I Want To Live

Chapter Ten

    Graham Stellarman, a handsome man in his late forties, dark brown hair with white at the temples, maintained his trim six foot frame by working out in the gym and playing squash three days a week. His classic patrician bearing came easily for he was born into a privileged political family. A graduate of Notre Dame with a business degree, he went on to become a prominent Seattle architect. The Stellarman name was associated with grand estate-class homes overlooking Lake Washington. He was also a big city designer of upscale apartment complexes.

    He paced his spacious office with a window wall framing the skyline of Seattle, the Space Needle prominently profiled.  Graham contemplated whether he should submit a bid for the city contract to build low-income apartments near the waterfront. The mayor was up for reelection, making a big stink to get the homeless off the streets. Citizens had bombarded the man with numerous complaints lately, believing the presence of the indigent was affecting tourism. 

    The project would be financed with federal and state grant money. Why not get in on that? He had engineers willing to build dwellings out of cheaper, second-grade materials, using less skilled labor doing so. The money saved would be passed on to them, however, the biggest chunk would come his way,

    Graham was already a very wealthy man. He lived in a Tudor-styled home on twenty acres outside Seattle in a gated community. He drove a Porsche. His family enjoyed expensive vacations to exotic places. His wife was a blond, blue-blood society woman with an inheritance of her own. Their sons attended boarding school in Switzerland. Monetary success had transformed him into a greedy self-absorbed individual, constantly hunting for the next well-heeled venture. 

    If he was awarded the contract, Graham felt confident he could bribe building inspectors, ignore codes, hire nonunion skilled labor willing to be silent and eager Hispanics---hard workers, fast learners. The plumbing might be inferior, electrical wiring shoddy, potential fire traps---hey, the homeless ought to be grateful to even have a roof over their heads.

    Two weeks passed. Graham was awarded the contract and notified to begin construction. That evening he handed Marci, his wife, a celebratory glass of champagne. “Here’s to low-income housing projects.” He lifted his glass in victory with a big smile. “Honey, how would you like to vacation in an Italian Villa looking down on vineyards stretching to the horizon?”  

    “Oh, Graham!” she gushed. “For real?” She kissed him passionately. “My daddy was right when he said you were good marriage material.”

    They left their housekeeper and cook to tidy the dining room and kitchen after their meal. The couple saddled their Appaloosas to enjoy an evening cantor on the riding trail that skirted the exclusive village. Graham’s heart swelled to see the mansion he designed on their return ride at dusk. The lower level finished in cut stone. The upper story, timber-framed stucco with a slate roof. 

    How did he finance his lucrative lifestyle? The upright citizen had legitimate business deals coupled with illicit gambling, under-the-table poker games in the basement of a covert business, Freddy’s Pizza Hut. He allowed the players to rack up mighty debts so he could charge fifteen percent interest in repayment. If those in arrears possessed skills to benefit his concerns, a simple gesture of blackmail to diminish some of what they owed, kept them alive. It was rumored that noncompliance meant certain death. A symbol that Graham initiated the demise was a poker chip found on the victim’s person.