The sparkling mood dissipates. Parkhurst. Brian considers trying to get in touch with that group — what were they even called? Citizens’ Action Corps for Little Haiti? To say what, exactly? Run? Brian glances up: the lights are on in Fernanda’s office. He tries to direct his attention back to the laptop. To the right of the email box is a stream of news items: Housing Market: Bubble Trouble? 2005: A Bigger Boom Ahead? Competing with Foreign Investors. He clicks over to the live-feed weather channel to see the latest foaming white spiral flicker back and forth over the ocean. A tropical system like an Indian mandala, moseying toward the Caribbean, an announcer saying, “Climate analysts warn that this one looks like a doozy…” They always say that.
He smoothes his hands over his face and tries to imagine some sort of career escape route. Retirement holds no attractions: he’s a mediocre golfer at best, a duffer, and no good at working with his hands. Perhaps he should taper off from head counsel, shoot for something less front-lines, bury himself in the research libraries. He’s secretly imagined hanging out his own shingle, practicing on his own terms — but there is something daunting there. The sort of thing, he imagines, that would keep him awake at night, worrying about those billable hours. He lightly beats at his lowered temples with the flats of his open palms, a dull pressure building behind his eyes, the contents of his skull expanding.
A warble of corridor sound and Brian looks up to see a splinter of light. Javier in his door. “Aha, you’re here.” Javier taps a folder. “Got a little somethin’—somethin’ to talk to you about.”
“Not a great time, buddy.” He rubs his forehead.
“Good, for me neither!” Javier drops into the chair across from Brian’s desk. “In which case, let’s dispense with formalities. Here’s my question: Are you ready for your next million?” He slides the folder on the desk.
“The what?”
Javier laughs. “The latest million, bro. To add to the pile.”
“Pile? You’ve got me confused with sales. I’m a paper-pusher.”
“Ay, man, listen, I come bearing glad tidings.”
Brian pushes back against his chair, the apparatus tilting. “Parkhurst send you? About that Blue — whatever — Topaz place?”
“Coño, man, nobody fucking sent me.” Javier bounces his fist on the padded chair arm. “I’m here because I care about your gringo ass.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Javier holds both hands high, a big shrug. “Just got these listing details on my desk this morning. It’s a little extracurricular something, so no telling on me, okay? I heard about it from Brooksie Martell.”
“That guy!”
“Relax — Brooksie’s not attached to this. These guys are new.”
“What’s the name?”
“Prescott and Filson.”
“Never heard of them.”
“They were one of the groups in the big Bank Towers. Silent partners. Focusing on prestige projects.” Javier fishes in his suit pocket and draws out a ivory-gray card like a chip of enamel. He hands it to Brian. “They’re working with Shaquille O’Neal and Tom Hanks on a midtown restaurant package.”
“Hollywood money,” Brian sniffs, tossing the card on his desk.
“Who cares — old, new, Hollywood — long as it’s green, right? Listen.” Javier rolls forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “This is the real deal, Bry. They’re keeping the offer small and sweet. I know of two other top realtors buying in. Tippy-top.” He cocks his eyebrow. “Sales are limited to eighteen investors total. For the whole damn building. You gotta be invited.”
Brian smiles, despite himself. Javier has attempted to lure him for years. “Ah. So they’re doing the chosen ones a big favor—letting people hand over money?”
“What can I tell you? Have to pay to play.” Javier spreads out his hands, a lavish shrug. “They’re gonna call it the Steele Building — nice, huh? They snagged Ira Huntington — he designed it so it’ll look like a solid piece of stainless steel. It’s near the Indian Creek — non-oceanfront — they nabbed the property practically gratis—stole it from the Miami Beach geriatric crowd, and”—one hand tilts—“passing the savings along.” He picks up the folder. “You won’t believe the plans — cathedral ceilings, wet and dry bars, private theaters, tiered terraces. Each unit gets its own maid’s quarters.”
“Maid’s quarters. Jesus.”
Javier flips the folder open, one finger tracing the floor plans, tapping the brochure. “The units are going to be a-freaking-mazing — I just read the specs — the floors are getting this pink marble quarried right from Carrara. Viking ranges and Sub-Zeros — the real stuff, not the mass-market crap.”
“Heaven forbid,” Brian says. “And what are these miracles going for?”
“You get in for two point three, deep-deep preconstruction discount.”
“Two point three million? Are they dipped in gold?”
“You’re buying floors, man. Two units per. Two-floor minimum per investor. And you’ll be able to sell each unit separately. We’ll turn them around, I kid you not, for five, maybe six each. And that buyer’s gonna get a screaming deal and make a bundle. Come on, Bry, you know the game. I’m not telling you anything new here.”
Brian sinks his chin onto the heel of his palm. “Where’s that three million supposed to come from?”
“Two point three,” he says, “You don’t have two point three? Are you shitting me? You need me to open a home equity line for you, Brian?”
“Who else is buying in?”
“A few local big shots, some overseas clients.”
“What? Like, Saudis?”
“The client roster’s almost full. You want in, you’ve got till close of business tomorrow. Latest.”
Brian drops his hand on the Times and sits back, regarding Javier. He’s worked late hours with this man for sixteen years; they’ve whacked racquet balls and trudged across greens together; their families know each other, they have annual shared rituals: the Miami Ballet’s Nutcracker Suite; Mango Festival at the tropical garden. Brian leans forward, his weight resting on the desktop. “Everything’s tied up in other investments. And yes, Jav, it’d be quite a feat for me to get ahold of that much.”
Javier’s expression fades slightly. “What’re you saying? You can’t be bothered to move money out of those products getting you — what — ten — hell, say twenty—percent for a deal that’ll bring you maybe even a hundred percent return? Listen, hijo—there’s already big wallets getting in line behind the first buyers.”
Brian works his jaw; a popping sound. “Now? There’s already a second wave?”
“And they will have people lining up to buy. Couple weeks turnaround, maybe.”
“No waiting period? No ninety days?”
Javier shrugs. “Come on — things don’t apply to some guys the way they do to other guys. I don’t have to tell you. You got enough cheese, you write your own rules.”
Brian feels breathless; dismayed by a sense of his own collusion: for years he’s ignored such items as the company’s practice of issuing complicated investment IOUs to overextended clients, Parkhurst’s love of tiptoeing up to the financial line, overextending himself on costly architects, building materials, bribes for political candidates. Brian rubs one hand over his face as if erasing each feature. “Don’t like it.”
“No problema. But — you ask me? The thing is? You’re walking away from the sweetest, easiest bundle you’ll ever make in your life.”