Wipe Out

by Jeff Shelby

  “But you've made it clear you want the property,” I said. “You must have some idea.”

  He started to say something, then stopped. He assessed me for a moment. “You don't strike me as a lawyer.”

  “I'm not,” I said, shaking my head. “Simply acting as an intermediary for the estate.”

  “And the estate is looking to sell?” he asked. “Mitchell was a pretty tough nut to crack. Even when I made the offer, I didn't think he'd give it much consideration. I know he's gone now, but I'm just curious.”

  “The estate is considering all options,” I said, doing my best to sound like I knew what I was talking about. “Everything is currently on the table.”

  He nodded slowly and rubbed at his chin, then folded his arms across his chest, the dress shirt tightening some more around his belly. “What I envision is something akin to the Capri by the Sea. You familiar with that?”

  I nodded, because I was. The Capri was the tallest building on the ocean side of Mission Boulevard, a tower of condominiums modeled after the ones that dotted the shorelines of the Florida panhandle. The condos served mostly as rental units and were incredibly expensive and tough to come by in the summer months.

  “Now, I'm not sure I'd go that big,” Nixon said. “If we went that tall, we'd run into issues with coastal commission and the city. That kind of thing could hang up any progress for months, if not years. I'm not interested in that.” He paused. “But that's what I see because the demand is there and we'd be able to recoup our investment and costs.”

  “And make a profit,” I said.

  He smiled. “Of course. That's always the ultimate goal, and it would not be hard to turn a profit with that kind of land. My offer for the property is what it needs to be in order for me to earn back on it what I'd like to earn back. But I'm not looking to squeeze every dollar out of it by squeezing in square footage. Never done that and I don't plan on starting now.”

  “That might make you a bit unique in the real estate community,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Maybe. There are a lot of guys out there who are bloodsuckers, who just want the dollars. The larger, more corporate firms, those are the guys who don't always seem to take into consideration the effect that building in a community can have. All they think about are record sale prices and being the guy that ups the value per square foot.” He shook his head. “But I'm not that guy. I couldn't be that guy if I wanted to. And there are a lot of good people out there who do what I do, too. Not all bad.”

  I nodded. “I believe you.”

  He leaned forward, the chair squeaking, and laid his hands flat on the desktop. “So, where are you in the process?”

  “Early,” I said honestly. “There are several offers for the motel, and we're just checking to make sure that people are still interested if that's the route the estate decides to take.”

  “You won't have a problem with interest, I can guarantee you that,” Nixon said. “Are you going to open it up to the public?”

  “I'd say it's too early to know what the estate will do at this point,” I said. “Like I said, nothing has been determined.”

  He nodded, tapping his hands lightly against the desk. “I understand. But I'd like to ask one thing.”

  “Okay.”

  “If the estate were to decide to go public, come back to me,” he said. “Let me try and make an offer that would make it unnecessary to take in other offers. If I can't, then so be it. But I'd love the opportunity to make that happen.”

  “I can relay that,” I said. “No promises, but I'll convey that.”

  “That's all I can ask,” he said. “Do you have a card?”

  I made a show of checking my wallet, then frowning. “You know what, I don't. I apologize. I can give you my number?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  I recited it and he jotted it down on a yellow notepad near the phone.

  I stood up. “I appreciate you meeting with me with no notice. Thank you.”

  He stood and we shook hands.

  “Anytime,” he said. “I'm sorry it's not under better circumstances. But if the motel becomes available, I'd love to talk more about it.”

  “We'll be in touch,” I said.

  Henry Nixon put his hands on his hips and nodded, and I left him exactly the way I'd found him.

  TWENTY ONE

  If Henry Nixon and LaPlaya Development were the little guys in the room, then The Damiano Group was the guy who built the room, charged admission to the room, and was trying to make the room even bigger.

  The Damiano building was on a plateau of land near University Town Centre, twenty minutes north of Henry Nixon's office. Whereas Nixon was renting office space in a building, the Damiano Group appeared to own and occupy the entire five-story building made of glass and steel with its name emblazoned across the top floor. The parking lot was filled with shiny, expensive-looking cars, and the people coming and going in the parking lot were dressed like people who owned shiny, expensive-looking cars.

  I used the same story when I entered the building and checked in with a security guard at a circular desk just inside the entrance. He was friendly enough, but made it clear that I'd need to sit and wait before I could go anywhere. He directed me to a waiting area of oversized leather chairs beneath the glass-domed atrium while he got on the phone. Ten minutes later, a woman in her early thirties with long blonde hair and dressed like a runway model crossed the lobby vestibule toward me.

  “Mr. Braddock?” she asked, smiling. “I'm Kristin Smith. I'm Mr. Gentry's assistant.”

  I stood and we shook hands.

  “If you'll follow me, I can take you up,” she said, her perma-grin still in place.

  I followed her across the lobby and the security guard nodded at me as we passed. We stepped into a marble-floored elevator and Kristin Smith pushed the button with the five on it.

  “You haven't been here before, is that correct?” she asked, as the elevator hummed upward.

  “I have not,” I told her. “I apologize for not calling before showing up.”

  “Not a problem,” she said. Her lips were stretched tight over her teeth. “Mr. Gentry indicated he'd be happy to see you. He just has a couple of phone calls scheduled and he's more than willing to move those in order to talk to you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  A bell dinged above us and the doors slid open. The office space was filled with glass and light, with bold colors punched throughout. She took me down a hallway to a far corner and we passed open office space where people were huddled over design tables, staring diligently at whatever was in front of them, not glancing in our direction.

  Kristin stopped at the last set of double doors and pushed one open for me. “There's coffee and water inside, unless you'd like something else.”

  “I'm fine, thank you,” I said.

  She smiled, nodded, and waved me into the office, not following me in, and pulled the door closed behind me.

  A guy a little older than me was seated at a small, round conference table in the corner, reading through some paperwork. There was a massive desk in front of an even bigger window that looked out to the east. The desktop was covered with several computer screens, as well as what looked like large-scale drawings. The room itself wasn't that large, but felt much bigger with the window.

  The guy at the table stood up. He had dark, curly hair and a strong jaw. His skin was tan, like he spent as much time on the water as I did. He wore a pale yellow long-sleeved dress shirt and gray dress slacks with gleaming black wingtips.

  “Mr. Braddock?” he said, coming around the table and offering his hand. “I'm Eric Gentry.”

  We shook hands.

  “Call me, Noah,” I said.

  He nodded and gestured for me to have a seat at the table where he'd been sitting. “Kristin getting you something to drink?”

  “I'm fine, but thank you,” I said, easing myself into the chair across the table from him. “Thanks for seeing me on short
notice.”

  “Not a problem,” he said. “I was sorry to hear about Mr. Henderson's death. He and I didn't exactly see eye to eye, but I was sorry to hear about his passing.” He eyed me for a moment. “What is your role with his estate?”

  “I'm just acting as a representative right now,” I explained. “There's quite a bit going on, as you can imagine, and we're just getting the lay of the land.”

  He picked up a can of Diet Coke from the table, took a sip, and leaned back in his chair. “So you're a lawyer, then? Representing the estate? Or something else?”

  I could already tell he was sharper than Henry Nixon and I wasn't going to be able to bluff through my story as easily. “Not a lawyer. I'm just following up on the offers that were made on The Blue Wave property to see if they still stand or what the interest level is.”

  He eyed me again for a moment. “So the estate is looking to sell?”

  “Just taking the temperature of the room.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “The temperature of the room? Mr. Braddock, if you've taken even thirty seconds to look at the offer my company made, you'd know that the temperature is very warm.” He paused. “So why are you really here?”

  I shifted in the chair. “I'm here for exactly the reason I stated. We are examining all options at this point, and I've been asked to get in touch with the people who've been interested in the property in the past to see if the interest still exists and to what degree.” I stood. “But if you're no longer interested, I don't want to waste your time.”

  He set the soda on the table and held his hand up, indicating I shouldn't go. “I apologize. Didn't mean to offend. Yes, I am definitely still interested.”

  I sat back down, hoping I'd regained the upper hand in the conversation and covered myself enough.

  “I'm just a bit surprised to hear from you today,” he said.

  “Why's that?”

  “If you're here regarding the motel, it seems...quick.”

  “How so?”

  He tucked his chin to his chest for a moment, thinking. “Mr. Henderson was fairly clear with me that he'd never sell the property, no matter what absurd amount of money I offered him. So now he's recently deceased and you're here and already looking to offload the property? It just seems a bit off to me.”

  Gentry was right to be skeptical, obviously. I'd been lulled into thinking this would be easy because Nixon hadn't asked many questions. I wasn't as prepared as I should've been.

  “I will just say this,” I told him. “We are in the very early stages. I'm not here to negotiate a deal with you or to get anything set in stone. At this point, the estate isn't willing to commit to anything. So this is exploratory only, to see what options the estate has about a lot of things. And if you'd prefer to wait until we have a more concrete idea of what we're doing, I absolutely understand and would be happy to come back at that point.”

  Gentry rubbed at his chin for a moment.

  I waited.

  He reached for the soda again. “I apologize if I sounded rude. I'm happy to talk with you today. I appreciate the explanation.”

  I nodded. “You're welcome, and no apology needed.”

  “I just know that his death was unexpected and I wasn't sure that his wife would be ready to move forward so quickly,” he said. “Hell of a way to go.”

  I found the comment odd. “You mean the car accident?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I read several of the accounts. It had to be a big shock for everyone.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  He shook his head. “No. We met twice and both times, I think he was happy to be rid of me.”

  “But you seem very aware of the details around his death.”

  He shrugged. “I guess. I'm not sure what you're getting at.”

  “Nothing, really,” I said. “Just wondering how you were made aware of his death in the first place if you weren't terribly close to him or his family.”

  He set the Diet Coke down again and tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Noah, I'm very good at what I do and that isn't dumb luck. It's required an inordinate amount of work and attention to detail.” He paused. “So when the guy who owns the piece of land that I'd like most to own dies, I make it my business to know about it.”

  TWENTY TWO

  “Why is it the piece of land you'd most like to own?” I asked.

  He'd reached behind him into a small fridge and extracted another diet soda. He held it up, offering one to me, but I shook my head. He popped the top and took a sip before setting it down next to the one he'd just finished.

  “I'll go ahead and assume you know where it is,” he said. “The property, I mean.”

  I nodded.

  “Then you know how close to the ocean it is,” he said. “If you look up and down the coast, developable land is becoming harder to come by. It's bubble proof. People will always want to live or be by the ocean.” He smiled. “I mean, until the oceans rise up and fuck us all.”

  “Until then,” I said.

  “Right,” he continued. “So it's hard to come by. You can find small pieces here and there, but the premium on the buying price is really prohibitive to the return on that investment. It's pretty rare at this point to find a piece that is commercially developable and where the return is worth the investment.” He paused. “Actually, it'd be more than worth the investment. I'm not sure it would be possible to overpay for something like The Blue Wave at this point, assuming you have a solid post-purchase plan.”

  “And I assume you do?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I do. I have several proposals in place, should we be fortunate enough to acquire the land. I actually have contractors lined up. I've talked to the coastal commission and the city council. Informally, but I've initiated the conversations.”

  “That doesn't sound like someone who is unsure whether or not the property will be available,” I said.

  “It pays to be prepared,” Gentry said. “If I have some of those conversations now to clear the decks, the easier it'll be if it comes to fruition.” He paused. “Again. I'm good at what I do and it's not because I'm the smartest guy on the planet. I work hard, I'm persistent, and I plan.”

  “Luck is what happens when planning meets preparation,” I said. “Or something like that.”

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  “So would it be commercial or residential?” I asked.

  “Both,” he said. “Not sure how tall the coastal commission will let us build, but my plan would be for the bottom half to be hotel and the top half to be privately sold condos. Now, there would be some back and forth there as to who wants what, but at worst, it would all be privately sold if we couldn't get a hotelier in place.” He smiled. “I haven't gotten that far.”

  “And residential would fly down there? Amidst the other commercial businesses?”

  He nodded. “Sure. We make sure the building isn't obtrusive and we focus on the fact that residents will bring revenue to the surrounding business. Again, anything in that beach area is recession-proof. If it has a hotel piece, the city will be thrilled because they'll benefit from the tourism tax. Honestly, the only thing that riles them up down there is a new restaurant, and that's only because the existing restaurants don't want to lose any of their turf.” He chuckled. “And if it's all residential, the city again benefits because there will be property taxes paid by individual owners and then those buyers will end up renting out the units, which will again bring in the tourism dollars.” He shrugged. “That's why I'm not overstating when I say that you can't really overpay for that land because if you do it right, your return should last a lifetime.”

  Everything he said made sense. It wasn't coming off in an obnoxious way, but he knew the value of the land and how it could be flipped from a failing motel to a property that was worth millions. I believed him about being prepared, but it still struck me as a bit off that he'd already essentially pressed forward with plans that he wasn't sure would happen. In fact, it sounded like
he knew that the only reason the property might be available was because of Mitchell's death.

  And that felt off to me.

  “So you say you're in the exploratory stage,” Gentry said, after another sip of the soda.

  “Yeah. Just checking in with folks.”

  “I'd assume there are a lot of people on your list then if you're talking about the folks who'd be interested in acquiring the property,” he said. “So let me make my pitch to you.”

  I nodded.

  “I'll pay more than the best bid you get and I'll do it in a meaningful way,” he said. “I won't beat it by a dollar. I'll beat it by an amount that is more than fair. And if the Henderson family is looking to close quick, I'm happy to accommodate that. I have the connections to make it happen fast if that's what they'd like. It will be hassle free.” He paused. “If they want to sell.”

  “I appreciate your time and the information.” There didn’t seem to be anything more to say so I stood up. “I'll take it back and pass it on.”

  Eric Gentry stood with me and offered his hand. “Anytime.”

  We shook hands and I headed for the door.

  “Noah?”

  I turned around.

  He was still standing next to the table, the can of soda in his hand. “I meant what I said. I'll pay more. Bring me the best you get and I'll do better.”

  I nodded. “We'll be in touch.”

  TWENTY THREE

  I made it back to Pacific Beach around dinnertime, trying to process the three different conversations I'd had that day with Rose Henderson, Henry Nixon, and Eric Gentry. I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting to find by going to each of the developers offices, but it didn't feel like I'd turned up much of anything. Nixon seemed a little too eager and Gentry seemed a little too self-assured, but I wasn't convinced that meant much of anything. My head was too cluttered to go through the entire file that Rose had given me to try and make sense of it, so I changed out of my clothes and headed for the beach, hoping the ocean might give me some clarity.