your next client?” Manny asked.
I squinted at the tiny wristwatch Jen had insisted I wear. She claimed I needed to look professional.
“They should be showing up any minute.”
“You look nice,” Manny said. “Not at all what I’m used to seeing you wearing.”
Was he coming onto me? I glared at him. I hated the two-piece pant outfit. It wasn’t me. The black slacks made me feel like a mortician and the long black cardigan that covered the sleeveless beige shell was hot and itchy. I had a double strand of fake pearls around my neck that were choking the daylights out of me. And on my feet were the ridiculous black pumps. My arches were already aching from all that standing.
I poured myself a glass of water when what I really wanted was a big ole glass of sweet tea, or a Biggie Size soda. In a pinch, water would have to do.
The etched glass doors of Flamingo Realty pushed open and two men walked in.
“Chere Adams please.”
“Who wants to know?” I swear it slipped out. Truly it did. “I’m Chere,” I admitted in my elocution voice and handed them my card “And you are?”
“Peter and Dustin Millard. Friends of Chet Rabinowitz and Harley Mancini’s. They said to ask for you.”
Walk-in’s. I had the other appointment. I tossed a desperate look Manny’s way hoping he would help me out, but my boss already had his sunglasses in hand, and was heading out of the door.
“You’re in good hands with Chere,” he said, looking over his shoulder and winking at me.
I started to wheeze. Stress always brings on my asthma. I made the two men sit, handed them some paperwork to fill out, then excused myself and went into the bathroom. I dug through my purse, found my inhaler and gave it a good squeeze. Wheeze. Wheeze. Wheeze.
Calm down, Chere. You can do this. You know you can.
When I came back Peter was gabbing on his cell phone. Judging from what I could hear of the one-sided conversation, he was talking to Chet.
“Yes, we’re at Flamingo Realty. Yes, we got hold of Chere. You want to talk to her?”
Peter, who was the slenderer of the two held out the phone. “Chet wants to talk to you, hon.”
By now I was breathing more normally. “Hey, Chet,” I greeted in my best Realtor voice. “It was nice of you to send your friends.”
He quickly gave me the scoop telling me that Peter and Dustin were brothers in from New York scouting out areas on Flamingo Row to start a business. One was gay and the other straight. They were in serious negotiations with Carlton Rogers about taking over the old liquor shop.
The store was in the historical district, otherwise known as “The Row” and right next door to Chet and Harley’s flower shop. Now Peter and Dustin were talking about making the place a wine and cheese shop. Chet had been lobbying for a long time to get Carlton out, claiming his liquor store drew undesirables and scared off his customers.
Wine and cheese sounded too chi-chi to me. I liked Carlton’s liquor store because he gave me endless credit and had what I wanted. It was also one of the few places carrying Colt these days, or at least admitted they did. And I liked my 45.
“Peter and Dustin Millard have plenty of money,” Chet confided, lowering his voice. “Don’t let them give you this crap about being restricted to a certain price range. One’s a stockbroker, the other an attorney. Both earn easily high six figure salaries.”
“Hmm.” The cash register was ringing loudly in my ears. I repeated what Manny had said about me. “Your friends are in good hands.”
My other clients who were locals still hadn’t shown up and Peter and Dustin sounded like better prospects. The Houstons were actually Manny’s clients, but he’d turned them over to me, and that made me suspicious. Manny wasn’t that generous to begin with so there must be something up with them.
“What exactly are you looking for?” I asked, my slick Realtor smile in place. Damn it but the elastic waist of my pants were beginning to pinch and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which was another tasteless boiled egg and a bowl of Special K.
This was my first day on the job and based on the people I’d been showing properties to, most didn’t know what the hell they wanted. They were all on a mission to get something for nothing. Couldn’t say I blamed them.
“Here’s the thing,” Dustin, who had to be the gay one, said expansively. “We don’t plan to be here very often. We’ll probably hire someone to run the business if we buy it. So we don’t need much.”
I eyeballed him. I can be quite intimidating thanks to my weight, especially when I draw myself up to my full height of five foot six. “Is it a studio you want to see?”
I thought about the renovations going on in the complex. There was a corner studio that one tenant wanted to unload. She was buying a house in town and needed money quickly. But two men in a studio; one as heavy as me, maybe heavier, lord help them, they’d be on top of each other.
Peter and Dustin exchanged looks. “Perhaps not a studio,” Peter said, “Do you have a one bedroom? It doesn’t have to face water. We’re thinking of renting for short terms when we’re not in town.”
“I’ll show you what I have,” I quickly said, seeing another opportunity here. “Do you have financing?”
“Oh, yes we’ve been preapproved.”
A big hurdle crossed. “Okay, let’s see what’s available.” I grabbed my keys and whisked them out the door before they could think about returning another day.
Forty minutes later we were back in the sales and leasing office. Peter and Dustin had taken photos of several apartments with a digital camera. They promised to be back in touch. After dealing with two clients in a row I was hungrier than a fat woman on a diet. And my client with the appointment still hadn’t shown up.
I ushered the boys out the door and began rummaging through the briefcase, Jen’s congratulatory present to me. I guess she felt guilty because she hadn’t delivered on that cruise; the one she was probably taking Tre on for their honeymoon. It was unfair, I’d been the one who’d stuffed that box with her business cards, and he was an employee of WARP, the station sponsoring the raffle.
I’d just found my emergency supply of M&M’s and a bag of stale chips when a woman’s voice called from the door.
“Anyone there?”
Was I invisible? I’m not hard to miss and I was dressed like I was going to a funeral. What did she think? I was the cleaning lady? I shoved the M&M’s and chips back in my briefcase and stomped to the front door. The back of my heels were really beginning to hurt. I probably had blisters. Four children, all roughly the same age, burst in through the door almost knocking me over.
“Whoa,” I said, grabbing one of the girls by the arm. “Slow down. This ain’t the Daytona racetrack you’re on.”
“Children have a lot of energy and need an outlet,” the
