Лоуренс Блок - Ariel

She thought of Jeff. The two of them in his Buick, speeding west on a section of the Interstate. Just leaving everything behind.

But you couldn’t run away from things. They tagged along after you like old shoes tied to a honeymoon couple’s rear bumper—

“The time, Mrs. Jardell.”

His words brought her around. They never lost sight of the time, did they? They always knew when your hour was up.

She got to her feet.

“If I could have some Valium,” she said. He looked at her for a moment, then nodded and reached for the prescription pad.

Etta Jellin had been in the real estate business for half a century. She’d gone to work fresh out of high school as a secretary to an up-and-coming young realtor. Within three years she’d become his wife, and a couple of years after that she had her broker’s license and worked as his partner. For the dozen years of her widowhood she’d gone on operating the King Street office herself, managing the rental properties Sam had left her and specializing as always in downtown residential property.

“Why, David Jardell!” she said. “How nice. You’re looking well.”

He thanked her and returned the compliment, thinking that she was indeed looking well. But then she always did. In all the years he’d known her, Etta Jellin had remained the same, fat and saucy and always possessed of a good humor and a shrewd glint in her eye.

“Have a seat,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you since you lost your son. I was awfully sorry to hear about that.”

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t go to the funeral. Last one I went to was my husband’s. The day I buried Roy I said, by God, I’m not going to another of these affairs till I go to my own. Which some folk doubtless feel is long overdue. Well, I’m sure we can find a fitter subject for conversation. How’s that house I sold you? Bricks still staying one on top of the other?”

“Oh, it’s in good shape.”

“Would I sell you a bad one? Those old homes will outlive us all, my friend. They were built in saner times than our own. I swear I’d hate to hold mortgage paper on some of what’s being built nowadays. The banks’ll write thirty-year paper on some of these cardboard boxes, and you just know the houses won’t last the thirty years. House’ll be long gone before the mortgage is anywhere near paid off.”

“It’s true.”

“But don’t shed tears for the bankers,” she went on. “Inflation the way it is, land prices rising the way they are, they’ll be able to foreclose on the empty lots and come out ahead of the game.” She leaned back in her swivel chair. “Lazy old afternoon,” she said. “What brings you here, David?”

“I wanted to get the benefit of your professional expertise.”

“Oh?”

“Let’s suppose I wanted to sell the house,” he said. “What could I figure on netting for it?”

She looked him over carefully, her dark eyes narrowing. “You didn’t move in but less than a year ago.”

“I know.”

“They go and transfer you? Or did you find something else out of town?”

“Nothing like that, Etta.”

“Then why in tarnation would you want to sell the house?”

He forced a smile. “I’m not saying I want to,” he said. “I just wanted to know what it would amount to in dollars.”

“If you’re looking for cash, I know some awfully good sources of second-mortgage money, David. It’s none of my business to pry and I’m not prying, but if that’s what it is don’t be ashamed to say so, for the Lord’s sake. You shouldn’t ever sell real estate because you need cash, not unless you’re in the business and that’s what you do for a living. Always borrow on it if you can. Every year the dollars get cheaper and the man who’s in debt is that much ahead of the game.”

“Cash isn’t a problem, Etta.”

“Then what on earth—?”

“Let’s say it’s personal.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, then swung her chair around and rolled it over to a gray filing cabinet. “Just to refresh my memory,” she said, leafing through a drawer of file folders. “Let me see now. Uh-huh. All right. I thought I remembered the house well enough. Peddle enough properties and they tend to merge when you get along in years but I still have a good memory for houses and a tolerable one for figures. You paid sixty-seven thousand five hundred according to what I’ve got written down here.”

“That’s right.”

“House was listed at seventy-five, you offered sixty-five, and you and the seller settled at sixty-seven five. I think that’s how it went.”

“That’s exactly how it went.”

“And you want to know what you’d get selling it... depends, depends how anxious you are to sell. And how anxious somebody is to buy it. You might list it today at seventy-five and sell it tomorrow, if just the right person happened to come along and he wanted it badly enough. Or if you were willing to put it on the market today and sit tight for up to a year, then you could be fairly certain of getting the seventy-five or close to it sooner or later. But if you want a fast sale and you don’t want to count on getting lucky, then you’re going to take a loss.”

“How large a loss?”

“Somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousand dollars. Plus my six-percent commission.”

He winced. There was no way he could sell the house and sustain that sort of loss. His total equity in the house was only a little over fifteen thousand in the first place. If he sold that cheaply they wouldn’t be able to move into another house.

“I guess I paid too much,” he said.

She shook her head. “You paid a fair price, is all. You found just the house you wanted and paid no more than fair market value for it. If you’re willing to wait for a buyer like yourself to come along I’d say you’ll get your money out of it, except for commission and closing costs. But if you want to sell in a hurry, well, it’s going to cost you. And that’s especially true when you’re dealing with older homes in town. They’re unique. Each of them is one of a kind. The charm of the house, the prestige value of the particular block, the special feeling a given prospective buyer gets from the house, all of these intangibles determine how fast the house sells and what price it brings, and you can’t get them down in dollars and cents and put them on the card in black and white.”

“I see.”

“You didn’t overpay and you didn’t wind up with a house you’re going to lose money on. Unless you want to unload it in a hurry. Real estate’s not the stock market, you know. You can’t call your broker and be sure of having money in your hand in four days’ time. It doesn’t work that way.”

“I know.”

“Why do you want to unload the place, David?”

“I don’t.”

She stroked her chin. “Your wife’s notion? You’ll have to forgive me but her name slips my mind. My memory’s better for prices and addresses than it is for people’s names.”

“Roberta.”

“Of course. She wants to move?”

“Yes.”

“Because of what happened to the boy? Pshaw. I’m a fat old woman, David, and that’s a fine thing to be because you can say whatever comes to mind and not give a damn how it goes over. Now it’s a tragedy when a baby dies and only a fool would say otherwise, but it’s a far cry from being the end of the world. She was not the first woman on earth to have a baby and God knows she was not the first woman on earth to lose one. If she’s going to run around the block every time something in her life takes a nasty turn, she’d be well advised to sleep in a track suit. It’s a hard life and it doesn’t get easier the more you see of it. All you get is used to it.”