by Pamela Morsi
I deftly changed the direction of the conversation, grateful that Gil’s personal venom of self-loathing and insecurity spewed out on most of the people he encountered in the world. I hoped it might work in my favor.
“This is the deal I wanted you to take a look at,” I told him, spreading the Guerras’ file open on the desk in front of him.
It was all there in a very readable order. Gil glanced through the document casually. Not bothering to read very much or even make much attempt to understand what it was.
“You want me to buy a house on the west side?” he asked, puzzled.
“No, I don’t want you to buy it,” I told him. “I want you to lend the money.”
“What?”
“The Guerras are going to buy the house,” I told him. “They just need a mortgage lender.”
Gil snorted and, gesturing toward his elegant surroundings, said, “Do I look like a west-side savings and loan?”
“Anyone can loan money for real estate, Gil, you know that,” I said with a light laugh.
From his expression it was obvious that he hadn’t known it, but naturally he was not prepared to admit to it.
“Sure,” he said. “But why would a trucking company be interested?”
“Oh, I’m not showing this to Mullins Trucking,” I said. “I’m approaching you, Gil Mullins, as a private businessperson.”
Clearly, not many people, including Gil himself, had ever thought of the man as a private businessperson.
“I smell a scam,” he said warily.
I shook my head. “This is completely legitimate,” I assured him honestly. “You’ve got an excess of cash from Henry’s buy into the company. I’d like to see you use a portion of it for a 110 percent mortgage loan on this house.”
He looked puzzled. “110 percent? You seem to be asking more than the loan is worth.”
“The house has been assessed higher than the asking price,” I pointed out.
“Why?”
“The new light-rail transit has a proposed stop just three blocks away,” I told him with the same optimistic enthusiasm I’d used on the appraiser. “We’ve already seen in Dallas and elsewhere how much that can mean to the nearby neighborhood.”
The mass transit from the west side was still at least a decade away, and an awful lot could happen in that time.
Gil shrugged. “Great,” he said. “It’ll go up in value. But if the seller didn’t ask for more money, why is the buyer? I’ve never heard of a 110 percent loan.”
“They aren’t that uncommon,” I told him. “Admittedly they are more often used for refinancing loans used to upgrade or remodel a house.”
“Is that what these people are doing? Expanding the house?”
“No, they aren’t building on at this time,” I said. “They need to get a couple of years of payments under their belt at least.”
“Then what is this extra money? Down payment?”
“Partly,” I admitted. “And to clear up some outstanding obligations.”
Gil looked genuinely confused.
“Jane, what’s the catch here?” he said. “Why don’t you just go to a bank or a savings and loan?”
“Because they wouldn’t give it to me,” I told him honestly.
Carefully, and without any attempt at deceit, I explained the problem to him.
“The Guerras have an outstanding retail debt of six thousand dollars,” I said. “They have been paying off a funeral at a high rate of interest. They are good debtors. They’ve never missed a payment. They’ve never been late. But in the world of banking, this doesn’t work for them, it works against them. They still qualify for a home loan, but just barely.”
“Close enough is close enough,” Gil said.
“For you or me it would be,” I agreed. “But making this monthly payment and their mortgage would have them walking a very fine line. If anything went wrong, a car breaks down, a child gets sick, or one of them is injured on the job, they’d have to default on one or the other.”
Gil nodded as if he understood.
“By folding this funeral-home loan in with the mortgage, it’s spread out over thirty years,” I continued. “It’s hardly noticeable in the monthly payment. It’s a smart thing to do. It’s a reasonable thing to do. But it is an unusual thing to do, and the regulations of banks and home mortgage companies make the unusual untenable.”
“So you’re trying to find somebody who will just loan this money on their own,” he said.
“Yes, exactly.”
I began to talk about the Guerra family, almost rambling. I talked about Mr. Guerra’s work, his wife at the pizza place, his mother, his three children, his two nephews.
“Both he and his wife have perfect work records, both active in their church,” I said. “They’re active in the children’s school. The boys play Youth League Soccer.”
Gil didn’t appear to be particularly impressed.
“Mr. Guerra has a personal reference from Les Weigan,” I pointed out, riffling through the papers on the desk to show it to him.
I’d gotten the reference from Les’s secretary, Linda. I showed up on a day when I knew Les was out of town and acted as if Les had forgotten to do it. Linda graciously wrote exactly what I dictated on Les’s letterhead and signed it, as she did most of his letters.
Gil looked at it, at least.
“Still,” he protested, “this is far from compelling.”
“I think it could be very much so,” I told him.
“If it’s such a good idea, why don’t you just loan them the money?”
It was a good question.
“I initially thought I would,” I admitted. “But I just don’t have the cash to do it. You mentioned the Barbara Jarman thing, so you must know I’ve lost my job. David gave me a good settlement, but the biggest portion of it is tied up in my house. I’d have to borrow money to make this loan. And I probably wouldn’t have any more luck with the banks than the Guerras would.”
“Give me one good reason why I should do this,” he said.
“There are actually three reasons,” I told him, glancing down at my notes.
“Okay.”
“First,” I said, “it is a really good thing to do.” I hoped that the rationale that motivated me might appeal to Gil, as well. “These people are very deserving. They work hard, they pay their bills. They are trying to build a better life for their children. They are the kind of people we should all be helping and encouraging.”
Gil leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and chuckled.
“That’s not a reason, Jane,” he said. “That’s a soapbox.”
I ignored his disparaging comment. “The second reason is that the Guerras are dependable and motivated to pay back the loan. The house itself is sufficient collateral for the loan, and the adjusted interest rate will insure you two percentage points above prime on your money for the next thirty years. It’s a safe, steady return on your investment, insulated from the wild fluctuations that can infect stocks or commodities.”
He nodded slowly. I could see that he was considering my words, trying to find an error in them. There wasn’t one.
“And finally, you should make this loan because you know you need to get the money you made from your cousin, Henry, working for you. This loan is actually quite small. Even at 110 percent, it’s less than sixty thousand, not much more than what you’d pay for a new car or a nice vacation. But it will buy you so much.”
“Buy me so much what?” Gil asked the question directly.
“Independence,” I answered. “I’m sure that both Henry and your wife have come up with a number of ways for you to invest this money. Henry probably wants you to pour a lot of it back into the company in some way. And Beverly would probably rather have it all in easily accessible money market funds. I suspect that even your father might have made some suggestions in his will if he’d thought about it. Wouldn’t it be nice this time to rely upon your own judgment instead of theirs?”
I could see it in his eyes immediately. I had won. We both knew it. Altruism didn’t interest him, and even a secure return on his money was pretty boring, but doing something on his own, one tiny step out from under the thumb of his wife and his father’s handpicked successor, appealed to him totally and fundamentally.
At the end of our discussion we rose to our feet. We shook hands on the deal, transforming the nature of our unpleasant personal relationship for all time.
Because I was representing the buyer, I gave him Ann Rhoder Hines’s phone number and asked that he contact her to set up the details.
He assured me that he would call her that very morning.
A few moments later when I walked out of the building, teetering painfully on the five-inch heels, I felt ten feet tall. I called Mrs. Guerra on my car phone, catching her right in the middle of the noon rush.
When I told her the news, she shouted for joy. Then I heard her hastily mumbled words of thanks to Saint Matthew.
I didn’t begrudge sharing the praise for the day’s work with the most famous moneylender in history. Though I was fairly sure that such a holy, honorable soul hadn’t felt the need to wear red shoes to make a deal.
Mrs. Guerra was too busy to stop and call her husband. She asked me to do it, so I got the satisfaction of announcing the good news twice.
I decided to celebrate, as I often had in the past after a successful sale, with a visit to Yesteryear Emporium. It had been months since I’d last visited my favorite antique store. I just wanted to walk around and look at the amazing collection. I have never understood what it is about antiques that has always drawn me.
I certainly never grew up in an atmosphere of fine old things. The house I’d shared with my mother was furnished from Montgomery Ward, with sturdy brown Naugahyde in the living room and chrome and Formica in the kitchen. Mama had very little sense of style in either home furnishings or personal fashion. I remember thinking as a girl that it was fortunate that she always wore nurses’ uniforms, because the clothes she picked out for herself were hideous. Of course, I never told her that. I’m not sure I ever told her anything. In fact, I couldn’t recall one significant conversation the two of us had ever had.
Anyway, I loved shopping for antiques. And even though I knew I wasn’t going to buy anything, I looked forward eagerly to an afternoon of rifling through and seeing what was there.
I had already parked and gathered up my purse before I realized I was still wearing the red shoes and didn’t have any others to put on. With a grimace, I decided to go in anyway.
The proprietor, my old school chum, was sitting behind the counter typing on his old Underwood.
“Hi!” I called out quickly, and hurried past.
“Janey!” Obviously excited to see me, and ignoring his cane, he sort of dragged himself to the counter.
“Hi,” I repeated.
He was banging his fist hard against his thigh. “My leg’s asleep,” he explained. “It happens all the time. The circulation is not as good as it could be.”
I smiled, a little nonplussed. There was nothing much to reply to that. I tried to move on past, but he seemed determined to talk with me.
“Haven’t seen you in quite a while,” he said. “But I’ve been hearing about you. Guess all that’s kept you busy.”
I was stunned. These days, comments about my marital status were a more common subject for discussion than the possibility of spring rains. But being reminded of my divorce by this man, in this store, was completely unexpected.
The guy just stood there, grinning at me. No consoling words about how these things happen or polite I’m so sorry. Scott, who had previously pushed me on the subject of trust, stood there smiling, as if taking potshots at my life was fair game.
I stared back at him, every bit of the annoyance I felt written upon my face. Eventually he grew uncomfortable.
He rubbed his hands together nervously. “Yes…well, I just wanted to let you know how proud I am of you. I’m sure it wasn’t easy, but you did the right thing.”
“As a matter of fact, I did,” I said in my coldest, most haughty tone. “If it is any business of yours.”
He hesitated. “Well, no, I guess it’s not really any of my business,” he said. “Except as a member of the community. I believe that this is the kind of thing in which everybody in the community has a stake.”
I was incredulous. “Everybody in the community has a stake in my divorce!”
His eyebrows shot up. “You’re getting a divorce?”
“Got one, past tense,” I said.
“Oh…I’m…I’m so sorry,” he said.
Now I was completely confused. “What were we talking about?”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“The Hattenbacher House,” he said.
“Oh, of course, the Hattenbacher House.” I shook my head. “I wasn’t thinking. When you said you knew I’d been busy, well, I thought—”
“No, I would never,” he said. “I mean I…I don’t even…well, gossip from the country club set rarely gets mentioned among the people I hang out with.”
“No, of course not,” I said.
The stupidity of my jump to this conclusion was so obviously ridiculous that I began laughing. Once I started, I couldn’t stop.
He eyed me curiously.
“I thought you were proud of me for getting a divorce,” I managed to get out between uncontrollable giggles.
He was grinning at me again, the laugh lines on his face rippled all the way to his temples. “Should I be?”
“Yeah, maybe so,” I said, gathering some composure. “You must think I’m a complete idiot.”
“No, I think I’m the one who’s an idiot,” he said. “I just assumed that you knew about my interest in the project. I wrote a letter to the editor.”
“Letter to the editor? Scott Robbins. Of course, you’re Scott Robbins.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“I knew that I knew that name, but I couldn’t place you.”
He nodded with feigned gravity. “Sheesh, Janey, are you trying to destroy my ego. Just like the days back in junior high, no matter what I did, I couldn’t get your attention.”
I was sure he meant that as a joke and I took it exactly that way.
“Well, thank you for the letter and the kind things you said about me,” I said. “It was very welcome after the pummeling I took from the paper.”
“All I did was point out the truth,” he said. “That’s my job.”
“Your job?”
“Well, I guess it’s not a job in that sense,” he said. “It’s more like a calling.”
“I heard that you regularly write letters to the editor.”
He shrugged. “I write to them, and newsmagazines and elected officials and corporate executives. Anywhere that I think I need to say something.”
I nodded, as if I understood, but in fact I didn’t. My feet were throbbing with pain. I raised my right foot, which was taking the worst of the abuse, and rotated my ankle for a moment to take the pressure off.
“Those are really great shoes,” Scott said.
I flushed with embarrassment. The sexy red sandals were not meant to lure the unsuspecting. I felt exposed, as if the wind had just caught my skirt and I wasn’t wearing underwear. I was desperate to cover up, but there was no way to do so.
“They are killing me,” I said honestly. “These have got to be the most uncomfortable shoes on planet Earth.”
He chuckled.
“Come sit down,” he said. “Here, come sit down.”
He moved to the edge of the high counter and motioned me to come around behind where he had his little office area. He moved awkwardly and with a visible limp.
“Is your leg still asleep?”
He glanced up at me, his expression surprised.
“No,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s just like that.”
“Motorcycle
accident?” I asked.
He gave me a long look, his eyes narrowing speculatively. “You remember me on my little Honda scooter?”
“Yeah,” I said, somewhat amazed at myself. “I guess I do.”
“That was a very long time ago,” he said.
I agreed.
Scott hadn’t answered, but I’d already forgotten about my question.
Beside his typewriter desk and chair, he had a beautifully rugged mission-style sofa. It looked to me as if it might have been a genuine Stickley. Even if it was not, it was a gorgeous, well-preserved piece of furniture from the era and in very good shape except for its dirty upholstery.
“This is great!” I said, running my hand appreciatively along solid, unpretentious wood railing.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I liked the look of it on sight. My dad had it sitting in a locked off room by itself upstairs. I figured he didn’t put it out on the floor ’cause he figured he’d never sell it with that stain on the cushion.”
I glanced over at him, looking for a teasing glint in his eye. I didn’t see one.
“You are kidding, right?”
He wasn’t. I could hardly believe it.
“If this is what it looks like to me,” I told him, “then your father had it locked up because it’s the most valuable piece in this building. The stain, the stain is nothing. This is the original upholstery. You can have it cleaned and restored for less than a hundred dollars. It’s easily worth fifty times that much.”
“Wow!”
I seated myself on the wonderful piece of furniture, sighing with pleasure at the perfect comfort it offered. I glanced over at Scott. He was watching me.
“What kind of antique dealer doesn’t know the value of his inventory?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “The kind who inherits a junk store from his father,” he replied.
His eyes were the most amazing blue. True blue, I thought. I wasn’t sure if that was a real color, but it was certainly apt. There was no deception or wariness in his gaze. It was as if he had seen the world, knew it intimately and remained fearless.
I asked a few questions about the store. He answered me forthrightly, honest about his ignorance of the business.
“Don’t you have any appraisal lists? Reference books?” I asked. “How do you set an asking price?”
