FSBO: For Sale By Owners Chapter Three
The obnoxious guy in the crowded seat next to her wouldn’t shut up, keep his eyes on her legs, or stop drinking screwdrivers. Brook Best decided to give him a gift from her. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted one tanned leg, letting it fall seductively over the other. Her eyes bulged. She almost dropped her drink:
“God, those are beautiful!”
“You can look like shit on a plane, but you can’t smoke a cigarette,” Brook muttered to the window thinking, I want a Virginia Slim. I would settle for a Salem. Three hours changing planes and now a lecher who can’t contain his alcohol.
“What? Oh, sorry! Did I spill some on you? Can I buy you a drink?”
“No, thanks.!” Brook audibly responded to the plague. “However, feel free to have another, yourself.”
“Oh I will. I don’t have to drive. My love will pick me up at the airport so my car won’t be towed again.”
Brook’s curiosity overcame his better judgment. Lifting his sunglasses to rest on his hair, he asked, “Why would they tow his car?”
“Ever since that damn thing in the Trade Tower, everyone is crazy!”
“Yes,” Brook agreed.
Drinking splashing on the island at the end of his gesture, Brook’s inebriated coaching partner explained: “I parked my car in the SeaTac lot, last week. I flew back, he’s gone. He passed a new law. I can’t park anyone.” less than 300 feet from the terminal. Why the hell would they let me park there? Twenty-nine cars impounded. $130.00, plus thirty bucks a day, when I got back. Had to pay for a cab ride home to Seattle. Got a lawyer. He says I can sue. Get my money back.”
“You’ll?”
“You’re absolutely right, I am! There are no signs. I enter at night. The car is gone. I wasted two days getting it back. All my time and inconvenience! Can you believe it?”
“I can believe anything. Too many people are happy with lawsuits. At least you’re entitled to your money though.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“I am a runner.”
“Stockbroker! God, I’ve been losing my ass since 9/11! What’s your name? What brokerage are you with?”
“My name is Brooklyn Best. I’m a real estate broker. Do you want to buy a house?”
“Buy a house? Hell no! Everybody’s selling! Half the people in my neighborhood are trying to sell. Poor bastards that work at Boeing. 70,000 laid off workers. Might want to sell mine one of these days. Do you have a card?”
Brook opened her navy and white patent leather bag to take out the gold case for her business card with The Best monogram on the surface. Seeing her chance to escape her, a well-worn passport fluttered from her grasp to perch indecisively among her matching spectator bombs. The letch lunged at him. Brook never flinched when he felt his hopeful hand accidentally slip from her ankle to her calf and over her knee as he pretended to help.
Brook closed his eyes, considering his options. This jerk knows how to make the most of an opportunity. Still, he’s a potential customer. That’s as far as he goes, he decided. Sliding a business card from under the bar, Brook maintained a forced smile.
“Here is the card you asked for.”
“Oh thanks. Where’s your photo?”
“In my passport,” Brook said, with an open hand.
“Oh sure. Here you go doll.”
“Thank you.” Shit, she thought. He is also a very fluent talker.
“Brooklyn Best, huh. Port Orchards, Gig Harbor and the whole state of Washington. Why don’t you have your photo on your card? A pretty lady like you should have a photo card.”
“I don’t need either. I’m not for sale,” Brook replied.
Oblivious to his rejection, the guy moved on. “The real estate agent who sold me my house has a picture on her business card. She’s not as pretty as you, either.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“No,” the drunk admitted.
“You’ll remember me though, right? I’m the best!”
“I bet you are, babe. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? You look thirsty.”
“I don’t drink with potential clients.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you could pay me a finder’s fee if I get you some business.”
“In Washington state, that’s against the law. Only licensed agents can receive money as a result of a real estate transaction.”
“What will you give me, then?”
“Maybe a chance to buy me a drink, after I’ve sold a house!”
“Then give me a couple more of your cards! Stewardess? Bring me another Screwdriver, honey. Make it double.”
Brook dealt two more cards. He liked an honest man. Sometimes he could even put up with a dishonest man, but not this one. He closed his card case, pulled her striped skirt down to cover her kneecaps. This conversation was over. John Grisham’s new novel would be more interesting. Brook Best, lowering his dark glasses for the frequent rest on his even darker hair, leaned back to enjoy a good read.
The idea was to extend his vacation to SeaTac. The Boeing 737 hummed contentedly, taking over the blue above the fluffy clouds.
I enjoy airplanes, Brook thought, remembering the pilot client who had invited her to join the Mile High Club. The people on this flight seem nervous. Face it, my vacation is over, she admitted. Her credit cards had incurred more charges than she intended. It was time to think about doing some real estate business, again. Brook’s mind reluctantly embraced thoughts relevant to her world:
I didn’t even open that file old man Ernie asked me to read on my vacation. It’s just HUD housing programs anyway. I should have a commission check waiting for me. I’ll need it. Buyers will be nervous about this terrorist situation. I will work at For Sale By Owners–FSBOs.
Sellers will play hell getting any offer until things calm down. I’ll keep them on the list long enough for this terrorist business to cool down, Brook decided. When I do, I will have the best inventory of homes for sale in Kitsop County. Perhaps, throughout the Multiple Listing Service.
As his plane touched down at SeaTac, Brook collected a baggage handler, his luggage, and, in no time, located his sediment-covered convertible in the long-term parking lot. He drove straight to a car wash.
Pulling her warm leather coat out of the trunk, Brook lowered the convertible top, enjoying the cool wind in her hair, the sounds native only to Seattle. Whistles from young men, ringing smiles from more mature admirers, a car full of shaven cuts, sharing their brand of music with anyone who wasn’t deaf, vibes with those who were. It was good to be almost home.
Brook took the ferry from Bremerton across Puget Sound. The crossing took just forty-five minutes, barely enough time to raise the top, ditch the car, and have an Amaretto coffee upstairs in the cockpit. The bartender recognized Brook’s new tan. She asked him if he was ready to buy a house.
It was drizzling when Brook drove his clean car off the ferry. Dark waves washed over what could have been a beautiful sunset. A delivery van splashed fresh mud on the driver’s side door before pulling onto Bay Street. “So much for a clean car! Welcome back, Brook Best,” he murmured.
Brook’s apartment was usually less than twelve minutes from the ferry landing. A heavy downpour doubled her driving time. On the Olympic Peninsula, a drizzle turned into a deluge without warning. Leaving the bags in the trunk, Brook ran the last thirty feet from his assigned parking spot to the gate. “The seaweed couldn’t get that wet,” she moved closer to the key.
So it wouldn’t look like he was out, Brook had left a living room light on while he was on vacation. She shrugged off her sodden coat and stopped at the thermostat to call for some heat.
Something didn’t feel right. Curiously, he ventured into each room to see what the friends were. Nothing seemed out of place. Still, Brook had the distinct feeling that someone had been in her house while she was gone. She decided that if it wasn’t Ernie or Jack, she would call a locksmith, put the lock back on, and give them both new keys.
