Miss Julia Hits the Road (13 page)

“Don’t you say nothin’, Miss Julia,” Lillian warned me, as she lifted her head high and sailed over to the oven to check on her cakes, that nylon material rustling between her thighs with every step. “This the only thing what fit, an’ leastways I won’t mess up my good church dress.”

“It’s very becoming,” Hazel Marie said with a tiny frown on her face. “Don’t you think, Miss Julia? Everybody wears them, you know, because they’re so comfortable.”

“You look fine, Lillian,” I said, lying through my teeth, just as Hazel Marie was doing. “Hazel Marie, why don’t you go ahead and take the other things back and get the right sizes? No matter how good this outfit looks, she’s going to need something else to wear.

“But before you go,” I went on, “what do you think of getting Sam and Mr. Pickens, and Coleman, and maybe Binkie if she feels up to it, over here tonight to discuss what we can do to get the fund drive off the ground? We’re going to need help to eat all this food Lillian’s fixing, anyway.”

Hazel Marie twitched her face into a thoughtful expression and said, “Well, I want to do whatever I can to help, so I’ll call Sam and Binkie and Coleman for you if you’ll call the other one.”

“What other one?”

“Why, J. D., of course.”

“Don’t you want to call him?”

“I’m not speaking to him.”

“Oh, I forgot. Well, I hope you can put up with his presence because I need a calm head to deal with Sam.” I stopped, struck with the thought that I wouldn’t ordinarily describe Mr. Pickens as having the calmest head around. Still, if you kept him away from trashy women and pitchers of beer, he could pretty much be counted on.

“I been tellin’ you,” Lillian said as she began to peel apples at the sink, “they ain’t nothin’ wrong with Mr. Sam, an’ you need to quit thinkin’ they is.”

“Well,” I said and let it drop. I knew what I knew, and I knew that Sam needed some careful watching, which I intended to provide regardless of what anybody else thought.

After going upstairs and making sure no one could hear me, I nervously called Clarence Gibbs and made an appointment with him. Then I got in the car and backed out of the driveway in my usual careful manner. Two cars, one coming from each direction, had to wait for me to straighten out and get in my lane, but drivers on Polk Street were accustomed to doing that.

I parked and walked into Patrick’s Pancake House, some little distance from the three blocks of downtown. Since it was mid-afternoon and long after breakfast time, the place was practically empty, so I had no difficulty finding Clarence Gibbs in the red leatherette booth at the far end of the restaurant. Why he’d wanted to meet in such a place, I didn’t know, but I’d learned since Wesley Lloyd’s demise that business is often conducted in unlikely places.

He elevated himself slightly from his seat as I approached, giving me the simpering smile that he bestowed on all the women at church. I’d never had any dealings with the man before, so I tried to make a quick assessment as I took in his tan, silky-looking suit, narrow tie, and white no-iron shirt. I declare, I know better than to judge people by their looks, but what else do you have to go on when you don’t know a person? Trying not to stare, I took in his five o’clock shadow, even though it was barely mid-afternoon, and the dark circles under his eyes. And his posture! Even seated, his shoulders slumped over the coffee mug in front of him, and I knew, having seen him walk down the aisle at church often enough, that his coat tail hiked up in the back from the way he carried himself.

“Mrs. Springer,” he acknowledged me with a nod. Then he settled himself again after his gesture of courteousness and motioned me to the opposite seat. With another gesture of considerably less courteousness, he raised his hand toward the waitress at the cash register and called out, “Another cup over here, Miss.”

“No need to order for me, Mr. Gibbs,” I said, placing my pocketbook by my side and loosening my coat. “I’ve come to talk business.”

Nevertheless, a mug of steaming coffee suddenly appeared before me as the waitress said, “You want anything else, hon?”

Taken aback at the express service, I managed to say, “No, thank you.”

Mr. Gibbs’s eyes sparkled as he watched me with that little half smile that verged on a smirk. “I tip heavy,” he said, as if explaining something to a socially inept person, which I most certainly was not.

“I daresay,” I replied, pushing the mug away. “Now, Mr. Gibbs, I’m here to talk about that property on Willow Lane. I’ve been over there this morning, and I’ll tell you it is a doleful scene with all those people being turned out on the street and those wrecking machines already working away.”

“Well,” he said, his face drooping in what I might have mistaken for concern if I hadn’t known he was the cause of the problem. “It is a shame, and that’s a fact. I didn’t expect ’em to wait till the last minute, though. I give ’em plenty of time to find somewhere to move to.”

“Yes, I’m sure the law requires you to do that. But, Mr. Gibbs, you of all people know how few places there are to rent in this town—especially for those who can’t afford much. Those people are surely up a creek, and it seems to me that you’d want to keep those houses up, refurbish them a little, and continue to have a nice income.”

He began shaking his head before I’d even finished. Then he picked up a salt shaker, turning it around and studying it. “I got no plans to stay in the rental business. Why, I couldn’t remodel or replace those houses and get a good return on ’em to save my life.” He pursed his lips and shook his head again. “No, ma’am, a bidnessman got to look after bidness first and foremost. Now, I’m sorry for those folks, but . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention to the salt shaker again.

“But what will they do?” I asked. “You performed a real community service, Mr. Gibbs, by providing affordable housing for people who don’t have much, and I’d think you’d at least consider their present plight.”

He tried to straighten up but his shoulders wouldn’t let him. “Now, Mrs. Springer, I’m sure you understand that I’m not in the bidness of community service any more than you are.” I reared up at that, offended at being categorized as a business-at-any-cost property owner. But before I could set him straight, he went on. “I pay my taxes just like everybody else, and I say let the gov’ment worry over this. They got every kind of program you can think of—which is paid for by you and I—and I just don’t think I ought to be doin’ any extra subsidizin’.”

“I understand that,” I said, and I did. I’d resent it, too, if anybody expected me to replace a government program. “So that brings me to this question. Would you consider selling the property and, if so, for how much?”

His eyes narrowed as he studied me. “You interested?”

“I could be.”

“Well, selling is an option, I grant you.” He rubbed his fingers across his mouth as he gazed out at the blacktopped parking lot, then at the scrubby bushes next to the sidewalk and the cars passing beyond that. Then he turned back to me and said, “But I been working on plans for that piece of property.”

I let out a long breath. “I’ve heard, Mr. Gibbs. Everybody’s talking about that water you’re planning to bottle out there. But do you really think that’s a good business move?”

“Yes, ma’am. With the right kind of marketing and advertising, it’d be worth a fortune.”

“Yes, and what will all that cost you? Besides, if you market that cow pasture water as being beneficial to men only, you’ve cut your customers in half right there.” I was most uncomfortable touching upon such delicate matters, but he needed to see what he was up against. “Consider that against a quick return if you sell the property. Money in your pocket, instead of a constant outgo for the next several years. Now, what would you take for it, if you decided to sell?”

“I don’t know,” he said, still giving me the occasional sharp glance. “I had it surveyed not too long ago, and there’s ten acres out there, more ’r less. Plus, it’s not zoned so it can be used for anything. That makes it a real desirable piece of real estate.”

I knew what he was doing—building it up before hitting me with what he’d take for it.

“It’s right next to a residential area,” I reminded him, “which limits its uses.”

“Not necessarily.” He raised a finger, not quite pointing it at me. “It includes that old pasture, which I own, too. So, you put all that together and you got a real nice piece of property. Not another one that size anywhere close to town.”

“I’m not talking about the pasture, which, if I recall from the heavy rains we had a few years ago, is partly in a flood plain. Plus, it’s a burial site. You can keep that. I’m talking about two acres, more or less, where the houses are.”

“Can’t do that,” he said, shaking his head in a sorrowful way. “We got to talk the whole parcel, which means the whole ten acres.”

“I declare, Mr. Gibbs,” I snapped. “You could break it up into two parcels if you had a mind to. In fact, I expect it’s already listed that way down at the courthouse.”

“It don’t matter since I own ’em both. If I want to sell as one package, I got ever’ right to do it.
If
I decide to sell.”

It was my turn to stare out the window, as I cogitated over how to proceed. If he’d set a reasonable price, maybe the fund drive could afford to buy it all, then sell off the pasture to help fix up the houses. Of course, we didn’t yet have a fund to be able to afford anything.

“All right,” I said, turning back to him. “What’s your price?”

“Well,” he said with a dramatic sigh, like I was pushing him to his limit. But I could see the way his eyes glinted. He thought he had me where he wanted me. “I hadn’t really given it much thought.”

Hah, I thought. That’s all he’d been thinking about ever since I’d walked in.

“Name it,” I said.

“I got to think about it,” he said, frowning as he put on a show of serious consideration. “I don’t much like selling what’s already owned free and clear. And I had that property a long time now, so it’s hard to let something like that go. They’re not making any more real estate, you know.”

“Mr. Gibbs,” I said, trying to break through all that put-on resistance, when we both knew he’d sell his own mother if he could get a good price. “I’m acting in good faith here, and I expect you to do the same. We’ve been sitting here discussing that property, me with an eye to purchase and you with an eye to sell. Now, let’s quit beating around the bush and get to what you’ll take for it.”

“Let me give you some advice, Mrs. Springer,” he said, hunching over the table. “When you’re negotiating a piece of property, you don’t want to jump too quick to talkin’ money. You miss a lot of the fun that way.”

“You may be looking for fun, Mr. Gibbs, but I assure you I am not. We’ve got good and decent people about to be without homes, and I’m trying to help them out. Now, set your price.”

He stared at me, but I didn’t think he was really seeing me. I could see that he was running figures through his head, even though I figured that he already knew what he wanted for it.

“Mr. Gibbs,” I said before he could commit himself. “I would not exactly be the sole purchaser of your property. We’re getting a community effort together, and I know that you’ll want to take that into consideration in your asking price.”

“If that’s the case, I could make a donation down the line somewhere. Right now, I’m thinkin’ bidness.”

I sighed in exasperation, but what can you do with a businessman who has something you want and knows it? “All right, then, talk business.” I almost said ‘bidness,’ but caught myself in time.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he said, all too promptly, “and worth every penny.”

I was stunned. That property, in that part of town, with houses in the shape those were in, couldn’t be worth more than a hundred thousand, which was more than a gracious plenty. I’d been hoping against hope that even if he’d wanted to engage in a little gouging, he’d not go higher than one-fifty.

“And another thing,” he said, “if you want it, you got to go ahead and take it. I can’t be waitin’ around for fund drives and evaluations and bank approvals. I got plans in the making and deadlines to meet.”

“Why, Mr. Gibbs!” I said, just so provoked I didn’t know what to do. “I can’t possibly buy that property anytime soon. There are people I have to consult, and, well, we’ve barely started the fund drive. We’re going to need a few weeks just to come up with a down payment.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Mrs. Springer, but I can’t let these things hang fire.” He smiled, and it was a sorry sight to see. “Unless, of course, you want to put a little sweetener in the pot.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about something that’ll make it worth my while to wait. Say, you put up something of value, like your house, for instance, and I’ll give you three weeks to get up the money for the Willow Lane property. You raise the money, you keep your house and you get the property.” He shrugged his shoulders and splayed out his hands. “You don’t, and I get both.”