Killer Move

“Not locally,” I admitted, watching waves lapping at the concrete pier sticking out from the middle of The Breakers’ section of beach, and on which a lone, picturesque heron was often to be found standing, as if hired by the management. About a third of the Thompsons’ residence was taken up with a double height living area. From its vast windows you could see a couple of miles in either direction along one of the most unspoiled sections on this entire stretch of coast. When Longboat Key began to be developed in earnest during the early 1980s, there were already sufficient numbers of people singing the conservation song that a degree of tact and reserve held the day. This probably enraged the moneymen at the time, but in the long run there had been advantages. Were it not for a cluster of taller (and more recent) condos down at the south end, you would be able to see all the way to the wilderness at the end of Lido Key.

It was a great view. I wanted it.

“So how’d you find this one?”

“The Internet is a marvelous resource.”

“Yeah, I hear good things,” Thompson said, setting the bottle on the breakfast bar and leading me toward a sitting area with white sofas and a glass coffee table big enough to play Ping-Pong on, assuming you had really short legs. It was bare, aside from a fat book of Sudoku puzzles and an ornate wooden box. “I got more than enough stuff to deal with in the real world. Don’t have time for all that doubya doubya doubya crap.”

He took a cigarette from the box and indicated to me that I should do the same if I was so inclined. I shook my head, privately amazed that there were people who still possessed such objects. Back in Thompson’s youth—he was a hale and hearty sixty-eight, and famously took a five-mile run on the beach every morning—they’d doubtless been quite the thing, along with onyx table lighters and station wagons with faux wood–paneled sides. The decor of the rest of the apartment was Florida Beach Traditional: tiled floors, pastel furnishings, coral collages on the walls, and wooden statues of pelicans on every shelf that wasn’t lined with paperback thrillers. The air-conditioning was turned up to STUN.

“I thought you smoked.”

“Gave it up,” I said.

“What the hell for?”

“It’s bad for you. So they say.”

“Bullshit,” Thompson said. “Never done me any harm.”

“Not everyone has your constitution, sir,” I said, realizing I was sounding a kiss-ass, and minding, but knowing also that that was precisely what I was here to do.

Thompson lit his cigarette and settled back on the white leather sofa. “Okay. I’m grateful for the wine, Bill. You did good. But what’s your point?”

“I wanted to talk to you about the decorative state of the resort,” I said.

“You telling me it looks like shit?”

“Not at all,” I said calmly. Prior experience had forewarned me that Thompson conducted conversations the way some people deal with cockroaches. “Compare it with facilities from the same era—Tradewinds, Pelican Sands, you name it—and it’s in great shape. Overall. But—”

“Let me save you some time,” Thompson said. “We’re not going to be redecorating this year. End of story. Anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“May I ask why?”

“Three reasons. Money, money, and money.”

“I hear you, and they’re all good reasons, but I’m going to lay it right out for you, sir. You got owner discontent. And it’s on the rise.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you,” I said.

Thompson frowned, sending sun-and-cigarette cracks across his broad, leathery face. “Thought you were just a Realtor, Bill. Didn’t realize that involved an oath of confidentiality. You a doctor on the side? Or a lawyer? I got a goddamned priest selling my condos now?”

I smiled. “No sir. Just a Realtor. But if I start blogging every conversation with my clients, pretty soon people will stop telling me anything, right?”

He appeared to concede the point. I pressed on. “Folks care about their properties. It’s where they live, who they are. I respect that. I respect their privacy, too. Anyone tells me anything, I’m where it stops.” I paused to let that point hit home—that I was a man who could keep his mouth shut in the interests of a greater good. “But I will tell you the chatter is not just coming from people who are looking to sell. With those folks, they’re out of here already. Screw ’em, right? I’m talking about the families who are happy owning their corner of The Breakers, who want to stay a part of it.”

“You’re really not going to give up some names?”

I hesitated again, this time to give the wily old fucker reason to suspect that, under exactly the right circumstances, I might spill a name or two.