Part 9 (2/2)
”Like it or don't, ” Perry said, ”doesn't affect whether it's true or not.”
But Lester had a sparkle in his eye, and he disappeared into his workshop for a week, and wouldn't let them in, which was unheard of for the big, gregarious giant. He liked to drag the others in whenever he accomplished anything of note, show it off to them like a big kid.
That was Sunday. Monday, Suzanne got a call from her realtor. ”Your tenants have vanished,” she said.
”Vanished?” The couple who'd rented her place had been as reliable as anyone she'd ever met in the Valley. He worked at a PR agency, she worked in marketing at Google. Or maybe he worked in marketing and she was in PR at Google -- whatever, they were affluent, well-spoken, and had paid the extortionate rent she'd charged without batting an eye.
”They normally paypal the rent to me on the first, but not this month. I called and left voicemail the next day, then followed up with an email. Yesterday I went by the house and it was empty. All their stuff was gone. No food in the fridge. I think they might have taken your home theater stuff, too.”
”You're f.u.c.king kidding me,” Suzanne said. It was 11AM in Florida and she was into her second gla.s.s of lemonade as the sun began to superheat the air. Back in California, it was 8AM. Her realtor was pulling long hours, and it wasn't her fault. ”Sorry. Right. OK, what about the deposit?”
”You waived it.”
She had. It hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time. The distant owner of the condo she was renting in Florida hadn't asked for one. ”So I did. Now what?”
”You want to swear out a complaint against them?”
”With the police?”
”Yeah. Breach of contract. Theft, if they took the home theater. We can take them to collections, too.”
G.o.dd.a.m.ned marketing people had the collective morals of a snake. All of them useless, conniving, shallow -- she never should have...
”Yeah, OK. And what about the house?”
”We can find you another tenant by the end of the month, I'm sure. Maybe a little earlier. Have you thought any more about selling it?”
She hadn't, though the realtor brought it up every time they spoke. ”Is now a good time?”
”Lot of new millionaires in the Valley shopping for houses, Suzanne. More than I've seen in years.” She named a sum that was a third higher than the last time they'd talked it over.
”Is it peaking?”
”Who knows? It might go up, it might collapse again. But now is the best time to sell in the past ten years. You'd be smart to do it.”
She took a deep breath. The Valley was dead, full of venal marketing people and buck-chasers. Here in Florida, she was on the cusp of the next thing, and it wasn't happening in the Valley: it was happening everywhere *except* the Valley, in the cheap places where innovation could happen at low rents. Leaky hot tub, incredible property taxes, and the crazy roller-coaster ride -- up 20 percent this month, down forty next. The bubble was going to burst some day and she should sell out now.
”Sell it,” she said.
”You're going to be a wealthy lady,” the realtor said.
”Right,” Suzanne said.
”I have a buyer, Suzanne. I didn't want to pressure you. But I can sell it by Friday. Close escrow next week. Cash in hand by the fifteenth.”
”Jesus,” she said. ”You're joking.”
”No joke,” the realtor said. ”I've got a waiting list for houses on your block.”
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