There were only three placards of restaurants for sale in the window. Ronny Williams knew that Vincenzo would not relinquish thoughts of buying No. 5 Bream Street; a property that had been hidden like a kellick under water. It was late Saturday afternoon, he was tired and wanted to go home. He could hear the clock ticking loudly above his head. Sat squashed behind his small desk, his belt buckle pinching, he wondered just how much money he had stored away now in savings bonds. He was thinking he needed around $500,000 to retire. The real estate business was getting him down. All he wanted to do was laze in his hammock, read, dream or drink his way into oblivion. Since Katherine left, no one had ever taken her place. There was Betty at the club, but he knew she flirted with most of the customers. They’d had a misunderstanding about her home sale commission and he knew that was that. The smile had ceased, along with the flirting. Most days she turned her back on him, especially when he was panting, stationery at the top of the stairs. Women! He didn’t need another one to add to his growing problems. What he wanted was retirement, to maybe take a holiday on Hayman Island, or somewhere where he could get back into shape, maybe lose a few pounds. He worked seven days a week, running the business, taking most of the sales’ commission. There was no room for days off, exercise or another agent. Satara Bay was too slow a pace for another agent wanting entitlements. Marjorie was enough. But then he needed her there three days a week, so he figured he must be working about sixty hours a week.
In the front window he added another “House for Sale”. A small cottage, set back from the Esplanade. A property that he thought would suit Vincenzo and his brother. A nice quiet street, the men could have their café out the front. He could get permission from the Council. Bill Haycock was the man to see when it came to changing a “residential” zone into “commercial”.
He fixed the sign and removed three SOLD cards. How long had they been there, he wondered. Well over a year. Only good selling time was summer, and they were heading into the next.
He went inside and pointed to the clock. His receptionist sat filing her nails. Marjorie looked over her shoulder at the wall, smacked out a bubble of chewing gum and covered her typewriter.
‘Got to go to the doctor’s tomorra, but I can make up the time. Elsie said I should give up the fags, but you know how hard that is doncha, Ron?’
‘Sure do,’ said Ronny, packing his briefcase with notes. ‘If you can come in around twelve, that would be just dandy. I want you to ring Bill whatsit at the Shire, re that property in Bream Street. Need to get an angle on what’s going on there.’
‘That old place used to belong to one of those Masons. Can’t think of his name, but me dad used to go to the Masonic club wiv im. Dad said he was an old cunt. Then he just passed away, mysterious like.’
‘When was that?’
‘I was just a girl,’ she said, pulling down the front blinds. ‘Must have been around 1946. Drink got to im, I think.’
‘Marjorie, you’re a mind of information,’ said Ronny, switching off all the lights and following Marjorie out the door.
‘See you twelve then,’ she said. ‘Wiv bells on.’
‘Yeah, see ya later Aligator.’
‘In a while crocodile.’
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