Part 3 (2/2)
She looked at me like I'd sprouted carrots out of my head. ”Not my driver's license-my investment broker's license. For some reason, they frown on letting felons handle other people's money. Next time I break up with somebody, remind me to make sure her brother isn't a cop.”
”Seriously. Give some people a badge and a gun and they-” She just said Her. As in breaking up with a Female Person. No way had I heard that right.
”It was either break up or kill her. Sometimes I wonder if I took the coward's way out.”
It was a Her. Mari was a lesbian. Oh, mi dios.
She slid over and offered me half the loveseat, obviously not noticing she had rendered me mute. Cuban litterbug or not, being a lesbian put her in a whole different light. A bright, s.h.i.+ning light.
I finally got my mouth to work. ”What exactly did you do, Mari?”
”I had this girlfriend, Delores. She works with Morgan Stanley. We met at a seminar on estate planning and hit it off. We'd been living together for almost a year. Things were great until she committed the unforgivable sin.”
”She cheated on you. Been there, done that.”
”Worse. She stole one of my clients.” She leaned back and crossed one of her gorgeous legs over the other one. ”So I piled all her stuff onto her Jet Ski and dragged it on a trailer over to where she worked. Then I dumped the whole business behind her car in the parking garage.”
I couldn't begin to count all the times I thought about doing something like that to Emily. So Mari wasn't a selfish pig after all. In my book, she was righteous. ”And that got you felony littering.”
”How did you know that? It wasn't on my paperwork.”
Oops.
”I did a little research. I wasn't trying to be nosy but...okay, I was being nosy. Mostly we get drunk drivers and your sentence didn't match up, so I checked you out with the clerk of courts.”
She looked away and shook her head with a laugh. ”Figures.”
”What?”
”I did a little research of my own. You realize, don't you, that property transactions are public record? Now I think I have a pretty good idea why you yelled Jenko when you fell off that ladder.”
I could feel my face burning but getting upset about her invading my privacy would have been hypocritical in the extreme. ”Why would you-”
”What I don't get, though, is why you discharged your ex's debt on the mortgage. You both should have walked away and let the bank eat it.”
”I'll have you know I was raised to honor my debts.” No matter how stupidly I acquired them.
”A mortgage isn't about honor. It's a business deal.”
”Right, a deal in which I signed a contract that said I would pay.”
”But the bank signed it too. They understood there was a risk involved in your loan, so they stuck a whole section in there spelling out what happens if you default. Basically, it says you don't pay-we take your house. So let them. That's business.”
”And ruin my credit forever?”
”It's only temporary. First you buy a new car that will last you for seven or eight years and you take out a new lease on a rental apartment. By the time you need another loan, you'll have recovered.”
”And I'll have kissed any new job prospects goodbye. n.o.body gets hired these days without a credit check.” The more Mari talked, the more she reminded me of yet another cla.s.s of human beings that rubbed me the wrong way-people who did what they wanted and left the rest of us holding the bag. Except being a long-legged lesbian in a tight dress made her a lot more tolerable. ”I just can't bring myself to do that. Walking away from our obligations is exactly what tanked all of our property values in the first place.”
”Yes and no. The collapse came when more and more people found they couldn't make their payments once the adjustable rates kicked in, and they couldn't sell because so many other buyers were in the same boat trying to unload their houses. But the lenders weren't surprised by any of that. They knew a lot of these new homeowners were poor credit risks, but they'd already unloaded their loans onto other unsuspecting mortgage buyers without disclosing their lack of due diligence. That's like selling Ferraris at Ferrari prices when you know they have Chevrolet engines under the hood.”
”Sounds like a pretty good racket if you're a banker.”
”Exactly. And trust me, they didn't give a second thought to what they might be doing to your property value when they rubber stamped all those bad loans for your neighbors. So screw the banks. Do what's best for you.”
”Is this the kind of advice you give your clients?”
”Always,” she answered unflinchingly, ”unless it's criminal. I'm a little more judicious about that.”
”Good to know.” We sat there smirking at one another until I kind of sort of smiled a little. ”I'm sorry if we got off on the wrong foot at the worksite.”
”If?”
”I have an issue with tardiness, okay?” She didn't need to know about my issues with Spanish speakers in America, flashy cars, prissy women on a construction site...or just Miami in general.
My phone went off again, a text message from Gisela telling me the Dolphins were interested in doing a media day on one of our upcoming projects.
”Duty calls.”
She picked up her purse and eyed the exit. ”Yeah, I should get out of here before somebody asks to see my invitation.”
”You crashed the c.o.c.ktail party?”
”Why don't you just announce it to everybody?” she whispered through clenched teeth. At least she hadn't shushed me this time. ”I had an earlier meeting with someone in the bar and he asked me to join him.”
”You mean Carlos Moya?”
”No, Marco Padilla. He's my uncle.”
Chapter Five.
I always like the days we put down the tile floor. Most of our big volunteer jobs-putting up block walls, painting, drywall-show off progress by the end of the day, but seeing the floor take shape gives the house an even more finished look, and the workers a sense of pride and accomplishment.
Not that we were wrapping up. We still had another week's work ahead, things like tiling the shower, attaching the baseboards, installing the appliances and working through the final punch list. We'd finish next Sat.u.r.day by laying sod. That was backbreaking work, so I'd lined up a dozen teenagers from Jesuit Prep.
Saraphine Delacourt, the Haitian mother of three who owned the house, smiled and clasped her hands with the kind of excitement I usually reserve for getting out of jury duty. ”It is so beautiful, so wonderful! G.o.d blesses me a thousand times with so many gracious hands.”
Today's group was from the Doral Resort, and while none of them struck me as overtly religious, they all seemed fine with giving G.o.d credit for their work. It was hard not to be happy at bringing Saraphine such joy.
My overall experience with Miami's Haitian community was favorable, minus the creepy episode with Guillame Pierre. Like many of the city's immigrants, Haitians arrived on our sh.o.r.es in rickety boats and makes.h.i.+ft rafts, but they had a much tougher time with US Immigration officials than Cubans, who were automatically granted political asylum if they reached land. There were no such ”wet feet-dry feet” provisions for Haitians, even those who claimed they were persecuted by their government.
Mordy and Edith, in a rare show of agreement, believed the unequal treatment was due to the fact Haitians were black, while the moneyed Cubans who came in the early exile waves were white. I find Haitians to be hardworking, community-minded people who want to get ahead in life as much as the next person. It makes me feel good to see someone like Saraphine get a hand up.
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