San Francisco Values

by James K Turner

  “You think she likes the place?” Gordon asked.

  “Maybe, it’s a little early to tell.”

  “She better make up her mind quick.”

  “Gordon, what’s with the four percent commission on this house?”

  Gordon sighed dramatically. “The sellers wouldn’t give me the standard six.”

  “We might not be in the same office and we’re often competing for the same listings, but ultimately we all feed out of the same trough. We’ve got to fight this ugly trend.”

  “I know that Ella, but what was I supposed to do? For them it’s all about how fast prices are rising. They came whining at me with the argument ‘well my salary hasn’t quadrupled in the past four years, I’m not going to pay you six percent.’”

  “They must be in the wrong line of work then,” she replied curtly. “Just because they work for peanuts doesn’t mean I have to.”

  “Ella, if your buyer snaps this house up today for four point one, you’ll clear a bundle, it’s not bad.”

  “I don’t think in terms of ‘not bad’ when it comes to commission. I think in terms of stunning. At six percent I’d make an even bigger bundle off my split. You too. Think about that the next time you give away you and your colleague’s money.”

  “Give me a break, Ella,” Gordon said with a pressed smile. “Excuse me, I’ve got clients to talk to.”

  She went back in the house. Jeff Arnold, the latest mortgage broker of choice, held forth at the slate topped dining room table. He had various brochures spread out and spoke earnestly to a very pregnant woman.

  “You may think you can’t afford to buy now,” he said in a friendly manner, “but I might have just the loan product for you.” He handed her a brochure while his eyes flickered down to her bulging belly. “It’s easier than you think. This loan is called the Mega Double Zero. Zero down, zero payments for up to twenty-five years. Once your children reach working age or 21 years old, whichever comes first, they’ll start making the house payments.”

  Chatting excitedly, the pregnant woman waddled off with a small pack of girlfriends.

  Maybe a year or two younger than Ella, Jeff kept himself in great shape. She’d seen him running at Crissy Field and wondered what he was like in bed. Good and tasty, from the looks of him. He had graying hair and a strong jaw.

  Jeff, from what she knew, was divorced with grown children. He’d only arrived on the San Francisco scene maybe three years ago from Maryland or somewhere back East, but quickly established himself as one of the mortgage brokers of choice. His quick success had to do with his reputation for getting results. Buyers sent to Jeff almost always were approved for some type of loan.

  “Hey there,” Ella said with a welcoming smile. “How’s business?”

  Jeff turned to look at Ella, and if she wasn’t mistaken, his eyes twinkled and he returned her greeting with a sexy, flirtatious smile. Ella’s insecurities kicked in right away, thinking he just wanted to keep the mortgage referrals coming and what better way than to make the old girl feel sexy? Though relatively new to being single, an utter nightmare at her age, she knew from first hand experience she was about 20 years too old for any desirable middle aged man. Delicia Cardosa however, with her coffee fortune millions and Latin charms, seemed to be an exception. She was in her early 40’s and had walked off with Ella’s beloved Hank.

  “It’s not looking bad,” replied Jeff, snapping Ella out of her spiraling self pity.

  She started to speak when a loud, sharp crack stung her ears. A woman in the yard screamed in piercing, unrelenting tones. Gasps from the crowd outside followed, and people started pushing through the wide French doors to get out of the yard into the house. Jeff jumped up and strode around to a side door, with Ella following close behind. They walked quickly along the side of the house to the backyard. The female model/porn star sat frozen in the gurgling waters of the hot tub, shrieking hysterically, her hands pressed full force against her cheeks, not unlike Macaulay Culkin in “Home Alone.” The object of her distress was the bronzed god she’d so delightedly licked a few moments earlier. Now he slumped down in the water, blood pouring from his neck, eyes wide open in a blank stare. As Ella and Jeff gaped, the hot tub transformed into a boiling, scarlet cauldron.

  “He’s been shot,” said Jeff.

  Ella looked around in shock, her eyes rapidly scanning the surrounding back yards and homes, wondering if the shooter had finished yet.

  By now full fledged panic hit the crowd. “Let’s get out of here,” Jeff said. Ella nodded and they ran out through the side yard to the street, bypassing the door which led back into the house, avoiding the worst of the crush.

  From the street they surveyed a surreal scene. The crowd rushed down the front steps, nearly stampeding. Very few lookers had discovered Jeff and Ella’s side yard escape route, so the front door bore most of the fleeing, upper middle class masses. Ella didn’t understand her thinking at the moment, but she wasn’t absorbing the seriousness of the situation and thought to herself it was usually the other way around, people flooding into the homes, offers in hand. All these people running away contradicted currently accepted real estate logic.

  Tiffany Reynolds ran up to Ella, excited and breathless. “What happened, did someone really get shot?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Oh shoot,” she said, tilting her head and thrusting her fists down in front of her, “my clients were about to make an offer.” She turned and raced off in another direction.

  By now the majority of the crowd had escaped the open house, with people scurrying away in all directions. Cars roared to life and a traffic jam backed up in front of the impeccably renovated neighboring homes.

  The meter maid ticketing Ella’s Mercedes muttered urgently into his portable radio while the sound of approaching sirens wailed in the distance. Ella looked back at the front door. The beautiful model from the hot tub raced barefoot down the front steps, sobbing and dripping wet, wearing only her yellow bikini. The listing agent, a confused Gordon Elway, tried to take her in his arms and soothe her, but only succeeded in staining his light colored shirt. The dead boy’s blood tainted the water running off the girl’s nubile body. She pushed him away and ran blindly away up the block.

  Ella and Jeff stood across the street, watching the last of the potential buyers flee Gordon’s restored Victorian listing.

  *******

  The timing of the murder was fortuitous, in that pandemonium broke out before the meter maid could finish ticketing Ella’s illegally parked Mercedes. Her client from Manhattan straggled out of the house right after the surviving model, looking none the worse for the wear.

  “I stayed behind to get a better look at the place,” she said. “You could finally see the rooms without mobs packing it to the rafters.”

  The police took down their names and contact information, saying they’d be in touch to get statements. Ella drove her client back to the ultra fashionable Le Garlandique, San Francisco’s latest trendy boutique hotel. Neither said much along the way. When they pulled up in front of the hotel, her client turned to Ella before getting out of the car.

  “Do you think they’ll take a low ball offer of full price? I’d even spring for cleaning the hot tub.”

  Chapter 4

  Ella herself lived in none of the exclusive neighborhoods where Barker Brokers maintained offices. As part of her divorce from Hank, she’d sold him her interest in their home, a Russian Hill penthouse in the Eichler-designed apartment building at 999 Green Street. After that she wanted to drop back and regroup. She found the perfect place, Edgehill Way in the Forest Hill Extension neighborhood. She’d always loved the area, a cozy retreat cut off by Dewey Boulevard from the more well known and traditionally-moneyed Forest Hill proper. Still a quite respectable address, Edgehill Way wound up to the top of a small, tree lined knoll southwest of Twin Peaks, off the beaten path yet fifteen minutes by car or subway from downtown. Not that Ella rode the subway.

  Rustic, mountain lodge
type re-models and older, meticulously maintained custom homes built in the 40’s and 50’s lined the street. Ella had swooped in on a 1959 one story, modernist, low slung A-frame clinging to the north side of the knoll. She paid nearly twenty-three commissions for it, as she liked to think of her income. Sheets of plate glass angled down from the peak of the vaulted ceiling, dropping to the floor, running the full breadth of the house. Sliding glass doors opened onto a spacious deck with views from the Pacific to the Golden Gate, all filtered through Monterey Cypress trees. Setting off the view, a freestanding double sided sandstone brick fireplace exquisitely separated the living and dining rooms.

  In addition to her home, Ella had invested over the years, quite wisely as it turned out, in several rental houses scattered around San Francisco. This made her a small time landlord, but she left the day to day minutiae to the property management arm of Barker Brokers. Ella’s To Do list did not include dealing personally with tenants, most of whom bore an unfailing sense of entitlement in the city’s heavily controlled rental market.

  She pulled into the carport of her home, turned off the engine and sat for a moment, her elegant hands still gripping the leather and wood trimmed steering wheel. Tonight couldn’t have been a better evening to retreat into her quiet hillside getaway. The house huddled under the trees, protected by a cool blanket of fog.

  The tranquility of the moment broke when her cell phone jumped to life, singing and vibrating in her purse. Mark Allen’s name came up on the caller I.D.

  She felt wary and distracted, not wanting to talk to anyone, but out of reflex she flipped open the phone.

  “What the hell Ella, were you there?”

  “I most certainly was.”

  “It’s all over the news. I was just in that house this morning.”

  “Well none of your bland furniture rentals are stained with blood if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not worried, jeez, Ella…”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a dead body, much less someone who’s been shot. It was really scary. For all we knew the killer was right there in the house, planning a Sunday afternoon massacre.”

  “They’re saying on TV it was some kind of a distance shot from a high powered rifle.”

  Ella hadn’t listened to the radio on the way home, but when she’d gunned the Mercedes away from the open house she’d seen TV news vans arriving on the scene.

  “Whatever it was, somebody died, and it caused a full blown mass exodus.” She hesitated, confused. “There were people with kids there, it was so dangerous. And the blood, it was brighter, more red, than I ever imagined…”

  “Ella, do you want some company? I can be there in a few minutes.”

  “No, Mark, but thanks anyway, I just got home and haven’t even gone into the house yet. Let me get settled and we’ll talk later, alright? I’ll give you a call,” she said, ending the conversation.

  She went into the house, set her purse on the kitchen counter and picked up the TV remote. The plasma screen in the refrigerator door blazed to life with the 6pm Action Eagle Eye in the Sky News Team 12, On The Scene and Ready To Report! Ellen turned up the volume as the anchor Thad Leader, preparing for the newscast, determinedly shuffled and organized papers until the intro music stopped. Ella had met Thad several times and had come away unimpressed.

  Good Evening, I’m Thad Leader. One man is dead and hundreds of others are thankful for their lives tonight after a dramatic escape in San Francisco’s plush Noe Valley neighborhood. It all started on peaceful 23rd Street, at a real estate open house. A place in fact, where people go to look for a new home and plan happy futures. But as Chirley Wixon tell us, a fugitive with a gun and a grudge had other plans. Chirley?

  Ella thought the introduction wild speculation, but still listened. She knew the reporter Chirley as well, they’d met at several Chamber of Commerce and charity for kids type affairs. She had a black sixties style schlacked hairdo, long and straight that curled up at the ends, a cute figure and exuberant energy. Chirley stood on the street in front of the open house. Seeing the home again reminded Ella of the Amityville Horror house of movie fame.

  Thank you, Thad. That’s right, there were moments of stark terror here at this house behind me on 23rd Street. Police say a gunman hid away in an adjoining backyard and at approximately 3:00 this afternoon opened fire on the excited crowd of prospective home buyers.

  Ella knew this to be an exaggeration, there had been only one shot and one victim. But exaggerating and creating drama made life more exciting for TV news producers and reporters, at least according to the burned out broadcast journalists she’d recently hired.

  Now the TV switched away to Chirley’s pre-taped report. There were shots of the covered body being wheeled out, police milling around the back yard, the interior of the house, and a tray of half eaten chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter. The next images showed the hunky porn star in better days, pictured glamorously at some dubious looking awards show.

  Action Eagle News Team 12 has learned that the man slaughtered in the hot tub was 23 year old Salchiço Grosso, a native of Italy. An aspiring film actor and sex worker, Grosso worked on the side as an open house model.

  The camera switched back to the reporter, Chirley Wixon, showing a close-up of her face, without much visible background.

  But today was Salchiço’s last day on the job. While luxuriating in the hot tub of this multi million dollar Noe Valley home, a gunshot pierced the idyllic afternoon, instantly obliterating Grosso’s spinal column. The bullet also shredded his jugular vein. In fact, the handsome young actor was very nearly decapitated.

  Chirley wore a slight smile when she enunciated the last few words, while the camera began pulling back to show more of the scene. A curious bead of sweat ran down her forehead. As she continued her “stand up,” the camera revealed she was wearing a bikini top. The sound of bubbling water grew louder.

  In the tub with Salchiço Grosso was another stunning model, Gracie Eesee. The gunman’s fatal shot just missed Ms. Eesee, before blasting into Salchiço’s neck.

  Now the camera pulled all the way back, revealing Chirley Wixon actually sitting the very hot tub where the porn actor had been shot. Still an obvious murder scene, roiling, crimson bubbles churned around her buxom figure just above the midriff, as she motioned to where the unfortunate Salchiço had been seated. In her other hand she held a large microphone bearing the Action 12 News flag. Yellow police tape tied with a festive bow wrapped the circumference of the hot tub. Then the report switched to a police interview.

  Ms. Easee was very lucky here, unlike the victim. We know the shot was fired with a long range, high caliber professional weapon. What we don’t know is who did it and why.

  Then the man Ella had seen coming out of the master bathroom came on the screen. She felt repulsed seeing him again, and while he spoke he waved his hands around holding a roll of toilet paper.

  I was upstairs and everyone just started screaming and running. So I did the same.

  She’d had enough and switched channels. Much to her surprise, Tiffany Reynolds popped up on a competing newscast.

  It was absolutely terrifying, I mean everyone was rushing out of there like charging bulls. All I could think about though, were my clients. I wanted to make sure they were safe and sound, out of harm’s way as they search for the home of their dreams. I can help anyone with their real estate needs, just shoot an email to “Tiff at CB-Pru-U- Z dot com.

  A man’s voice interrupted Tiffany’s speel

  Thank you Ms. Reynolds.

  The scene cut to the reporter, this one the quintessentially stereotyped blow dried male mannequin. He also stood in front of the 23rd Street house.

  A tipster turned in this next video, shot live at the scene, of the female model who cheated death in the hot tub. News All Night 10 apologizes for the quality, the tipster was filming on his cell phone.

  The grainy,
splotchy video showed the busty, soaking wet, sobbing porn actress push herself away from Gordon Elway, then take off running barefoot up the street.

  The big question now in everyone’s mind is, will this house sell?

  *******

  Ella awoke somewhat refreshed, thanks to a 10 mg. Ambien. The murder loomed large in her mind but ultimately, thank god, it wasn’t her problem. Not her listing, and she hadn’t the vaguest idea as to why someone would want to kill the young man in such a dramatic fashion, whatever his shady profession.

  Her Manhattan client sent an email early in the morning saying in the end she didn’t want to make an offer on the Noe Valley place. She had to return to New York, and would get back to Ella when she felt ready to look again.

  No, what gripped Ella’s mind was Giselle Frackle, and how to get her hands on that Sea Cliff listing. Giselle Frackle claimed title to a legendary position in San Francisco society, as the city’s reigning grande dame and philanthropic matriarch. A lively and active 91 years old, Giselle had known extreme wealth from the day she was born, thanks to her family lineage and marriage to Edgar Frackle. West coast royalty, her family’s money came through railroads and silver, much of it earned on the backs of Chinese immigrants in the 19th century. To appease her guilt, Giselle donated millions over the years to various Chinatown charities. As if her family fortune were not enough, she’d married Edgar when she was 19. Edgar had gone on to found Frackle Business Machines in the 50’s, which grew into one of the world’s dominant computer manufacturers, from the dawn of the computer age to the present day. Always innovative and ahead of the curve, the family still held the multi-national concern privately.

  The Frackle name adorned many of San Francisco’s cultural institutions, from the Frackle Opera House to the restored Frackle Museum in Golden Gate Park. Giselle outbid the de Young heirs for re-naming rights.

  Giselle Frackle’s mansion in Sea Cliff made up but a small part of one the country’s most immense personal fortunes. A miniscule part really, Ella thought, and she could see no reason why six percent of it shouldn’t land directly in her bank account.