Mortal Terms

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

"Broussard residence,” Marlese answered.

She glanced at me, then rolled her eyes as she listened to the woman.

"You sure you want to talk to my dad?" Marlese asked. "He's cranky today."

Silence.

"Uh-huh," she said. "I don't think that will help…Mmm-hmm, you're persistent all right…Seriously, out of all the people in this neighborhood, you can't find a single person who wants to sell their house? I mean, if your client has a briefcase full of money, somebody must want it…You still want to talk to my dad? Okay, but don't say I didn't—"

I rose and snatched the phone from Marlese.

"Mrs. Gladstone, we were eating breakfast," I said sharply.

"Mr. Broussard, I'm so sorry about that."

Della Gladstone had to have been a forty-something woman. I saw her picture and phone number advertised on bus benches around the city—she was always dressed in a black suit, with her arms folded and a wide smile. Her long blonde hair was pulled up into a bun. I wondered what she actually looked like in person. I imagined her in a fancy office on the west side of town, with floor-to-ceiling windows, abstract art on the walls, stacks of paper everywhere, and a tiny, ugly dog in a rhinestone purse next to her desk.

"If you were sorry, then you wouldn't have called," I said. "So do me a favor next time and don't. My house is not for sale."

"I'll make this quick," she said, her voice calm and pleasant. She sounded excited. She was a little too congenial this morning, and I didn't trust her. Our last conversation had been a shouting match.

"My client understands your position and wants to apologize for being so forward. He is now prepared to offer you a blank check for your home."

"Blank check?" I asked, incredulous. "For my home?"

"Blank check for the house!" Bo repeated, eyebrows arching. He jumped to his feet. "Boss man, boss man, boss man—"

I raised a hand and silenced him.

"In our last phone call, we were prepared to offer you three hundred thousand dollars," Gladstone said. "The last I checked, the going rate for homes in your area was around twenty thousand. That was already a pretty good deal, and I tried to talk him out of making any more offers, but—"

"The customer's always right, right?" I asked.

"What do you think?" she asked. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but if it were me, I'd make myself a millionaire and be done."

I settled onto a stool next to my counter, my bathrobe pooling in a bunch under me. "Mrs. Gladstone, have you ever heard of sentimental value?"

Silence. I could hear her shifting. She didn't like my answer, and I was going to drive the knife in.

"Maybe they don't teach that in real estate class," I said, "but in the good old days before homes became commission-spawning widgets, you bought a home to make memories in it."

"Don't patronize me, Mr. Broussard," she said quickly.

"You're patronizing me," I said. "My parents raised me in this home, and I raised my children here. I've got a lot more memories left. You're not going to make a quick buck off me. There's no amount of money you can pay me to leave this house."

"Even after all the shootings?" Gladstone asked, her voice full of fake concern. "It's not safe to live there."

"Oh, and it's safe for your rich client? Take some of your client’s money, go to the store, and buy some common sense, Mrs. Gladstone."

Her voice changed instantly to the tone I recognized: condescending and rude, with a thick air of superiority. After all, I was standing between her and a nice pay day.

"You can't not consider this offer."

"Have a nice day, Mrs.—"

Gladstone huffed. "I don't know how you can live in that hellhole," she said, hanging up before I could do her the honor. A dial tone beeped in my ear and I replaced the receiver.

Bo clucked his tongue. "You know what that was?"

I stared at him. "What?"

"That was the sound of a man kicking destiny in the mouth," Bo said. He waved me away and walked out of the kitchen toward the front door. "You a damn fool, Lester."

"Don't get me started on this again," I called out to him.

"If it was me, I would have made that check out for a million dollars," Darvin said, rocking Malcolm back and forth. He made a signing motion with his hand. "I would've been like…yes, indeed, send the limousine to pick me up at five so I can sign that paper."

"You would've spent the money before dawn and been homeless," Marlese said.

"I'll take anybody's money if they want to give it to me," Bo called from the living room. He was peering out the curtains, watching the crime scene outside. The police had been gathered on the street since early morning.

"I'm with you, Daddy," Marlese said. "Some things can't be bought."

"Finally, someone with sanity," I said.

"Hey, sanity, something's up outside," Bo said. "Everybody's out watching the crime scene."

Nothing settles disputes like Bo's changes in conversations.

Still in my bathrobe, I joined Bo outside to see what was up.