Killer Move - Michael Marshall [17]
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.
“And we love them for it.” Her voice sounded a little warmer now, too. “Okay, well, the bullet point is that Mr. Warner would like to pursue matters. Could you meet with him at nine this evening?”
“Nine? That’s kind of late.”
“I know. He has a dinner engagement ahead of that. But he really wants to get the ball rolling.”
I was tired, and the wine hangover had come home to roost, despite a few fistfuls of aspirin. Steph would be mildly pissed at the late notice, too, more as a matter of form than because it would materially inconvenience her. An eight-million-dollar house is an eight-million-dollar house, however, as I believe it points out in the Bible somewhere.
“No problem,” I said. I noted down the address of the property when she reeled it off. Then I called my wife and told her I wasn’t going to be back until late.
“What’s up?”
“Remember I told you about a guy I met in Krank’s? Couple, three weeks back? Might be wanting to sell a house on the key?”
“No,” she said. “It must have slipped my mind.”
“Well, I did. And he does. Wants to talk about it this evening. I’m going to take the meeting. Wouldn’t normally, but it’s a big house. Could go up to ten mil.”
“Can’t Karren do it? She’s single, right? Surely she can take the evening shift.”
“Not really,” I said. “Less I want her to take the commission, too.”
“She going with? To the meeting?”
“No. This is a solo flight.”
“Well, grab something to eat in between, because the fridge is empty and the situation will not have improved by the time you get back.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And be good, tycoon-boy.”
Then she was gone, leaving me wondering what that was supposed to mean.
CHAPTER SIX
I got home at a little before midnight, and by then—if I hadn’t been so tired—I would have been pretty mad.
After talking to Steph I drove down to the Circle and killed half an hour shooting the breeze with Max, the guy who looks after a lot of the commercial property there. He had no new listings, and answered the inquiry with a slight smile. I’d been talking to Max for over a year, looking for the kind of place that might work for Bill Moore Realty when the time came. Previously he’d been enthusiastic—he didn’t handle residential, so there’d be no conflict of interest—but this time I got a strong hint of “yeah, right,” in the way he dealt with me—as if he was starting to get the idea that me setting up on my own (as he’d done ten years before, also after a period working for Shore) was a dream that was becoming more insubstantial by the month. I kicked against this by dropping hints that I was on the verge of big things Any Day Now, which left me feeling exposed and vulnerable and something of an ass.
He also asked whether I was sure I’d got the right name for the business, given that Bill Moore could be heard as “bill more,” which is not what you want in a Realtor, or indeed anyone in a service industry. Annoyingly, he had a point. Having spent the last six years getting myself known around town as Bill rather than William, however—Bill being much more direct and personal and can-do—it was too late to change. I put a pin in the problem and set it aside.
I thought about getting a sandwich but couldn’t get the idea to generate any traction and so I wound up going to the Ben & Jerry’s instead. The area inside had the air, as usual, of having recently withstood a concerted attack by forces loyal to some