Vernell started the mobile home business with Jimmy right after we married. I'd been out to the lot countless times in the early days, even helped out with the office work back then. Now it was a thriving business that would live on without Jimmy. Jimmy'd been so proud when Vernell turned the day-to-day operations over to him. He'd strutted around the lot, sticking his chest out, prouder than Mama's king rooster. Where'd it gotten him? The business wasn't growing at the rate it had in the early days. It had "leveled out," as Jimmy liked to say, but he and Vernell were always arguing about it.
"What do you expect with all the competition?" Jimmy used to ask, but it was never enough for his brother. Nothing was ever enough for Vernell when it came to business and money.
I pulled the car right up to the double-wide that Jimmy had converted into a model/business office. There were plenty of customers, even this late in the day. The office had a ridge of brightly colored plastic flags flapping across the top of the roof, and country music blared through the loudspeakers. For a moment I was intimidated. What was I about to step into?
I didn't have time to give it any more thought. Just like a used car lot, the sales force smelled fresh meat and two salesmen started for me at the same time, coming from opposite directions. The larger man won, waving off his competition with a mere flick of the cigarette in his left hand.
He continued toward me, his eyes locking onto my face, but subtly taking in my physical appearance in a way that only a professional sleazeball can. He was over six feet tall, looked like he worked out with steroids, and had gold chains dripping down his chest like a throwback to Saturday Night Fever. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with dull brown hair and hard, dark eyes.
"Hey, pretty lady," he said, as he got closer. He said it like we'd been intimate friends for years. "I'm Tommy Purvis, and this here's my lot I am just the man to put you in the home of your dreams."
"I don't think so," I said.
"Pardon me?" Clearly he wasn't used to being shot down.
I had come with good intentions, but this man was flying all over me. "My lot" indeed. I stiffened my shoulders and looked square into his wide brown eyes.
"I said, I don't think so. Number one, this isn't your lot. You work here, but you don't own it."
"Well, now," he sputtered. "Technically…"
"Technically, I think I'd come a sight closer to owning this lot."
"Yes," he said, "at the Mobile Home Kingdom, the customer is king. And a pretty little thing such as yourself doesn't need to worry in Tommy Purvis's hands."
"But I'm not a customer. I'm Vernell Spivey's ex-wife. So I need to see the manager, Mr. Purvis."
His face was running through some changes. When I'd been a customer, he'd wanted to please me, but now I was the big boss's ex. He wasn't sure he owed me anything.
"Now, if this is about alimony or something such as that, your ex don't exactly come around here too often and we-"
"Mr. Purvis, it does not matter what it is about. The fact is, I want to see the manager and I want to see him now. So, if you can't point me in his direction, I'll just go on inside and find him myself."
"I'll go get him," he said.
"Just tell me where his office is," I said. I didn't want Tommy Purvis to have the opportunity to warn him.
"His office is the last room on the left as you go inside," he said. "But he's kind of tied up right now, and it might not be such a good idea to interrupt him. Besides, I'm the assistant manager. I can probably take better care of you than old Don any day." He gave me his best smile and half-winked. I couldn't believe Jimmy'd hired an idiot like this, but then again, the boy probably led the lot in sales.
Behind us, a beat-up, blue pickup truck came skidding into the lot, roaring toward us almost as if the driver were out of control. I jumped forward toward the office and Tommy Purvis spun around to see what was going on. The truck stopped a mere foot or two away from where Tommy stood. The driver was yelling through the windshield, apparently at Tommy.
I took advantage of the confusion and headed for the business office. Behind me, I heard the truck's door swing open and a barrage of swear words, all directed at Tommy, his mother, and his future sons. Apparently I wasn't the only one who'd taken a disliking to Mr. Purvis.
When I stepped inside the model home and the door swung shut behind me, I could no longer hear the raised voices outside. I had entered Jimmy and Vernell's idea of mobile home excellence. It was quite different from the four-hundred-square-foot plywood shack Vernell had first erected on this lot. This was luxury and I found myself distracted.
The carpet was thick, plush, sculptured pile, the kind that swallows up your feet and sucks all the extra noise out of the air. Canned Muzak played softly in the background and the fireplace in the corner was lit, even though the air-conditioning had to run full blast to compensate for the heat. Ahead of me was a pure white kitchen, the kind I'd always dreamed of having, but never actually attained. Until Vernell's recent midlife crisis, he'd lived like a poor man, squirreling his money away or plowing it back into the business.
For a moment, I was lured into the manufactured home dream. That is, until I took a good look at the walls and saw the thin ridges and tiny buckles that indicated inferior quality.
The dream was further shattered by the thick overlay of cigarette smoke that clung to the furniture and filled the air. Customers sat in front of desks, their heads bending over papers that the salespeople laid before them. I guessed at the drill. "Now what can you afford to pay a month?"
My destination was the closed door to the room in the back I slipped through the kitchen, passing a bedroom converted into an office. File cabinets ringed the walls and papers were scattered everywhere. A phone on the desk showed at least four lines lit up, all blinking.
I stepped up to the last door on the hallway and paused outside, listening through the thin walls for the sound of voices. I didn't have to listen long.
"Well, that'd be your own damn fault, now wouldn't it?" a deep male voice rumbled. Silence, then: "No, now don't get all upset. It just complicates things at this end." More silence. He was on the phone. "We'll work something out. I'll do what I need to do at this end before that actually happens." Another spell of silence, then: "Me too, honey." There was another pause, then: "Damn it! Stupid airhead!"
I was about to turn the door handle when I heard another sound. A female giggle and a tiny squeal. That's when I opened the door.
"Oh!" I said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were with someone."
It was quite a vision. A heavy set man with prominent hair plugs and a red face sat behind a huge desk. Perched on the edge of the desk, exposing most of her thighs and leaning her big-chested body forward, was a redhead. A young, embarrassed redhead. She jumped like I'd shot her, but he recovered quickly and smiled, pushing her off the desk at the same time.
"Run on, Miss Sexton, I'll be in shortly to review those figures."
I just bet he would, too.
"Don Evans. Can I help you?" he said, rising from his chair. He wore a Ralph Lauren polo shirt and expensive chinos.
I stepped forward and extended my hand. "Maggie Reid," I said, "and Jimmy Spivey just left me his share of the business."
His face moved seamlessly from an expression of sorrow to one of open helpfulness. "Ah." He sighed. "I had heard that Jimmy had made some unexpected changes in his will. I'm sure you were as surprised as"-he paused here for a moment, searching for the right words-"well, as anyone would be at hearing such news. And after such an untimely death." Evans shook his head sadly. "I'm gonna miss old Jimmy," he said.