“Okay, Fancy. ’Bye.”
Caroline was so selfish she seldom inquired about Fancy’s day or how Fancy was feeling. “I love you” rolled off of Caroline’s tongue when she raved about her men. Whateva, Fancy thought, shaking her hair behind her shoulders while retrieving her backpack from the trunk.
Walking in fifteen minutes early, Fancy could’ve talked to her mother a little longer but she had already listened ten minutes more than she wanted. The front seat on the end was Fancy’s self-proclaimed reserved desk and after their first class, everyone understood not to sit in her space.
Opening her Finance book to Chapter Eleven, there were numerous terms to learn and problems to solve. While the mortgage calculator helped, it still took Fancy longer to get the right answer—when her results were correct—than most other students. Fancy attentively watched the instructor go over returns on investments, returns of investments, passive income, and what items qualified and which ones didn’t. The amount one could carry over to the next tax year and the various income tax brackets and the corresponding percentages allocated for each bracket. A single person earning $7,150 only had to pay ten percent of his income while a single person earning over $319,000 a year had to pay thirty-five percent of his income. In federal taxes? That didn’t include state? Or city? Oh, hell no. Since Fancy had never filed a single tax report, she was shocked.
Raising her hand, Fancy asked, “Why do I need to learn about taxes to sell real estate?” Quietly all heads turned in her direction. Convinced her good looks weren’t holding their attention, Fancy defensively commented, “The only dumb questions are the ones that aren’t asked. Don’t act like some of y’all weren’t thinking the same—”
Mr. Riddle, the instructor, a white man with white fuzzy hair and a big red bumpy nose, interrupted, “Fancy, the best agents think ahead of their clients. Investors need to know the pros and cons of new acquisitions. And first-time home buyers need to know how much they can write off when buying a home.”
“But that’s their accountant’s job. Not mine.”
“Then you’ll never become a top agent. Maybe you should get a day job and forget about selling real estate.”
Cupping their hands over their mouths, Fancy’s classmates chuckled, mumbling to one another.
Arching her back and sitting tall in her chair, Fancy firmly replied, “Well then, I guess I’ll just have to master passive income and every tax-related impact on acquisitions.”
Mr. Riddle smiled and began scribbling a math problem on the white board with a black erasable marker. His khaki pants buckled into a wedge inside his butt and thighs.
Now Fancy understood why rich—make that wealthy—people donated millions of dollars to non-profit organizations. That was how Fancy was able to solicit so much money from philanthropists while helping Byron fund-raise for his company. And Fancy would never forget the seventy-five-thousand-dollar donation Darius gave Byron without reservation. Whatever happened to that woman who was with Darius that night? Ashlee Anderson.
Mr. Riddle’s eyes lingered a little too long on Fancy’s breasts as he moved on to mortgage amortization. He jotted principal and interest payments, then added taxes and insurance to the final payments. Mr. Riddle amortized fifteen, twenty, and thirty-year mortgages. If a buyer made a twenty percent down payment, he didn’t have to pay for private mortgage insurance (PMI). PMI, which guaranteed lenders’ repayment of the loan if buyers were to default, had no direct benefit to the homeowner that paid the monthly bill. Maybe Fancy could get some one-on-one tutoring from Mr. Riddle to help her learn the course material versus memorizing formulas and data for the exam. Fancy felt empowered knowing one day soon she’d help lots of families purchase homes.
“Fancy, what answer did you get for number four?” Mr. Riddle asked.
Why did he have to choose her? Fancy hesitated then answered, “Six point one seven five percent.”
“Did you amortize the loan over a thirty-year period with a monthly principal payment of $3,768 with or without the balloon payment payable in twenty-five years?”
Mr. Riddle was intentionally trying to confuse Fancy. She wasn’t sure. Massaging her temple, Fancy boldly replied, “With.”
Everyone in the class snickered.
Changing her answer, Fancy quickly said, “Without.”
Mr. Riddle shook his head, making Fancy realize that Harry’s property management company functioned very differently from real estate sales and acquisitions. If she had made a mistake on calculating a tenant’s rent, it went unnoticed. But Fancy was committed to completing Real Estate Finance, Appraisal, Economics, Practice, and Legal Aspects consecutively. She’d show them. She didn’t know the answer today but eventually she would.
“Fancy, you cannot guess when dealing with people’s money. Just like numbers are absolute. You must be confident and correct. Every time. Or you’ll be labeled as incompetent. You can stay after class if you’d like and I’ll break down the figures for you.”
“Thanks.” Those students were laughing at her now but when Fancy took her exam with them, she was passing the first time. That was her goal. To pass everything the first time. Fancy refused to be like those students who had to repeat the exam and sometimes the course because they didn’t understand the subjects.
After everyone had left, Mr. Riddle sat next to Fancy and said, “Fancy, I see something special in you that I seldom see in most of my students.”
Fancy smiled then asked, “What’s that?”
“Determination not to fail. You see many students come in here with the hopes of passing the course. You are determined to pass this class and I want to help you. I’ll share a few secrets that, if used properly, can make you lots of money.”
The corners of Fancy’s mouth spread wider. “Really?”
Mr. Riddle took a piece of paper and began scribbling. “Like your times tables, memorize these basic equations so that when you are speaking to your clients, you not only sound intelligent but you are. For every transaction, act like it’s your money you’re calculating and investing. Know the pros and cons of each deal. Most importantly, learn your market and always maintain the utmost integrity when dealing with clients. That way you get lots of referrals. That’s how I make my money. I don’t solicit clients anymore. Now people come to me. For advice. For investment tips. And to sell their property. But I’m getting old, and it’s time for me to take a few students under my wing and teach them what I know. I’ll teach you but you must promise me you’ll never sell your soul to make a deal.”
Nodding, Fancy said, “I promise.”
“Don’t spend your commission before or after you earn it. Reinvest your commissions into real estate acquisitions. Rich people don’t stay rich by giving away their money. From this day forward, consciously think about every single thing you spend your money on. Don’t sell a family a house they can’t afford, and negotiate the highest commission split you can with your broker going in. Since you haven’t placed your salesperson’s license with a broker, I’m going to do two things for you. One, personally refer you to Kees Realty and Mortgage in San Leandro. Howard will teach you more than sales. Howard will teach you how to make money. And two, I’ll give you a lucrative referral. The more business deals you close, the more money you ask for from your broker until you, my dear, own and operate Fancy Realty and Mortgage. You can do it.”
Fancy gasped as tears swelled in her fluttering eyes, and softly said, “Wow, no one has ever had this much faith in me. Thanks, Mr. Riddle.”
“It’s not the faith I have in you that makes you special, Fancy, it’s the faith you have in yourself. I didn’t choose you. Your confidence chose me. You already look like a millionaire. Now it’s time to become one. I’ll be here early tomorrow evening. Five o’clock. You are welcome to come anytime before the seven o’clock class,” Mr. Riddle said, standing and straightening his inexpensive pants that gathered in his crotch beneath his small pot belly.
Standing, Fancy sh
ook his hand. “I’ll see you at five sharp.”
Skipping to her Benz, Fancy remotely unlocked her door. “This is the beginning of a new life. A new me. For the first time in years, I’m genuinely happy.” Tossing her purse and backpack over the driver’s side seat onto the passenger’s side, Fancy started to turn around and sit in her car, but before she backed up a black leather glove covered her eyes, nose, and mouth.
“I could kill you right here,” a manly voice said, whispering, “right now. But I’m going to make you suffer, you little bitch.” Quickly he slid his muscular arm underneath her elbow, across her back, and under her other elbow, forcing her arms close together, then hoisted her arms toward her neck. “You think you can just misuse me and get on with your life. Wrong, bitch!” he grunted. “You’re coming with me.”
Fancy’s and Mr. Riddle’s were the only cars in the back lot. Fancy couldn’t see around the building to the street and no one walked along the back sidewalk. Each time Fancy inhaled, the glove blocked her nostrils. Panicking because she couldn’t breathe, Fancy frantically kicked her boots, desperately attempting to puncture his shin but continuously she hit nothing but air.
“Hey, you! Get away from her or I’ll shoot! Let her go, pal! I’m not asking you again!” Fancy heard Mr. Riddle yelling in the distance, but couldn’t determine how close he was to her because she couldn’t turn around. Gun shots fired in the air. The police station was three blocks away but where in the hell where the cops when she needed them?
“This isn’t our last encounter, princess,” the mugger said, slamming Fancy’s body face-first against her car then running across the street. Mr. Riddle fired one more shot, wounding Fancy’s assailant in the left leg. Holding his thigh, her attacker limped then fell into the passenger side of a sports utility vehicle that suddenly appeared. Snatching him inside the vehicle, tires screeched and smoke trailed as the driver sped off toward Hegenberger Road. The force of the mugger’s arms had pushed Fancy into the roof of her Benz. Blood gushed from her nose. Fortunately she had a soft convertible top or her face would’ve been seriously damaged. Briefly Fancy reflected on Mandy’s comment, “Heaven forbid if you were to become disfigured.” Mr. Riddle raced over, lightly touching her shoulder.
“Are you okay? Who was that guy?”
Turning to face Mr. Riddle, Fancy pressed her fingers inside her nostrils then sarcastically answered, “Oh, that was So-and-so. We do this all the time.” Fancy raised her hands toward the midnight sky then said, “Like I’m supposed to know!”
If you don’t do anything else I tell you, take a self-defense class this week. Your life is dependent upon it, echoed in her mind.
Massaging her arms, Fancy said, “But I won’t be here early tomorrow. I need to take a self-defense class. Depending upon what I learn, maybe we can stay late. But just to be safe, I’m parking on the street.”
“You can’t. That’s a no-parking zone. The police will tow your car. I’ll reserve you the space directly in front of the school. And I can teach you self-defense.”
The police? Tow her car? Right. “Well, I’ll park as close as I can to the street. But I’m never parking all the way back here again. And no thanks. I need a professional.” Fancy started her engine.
“I am a professional. Marksman and black belt. I could’ve killed that guy but he wasn’t worth it. He’ll think twice before attacking someone else. But it’s up to you. If you don’t find a class, let me know.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe I should call an ambulance or follow you home.”
“Thanks, Mr. Riddle. I’ll be fine.” Suspiciously Fancy closed her door, wondering if Mr. Riddle’s offers were legitimate or pretentious. Was Mr. Riddle legally carrying his gun? Fancy honestly cared only about her safety and was relieved Mr. Riddle had saved her life.
On her way home Fancy constantly searched all her mirrors, rearview and sides, and looked over her shoulder to make certain no one followed her, including Mr. Riddle. Who would want to harm her? Why? Driving into her garage, the ring tone of her cell phone distracted Fancy. Grabbing her purse, Fancy left her backpack on the passenger seat.
“Dammit,” Fancy said, then answered, “Hey, Darius. I apologize. I forgot we had a date tonight. I was in class.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit! You said you got out of class at eight. It’s almost one o’clock in the fuckin’ morning. You didn’t even have the decency to call me! I could’ve made other plans!”
Exhaling heavily, Fancy meticulously said, “Trust me, I know what time it is. I know you’re upset. I already apologized once.” Fancy unlocked her front door, removed her shoes, and then stepped onto the snow-white carpet in her sunken bedroom area. “Look, I can’t talk right now. I have a lot on my mind. Can I call you in a few days or next week maybe?” Tossing her purse on the loveseat, Fancy removed all her clothes then lay across her bed.
Darius yelled, “I wasted a grip! A thousand dollars to take you out tonight! And you all casual and shit about this! Hell no, you can’t call me.”
“Okay, ’bye.” Not needing another headache, Fancy hung up the phone. Fancy would call Darius next week anyway but right now she had to boot up her laptop, go online, and find a self-defense class.
Surfing websites Fancy thought, “Damn, Fancy you work out all the time. How could you panic like that? If he does come back, he’d better be ready for a royal ass-whipping.”
CHAPTER 9
Who in their right mind would apply for a job that didn’t list a base salary? Employers needed to stop wasting Darius’s time trying to save their company a dollar. Relaxing on the plush leather sofa in his recreation room, Darius powered on his plasma television, retrieved his crystal snifter of Rémy Martin Louis XIII from the end table, kicked his feet up on the ottoman, and shook his head.
Sipping scotch for brunch, scanning the employment section of the San Francisco Chronicle, Darius thought, What a joke. “No experience necessary. Make up to ten thousand dollars in less than one month.” For whom? The owner? The company? Doing what? If the job paid that kind of money, they wouldn’t advertise the position in the paper, withhold their physical address, phone number, and omit the company’s name. “Fax resumé to (415) 555- . . . ,” an unnamed person. That “up to” income crap implied that after spending his money and exhausting his time, Darius could work his ass off and not earn shit.
Darius used to post his job openings for Somebody’s Gotta Be on Top at craigslist.org, quoting the starting hourly income, his mailing address, and phone and fax numbers. During his initial phone interview, if a person wasn’t articulate Darius didn’t invest time in a face-to-face interview. Leaning his head back, Darius’s locks rolled behind his shoulders as he gulped the last shot of scotch. Setting the snifter aside, folding what should’ve been labeled the unemployment section, Darius dialed the eight hundred number exclusively reserved for privileged wealthy clients and waited to check the balances in his accounts. Hopefully he could forego working for someone else for a few more months.
An automated voice announced, “You have been selected to participate in a survey. Please ask the representative to transfer you after the call. The representative will not know you’ve been selected until you ask to be transferred.”
Immediately the next voice Darius heard was a live, overly friendly representative. “Thank you for calling. How may I provide you with excellent customer service?”
“I’d like to get the balance on my account.” Darius couldn’t recall budgeting. Before Wellington’s irrational behavioral change, Darius had spent money without caring about a balance or doubting if he had enough cash or credit to cover his expenses.
“What’s your account number, mother maiden’s name, and place of birth?”
Answering the questions, Darius wished his mom’s last name was legally Tanner instead of Jones and his was Williams versus Jones. His mother never used Wellington’s surname anyway. The last name Jones had absolutely no
connection to his legacy and in the moment while waiting for the representative to respond, Darius decided that he’d legally change his last name before going pro.
Happily she replied, “Mr. Jones, as of today you have five thousand dollars in your checking account, all of which is available to you immediately.”
Lowering the volume on his television, Darius shouted, “Five what? You must mean five hundred thousand.”
The representative slowly articulated, “Five thousand, Mr. Jones. Four figures.”
The only other time Darius’s heart raced faster was during sex. “What about my money market?”
“Zero balance, Mr. Jones.”
“C.D.?”
“That account is closed, Mr. Jones.”
Sitting on the edge of his sofa, Darius yelled, “Are you serious?! I can’t live off the interest of five thousand dollars.”
“I apologize, Mr. Jones. We actually show a pending transaction from Luxury Limousines for fifteen hundred, so you actually have thirty-five hundred dollars. All of which is available to you today. And I’m also showing there were several lump-sum withdrawals from your accounts.”
“When? By whom? For what?” Darius’s eyes narrowed as his toes curled gripping his socks. That conniving, thieving brother of his. Darius wished Kevin were the one dead. Next time Darius saw Kevin, Darius was kickin’ his ass on the real.
The representative casually answered, “Today. A cashier’s check in the amount of four hundred ninety-five thousand dollars was issued payable to a Jada Diamond Tanner.”
Jumping up and down on his sofa, Darius screamed, “My mother! These are my accounts!”
“But her name is still on the accounts, Mr. Jones. Is there anything else I can do to provide you with excellent customer service?”
“Yes! Stop calling me Mr. Jones!” Darius slammed the cordless on the base. “Fuck a survey!” Snatching the phone into his hand—nose flaring, lips tightly pressed together, eyes squinting, heart racing, and breathing heavily—Darius paced the floor adjacent to his pool table, furiously dialing his mother’s cellular.
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