Just before six on Thursday, as the pinochle was winding down and preparations were being made to end another nonproductive day, a well-dressed young businessman with a shiny black attache entered the office and asked for Mr. Dupree. Hoppy was in the back, rinsing his mouth with Scope and hurrying to get home since Millie was locked away. Introductions were made. The young man presented a business card which declared him to be Todd Ringwald of KLX Property Group out of Las Vegas, Nevada. The card impressed Hoppy enough to shoo off the last of the lingering sales associates, and lock his office door. The mere presence of one dressed so well and having traveled such a great distance could only mean serious matters were possible.
Hoppy offered a drink, then coffee, which could be brewed in an instant. Mr. Ringwald declined, and asked if he'd come at a bad time.
“No, not at all. We work crazy hours, you know. It's a crazy business.”
Mr. Ringwald smiled and agreed because he too was once in business for himself, not too many years ago. First a bit about his company. KLX was a private outfit with holdings in a dozen states. While it did not own casinos, and had no plans to do so, it had developed a related specialty, a lucrative one. KLX tracked casino development. Hoppy nodded furiously as if this type of enterprise was altogether familiar to him.
Typically, when casinos move in, the local real estate market changes dramatically. Ringwald was certain Hoppy knew all about this, and Hoppy agreed wholeheartedly as if he'd made a fortune recently. KLX moved in quietly, and Ringwald emphasized just how utterly secretive the company was, a step behind the casinos, and developed shopping areas and expensive condos and apartment complexes and upper-end subdivisions. Casinos pay well, employ many, things change in the local economy, and, well, there's just a helluva lot more money floating around and KLX wanted its share. “Our company is a vulture,” Ringwald explained with a devious smile. “We sit back and watch the casinos. When they move, we go in for the kill.”
“Brilliant,” Hoppy offered, unable to control himself.
However, KLX had been slow to move on the Coast, and, confidentially, this had cost a few jobs back in Vegas. There were still incredible opportunities, though, to which Hoppy said, “There certainly are.”
Ringwald opened his briefcase and removed a folded property map, which he held on his knees. He, as Vice President of Development, preferred to deal with smaller realty agents. The big firms had too many people hanging around, too many overweight housewives reading classifieds and waiting for the slightest morsel of gossip. “You got that right!” Hoppy said, staring at the property map. “Plus you get better service from a small agency, like mine.”
“You have been highly recommended,” Ringwald said, and Hoppy couldn't suppress a smile. The phone rang. It was the senior in high school wanting to know what was for supper and when might Mother be coming home. Hoppy was pleasant but short. He was very busy, he explained, and there might be some old lasagna in the freezer.
The property map was unfolded on Hoppy's desk. Ringwald pointed to a large red-colored plot in Hancock County, next door to Harrison and the westernmost of the three coastal counties. Both men hovered over the desk from different sides.
“MGM Grand is coming here,” Ringwald said, pointing to a large bay. “But no one knows it yet. You certainly can't tell anyone.”
Hoppy's head was shaking Hell No! before Ringwald finished.
“They're gonna build the biggest casino on the Coast, probably middle of next year. They'll announce in three months. They'll buy a hundred acres or so of this land here.”
“That's beautiful land. Virtually untouched.” Hoppy had never been near the property with a real estate sign, but he had lived on the Coast for forty years.
“We want this,” Ringwald said, pointing again to the land marked in red. It was adjacent to the north and west of the MGM land. “Five hundred acres, so we can do this.” He pulled the top sheet back to reveal an artist's rendering of a rather splendid Planned Unit Development. It was labeled Stillwater Bay with bold blue letters across the top. Condos, office buildings, big homes, smaller homes, playgrounds, churches, a central square, a shopping mall, a pedestrian mall, a dock, a marina, a business block, parks, jogging paths, bike trails, even a proposed high school. It was Utopia, all planned for Hancock County by some wonderfully farsighted people in Las Vegas.
“Wow,” Hoppy said. There was a bloody fortune on his desk.
“Four different phases over five years. The whole thing will cost thirty million. It's by far the biggest development ever seen in these parts.”
“Nothing can touch it.”
Ringwald flipped another page and revealed another drawing of the dock area, then another for a close-up of the residential section. “These are just the preliminary drawings. I'll show you more if you can come to the home office.”
“Vegas.”
“Yes. If we can reach an agreement on your representation, then we'd like to fly you out for a few days, you know, meet our people, see the whole project from the design end.”
Hoppy's knees wobbled and he took a breath. Slow down, he told himself. “Yes, and what type of representation did you have in mind?”
“Initially, we need a broker to handle the purchase of the land. Once we buy it, we have to convince the local authorities to approve the development. This, as you know, can take time and become controversial. We spend a lot of time before planning commissions and zoning boards. We even go to court when necessary. But it's just part of our business. You'll be involved to some extent at this point. Once it's approved, we'll need a real estate firm to handle the marketing of Stillwater Bay.”
Hoppy backed into his chair and pondered figures for a moment. “How much will the land cost?” he asked.
“It's expensive, much too expensive for this area. Ten thousand an acre, for land worth about half that much.”
Ten thousand an acre for five hundred acres added up to five million bucks, six percent of which was three hundred thousand dollars for Hoppy's commission, assuming of course no other realtors were to be involved. Ringwald watched poker-faced as Hoppy did the mental math. “Ten thousand's too much,” Hoppy said with authority.
“Yes, but the land is not on the market. The sellers don't really want to sell, so we have to sneak in quickly, before the MGM story leaks, and snatch it. That's why we need a local agent. If word hits the street that a big company from Vegas is looking at the land, it'll go to twenty thousand an acre. Happens all the time.”
The fact that the land was not on the market caused Hoppy's heart to stutter. No other realtors were involved! Just him. Just little Hoppy and his full six percent commission. His ship had finally come in. He, Hoppy Dupree, after decades of selling duplexes to pensioners, was about to make a killing.
Not to mention the “marketing of Stillwater Bay.” All those houses and condos and commercial properties, hell thirty million dollars' worth of red-hot property with Dupree Realty signs hanging all over it. Hoppy could be a millionaire in five years, he decided on the spot.
Ringwald moved in. “I'm assuming your commission is eight percent. That's what we normally pay.”
“Of course,” Hoppy said, the words rushing forward over a very dry tongue. From three hundred thousand to four hundred thousand, just like that. “Who are the sellers?” he asked, quickly changing the subject now that they'd agreed on eight percent.