San Francisco Values

by James K Turner

  “I look forward to speaking with you both,” she said in way of goodbye. She turned to Mark. “It looks like you’re right. I’m getting more and more business as a result of the jail mess.”

  “Of course I’m right. Anyway, I was asking you about Jeff.

  “I’ll call him back tonight. It’s taken me a few days to get over all this. The last time I saw him I was being dragged away by the police.”

  “You mean you’re ready to get slapped around again?”

  “Mark,” Ella said quickly. “Don’t you ever breathe a word of what I told you.”

  “You’re secret’s safe with me,” he said. “But I don’t know about a couple of dykes in the county jail. They might have an idea of your new… preferences.”

  “You think you’re very funny. It just so happens I was beaten without provocation or just cause.”

  “And Jeff has just cause?” he asked with a wink.

  She opened a built-in leaded glass cabinet next to the fireplace and took out a stack of magazines. “Eeww, creepy. What are these, mercenary magazines?”

  “Hey, let me see,” Mark said with a leer, trying to grab the stack from her hands.

  She pulled them out of reach. “Hold on a second. I want to ask you something first. How’s my jailhouse request coming along?”

  “Give me the goods first, then I’ll answer.”

  “OK, take ‘em, I don’t want ‘em.”

  Mark thumbed through the violent, beefcakey periodicals. “Well, I did make a call or two, inquiries are under way.”

  “It’s not so urgent now that I’m out. I was afraid I’d have to turn into some kind of a private detective in order to ‘get sprung,’ as Bootsie so nicely put it. If anything does turn up from the search, we’ll pass it on to the police.”

  “They still haven’t caught the killer, you may be on the right track.”

  “I doubt it, I was desperate.”

  Ella’s own cell phone rang from deep inside her purse. “Hang on, I’m coming.” She dug around and pulled the phone out, squinting at the caller ID. “Unknown caller.” She flipped open the phone. “Hello?” She looked at Mark with astonished eyes. “Why Safada, what a surprise.”

  Chapter 13

  Giselle wanted to talk, once again, about listing the mansion. Ella didn’t know quite what to expect from such a meeting, considering her previous encounters had zipped all over the charts with regard to logic and organized thought. So she prepared herself for just about anything, or so she hoped, failing to anticipate the full extent of surprise which awaited her. One thing for sure, she’d hire a body guard, and a good one, if she signed a listing agreement.

  Her Mercedes, somewhat worse for the wear, had been retrieved from the city tow yard by an office minion. A fine coat of white dust covered the car, which now sported a long, garish scrape down the left side. Ella certainly had not done it, and placed the blame on a careless city tow truck driver having his way with her S600 in the vast pool of impounded and otherwise criminally associated vehicles. Though the unsightly gash would undoubtedly cost a small fortune to repair, she would not pursue corrective remedy from the city of San Francisco.

  She hadn’t gotten around to washing it yet, and reflected upon this uncharacteristic behavior as she steered the massive hood along the Frackle Mansion driveway. She was arriving at a potential $70 million listing in a filthy, dented car.

  Safada opened the front door. “Ella Barker, you are appearing very good since last you I see.”

  It took a moment to adjust to the maid’s jumbled word order. “Why, thank you, I’m sure, Safada.”

  Ella did in fact look great in a black suit and heels. Once again though, Safada stunned. Maybe because of the jailhouse monsters Ella’d been cooped up with, Safada hit her with a gust of sheer beauty and refreshing vigor. Nonetheless, the maid wore a curious outfit, a rather unusual looking nurse’s uniform. Ella had no knowledge of any medical training in Safada’s background.

  The nurse’s outfit, a pure silk, very short, white dress, sinuously hugged Safada’s midriff. The silk shined like a geisha’s kimono. Buttons ran up the front from hem to collar, with a number at the north end left open, exposing significantly greater cleavage than more traditional hospital uniforms. Conventional nurse’s shoes and a white cotton tiara splashed with a Red Cross logo rounded out the ensemble. A stethoscope hung around her neck. She’d pinned her hair up, leaving delicate wisps to fall along the sides of her forehead. Mostly however, the outfit showed off her striking legs.

  Maybe Safada entertained herself during the long, lonely mansion days playing dress up, or perhaps she was preparing for a starring role in an adult film. It didn’t matter to Ella, as long as Barker Brokers got the Frackle listing. This time.

  Safada guided Ella up the sweeping staircase. “Missus Giselle rest now, but talk with her in chamber of hers.”

  Ella smiled in return. “Thank you, Safada, for bringing me my shoes that night at the opera.”

  Safada called back over her shoulder as they ascended. “Sometimes little things help big things do.”

  Ella ignored this puzzling response. At the top of the stairs, Safada stopped next to the first of several closed mahogany paneled doors. They were still near the street side of the house, which Ella found strange. Surely Giselle’s bedroom faced the ocean and fabulous view.

  As if reading Ella’s mind, Safada pointed towards the far end of the wide hallway, where a picture window framed the Golden Gate Bridge. “Giselle room there, but the people goes in here,” she said indicating the nearest door. “Sorry,” she said putting her hands on her cheeks, “my English suffer. We are the people, us go in here.” At that, Safada lowered her hands and gave Ella one of her famous smoldering gazes.

  Ella didn’t at all like the direction this was going, so she changed the subject. “Are you providing nursing assistance to your employer? What sort of medical care is Mrs. Frackle in need of?”

  “I use for you this dress,” Safada replied, deftly slipping her hand up to unbutton more of the silk uniform, instantly deepening the valley view. “This my room, enter please.” She turned the knob, letting the door swing open.

  Ella began to back up, Safada’s intentions now crystal clear. “Now Safada, I don’t know what you have in mind, but I’d prefer to go straight to Mrs. Frackle’s room down the hall, where…”

  Safada stepped forward and reached out, laying her soft, warm hand on Ella’s cheek. Ella felt the other woman’s exquisitely painted fingernails gently stroke her face. “I want you since night in bar,” Safada said softly, looking Ella deeply in the eyes.

  “I, I, thought you wanted Mark that night,” Ella stammered.

  “Him too.”

  “Listen dear,” she said, taking the motherly approach. “I’m flattered, really I am, but I…”

  “You what, querida?”

  “I like men, Safada, I really do.”

  “I also.”

  “Not like that. I only like men.”

  “You try woman already?”

  “Well, not exactly…”

  “Then waits for you pleasure you don’t know.”

  Ella stepped back again. She took Safada’s hand off her cheek, gently lowering it. “I mean it, Safada, I am not interested in this.”

  Safada folded her arms across her bountiful chest. “You want speak to Missus Giselle?”

  “Of course, I’ll forget all about this little incident. I won’t say a word to Mrs. Frackle, I promise.”

  “You no understand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Safada stepped into her bedroom, at the same time opening the next button on her dress. One ample breast nearly swung free from the taut uniform. She pointed to the enormous, frilly bed. “That the only way speak to Missus Giselle. She have long list agents. I you called first. You no cooperation, I call next in list.”

  “You conniving little bitch.”

  Safada grinned. Ella looked at the bed then back at
Safada undoing her dress. “What if I scream for her now?”

  “Never she you believe. You no sell house if scream.”

  Ella stood still for a moment, considering the entire, outrageous situation. She lifted her head proudly, and strode into Safada’s bedroom.

  *******

  “Are you crazy?” Jeff asked. “Your life is in danger.” He looked down again at the contract. “25,000 Frackle Business Machines pre-IPO stock options in lieu of commission?”

  “The stock is predicted to hit $1000 after the IPO. That’s a cool $25 million, baby. I’d stake my life on it,” Ella responded, with a slightly maniacal laugh. “Even if I don’t sell it myself, it’d be an enormous payoff.”

  She felt carefree, excited and a little wild. The afternoon had ended up going splendidly. The experience with Safada, while not the same electrifying charge she got from Jeff, had gone better than expected. And Giselle had been remarkably composed and clear headed, commenting only that Ella looked flushed.

  Ella lounged on the sofa in Jeff’s 70th floor condo at the new Treasure View Tower on Rincon Hill near the Bay Bridge. Floor to ceiling glass soared two full stories across the massive living room, with pin spots hanging from tiny, rigidly curved cables that snaked through the open air. The evening sky poured into the condo, the whole Bay Area an illuminated carpet at their feet, the glittering Transamerica Pyramid rising nearby like an urban pharaoh’s tomb.

  Jeff pulled Ella closer. “What about Kearney? I thought he was dead set against you getting that listing,” he said.

  “Giselle said not to worry about him, that she’s got the power to sell her own home. I checked and it’s her name on the deed.”

  “Well I’d say you deserve to sell it. You paid your dues,” he said.

  “If you only knew.”

  “Huh?”

  “I know I’ve got to be careful.”

  “Very careful, what about a body guard? You shouldn’t be walking around on your own.”

  “I’ve put in a call to Lt. Rothschild, after all he’s put me through maybe he can be of some help. And I’ll stay away from public places…”

  Jeff leaned down and softly bit Ella’s shoulder. “I missed you.”

  Chills raced through her body. Despite the earlier marathon with Safada, she felt herself responding. “I’m sorry I didn’t call back right away.”

  “You’ll have to answer for that now,” he said, taking another sip of his scotch. He pulled down the collar of her sweatshirt, exposing more shoulder. He gently bit the soft flesh again, this time on the back of her neck.

  As a familiar excitement spread throughout her body, her eyes wandered down to the newspaper scattered on the coffee table. Her gaze fixed on Lona Gishaw’s gossip column, and even without reading glasses Ella could clearly read the headline.

  “Wait a second, what’s that say?” she asked, calling a quick halt to the carnal proceedings.

  FRACKLE PAYOFF BIGGER THAN BIG FOR TIFF REYNOLDS

  The tragic murder of real estate maven Tiffany Reynolds takes on another dimension. It seems the gigantic sums surrounding the sale of Giselle Frackle’s gabled mansion in Sea Cliff are mucho more grande than your typical six percent. Spies tell us Tiff’s agreement with Madame Frackle spilled over with FBM stock options, worth a potential 20 to 30 mil. When asked, Kearney Frackle was mum on his mom. “What she does is her business,” he quipped. One can only assume realtor Gordon Elway had the same lucrative deal, before he too was murdered. Cops are closed mouth but it’s clear to one and all that someone out there REALLY wants to stop the sale of that mansion. Much to our relief, real estate Queen Bee Ella Barker is off the hook. After her very public arrest at the SF Opera, Ella’s been keeping her head low (who wouldn’t?) but word has it she’s next in line to pick up the Frackle listing. Buy a bullet proof vest, dear friend. Oh, and Ella, a confidential aside: beware, loose lips as they say, someone’s talking. Maybe those bruises you’re sporting didn’t all come from jailhouse meanies…we hear you’re a little sweet on “rough trade.”

  Ella threw the paper down in disgust. “Oh god, it’s already out that I’ve got the listing, the pay details, and what’s this about rough trade?” She turned to Jeff. “What have you been saying?”

  “Nothing, I swear. Ella… I wouldn’t do anything to embarrass you, or hurt us…” He narrowed his eyes. “Who’ve you told?”

  She raced over to the kitchen and swiped her purse off the counter. Whipping her phone out, she pressed speed dial.

  “Mark,” she practically screamed when he picked up. “What the hell did you say to Lona Gishaw? And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” She listened for a moment. “You’re choosing your words carefully my dear. If you didn’t say anything to her, who did you say something to? Tell the truth,” she commanded. After another moment’s silence she snapped her phone shut and looked at Jeff in disbelief. “He told his personal trainer.”

  Jeff jumped up from the couch and ran to Ella.

  “This implicates you too,” she said. “We’ve been seen together.”

  He kissed her on the mouth. “Don’t worry, I don’t care what people say.”

  “Well I do. It’s like a nightmare that won’t end. I thought now that the jail episode is over I’d be OK. Then this comes up. Lona’s readers are my client base.”

  “Maybe it’ll lead to a whole new client base. San Francisco’s crawling with rough trade.”

  Ella tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t help smiling. “Stop it, I’m serious.”

  “Uh huh.” He pushed closer. “Maybe since you’re being accused of such nefarious behavior, you should at least be guilty of it.” He maneuvered her down the hallway toward the bedroom.

  Ella feigned innocence. “I don’t know what that gossip monger is talking about.”

  Jeff moved his hand lightly up the side of Ella’s waist, barely touching as he brushed her bosom. “Sure you don’t.” His mouth was less than an inch from hers. The hair stood up on her arms and neck.

  She gulped in his sweet breath, consciously pulling in long, lung filling sweeps. Without warning he grabbed her around the waist with both hands and carried her towards the bed. She didn’t say anything. He threw her onto the mattress. She bounced to a stop, hair flailed out behind on the bedspread.

  He stood watching her, then walked over to the dresser.

  “You game for something a little different?” he asked.

  “Being with you has already been a little different.”

  He smiled. “Can I tie you up?” he asked quietly. “Just your wrists, it won’t hurt…”

  Ella looked out the huge plate glass window, making sure no other buildings loomed close enough to view the proceedings. No peeping Toms or gossip columnists threatened, that she could see.

  Jeff held up a couple of short lengths of rope. “You game?”

  Ella looked at his bulging jeans. She writhed on the bed, turning in his direction. He needed no further approval.

  *******

  At Giselle’s insistence, Ella scheduled and dutifully publicized an open house. Common sense dictated against throwing the doors of such an expensive property open to the masses, however she had no choice but to follow orders. The media carnival surrounding the murders and her own newfound notoriety left her especially apprehensive.

  The day of the open house dawned clear and warm, an autumn Sunday gloriously showcasing San Francisco’s stunning Indian summer weather. The sea sparkled and the homes glistened when Ella and Lt. Rothschild drove into Sea Cliff, with nary a leaf out of place to mar the immaculate neighborhood. She considered the favorable weather conditions an ominous sign, for surely the greatest numbers of open house attendees and lookie loos would show up clamoring for admittance. Crushing online sales had jammed Barker Brokers’ servers for ten hours. She rounded the corner onto El Camino del Mar and drew in her breath.

  “Whew, look at those people,” Rothschild said from the passenger seat of Ell
a’s washed but still gashed Mercedes. He’d shadowed her constantly for ten days, and had posted a twenty four hour police guard outside her home and offices. The mayor himself approved the expense. She found herself halfway liking Rothschild, after all he was atoning for past sins and she welcomed the personal protection. He didn’t say much about the investigation, allowing only that they hoped to be moving in on a suspect soon. So far only Ella had burned under the hot glare of suspected guilt.

  “It’s about what I expected,” she said. An hour before opening, the line outside the mansion gates already stretched down the block. More people arrived on foot and many others cruised slowly by hunting for parking on the usually deserted street. The group of potential “buyers” Ella thought laughingly, looked more like summer tourists off to a picnic in the park. Whole families, from grandmas to babies, lined the high walls of the estate, bearing strollers, yapping dogs and bucket sized paper cups of gourmet coffee. People pointed and gawked at the spot where Tiffany Reynolds met her final real estate challenge.

  Much to Ella’s amazement, she saw Elton, the gorgeous chauffer, perched atop one of the entrance pillars affixing several brightly colored helium balloons. He’d taken advantage of the warm morning to remove his shirt while performing this arduous chore, exposing a tanned torso worthy of an entire photo spread. From his elevated workplace he laughed and flirted with several blonde, busty teenage girls.

  “Do you usually go to this much trouble, balloons and all?” the lieutenant asked.

  Ella brought the car to a gentle halt at the gate. “No, this is not my doing. Giselle has been excited about an open house since our first meeting, even though I advised against it. I’d say she’s taken it upon herself to spice things up.” She looked up at Elton and waved. For a second she imagined him completely naked and fully erect, holding a black leather riding crop. Shuddering from an involuntarily chill, she quickly banished the thought.

  Elton flashed an enticing grin and removed a small remote control from the pocket of his shorts. He punched the button and the gates swung open. As Ella pulled through, he leapt gazelle-like to the ground, politely keeping the waiting crowds at bay until the gates once again sealed off the magnificent cliff top property. “One hour to go,” she heard him call out cheerfully.