He met with Eric Breckerman personally on his second day there and, from his ninth-floor office in what passed for a high-rise in Christchurch, they went over every last detail of the blueprints. Once done with that, they drove out to the property and walked over the flat area for more than an hour, discussing what would go where and why.
In the end, Jake gave his final approval to a single level, six bedroom, four-bath house of 4100 square feet (or 455 square meters, as the actual blueprints read). The basic idea behind the house was to be unpretentious — thus the single level that was spread out over the property instead of a towering mansion in the sky. Jake wanted it to blend in with the hillside as much as possible, to be almost unnoticeable if possible.
The inside, however, was to be up to Jake's standard of luxury and comfort. The house would feature a moderate sized entertainment room, a soundproofed music room, an office, and a fully equipped stainless steel kitchen. There would be a large, wraparound deck overlooking the harbor and the town below. Behind the house there would be two outbuildings — one a four-car enclosed garage, the other a two bedroom, 1100 square foot servant's quarters with an attached maintenance shed and its own three-car garage. In order to keep the house sanitary and with adequate running water, three wells and three septic tanks would be required. In order to keep everything heated and in hot water, three propane tanks would be installed. In order to keep the property powered in an area where winter storms often knocked out the power lines for a few days at a time, a state of the art generator, designed to burn propane, would be installed behind the main house.
"Quite a spread you have planned, Mr. Kingsley," Breckerman remarked as they drove back to Christchurch that day. "There's not really anything else like it in the vicinity."
"That's why I'm going for the non-pretentious look," Jake said. "I'm not here to flaunt my wealth. I'm here because I like your country and want to live here. Hopefully people will understand that."
Breckerman shrugged, as if to say anything was possible. "Your purchase and improvement of this land has not gone unnoticed by the populace," he said.
"And what's the mood of the community?" Jake asked. "Are they going to march up the hill with torches and battering rams?"
Breckerman seemed genuinely shocked by this suggestion. "Of course not!" he said. "We're not savages, Mr. Kingsley!"
"It's a joke," Jake said, suppressing a chuckle. "A little American cultural humor. But how do the people feel about me moving here?"
"There are those who are resentful toward you," Breckerman admitted. "I'm afraid you'll find people like that in any culture. When a rich musical star from another country buys a large chunk of land overlooking a simple working class town and plans to build a mansion up there, you're going to have some people who don't like it."
"I wouldn't exactly call it a mansion," Jake said.
"It's much bigger than ninety-nine percent of the homes on South Island," Breckerman said. "To them, it's a mansion."
Jake nodded slowly. "Point taken," he said.
"Not everyone feels this way, of course. In fact, I'd say that the majority of the people are mostly just curious about you."
"Curious?"
"Yes," Breckerman said. "They're happy that someone is putting this city, this country on the map and curious about what you're going to be like. My staff and I are constantly being asked by people just what kind of person you are, whether you're nice or unfriendly, and exactly what you are planning to do up there on that hill."
"What I'm going to do?" Jake asked.
"Well... you have to remember, Mr. Kingsley, you have somewhat of a reputation in the media. You've been accused of Satanism, domestic violence, rampant drug abuse, and... uh... well, some unusual sexual practices."
"The coke in the butt crack thing?" Jake asked.
"That is a rather notorious thing to be accused of in our culture," Breckerman said. "So is Satanism. Remember, we have a strong Christian background here. This is Christchurch after all."
"You can tell the people that I'm most definitely not a Satanist," Jake said. "And I don't sniff coke from butt cracks these days. It's kind of passé, you know?"
"They'll be... uh... pleased to hear that."
"I'm just an ordinary guy, wouldn't you say?" Jake asked.
"Well... yes, for the most part I've enjoyed my interaction with you, as has my staff. You're an intelligent, well-spoken young man who is not afraid to say what is on your mind."
"Then tell people that," Jake said. "Tell them what you really think of me, even if there's things you're not saying to my face right here. And in the meantime, I've still got ten more days until I head back to LA. I think I'll spend most of that time just mingling with people and getting to know them."
"I think that's a very good idea, Mr. Kingsley," Breckerman said. "Will you be requiring a bodyguard service?"
"A bodyguard service?"
"We don't actually have such people for hire here in Christchurch, but there is a personal protection firm in Wellington and several of them in Auckland. I could arrange to engage their services and have the bodyguards flown in. Of course, the price would be..."
Jake held up his hand. "That won't be necessary," he told Breckerman. "I've never used a bodyguard before. I see no reason to start using one now."
Breckerman nodded. "As you wish."
Chapter 18b
For the next eight days, Jake mingled. He rented a car (a modest Toyota Corolla) and drove to various locations in and around the Christchurch area and the towns surrounding it, getting to know the lay of the land and meeting people. For the most part, he found the New Zealanders to be exactly like what his first impression of them had told him they'd be like. They were polite, friendly, and, though curious about his intentions in their country, they were much less likely to be overly intrusive into his business than your typical American. Your typical American tended to feel as if he or she had an intrinsic right to know your business. The typical New Zealanders, when they did decide to pry, at least had the decency to be hesitant and shy about it.
Jake met people from all walks of New Zealand life during his treks. He talked to gas station attendants, grocery store clerks, fishermen down on the Lyttelton docks, furniture makers and plumbers and construction workers who would be working on his house. He had dinner with the mayor of Christchurch and her husband in their modest estate house. He spent a night drinking in a bar with a group of Christchurch police officers he had met during an exploration of one of the local parks. Most of these people, Jake was sure, were left with a good impression of him, or, if not of him exactly, they at least had any worries eased that he was planning to have weeklong Satanic sex and drug orgies up in his hillside mansion once it was built.
"Two days, tops," he told the group of Christchurch police officers. "That's as long as a man can reasonably sustain an average Satanic sex and drug orgy."
Perhaps the most favorable impression he made during the trip was upon a man named Zachary Fields. He met Fields while scoping out airports in the vicinity of Christchurch. Jake planned to have his Cessna 172 — his original, single-engine plane, which didn't see much flight time these days — shipped to New Zealand so he would have something to fly when he was in the country. Christchurch International Airport was just outside of Christchurch itself but Jake did not feel comfortable flying in and out of so large a facility. Though most of the international flights flew into Auckland or Wellington, Christchurch was very busy during the summer months as it was the primary field used by supply and personnel flights to and from Antarctica. Jake wanted to be based out of a small field that catered to general aviation only.