It was only ten minutes from Best Buy Buick to Paul Revere Square; I turned off Kimberly Road onto Jersey Ridge, a funeral home off to my right, and pulled in at the left, between the brick pillars, the wrought-iron gates standing open, as if welcoming me to a private estate.
Paul Revere Square was an ersatz slice of New England plopped along the frontage of Kimberly Road, a sprawling commercial strip on the western edge of the Cities, connecting Davenport and Moline. Mostly Kimberly was middle-class mini-malls, and franchise restaurants with “Mister” in their names; but Paul Revere Square seemed to cry out, “The wealthy are coming.”
I parked my rental job in the side lot and walked toward the courtyard square where wooden signs extended from buildings on wrought iron, swinging in the gentle chilly breeze, and lampposts lit up the overcast afternoon with yellow electric lights that pretended to be gas. Despite the efforts to look old, these brick buildings were new, the mortar barely dry, and a good many of the storefronts had yet to be filled. Saturday afternoon or not, there weren’t many people wandering the courtyard of shops, though those who were were well-dressed.
Several handsome fortyish women in mink jackets over slacks outfits wandered into a shop where, a glance in the window informed me, fancy dresses were displayed on the walls like museum pieces.
Two- and three-story brick buildings-an anomaly on this commercial stretch where low-slung and cheaply built was the standard-loomed on the periphery, making me feel more like I was in a fortress than a mall. Of course, this wasn’t just a mall; various medical specialists kept offices here, and Butterworth Tours, E.F. Hutton, several insurance firms, a massive bank. Building A, for instance, numbered among its occupants the Obstetrics and Gynecology Group, and Slices and Scoops. The latter had nothing to do with either obstetrics or gynecology: it was a deli restaurant with “home-made” pie. I ate lunch there. So did several pregnant women.
Just after one o’clock, I wandered into Ridge Real Estate World, on a lower level around the corner from the courtyard shops. I found myself in a waiting room where cream carpet and cream walls set a soothing tone, and a large elaborately framed picture of George Ridge, the company founder, was the dominant wall decoration. The wall was otherwise covered with plaques various civic and mercantile groups had awarded to Ridge and/or his company. A good number seemed to have to do with public speaking; several were from the Toastmasters, for instance.
I stood and stared at the picture of Ridge for a good long time, and finally I heard a pleasant voice say, “Could I be of help?”
She was brunette and she was petite and she was attractive; she wasn’t as attractive as Angela back at Best Buy, but this woman, too, had most likely been a cheerleader and/or a beauty queen, only somewhat more recently than Angela. She had money-green eyes and too much make-up and a forced, sparkling white smile. She also wore a blazer: a blue one with a RIDGE crest over a white frilly blouse.
This, apparently, was my day to encounter attractive women-in-blazers.
I put on a smile and walked over to the desk. “I had an appointment with Mr. Ridge,” I said.
I thought that would send her scurrying to a desk drawer for her appointment book, but she only smiled and shook her head. “You must be mistaken,” she said.
I took off the smile, put on a concerned, confused look. “I don’t think that’s possible. My secretary called…”
“Mr. Ridge is out of the country. I’m sorry if there’s been a mix-up.”
“I see. Where is Mr. Ridge, exactly?”
Her smile tightened. “He’s in Canada. Giving a seminar. He will be back Tuesday, however.”
“And available?”
“Yes. I can probably make an appointment for you, for then.”
“I’d appreciate that.” I dug for my billfold in my inside suitcoat pocket, removed a business card. “My name is Ryan, and I’m president of the company. I’m sorry for the confusion I’ve caused.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Ryan,” she said, coldly pleasant. “And might I ask the nature of your business with Mr. Ridge?”
“I’d like to invest some money,” I said.
Her smile disappeared; she didn’t frown, but she definitely was not smiling.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said.
Why?
“Well,” I said, “I really would prefer to discuss it with Mr. Ridge.”
Her eyes narrowed and she kept them narrowed as she examined the business card. Then she stood and twitched her cold pleasant smile and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Certainly,” I said.
She left the reception area and I glanced around some more, wondering why anyone in a real estate office would be confused that I wanted to invest. But then this was the damnedest real estate office I’d ever seen. It was more like a doctor’s reception area, or a lawyer’s. Where were the prominently posted photos of houses with their detailed listings? Where were the eager-beaver agents, in their fucking blue blazers, scurrying after my (after anybody’s) business?
Nothing here but this big fat gilt-framed photo of George Ridge, and an attractive, icy receptionist. I walked over to look toward where she’d gone; down to the left was a hallway off of which were a few offices. The place smelled new, smelled of money, yet it was small for a real estate operation, particularly one that had (as the late Mr. Werner had told me) made George Ridge a millionaire.
Finally she came back, a small woman with a nice body under that blazer and skirt, not that I cared. She gave me the phony smile and a hard appraising look from the money-green eyes.
“Mr. Janes will see you,” she said.
I gave her a phony smile back. “And who is Mr. Janes?”
“He’s a vice president with the company. He’ll be able to help you.”
“I’d like to see Mr. Ridge.”
“He’s out of the country.”
“Who’s on first?”
“Pardon?”
“I’ll talk to Mr. Janes. Point me to him.”
She walked me there; she was wearing Giorgio perfume. Linda had used that. Expensive fucking shit.
The office was small and rather bare. Janes was a young, thin, pockmarked man wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a big smile. I’d seen a lot of smiles today, but this one I almost believed.
“Mr. Ryan,” he said, grinning, pumping my hand, like we were long-lost buddies. “Sit down. Please.”
A chair opposite him was waiting.
His desk was filled with paperwork and he was in his rolled-up shirtsleeves, his tie loose. He had a coffee cup, from which steam rose like a ghost.
“Excuse the mess,” he said, and sipped the coffee. “Can I have Sally get you a cup?”
“No thanks. Kind of you, though.”
“Excuse my appearance. I don’t generally deal with the public on Saturday. I’m only working because half our staff is on the road this week, and I’m up to my armpits in alligators.”
“I know the feeling.”
He put the coffee cup down and folded his hands on top of some of the paperwork and leaned toward me, his eyes tightening, his smile tightening. “I understand you’re looking for an investment opportunity.”
“That’s correct.”
“Sally tells me you’re the president of your own company.” And he grinned, and shook his head, as if amazed, as if it was all he could do to keep from saying, “Gosh.”
And the hell of it was, he seemed sincere.
“Frankly,” I said, “all I did was hand Sally… is that your receptionist’s name?”
He nodded, but added, “She’s an executive assistant, though.”
“Executive assistant. Sorry. Anyway, I just handed her my card, is all. She doesn’t know any more about my business than you do, but in point of fact I’m president of an auto parts outfit in Milwaukee. My secretary was supposed to have called and made an appointment for me to talk with Mr. Ridge, but there was a screw-up somewhere.”
He laughed. “These things happen.”
Christ, this guy made Up with People seem glum.
“At any rate,” he said, “investment opportunities.”
“Yes.”
“You do understand we’re a privately held company, not offering any stock.”
Huh?
“Certainly,” I said.
“Mr. Ridge will, I’m sure, appreciate your interest, but that’s just the way it is. You’re not the only one who’s been so inspired by Mr. Ridge’s program, or impressed enough by the growth of our company, to make such an inquiry.”
“Perhaps we’ve got our wires crossed…”
“Have we?”
“Isn’t this a real estate office?”
He seemed puzzled. “In what sense?”
“Well, in the sense of offering properties for sale. Houses, land. You know. Real estate.”
And now he was amused. He laughed like a bad impressionist doing Burt Lancaster. “You don’t think Mr. Ridge actually sells real estate, do you?”
Well, that answered one question: who was definitely on first.
“What exactly does Mr. Ridge sell?”
“Why, advice, of course.” He sat up. “Is that all you’re interested in?”
I smiled, shrugged.
He smiled ruefully, shook his head. “My apologies. When Sally informed me that you were the president of your own company, that you’d had an appointment with Mr. Ridge that had somehow fallen through the cracks, that you wanted to invest with us… boy, is my face red. Excuse me.”
He rose and left the small office.
I just sat there wondering what the fuck this was all about. I wondered if the son-of-a-bitch would be so cheerful if I let him suck on the nine-millimeter a while.
Then he entered and we exchanged shiteating smiles and he sat and handed me across a tan book about the size of a dictionary, only it wasn’t a book: it opened up into a carrying case for a dozen cassettes.
“The whole program is there,” he said.
“Program?”
“Everything you’ll need to know about no-money down real estate. How to take advantage of distressed properties. The creative use of credit cards. That is how George Ridge became a millionaire by the time he was thirty.”
No money down real estate! Is that what this was?
“You don’t sell real estate here,” I said. “You’re strictly in the business of selling books, tapes. Putting on seminars. How-to stuff.”
“Certainly. Surely you knew that.”
“Of course,” I said. “But I was under the impression that you were also in the real estate business proper.”
He shook his head no. “Not at all.”
I didn’t blame them. This scam was much safer.
“I was also under the impression that Mr. Ridge was available for private consultation.”
“You desire direct advice on investing?”
“That’s right. Excuse me, but I can’t talk to a goddamn tape.”
And I patted the tan carrying case.
He nodded, eyes narrowing, seeing the wisdom of that. “You’d like to sit at the feet of the guru of real estate, so to speak.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“I can understand your desire. And from time to time Mr. Ridge does do personal consulting. But it is expensive. He’s a very busy man.”
“I know. I understand he’s in Canada, at the moment.”
“Yes, Toronto, with two of our other top people.”
“And he’ll be back, on Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“I’d still like to arrange an appointment. Even fifteen minutes of his time would be appreciated.”
Janes stood, increased the wattage on the smile, extended his hand. “I’m sure Sally can arrange that. Just tell her I’ve given my okay.”
“You’ve been very helpful. What time Tuesday is Mr. Ridge getting back from Canada?”
“Oh, he isn’t getting back on Tuesday. He’s flying in Monday night.”
That’s all I wanted to know.
“As I say, you’ve been very helpful,” I said, and left him and his positive attitude behind.
I stopped at the desk of the “executive assistant” and told her Janes had approved an appointment, and made one for eleven o’clock Tuesday morning. Fifteen minutes was all I got, but what the hell. I’d make and keep my own appointment with him, Monday night, when he arrived by plane from his Canadian seminar.
On my way out I paused again to stare at the portrait of George Ridge.
A friendly looking, slightly heavy-set man of about fifty, a smile cracking his well-lined face.
It had to be a recent picture. He had looked much the same when he came to my A-frame to offer me that million-dollar contract.