and stay-at-home mom, Stacey Goldman, pretended to review contracts on their desks and ask others about their new listings. I knew they didn’t have any business because Jacqueline had ordered me to track everyone’s sales in the office. I knew the agents who produced deals and the ones who hung around their desk merely to socialize.

  Before I had a chance to give Jacqueline feedback from the open house, Maeve clapped her hands and waved to catch everyone’s attention.

  “Let’s get started, people.” A ripple of silence spread over the room. “Announcements first.” Maeve stood near the far wall and cleared her throat. She proceeded to read the new listings for the previous week, the majority of which were Jacqueline’s.

  When Maeve called my name after one of the properties, Jacqueline pinched her lips together and raised her eyebrows at me. I hadn’t told her about my new listing in Logan Square. My side business was gaining momentum. So far, the increase in my workload hadn’t been an issue. I’d been able to keep up with everything she’d thrown at me