Closing Costs

by Wesley Southard

  Closing Costs

  Wesley Southard

  Closing Costs © 2018 by Wesley Southard

  Cover art and design © Whutta Design whutta.com

  Layout design © Gypsy Press

  All rights reserved. No portion of the book may be reproduced without written consent from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Author’s Note: Although I have received technical assistance from a longtime professional in field, I have taken some fictional liberties with certain local laws involved in realty and the act of home buying/selling.

  For Katie…

  You…too…

  Many thanks to Kelli Owen and Bob Ford, Mary SanGiovanni and Brian Keene, the No*Con crew, Mike Lombardo and Lex Quinn, and my wife, friends, and family for their love and encouragement. Extra special thanks to Ron Dickie for your eyes and laughs, to Steve Dossett for your technical help, and to Matt Hayward and Anna Hayward for your assistance with the dialogue.

  “There is no place like home.”

  — Judy Garland

  “Sometimes dead is better.”

  — Stephen King, Pet Sematary

  ONE

  He did not know their names, only that their severed limbs would not stop moving. Their fingers and bloodstained toes spasmed and clawed angrily in his direction, but the nails he had pounded into the floor kept them at bay. He hung his head. Tears spilled down his cheeks.

  He had failed again.

  It didn’t matter how many times he tried, or how many different words he spoke or accents he used, it always ended the same way. Much like his very existence, the mess was blunt and plentiful—his machete and claw hammer saw to that—though he preferred to keep the disorder to a minimum. Noise wasn’t necessarily an issue, not down here. Nor were the vagrants he used for his incantations. They wouldn’t be missed.

  The problem was he was running out of time.

  A detached arm on the floor strained against its nail. Fingers scratched at the concrete, nails bending backwards and snapping, and the skin on its wrist widened and tore. Old, dark blood stained the floor beneath it. He carefully closed the old leather book, and then took the incensed gray hand in his own and squeezed gently.

  “I’ll get this right,” he wept. “I’ll get you better soon.”

  From across the room, a man’s decapitated head moaned in the candlelight.

  TWO

  Monique Merkley was high-quality at a great many things. She was the first in her family to graduate high school, not to mention the first to finish all four years and graduate college, which she did handily with a communications and broadcasting degree from Indiana University. For the last fifteen years, she was the lead anchor for the local NBC affiliate, and was the first African American to do so in the Southern Indiana region. For the last six years, she had hosted a wildly popular, bipartisan podcast called It’s Up to You, where she traveled the country, interviewing various politicians from city- to state-held positions, and impressively even a few ex-Presidents. She was highly regarded in her field, worked like hell to get there, and had a shelf full of local Emmys and various other prestigious awards to prove it. At forty-six, she still managed to turn heads and was regularly hit on when she was out around town. And every day she still managed to make her husband Hershel green with envy.

  But at the moment he wasn’t envious…just nervous. Underneath the blankets, Monique did her best to wake him from his late night studying and reviews. The blue-checkered comforter rose and fell, as did his chest as he sucked in deep, stuttering breaths. Twenty-three years of marriage and she still surprised him like this on mornings when she knew he really needed the pick-me-up.

  Consider me picked up, he thought.

  Her long brown curls exited the blanket, and she kissed him deeply. Morning breath filled each other’s mouths. She grabbed both of his wrists and pressed them firmly against the mahogany headboard. Hershel grinned as she let him enter her. Slowly she rocked on top of him, the bed squeaking in her rhythm.

  “You know you’re going to do great today, right?”

  Hershel could only nod. He had to concentrate. He looked away to the far wall, his eyes roaming the books on their joint shelf.

  “Hey,” she said. “Look at me.”

  …five, six, seven, eight books… he thought.

  She grabbed his goateed chin, forcing him to lock eyes with her. “Hey! Eyes up here, old man. You can do this.”

  He nodded again. “Yes. Ok.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Merkley.”

  “That’s better, old man.” She bucked a little harder, grinding her hips into him. “You’ve got this. I believe in you.”

  Grunting, Hershel bit his lip and focused. Though her eyes were hypnotizing, her large breasts swung just above his face, obscuring his vision. Dark brown nipples gently swept across his cheeks. He moaned.

  “Don’t you dare,” she growled in a loud whisper. “Just a little longer—I’m almost there!”

  He shook his head, desperately trying to heed her words…though they were just words, and he was just as pathetic as he thought he would be. After a few moments, he broke her grasp and hugged her hips. He quivered, spilling himself within her. He stayed locked on for a few more gasps before falling backwards onto his pillow. He wanted to die. “I’m so sorry, hon.”

  She sighed and put her hands on his heaving chest. “It’s ok.”

  “No…it’s not. Maybe we can try again later?” He knew damn well at his age that would have been next to impossible. He wasn’t a young man anymore.

  “Maybe,” she said, pulling herself off of him. She sat on the corner of the bed to put on her bra and panties. “But probably not. We’ve got the Hesston Banquet tonight, and we’re going to be getting home fairly late.”

  “Try again tomorrow morning?”

  She stood and put on her white cotton bathrobe. “It’s a date.” She winked, though half-heartedly, and left the room.

  “Hey!” he called out.

  Monique poked her head back in.

  “I love you, Mrs. Merkley.

  She grinned, “You too, old man,” then left.

  Fuming, Hershel slammed his head several times into his pillow, calling himself every terrible name he could think of. It was getting worse. Though Monique was as understanding as the day was long, he had lost patience with himself and his body long ago. It only worsened the older he got.

  He dejectedly crawled out from bed and ambled onto the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. He switched on the shower and stared at himself hard in the mirror. Though he hated that he couldn’t properly hold himself off for his wife, she did all but kill his nervousness about today’s possible sale. He checked his chin and cheeks thoroughly in the mirror, content he would not have to shave around his goatee or lather up his slick baldhead. He checked his nose hairs, eyebrows, and inside his ears—all neat and trimmed. For his clients, he always wanted to look his best. A sloppy realtor meant sloppy investments, and he sure as hell couldn’t afford to drop the ball on this one. Too much money at stake.

  “You’re a strong, intelligent, charming, smart, good-looking black man. You can sell this house. Dobro pozhalovat’ v dom vashey mechty.” His reflection nodded back at him. He looked satisfied. Confident. “You’ve got this, old man.”

  He looked down at his groin accusingly. “You, on the other hand, com
rade, have some serious work to do.”

  THREE

  At the office, Hershel spent the early morning much like he did most. He got caught up on phone calls, texts, and anything he didn’t get finished the day before. Paperwork was filed, inspections were ordered, and envelope after envelope was stuffed with various promotional items printed with his headshot and signature grin. He mailed dozens of free Otters baseball tickets for his various clients across the county, and he answered numerous emails from potential buyers. He enjoyed this time of the morning. It was nice and quiet, and it would still be another hour before most of the other realtors and the employees of the AAA they shared the building with would show up. George Benson and fresh mocha coffee permeated the air of his cubical.

  “Dobro pozhalovat’ v dom vashey mechty. Dobro pozhalovat’ v dom vashey mechty.” He repeated the simple Russian phrase like a mantra. He was reasonably confident he had it down.

  Once finished with menial tasks, he opened up the company’s website to once again refresh himself with the property before heading off to meet his only clients of the day. And what a pair they were. Evgeni Sokolov and his wife Yana. Though the name meant virtually nothing to him, if he were to ask someone half his age he was sure they would have brightened significantly. Most of his peers liked to study up on their clients before meeting face to face, but Hershel preferred going in mostly dry of information. He was naturally a people person, and if there was one thing most people liked to do, they enjoyed talking about themselves, especially those with money. It put them at ease, helped them to loosen up. He figured knowing that Mr. Sokolov had enough money to fly to Southwestern Indiana just to look at the Whitecomb mansion, they would have plenty to talk about. He only knew the man was a music producer in Los Angeles, mainly in the hip hop and pop genre, which is why the name didn’t ring a bell. He knew nothing of the man’s wife either.

  What surprised him the most was they had inquired about him specifically, and he didn’t know why. Though he had been a certified realtor for nearly eighteen years, he wasn’t even the most qualified to sell a home of this magnitude. One of nearly twenty in his office, Hershel was at his best selling starter homes to young people fresh from college, or married couples looking to upgrade to a quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs. Most of his peers didn’t like dealing with the twenty-year-olds, but he didn’t mind. He quite enjoyed helping them find their first place to call their own outside of their parents’ or a dorm room. The commissions weren’t great, but their hopeful smiles gave him more than money could.

  But today? Today could finally put him over the top.

  He just hoped Colin Whitecomb would stay out of his way.

  The front glass door swung open, and Bryan Dossett strolled leisurely into the office, singing along with his oversized Beats by Dre headphones. Hershel cringed and turned down his radio. Every. Single. Morning.

  “Yoooouuuu! You got what I neeeeeed! But you say you’re just a friend! But you say you’re just a friend—oh, baby, yooouu…”

  Hershel waved as he walked passed.

  “Hey, big Hersh, my man! What’s happening, brother?” He took off his headphones and slapped Hershel’s open palm with gusto. Typically he hated when white folks unnecessarily ‘blacked up’ their conversation with him. It happened occasionally with clients, but not often. Dossett was one of his oldest friends in the business, had even trained him when he started with Owen and Ford Realty, and he had always talked to Hershel a little bolder than most would. With him, he didn’t mind it too much. He meant no disrespect.

  “Good morning, Bryan.”

  Dossett placed his briefcase in the cubical across the aisle. “You’re in awful early, eh. And quite spiffy-looking, I might add. Nervous about today?”

  Hershel grinned at the South Dakota accent Dossett was still trying to hide. “A little, I guess. Trying not to think about it.”

  “A little, my ass. I’ve sold some big houses, Hersh, but the Whitecomb place? Yowza! We’ve been trying to sell that place for how long now? Hell, I’ve thrown my hat into that, what, three times now, and zilch. I’d have an easier time selling a birthday cake to a diabetic than getting that place off our hands.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly like Warrick and Vanderburgh Counties are dripping with multi-millionaires looking to over-upgrade.”

  Dossett clapped. “And that, big Hersh, is why I’m jealous as hell those russkies asked for you to be their man.”

  Hershel turned to face him. “Come on, Dossett. No need for the ethnic slurs.”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” Dossett said with his hands held up. “I’m sure they’re just perfectly nice Russians looking for a house in Newburgh, Indiana instead of New York or LA or literally anywhere else that would make sense for a couple of filthy rich moguls.”

  “I’m sorry, you moved to Indiana by choice, did you not?”

  Dossett laughed, “Have you ever been to South Dakota? Much like Russia we don’t get much sunlight, fashion is fifteen years behind, and it snows nine months out of the year. At least there are seasons here.”

  “And that can be a big selling point.”

  Groaning, Dossett collapsed into his desk chair. He rubbed his tired eyes. “I’m just saying it’s a little weird that two people with no ties to the area are looking to drop a mint on that place.”

  “Is that a hint of jealously I detect?”

  “Fuck yeah, it’s jealously! The commission alone would be able to afford me that Challenger I’ve had my eye on for the last three years. Orange with black racing stripes.” He whistled. “But I am happy you’re getting this, Hersh. This is going to put you over the top with your vacation fund, right?”

  Hershel nodded. Bingo.

  He rarely kept secrets from his wife; he had no reason to. Twenty-three years of marriage, and he still felt guilty when he lied about going to Hooters with the guys for wings and to watch the Colts games. But this secret? He’d been keeping this one since the day he started with Owen and Ford.

  “The Caribbean, right?” Dossett asked.

  “No. The Maldives.” For eighteen years, only about seventy-five percent of his commissions made it to their joint bank account. The rest he hid in a separate account in a credit union across town, and he never spoke a word about it. It was only about a month ago after being contacted by the Sokolov’s did he realize just how close he was to hitting his ultimate goal. A quick tallying up, and the commission from the Whitecomb sale would finally put him over. He was thrilled he was finally going to be able to give Monique the honeymoon she never got all those years ago.

  “Isn’t that the place where you stay in those little cabanas right over the water? Basically an island, right?”

  “Yes,” Hershel answered. “Look it up. It’s unbelievable. Mo’s been talking about that place since we were first dating. It’s extraordinarily expensive, but if I can make this sale today then I can finally take her on the trip of her dreams. I’ll have enough funds to rent out a cabana for an entire month. I’m going to surprise her tonight at the Hesston Banquet.”

  “If you make the sale.”

  Hershel sighed. “If I make the sale.”

  “And if you don’t? Then how long before you can do it?”

  “If not…maybe seven, eight more years.”

  Dossett whistled nervously. “Well then, big Hersh, you better not fuck it up. Before you know it you’ll be too old make a twenty hour flight, and your saggy ball bag will be hitting the ocean water before your feet do.”

  Grinning, Hershel nodded. “That, we can agree on.”

  “You’ve got to be dreading it though, right? Having to tell them about the murder?”

  Hershel closed his eyes and grimaced.

  FOUR

  Immense pain blossomed in both of her legs, waking Tara from a deep sleep she didn’t know she was i
n. She sucked in a harsh, unsettling breath and began to cry again. Tara was sick of crying. Everything hurt now, even crying. It seemed as though all she did now was sleep, but what else could she do when everything was just so cold and off-white. The doctors and nurses were just as frigid. Nurse Scofield was nice to her though. She gave her ice cream.

  She tried to sit up, but her lower back throbbed as bad as her legs. She wasn’t sure she had any tears left, but they poured down her reddened cheeks hot and steady. Her pillow dampened around her neck. Shaking, she reached for the button to call the nurses, but she couldn’t find it. It must have fallen off the bed again. This brought more tears.

  The room was dark, and the even beeps of her heart monitor were a constant reminder of just how alone she was. Other than doctors and nurses, no one came to visit her. Not even her daddy. She hadn’t seen him in so long. Desperately she wanted him to hold her hand, to hug her, kiss her cheek and help her fight the Lukey that made everything hurt so much. That’s what it’s called, she thought. Lukey. Or Lukey-mia or something. Either way she needed help.

  She tried to sit up once more, to look past the white curtain to outside of her room, but the door was only slightly cracked open. Even if she could manage to yell, which judging by her difficulty swallowing, she didn’t believe she could be loud enough for anyone to hear. Carefully Tara allowed herself to drop backwards. She closed her red-hot eyes to rest once more, not knowing when another bout of pain would hit.

  FIVE

  Psychologically impacted property.

  Hershel repeated the words over and over as he drove down the Lloyd Expressway into Newburgh. He hated the term. Despised it even. Though not many, it cost him sales in the past. And it was the reason why the Whitecomb mansion was still on the market after nine long years.