Deal Pigs – Part Seven
“Ladies and gentlemen, the auction will commence in five minutes.”
It’s Sunday morning and I’ve barely slept all week, so I’m running on adrenaline. I’ve spent most nights this week watching YouTube reviews of timepieces and desperately messaging cam girls. They never reply like they say they promise.
It’s a monolithic deal today. Probably the most valuable home in my career.
I’m dressed to get this bread—my most expensive sky blue suit with crimson suede loafers. Everyone knows red and blue are perfect complementary colours. I’m dripping in top-shelf yellow gold jewellery like a goddamn rapper. I only wear yellow gold, silver is for cheapskates.
Jim lets me in through a pair of imposing mahogany doors at the front of the house. He winks at me as I bellow good morning back. My voice has a gorgeous resonance this morning as I coated my throat in a layer of Manuka honey.
A small cluster of well-off punters are gathered around the large semi-outdoor balcony deck of the stunning open plan mansion on Hope Island. The backdrop for my performance today is a deep blue infinity pool overlooking a crystal clear canal. Priceless original art plasters the wall around a dramatic marble sculpture of the Virgin Mary and baby Christ.
Jim shuffles behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders like a proud father. He wears a Rolex on the inside of his wrist and the face catches on my coat collar. His pupils are the size of saucers. He grins widely at me, flashing his gold incisors and halitosis.
“You’ll be better than great today Jord. Be unstoppable. This is a make or break moment for us.”
Jim squeezes my shoulders in encouragement. It’s clear Jim smashed some glass to ease his nerves as he leaves his hands on my body for an uncomfortably long time.
The property is so valuable that Jim is managing it. He’s been schmoozing the elderly owner for months trying to convince them to sell in this bull market and finally, they agreed. The old man in the couple is housebound with dementia and looks more at home in a hospital than in this stylish mansion. He wears slippers, a bathrobe, and cradles a half-empty colostomy bag like a newborn baby. A lot of work has been put into this deal to happen today.
I dissociate for a few seconds, then my chest tightens. I shift in and out of the right headspace. Ashy clouds rapidly descend on us, casting shadows over my underprepared body. Thunder cracks quietly in the distance.
Jim stares intensely at me. “This is it, buddy. Nothing lower than two-point eight mil.”
Jim then wanders over to the elderly sellers at the top of a staircase and peers down at the auction, sizing up the punters on the deck but standing far enough away to not influence the auction. As he chats to the couple, the old demented man thrusts his head from side to side, barely cognisant of the situation. His wife subtly comforts the poor old man with gentle touches. She looks like any unassuming grandma, dressed in a floral blouse and white slacks. Old wealth is always hidden in frugality.
I swallow and my throat burns with reflux. I clench my gavel to anchor myself in the moment. My fingernail digs into a staple embedded in the real estate magazine I have rolled up in my hand.
“On behalf of property manager Jim Holt, I’d like to welcome you all today to the sale of this absolutely stunning property in Hope Island. This is an iconic gem previously owned by well-known CEOs, entrepreneurs, and action movie stars. That’s right, the martial arts legend Jackie Chan himself once called this masterpiece his home, but I please ask you to throw serious offers at me, and don’t throw any fists.”
The small crowd politely murmurs at the well-rehearsed quip. Jim smiles and checks how the room responds to the joke he wrote for me.
“This home boasts six bedrooms, four bathrooms, an indoor and outdoor heated pool, formal office, private cinema, boat dock, and a six-car automated underground garage. This prime piece of real estate is in the most affluent street of the most affluent suburb of the Gold Coast. Do we have an opening offer from the bidders?” I ask the wealthy group. It would be condescending for me to suggest an opening offer to this clientele.
“One three,” a Chinese woman begins.
“One three is too low. Can we open the floor to more serious bids?” I respond.
“Two,” the Chinese woman interrupts.
“Two is still lower than expected. Might I suggest we try again?” I reluctantly ask the group.
Discomfort pours over the crowd as they begin murmuring amongst themselves. Discarding the opening offers can be a non-starter at any auction. Jim negotiated with the owners that we wouldn’t accept a reserve price of less than two point eight million so we have to honour that. Auctioneering of this calibre is a high-stakes game that runs the risk of falling flat, but sometimes you just need to grease the wheel to get the motor going.
Jim motions at me to kick it off. “How does six point eight sound for this incredibly valuable and historic home,” I say.
I watch each bidder patiently for any signs of life. They stare back at me in disappointed silence, but I refuse to back down from the opening bid. A few people furrow their brows, while others let out a dispirited breath. Some punters gaze colourlessly out into the glistening canal.
A few seconds pass. My escalating pulse throbs in my skull as I contort the magazine I’m clenching. The focus of my vision shifts like the aperture of a camera. The vigour of the crowd dissipates like a summer breeze through a sandcastle.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter. The sound of rain on the roof fills the silence. All of the faces in the space darken as the clouds turn black.
zzzzz-boom.
A crack of thunder bellows over the canals. A strobe lights up the room.
I fixate on a shape I hadn’t noticed before. It was a very tall, slender man. A recognisable height and size. White hoodie and backpack. His body seemingly floats in the centre of the room. Everyone but him stares emotionlessly ahead. He watches me with a villainous intensity as a sly but menacing twinkle radiates from his face. As he realises my attention is on him, the twinkle grows into a sickening smile.
I readjust and focus my vision. It’s him–the goddamn Russian man who lost the auction. That murdering bastard who got me caught up in this whole mess.
My throat tightens like I’m in a chokehold and I release the gavel from my suddenly numb hand. It falls to the hardwood floor, scuffing my loafers and rolling onto its side. Clack, ba-dunk.
No one on the balcony flinches. They stare ahead in an empty trance. I can’t take my eyes off the ghostly thin man. He looks more translucent and thinner than the last time I saw him. His skin is languid and pale white, his eyes are sunken into his skeletal face, and his hair is wafer-thin and stiff like bristles on a dead pine tree. His dry, leathery mouth makes unfamiliar shapes. His gaze never uncouples from mine.
ZZZZZ-BOOOOOM.
A jolt of lightning hits the canal right behind me. I snap back and lean down to pick up my gavel. I fumble across the wooden floorboards until the gavel is in my grip then I stand back in place. I scan the space and see all of the expressionless punters, but the thin man can’t be found. I step forward to see if he has moved behind someone, but he’s gone.
Someone floats down the staircase and across the room towards me. Jim puts his hand on my shoulder as a reassuring father would. He gives me a sad smile and faces the small group. The blood rushes from my head, through my body, down past my feet, and drains into the floor. My stomach churns in distress.
“Thank you for your time this morning. It looks as though today isn’t the day we sell this masterpiece, but if you’d like to make a private offer, please let me know. I’ll leave my card by the table at the door in case you’d like to stay in touch. Thanks again, drive safe.”
The balcony deck empties. Jim and I stand next to each other in disbelief. The old woman who owns the property glowers at Jim and escorts her demented husband back upstairs in silence.
“Jim, did I choke? I’m really sorry mate.” I mutter apologetically.
“I can usually turn these kinds of auctions around, but today I just couldn’t.”
“It’s alright mate. Don’t be too hard on yourself.” Jim responds.
“No seriously, it was like there was something stopping me today. I could feel it.” I swore.
Jim clears his throat and makes his way to the front door. I follow steadily behind him until we reach our parked cars. He drives away in his Maserati, while I sit in my car with my head draped over the steering wheel. My eyes well up in equal parts exhaustion and sadness.
I unlock my phone and comfort myself by passively scrolling through social media until I see an instant message from my father. It’s a Christian meme I’ve already seen. I touch my pinky finger on his profile photo and start a call with him.
The phone rings for thirty seconds and then stops. I rest it on my lap and slump back over the steering wheel. My lap then vibrates with my father’s return phone call.
“Het mate, sorry I missed your call,” Father begins.
“No worries Father. I wasn’t sure if now was a bad time. Are you in a sermon?” I ask sheepishly.
“Nah, we just wrapped up Mass but my bible studies class is in about fifteen minutes so I’ve only got a sec. What’s going on?” Father says.
“Um, things are fine but something has been weighing on me. You see, there was an auction I was working at about a week ago and a fight broke out between the potential buyers. Anyway, things escalated with this auction and the guy who lost went crazy, followed the winner home and murdered the guy and his family.”
“Holy shit. Are you sure that’s what happened?” says my father, briefly forgetting he is a man of God.
“Yep, it sounds crazy I know but I’ve spoken to the killer. I recognise him. And I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been caught yet because I think I saw him at another auction today. We looked right at each other.”
“Have you gone to the police with all of this? Where are you now? Are you alright?”
“I’m okay. I haven’t spoken to the police yet. The guys at the agency weren’t sure if it was a good idea.”
“You really should give a witness testimony at the cop shop. I’d do that. Even anonymously. And if you want to come out to the farm tonight, we can talk about it. I won’t bring faith into this either. Let’s just have a chat.”
“Okay, I’ll come out tonight.”
“Thanks, son. Go to the police then come over later. Your mother will want to see you.”
“Okay, see you soon.”
Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.
— 2 Corinthians 5:17