A California Closing Read online

  “Fine. If the deal dies, it’s because you killed it.”

  “Deal? What deal? We got a lowball. I never saw a deal.”

  “Oh! Dirkson’s here! We’re on the air! Please don’t use foul language.”

  “On the air? We’re not on the air. We’re off the air. Can’t you see that? Jesus Christ. Whatever happened to reality?”

  III

  We’re on the Air!

  “We will be on the air. If you think and behave like we’re on the air now, then it’ll seem more natural when the camera starts rolling.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing? Fine. We’re on the air. I don’t have to be in this, do I?”

  “It helps tremendously. We actually get a Nielson rating, you know. People want to see who you are. Let’s face it, a house at this price level, at this position in the neighborhood, reflects substance and, in some cases, personality.”

  “They’re not buying me. Are you always on the air?”

  “Oh, but they are.”

  “Get Allison in here. They’ll buy her.”

  “Yes. She is much nicer.”

  “And prettier,” Michael Mulroney smirks at the retort. “Little bird! Get in here! We’re on the air!”

  “Why do you call her little bird?”

  Mulroney shrugs. “Because she eats like a little bird? Better than calling her fish face, isn’t it?”

  “What? Hello. On the air? Us?” Allison Mulroney enters as regally as a hundred-pounder can, pausing in the doorway for framing, the fingers of her left hand lighting on the jamb gently as wren’s toes on a twig. Of her total weight, two percent is hair in a bouffant to the mezzanine. “Hello,” she says again to everyone in general, waving her free hand slowly as Miss America at the millions of viewers watching just behind one-eye. She emotes for the camera, rather for the cameraman, who at that point is removing the camera from its carrying case. As the lens cap comes off, she elaborates, “I’m Allison. Welcome to our home.”

  “Oh, fuck.” Mulroney seems untenably dour and thinks he has cause.

  “I asked you not to do that,” the agent chides.

  “She’s sloshed,” Mulroney points out.

  “I am not sloshed,” Allison denies.

  “Look, Allison. Come over here. Stand next to me.” Allison meanders over and leans on her husband, who turns to the cameraman. “How long till you get the camera ready? Let’s get this over with. Allison’s good for another two or three minutes.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “Yeah. Then what happens?” Allison would also like to know and, in fact, won’t budge until she’s told. The wren’s fingers now grip her husband’s arm like raptor talons, securing her claim on stability and domestic bliss.

  Mulroney fondly covers her hand with his own, informing Ms. Moutard on the issue of what happens next: “She assumes a horizontal position and goes to sleep, not necessarily in that order, and not necessarily without a fuss.”

  “Dirkson, are we ready?” Dirkson is the talent, on camera.

  He says, “You bet we are. Scotty?” Scotty is the cameraman.

  “Rolling.” Scotty plants the viewing cup onto his eye socket and focally ranges in and out—close on Dirkson, long on Allison—freeze! “My God! Where have you been all my life?”

  “We’ve been waiting on you,” Marylyn erupts, regretting her impatience, but nonproductive banter with talent and tech and hot product on hand that should have sold but remains unsold just makes her want to scream—not that she would actually scream, but she might whine. Who wouldn’t?

  “Not you. Her.” Scotty zooms on Allison, into macro intimacy, to pores, tiny hairs, and perfection. “What skin tone. What poise.” Scotty pans the alabaster complexion. Could this be Norma Jean revisited, not past her prime but still in it, gracefully aged?

  Allison invites the scrutiny with a smile and a writhe, though her attempt at seductive warmth suffers a slight wobble. “I’m here,” she says. “I have always been here. But you have not been here. Now you better hurry. We’re moving to the tropics.”

  “Keep moving,” Scotty enjoins, getting the footage he’s been after.

  “Scotty. Please. Places,” Dirkson directs.

  Scotty turns to stage right and holds.

  “Hello, there. I’m Dirkson Duquesne—looks like Du-kezney but it’s not. It’s actually du-káne—and I’m not a local anesthetic! Ha! Gotcha. Hey—we’re back again with this week’s episode of … What They’re Doing Today in Heaven. Here we are at … Wait a minute. What’s the address here?”

  “One Summit Nest.”

  “What’s the street number?”

  “One. I said one.”

  “Nice address. Okay … Rolling … Here we are at … One Summit Next …”

  “Summit Nest!”

  “Try again. And … Okay. Here we are at … One Summit Nest, and believe you me, it is.”

  “What? It is? It is what?”

  “Let me do my job, please. Scotty. Did you get it?”

  “I got it.”

  “Okay. And … Marylyn Moutard is here today to show us her listing and introduce us to the sellers, Michael and Allison.”

  “We sure are, Dirkson. Hi, everybody. I’m Marylyn Moutard. This is Michael and Allison, and they’re going to hate giving this place up. I can promise you they’re really going to hate leaving that hot tub behind too. We’ll go out to the fabulous sun deck in the rear of the home in just a minute. But first, I’d like for Michael to tell us what he loves most of all about this place.”

  “What do I love about the place?” Michael shrugs. “It’s a nice place. What’s not to like?”

  Marylyn drops the microphone. “Michael. We need to effervesce here. Emote. Give. Convey. Don’t worry. Nobody will think you’re frilly. You need to sound enthusiastic. This is sales. A pitch. Do you know how to pitch?”

  “Okay. I got it.” Michael looks down, going to character. He looks up. The camera rolls. “What do I love? About the place? That’s easy. For starters, I love the view. Who wouldn’t? You got the whole ocean out front. You know, the Pacific Ocean is the biggest ocean in the world, and from here it’s easy to see why.”

  “The view. That’s so important. Tell us about living here.”

  “Well. It’s nice. It’s really nice. We get up in the morning. You know. I’m thinking of getting a new bicycle, you know. Yeah. It’s terrific riding around here. Some of the best in the world. I see guys older than me out there humping it. So I figure …”

  “That’s fabulous. That’s sooo healthy-lifestyle living. Come on. Let’s take a look at the gourmet kitchen. Two sinks!”

  “Three sinks, Marylyn,” Michael corrects. “Don’t forget the wet bar. It’s smaller, for your ice and drinks, but it’s still a sink.”

  “Three sinks! Even better! And a six-burner chef stove! I can’t wait to see that fantastic master bath.”

  “Yeah. Me too. Allison. Wake up.”

  “Wha … Oh. Hi. We’re moving. We’re moving to Hawaii.” Allison speaks to the camera, but it passes her on its way to the fantastic kitchen. “I can’t wait,” she calls, practically shuddering in anticipation of tropical warmth. “You can hear the wavesh. And palm treesh.”

  “Yeah,” Michael chimes in. “Your shirt sticks to your skin. You got heat ripples everywhere and racism, gridlock, and water shortage and fucking insects that look like fucking dragons and humidity to bend your fucking knees. And ignorance. Did I mention the ignorance?”

  “Why are you going then?” Marylyn asks, shooing the camera away.

  But Scotty keeps it rolling, so Michael tells it: “Because Allison wants it. And what Allison wants long enough, Allison gets. She breaks you down. She gets her way. Capiche?”

  “How lovely.” With a dismissive flourish, Marylyn moves flamboyantly onward. She would like to ask why he keeps Allison around or allows her to get her way, but instead she sweeps a hand majestically yonder, beckoning the marvelous entertainments in store for
you, your family, and friends in this dream kitchen come true. “Now this! Is a party house!”

  “How’d … I do? Howdy Doody.” Allison ponders silly wordplay and its deeper meaning, which isn’t so deep, and so she shrugs. But recalling her childhood TV pal, she also remembers simpler times. Nobody relates but Mulroney, who watched Buffalo Bob and the whole gang along with the rest of the peanut gallery. He pauses in a rare moment of reflection, wondering where all those kids are now. Dead, some of them must be.

  He laughs. “Dilly Dally. Clarabell. Phineas T. Bluster. Too bad, we never got to watch together. We could get a DVD, but that never works out.”

  “What are you talking about, Michael?”

  “Nothing. You doody fine, dear.” With an arm around her for affection and balance, he leads the way down the few steps to the sunken atrium on the way to the bedroom. “Now go lie down, so we can get this done.”

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “That’s okay. Just lie there, close your eyes, and breathe slow. Give it a minute. I got this for now. Then in a while you can get up and join the living—I didn’t mean that. I mean you can get up and we’ll … have dinner and watch a movie.”

  “No. I’m not sleepy.”

  “Fine. You help Marylyn. Tell her what you love about living here. I’m going out. I’m not waiting to sell this place. I’m going to look for a bicycle. A bicycle is something to be excited about. I’m going to buy a bicycle that’ll show what living on top looks like and means and … and anybody can have the very best if they’ll step up and pay up. I think a new bicycle now should be the best promotion available to enhance prospects for a quick sale.”

  “Wha should I tell her? I don’t love it. I’m cold. It’s always cold here.”

  “You want to get out of here, don’t you? Sell, Allison. Give it heart. Pretend you’re entertaining an unwanted guest who might tell everyone how gracious you are. Remember: It doesn’t matter what you say; it’s how you say it.”

  “Okay. I’ll try it that way.” Allison shivers again with a quivering smile and a sprightly flutter, as if drying her wings in a drizzle.

  IV

  Freewheel

  Michael Mulroney finds a bicycle on his first visit to the most amazing bike shop in town, maybe in Northern California, maybe anywhere. Or so they say. Mulroney asks the easy question, which he often does; it’s so easy—the asking, that is. The answer can stall out. But the salesperson answers with a knowing smile, assuring him that several other shops in town and a few more in the region might approach amazing status, but only The Spokesperson achieves that status, with more blank frames in inventory than any other shop could possibly have the money or sense to carry. That’s because the owner is a bicycle fanatic, a true wheelman who might never win a tour leg but wants to be all things to all spokespeople all the time. “If you can’t find your perfect match here, you can’t find it anywhere.”

  “I don’t get it,” Mulroney says. “I get the part about inventory, with all the brands and the models and sizes. I got the same problem, and in this economy it doesn’t make you amazing; it makes you amazingly wrong. Big inventory can break the bank these days. But what I really don’t get is the other part, about why you do it if it makes no sense. And frankly, it makes no sense.”

  The spokes consultant shows the full range of his good-natured grin and follows up with a shrug. “Good question. But you’re amazing too. You do the same thing. You’re ready. The economy shifts, and you’re still ready—expanding into a down market, even though it doesn’t look anything like it did. But I’ll tell you what Mister M. Let’s have this talk when we’re done with your fitting. I think a few actions might provide you with a thousand words.”

  Mulroney laughs because he loves the presumption. “Now that’s some bullshit. But I like it. You know: my kind o’ bullshit. Hey, you know me?”

  “I’ve seen your ads. Who hasn’t? And your car lots. I mean, you are well known.” Mulroney rolls his eyes and shrugs, not so secretly pleased and nonetheless surprised that he is known even in such a rarified place. Then again, what’s your average fucking bicycle hustler going to buy when he needs a car? Will he buy a new car? No, he’ll go used, so he’ll go M—Big M, that is, and that’s what makes the world go round, what with your economic reciprocation and that shit.

  The spokes consultant nearly squints in assessing Mulroney as a potential rider, cogs seeking cohesion on body type, age, pocket depth, and the latest technology that might be wasted on such an old fart, but then who else can afford it? “Do you ride now?”

  “No.”

  “And you last rode when? I mean, regularly.”

  “Not so long ago, maybe thirty-five, forty years. Nah! Not forty. Thirty-five is all.”

  Breaking a slow nod, the spokes consultant raises a forefinger and exits to the back room. He reappears in a minute, wheeling a unit likely to amuse. “This is Equinox, a C-1A frame from Olioglo. This is the frame I ride. It’s considered an ultimate frame for many riders, and it could be considered a step too far for you. Then again, why wait? Why not give the best chance to the most fun and best feeling you’ve had in thirty-five years?”

  “Hey, you knockin’ my wife?”

  “Not at all! I meant … bicycling!”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fucking with you. Sorry. You were saying, a step beyond.”

  “The bicycle I have in mind for you is not extravagant, yet. Believe me. You’re getting a solid foundation. You won’t want to go out there with anything less. It can get a bit more expensive for performance goodies. But the main thing to keep in mind is that it’s a parts jungle out there. You’ll love the upgrades if you know what to get, and I can show you how. Given your age and projected miles remaining, you may want to take full advantage of the new bike discount of 12% on all components added at the time of purchase, provided the component is the top model from that manufacturer.” Franco hesitates and then cracks the half smile on both sides, “You’re no different than my other riders. You’ll see. You’ll want the best. I know these things. You’ll find the C-1A at the summit of comfort, ease, speed, and efficiency. I daresay you will love it. This particular bicycle is sixty-five ninety-five, so not every buyer can afford it. But if you can, you’ll be glad you did. You probably need riding things too, shoes and shorts and jerseys?”

  “Yeah, all that.” Mulroney hefts the Equinox C-1A from Olioglo. He laughs up front to show that he’s joking, maybe. “You don’t mean seventy bucks, do you?” He gets a brief stretch on the fixed grin for his effort. “Seven fucking grand for a bicycle?”

  “We’ve come a long way.”

  “Yeah. Gee.”

  “Actually, the Equinox frame runs only thirty-eight hundred—it utilizes trapezoidal tetrahedron technology with triangular cross-sectioning in the maximum torque frame segments. It uses the new split tail design with interchangeable cage brackets and blunt stubs up front, tipping in at one point nine pounds.”

  “Fucking weightless.”

  “Nearly. It gets up to eighteen pounds or so on the build out. We finished this unit with great components. You can get better stuff, but this will give you the feel. Whatever you feel with this will only feel better with better stuff.”

  Mulroney loves the action; it’s so brazenly expensive in such whimsical detail. Yet he also senses the action, going into overdrive to see just how much he’s willing to spend. Oh, Mulroney knows the game, so he slows the pace with a few lobs. He takes a minute to eyeball some of the finer details, laughing inside—as if he knows what he’s looking at. But he does glean in no time that this bicycle-spending miasma is à la Carte. All the parts are different brands. And he asks, unafraid to sound uninformed: “The fuck? Doesn’t anybody build a whole bicycle anymore? I mean the whole fucking enchilada, with the tires and handlebars and all this tweezer shit?”

  “Yes, of course. Specialized does. But it gets boring.”

  “Yeah, I think so too, now that you mention it. This is more fun, mix
and match, huh? Okay, so you call these parts great but then you say I can get better stuff. What do you call those parts?”

  “Well, that depends on the brand. Most componentry comes in four quality grades. I do think the top grade would be overkill for you because the only difference is esoteric, with tiny screws and washers made of carbon graphite instead of stainless steel. You can spend a few thousand saving a dozen grams …”

  “Or you could just pass on the second half o’ your baked fuckin potato and keep the money in your pocket.”

  “Something like that.”

  Mulroney hefts the bicycle again. He rolls it back and forth. “What would you call this Oliogilleto rig here? I heard you call it ultimate, and that usually means the very best. Is it?”

  “It is. I mean unless you count the bomb.”

  “And what, pray tell, is the bomb?”

  “The CX-61. Also from Olioglo but different. It’s purist. It’s … art. I mean, not to sound too crazy, but it’s like this. Every single carbon frame today is laid up in Taiwan—”

  “Wha? Taiwan?”

  The spokes consultant hangs his head and nods. “It’s the way it is. Olioglo hand picks his lay-up guys and gets only the very best of the best. You’d think it would be a subtle difference, but Olioglo frames are immaculate. However! The CX-61 is the only carbon frame in the world not laid up in Taiwan. Mr. Olioglo has them built in his basement, in his home near Genoa. They run about eleven thousand, but I have to check on availability and colors.”

  “I would think for eleven grand you could get sky blue with monkeys out the ass.”

  “You might get sky blue with monkeys or anything, but not because you ordered it.”

  “You’re saying they send what they want?”

  “I’m saying they’re Italian. We get what they send. And it’s gorgeous, every time.”

  Michael Mulroney steps back, perhaps for perspective. He doesn’t mind the dough; nay, he loves lavish spending for the sheer exhilaration of the thing and for what it might reflect in a man of incredible success. On the solvency issue and its converse, he’s always adhered to faith, what he calls the cornerstone of religion. God and Mulroney will provide. On a more practical level, a man must spend money to make money, and if the top of the ridge is an image to die for, it can only dazzle more brilliantly with a seller on an unbelievable bicycle. You think for a California minute that Big M on a bicycle won’t make news? Oh, Mulroney knows the game. But he wants to get it right, wants to actually ride this bicycle, and he believes he will ride it if he gets it right.