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?”