by Jeff Shelby
I set the offers aside, polished off the quesadilla and half the beer, and worked my way through some more of the paperwork. There were multiple letters of inquiry from other developers, but nothing as formalized as what he'd received from Nixon and Gentry. Most of the letters were similar, praising the property, referencing the value, and then making it known that they'd like to discuss the potential acquisition.
I set those on top of the offers, unwrapped the paper from the burrito, and slid the bank statements in front of me.
Rose had included nearly two years of bank statements, and it was 24 months of a downhill slide. They were easy to read. The debits from the account had increased, while the monthly deposits had decreased. Mitchell had been spending more than he'd been bringing in.
Behind the bank statements were the credit card statements. By my count, I saw six different cards and all of them appeared to have been maxed out for at least the previous six months. The payments on each had been the bare minimum and there were two that hadn't been paid on in the previous three months. There were also several letters from several different banks, denying Mitchell's request for lines of credit over the previous year.
As I ate the burrito and drank the beer, I couldn't imagine the pressure he'd been under. The motel had clearly been in free fall and he was just trying to keep it from hitting rock bottom. It seemed, though, that the harder he'd tried to hold on, the heavier it had become.
I set everything from the bank aside and took a look at a pile of spreadsheets that Rose had printed out. They were the daily and monthly ledgers from the motel. They told basically the same story. The daily operating expenses of keeping the motel up and running exceeded the income generated by guests. She'd given me the last three years worth of ledgers and, save for the three months in the summer, the daily and monthly income rarely was greater than the daily and monthly expenses. Even in those summer months, the months when tourists clogged the beach areas and fought for places to stay, the income didn't outpace the expenses in a way that would cover the losses of the other months. That seemed mostly due to the fact that Mitchell was charging probably half of what he could have charged guests. His prices hadn't increased at rates commensurate with the tourist increase over those three years. People paid a fortune to stay anywhere close to the beach in San Diego during the summer months and did it without blinking. Mitchell had refused to charge an absurd price to rent a room at The Blue Wave, staying consistent and affordable in a way that had kept the motel full during the summer, but ultimately driven it into financial failure.
By the time I'd finished my dinner, the beer, and wading through the paperwork, the sun had disappeared and the interior of the house was dark. I threw away my food wrappers and the bag it had come in, set the empty beer bottle on the counter, grabbed another from the fridge, and went and sat outside on the front step.
I could hear the waves, just on the other side of the houses across the street, like white noise in the background. Salt drifted upward from the ocean and made its way into the air I was breathing. The heat of the day was gone, replaced by the cool, damp marine layer.
I took a drink from the beer.
I wondered how many nights Mitchell Henderson sat outside his motel and listened to the water and smelled the salt in the air. Had he still been able to enjoy those things, knowing that he couldn't keep up the smoke and mirrors at the motel forever? Or had the pressure to keep it running gotten so bad that he couldn't even derive pleasure from any of it anymore?
I wondered about those things as I sat there, drinking and listening.
THIRTY
I slept poorly, a combination of too much beer and thinking about Mitchell Henderson and his motel. My morning run on the beach was slow and sluggish as a result. The water was flat, so I didn't bother grabbing my board. I showered, made some eggs, and hatched a plan with Carter via the telephone while I ate.
“You already made contact with the developers, right?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Okay. She wants you to get formal offers.”
“Me? I don't know what I'm doing.”
“I told her that, too, and not just in real estate,” he said. “But she asked if you could just tell them you want the offers. Then you can bring them to her and she can run them to the attorney. Renfroe. She just doesn't want to deal with them and I suggested maybe you could actually rep her this time since you already lied about it once.”
I set the plate and fork in the sink and shifted the phone to my other hand. “Okay. I'll do it today. How is she?”
“Still pretty rattled,” he said. “I slept in the living room so I could hear outside if anyone showed up. No one did. They probably sensed my being here and ran home crying.”
“Probably. You staying there today?”
“I don't know. She's still asleep. I'll see what she wants me to do when she wakes up. I wouldn't be opposed to making it look like I've left and then keeping an eye on the place.”
“That's what I was going to suggest,” I said. “Great minds and all that.”
“Mine is superb.”
“Let you know after I've talked to the developers.”
“Bueno. Later.”
We hung up and I went and showered. I dug out the one nice pair of dress pants I owned, the one decent dress shirt, and put them on. I rarely had occasion to wear anything other than shorts and a T-shirt, but if I was going to go collect offers from the developers, I felt like I should dress in a way that might make them take me seriously.
After I dressed, I fired up my computer just for a minute. I was acutely aware that the work I was doing for Anne was unpaid work. I'd never turned down helping a friend, but I also needed to be realistic about finances. Since coming back to San Diego, I'd taken the case that Benavides threw my way, but that had been unpaid. I'd done it essentially to save my ass, but that hadn't put money in my account. I'd slowly been picking up small jobs here and there, but I needed to do a better job staying on top of potential opportunities.
I emailed the woman I'd spoken to several days prior who wanted to know about surveillance, just asking if she had any more questions, then followed up with the other inquiries I'd gotten on that same day. There was nothing new, so I was just trying to stay in the loop and hope something came up soon.
I closed up the laptop and headed out.
I phoned Henry Nixon from the car and he seemed eager to have me come by. When I got there, his niece smiled at me like we were old friends and took me right back to see him. His office had been straightened up and he was already standing by the time we reached the door.
“Mr. Braddock,” he said, extending his hand. “So nice to see you again.”
We shook hands and I sat down in the same seat as before. “I appreciate you seeing me on short notice again.”
“I appreciated the phone call,” he said. “What can I do for you today?”
“The Blue Wave property is officially for sale,” I said. “I promised I'd come back to you if it became available, so that's why I'm here. We would love to have a proposal from you on the property if you're still interested.”
“I am absolutely still interested,” Nixon said, nodding. “I appreciate you keeping your word.”
“Now, I have what I guess is your original proposal that you made to Mr. Henderson a while back?” I said. “I'm happy to use that or happy to have you update that, if you'd like. Completely your call. Just need your permission to work from that if that's your standing offer.”
He turned his laptop so the screen was angled toward him. “I can change a couple of things very quickly and print it so you can take it with you, if that works?”
“Sure.”
He tapped at the keyboard for a moment. “I don't suppose you'd want to get into how many other folks I might be up against here? To purchase?”
“I don't think that would be fair to anyone involved,” I said, shaking my head. “But I'm fairly certain there will be other bids. As yo
u pointed out, the interest in that piece of land is pretty intense.”
He nodded, staring at the screen, then tapping several keys with his index finger. “I'm sure it is. Just thought I'd try.”
“I understand.”
“That was a fairly quick decision by the owners,” he said, glancing at me. “I didn't expect to hear back from you so quickly.”
“Decision was made and they saw no reason to wait,” I told him.
“Fair enough,” he said. The printer behind him whirred to life and spit out roughly a dozen pages. He looked them over, flipping through them quickly, then stapled them and passed the packet across the deck to me. “Okay. Here we go.”
“Great,” I said. “I will pass this on to the owner.”
“Any time table for a decision?” he asked.
“I can't say for sure, but my guess is pretty quickly,” I said.
He nodded. “Alright. If I can answer any other questions, I'd be happy to. And I'd be happy to meet with the sellers if they'd like to talk directly to me.” He smiled. “I know sometimes it can be hard selling something you care about to a face you can't see. So if that's something they're interested in, just say the word.”
I stood. “Great. I'll pass that along, too. Thanks so much.”
He walked me out of his office, down the short hall, and out to the reception area. “I'm going to be bold here, Mr. Braddock.”
I looked at him.
“I really want it,” he said, meeting my gaze. “If my offer doesn't meet the standard of what they're looking for, please come back to me. At the very worst, all I'll tell you is I won't be able to get to the price they want.” He paused. “But I doubt very much that will happen. So, please, just give me a fair shake.”
I understood. He knew he was the little guy going up against the giant. He knew he'd probably get outbid, but he wanted to make sure he didn't get squeezed out until he decided he was out. I didn't think he was being bold or forward or anything like that.
I thought he was being smart.
I held out my hand. “Absolutely. Thanks again for your time. I'll be in touch.”
Henry Nixon shook my hand. “I sure hope so.”
THIRTY ONE
I called The Damiano Group from the parking lot of Henry Nixon's office and Eric Gentry's assistant assured me he would be available whenever I got there. It was kind of nice for a change having people excited to see me rather than having them look for ways to keep me out. Maybe I was in the wrong business.
The drive over to UTC from Kearney Mesa was a slog, and it took me twice as long as it should've to get there, the majority of the route a long stream of stop and go with hundreds of other irritated drivers. San Diego was a great place to live and I had no intention of going elsewhere, but there were days when the traffic was so bad that for a moment, I'd allow myself to think of what it might be like to live in a place with fewer cars and more public transportation.
True to her word, Gentry's assistant greeted me within thirty seconds of my getting to the reception desk and took me right back to see him. He was at his desk this time, and his expensive-looking dress shirt was purple.
“Noah,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “Didn't expect to see you so soon.” We shook hands and he waved at the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks,” I said, sitting. “Things have...progressed.”
Gentry leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the knees. “Progressed. That has an odd sound to it.”
“Does it?”
He shrugged. “Just sounds like you aren't sure about it.”
“Not for me to feel sure about,” I said. “The sellers are ready to sell. So The Blue Wave is available if you're still interested.”
He studied me for a moment. “I have to say, I really am surprised to see you here again.”
“Why's that?”
“I just didn't think any decision would be made so quickly,” he said. “My experience is that you have to be patient with these kinds of things. I'd assume the Henderson family is going through a lot right now. It's not always the best time to make big decisions like this.”
“Are you no longer interested?” I asked, surprised.
He shook his head. “No, not what I meant at all. I'm absolutely interested. What I meant is that people normally don't make such important decisions when there are other things at work. A death in the family is a big deal. I'd hate to think that they're making a decision they might regret at a later time.”
“You mean, before the sale is finalized,” I said.
“Or after,” he countered. “I'm sure it's not something they've come to easily. Selling a family business is a big deal.”
“It seems to me they're ready,” I said. “I can't go into the particulars, but I'd say this is a pretty solid decision.”
He studied me again. “So we're not going to get too far down the line with this, and then you're not going to show up and tell me it's not for sale?”
I could tell his point of view was less about concern for the family and more about his time spent putting a deal together. It was fair, but it rubbed me the wrong way.
“Can't make any promises,” I said, shrugging. “So, either you want to make an offer or you don't. I'm here simply because you expressed an interest and asked if I'd let you know when and if the property came up for sale. It's officially for sale and the owners are taking offers.”
He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, then nodded. “Okay. I will definitely make an offer. I'm absolutely interested. I'm just trying to get a read on the situation, that's all.”
“Sure,” I said. “I know that you made an offer before. We can consider that offer or—”
He shook his head. “No. I'd like to give you something new and clean. Disregard that one, if you would. I can get it to you by tomorrow afternoon?”
I was surprised that he didn't already have something waiting, and it must've shown on my face.
“Noah, let me be clear here,” he said. “I would like to buy the property and I apologize if my skepticism at the quick turnaround here is off-putting. I don't mean it to be. But I also don't want to give you a half-assed offer. I don't want to insult you or the seller. If you have to have it today, I can get it to you. But I'd prefer to take the time to make sure I get you the best offer I can.”
“I understand,” I said, nodding.
“I'm not sure what your background is in land acquisition, but the process is complicated,” he said. “Particularly when there's a lot of money involved. I don't want there to be any loopholes in any offer that could be damaging to myself or the seller.” He smiled. “So I'm not going to write this on a napkin or give you some boilerplate contract. That's not how I do business.”
“That should be fine,” I said.
“And if you do have someone running at you with a fast offer, I'd say two things,” Gentry offered. “One, I'd look it over very carefully and make sure it's legitimate. And, two, if you do determine it's legitimate?” He smiled. “Call me. Because I can do better.”
I understood everything he was saying to me. It was common sense and it was reasonable. But it still came off as condescending and arrogant, and I was liking him less by the minute.
“I'll leave you my email,” I told him. “You can forward the offer there when you're ready.”
He grabbed a pen and a small tablet. I recited it and he scribbled it down, along with my phone number.
He dropped the pen on the desk. “Great. You'll have it tomorrow.” He stood and offered his hand. “I look forward to talking to you more.”
I shook his hand. I wasn't sure if he was just cocky or overly optimistic or trying to use some sort of New Age, super positive psychology on me, but it just wasn't sitting well. I wondered if he was like this with everyone or just people who could bring him property worth millions of dollars.
I was walking out of the building when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out and saw John
Wellton's name on the screen.
“Calling to thank me for the tacos?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I'm calling to tell you to pick up some more on your way in here. Think I've got something you'll wanna see.”
THIRTY TWO
I swung by Rubio's, picked up four of their original fish tacos, and headed for Wellton.
“Jesus, those smell good,” Wellton said, waving me into the elevator. “Come on.”
“Thought I might wait and see if Benavides came by again,” I told him as I stepped in. “Make some more small talk with her.”
He rolled his eyes and punched the button on the panel. “The last thing you need is to get back on her radar.”
“Not sure if I ever left.”
“Then the last thing you need to do is piss her off,” he said, taking the bag of tacos from me. “Seriously. Don't fuck with her. You should know better.”
I made a face. “Whatever.”
“These are the days I miss Santangelo the most,” he said, shaking his head. “When she would've told you that your head was up your ass, you would've listened.”
“If Liz was still here, we wouldn't have any reason to talk about Benavides,” I said.
We both stared up at the numbers as the elevator started to move.
Liz was the one thing that Wellton and I had in common. We clashed over nearly everything, but never about her. He wasn't wrong, but neither was I. She served as this link between the two of us and I often wondered if we continued to stay in touch with one another out of necessity or because, for each of us, the other provided the one solid, tangible link to Liz.
The elevator dinged and we walked down the corridor to the same small conference room he'd been using before. His laptop was set up on the edge of the table. His pile of files had grown and taken over most of the table. He pushed several of them aside and set the bag of tacos down.
He peered inside the bag. “These all for me?”
“One's mine.”
He pulled one out and slid it across the table. “So, after you left, I watched that video another couple times.”
