Killer Move

She knew damned well it wasn’t okay. Warner was a guy I’d met at a bar on the mainland a couple of weeks before. He had an eight-million-dollar house on Longboat about three miles north of The Breakers, and selling it should have been my gig. I’d done the groundwork. I’d met the guy and started the fire.

“Excuse me?” Janine said.

“Just clearing my throat.”

I sent a clipped e-mail to Karren saying how delighted I was to hear she’d been there to get onto meeting Warner’s needs, and that I looked forward to working with her on it. Then I hesitated, and did a little editing, making it friendlier and backing off the irony a tad. Thinking about it, David Warner had struck me right off the bat as a high-maintenance vendor. He was hefty, bluff, black hair flecked with gray and swept back, a man who had clearly supped long at the font of self-confidence: local boy made good (in the sense of “wealthy”), and convinced he could outthink and outexperience everyone on every goddamned thing—and sell his house better and faster and more lucratively himself, moreover, were he not too busy being so very rich the whole time. The more Karren had her hands full over the next few weeks, the less likely she would be to notice what I was doing with Tony Thompson.

I sent the e-mail, feeling satisfied. I’m all for being in the moment, but sometimes you have to take the longer view. Had I been Janine, for example, instead of bovinely accepting that Jonny Bo’s was out of my range, I would have saved for weeks or months to get in—and Steph would have been there with me, taking the chicken and drinking iced water and skipping dessert. You move forward in life by throwing a foot up onto the next rung, then hauling the rest of you up after, time after time.

There wasn’t much other mail to deal with. A couple of no-whats (as in “No, I’m not looking to sell my condo right now—what, in this market, are you insane?”), general crap and updates from the main office, plus a notification from Amazon that some order of mine had been shipped. I couldn’t even remember what was in it, so that hardly qualified as headline news.

I gave Janine a few pointless things to do and then left for a walk around the resort. Since the advent of cell phones, e-mail, and push notifications, sticking to your desk is a sign not of diligence but of inertia. I took a notepad with me and jotted down every single little glitch, snag, and imperfection I could find.

Two hours later I was sitting outside The Breakers’ market with an iced coffee and a head full of half-formed plans, when I saw Karren’s car coming round the circle. She parked, saw me, hesitated, then walked over.

“Thanks for picking up on the Warner meeting,” I said. “Glad you were there to do it.”

She glared down at me, then reached into her little briefcase and pulled out a pad. She ripped off the top few pages and dropped them on the table.

I leaned forward and peered at them. Notes on a house, in Karren’s tidy hand.

“He . . .” She bit her lip.

“Yes?”

“He thanked me for taking the time to come out,” she said coldly. “And said that he looked forward to dealing with you over the actual sale.”

I leaned back, being careful not to allow any hint of expression to make it to my face. “That sucks,” I said, reaching for my phone. “You want me to give him a call? Put him straight on what century we’re living in?”

“Fuck you,” Karren said, and stormed away.

I managed to hold back the laughter until she was back in the office, but it was hard.

Boy, it was hard.

I’d just climbed into the car at the end of the day when my cell rang.

“Mr. Bill Moore?”

The voice was young, female, professional.

“That would be me. How can I help?”

“I’m Melania—David Warner’s assistant.”

Melania? Was that even a real name? “What can I do for you, Melania?”

“Mr. Warner was a little disappointed that you weren’t able to make the meeting today.”

“Whoa,” I said. “Let’s hit pause. Not my bad, okay? He called the office—after I had told him my cell was the best way of getting hold of me—and said he wanted a meeting right away. He agreed to meet with my colleague. Who he managed to alienate more than a little, if you want to know.”

I didn’t give a crap about Warner having pissed off Karren (and had savored the idea more than once in the meantime, as a matter of fact), but you have to make it clear to other people’s minions that you’re not down on their level, and are not available to be bossed around.

There was a slight pause. “He can be that way.”

“Yep. It’s how they roll,” I said, making my tone a little more friendly, implying that men (and women) of a certain age, and of a certain wealth, seem to think that their possessions act like spells, empowering them to behave toward others without fear of resistance or reprisal, most of the time.

She understood what I was saying.