Champion of the World (21 page)

“Now it sounds like you're getting into your sales pitch,” Eddy said.

“That's what you came for, isn't it?”

“I suppose it is,” he said. He was enjoying the back-and-forth between them. He could tell Livermore was a capable salesman who
could rattle off a set speech and make it sound like something he was making up on the fly—the kind of guy who made you think he believed his own sales pitch, maybe because
he
actually did.

Livermore asked what Eddy did for a living, and Eddy described the hunting camp for him in the broadest possible terms. An athletic training center, a property owned by interests from out of state.

“Sounds interesting,” Livermore said. “I was a bit of a sportsman myself in my day. What is your position there?”

“I'm the manager,” Eddy said. “I don't own it, but I'm the man in charge.”

Livermore nodded absentmindedly as he set a stack of placards on each easel. The first was a reproduction of the advertisement Eddy had seen in the newspaper, only this one was larger and in color. He stared for a moment at the rolling green grass of the lawn, the warm blue of the sky. The other card was just a list of numbers printed out in sturdy rows. Across the top were four figures, starting on the left at $5,000 and going up to $8,000 by the time it got to the opposite side. There were other numbers beneath, but they were too small for Eddy to see from where he was sitting.

Livermore asked him why he thought he wanted to move to California, and Eddy said he wasn't sure if he did. He was just a man who was always looking for investments, he said. This was a lie: Eddy didn't want to move to California at all, and had no investments to speak of, but something about the advertisement in the newspaper had driven him to come there. As he sat there listening to the cheerful boom of Livermore's voice, their meeting had a dreamlike quality. He'd never thought of owning a home and had no intention of buying one today. He'd rarely thought of having a life outside Chicago. Somehow, being here gave him a strange buzzing sensation in his chest. He realized it was the thrill of having a secret, knowing that they were the only two people on earth who knew this meeting was happening. No, Eddy wouldn't end up buying a plot of land in a
state he'd never visited, but the feeling made him want to sit there a bit longer. Even if it was just fantasy, these few minutes were only for him, and he would play them to the hilt.

Livermore's coughing brought him back, and Eddy covered his own mouth with his fist, trying not to breathe. Maybe he wouldn't stay there much longer after all. Livermore had dragged a chair over from the dining area and positioned it in the middle of the room, facing Eddy. “Unless I miss my guess,” he said as he sat, “you're a serviceman. Is that right?”

Eddy nodded and Livermore made a solemn face. “I was over there with the 117th Engineering Regiment,” he said. “What an awful business.”

“National Guard, 132nd Infantry,” Eddy said. “Later attached to the British Third Army as a sharpshooter.”

He did his best to match Livermore's thin-lipped, serious look as he said it, though the truth was the war hadn't been all bad for him—rather, the most complicated but exhilarating time of his life. He'd hated O'Shea at first for signing him up, but learned quickly that the structure of army life suited him. There was a calmness there, hidden beneath all the shouting and running around. In many ways he was a model soldier, though early on the close quarters and forced camaraderie of training at Fort Sheridan threatened to drive him mad. He enjoyed mastering the techniques and tactics by day, but sleeping in a barracks with a hundred other men, smelling their stink, listening to their snores, the blats of their farts, the droning of their terrible conversations, seemed like a nightly death.

The front, of course, was a disgusting mess when they got to it. The mud and disease, the yellow, buggy water and moldy food, launched Eddy into a full-throttle panic during the first week. He thought of deserting, or of trying to get himself wounded on purpose, before a first sergeant he barely knew ordered him to the rear and told the colonel there that Eddy was one of the best natural
riflemen he'd ever seen. A few days later they sent him to a village in the north of France for special instruction in becoming a sharpshooter.

He was not sorry to leave his fellow guardsmen behind, and this was the assignment that changed his life. It was perhaps the first lucky break that Eddy had ever known. He excelled at his new post. On the first day of school he was able to recite from memory the names of fifteen objects the men were allowed to study for just one minute before being removed from the room. Those rigorous days he spent learning the arts of scouting, reconnaissance and careful, stealthy killing were among his best. As a sharpshooter, he was largely on his own and quickly realized that's how things should've been for him all along. He studied camouflage, how to find proper cover and how to glass a battlefield through a telescope without the glint of the lens giving away his position.

By the time he got back to the front, the war was all but over. The trench combat had broken up and he spent the rest of his time in France chasing Germans through the countryside with his rifle, a barometer and a small gauge he used to measure wind speed. It was bold, terrifying work, and if the fighting had gone on forever he might not have complained. The only things he didn't like about it were the dirt and the fact the army always made them travel in pairs. He killed seventeen men at the battle of Amiens and was awarded a distinguished conduct medal by the British Army. He liked to think he would've killed many more if he hadn't gotten back to the front too late.

Now, from the way Livermore's face twisted as he said the word
sharpshooter
, Eddy could tell he didn't think much of the profession. Because he felt like Livermore was waiting for it, he also tried for a sour expression, ducking his head gravely as he said, “Awful business indeed.”

“On the bright side,” Livermore said, “I'm able to knock five hundred dollars off the asking price for veterans.”

He got up and stood between his easels. As he began lecturing he used one meaty hand to point out various figures printed on the placards. He said the Frank & Livermore Company had recently acquired a large tract of land in the Centinela Valley, just miles from downtown Los Angeles, which, as he'd said earlier, was among the fastest-growing communities in America. They were in the process of developing a number of homes there.

“I'm not talking about shoddy old row houses or cramped apartments,” Livermore said. “We're talking single-family stuff. All brand-new. The comforts of country estate living with the convenience of the city.”

With a flourish he removed the display ad Eddy had seen in the paper and tucked it into the back of his stack. The card behind it showed the schematic floor plan of a house and surrounding yard. Eddy stood so he could get a better look, nodding along as Livermore pointed out the features. Three bedrooms, including a nice-sized master suite. Nice-sized parlor. Nice-sized front lawn. A driveway and full garage that could be turned into a workshop, if that was more his style. While Livermore talked, Eddy imagined the cool, dry air of an early-summer afternoon on his skin as he parked in the drive and walked across the lawn into the house. The scent of fruit trees tickling his nose. The warmth of sunlight streaming into the front windows. The gleam of brand-new hardwood floors. A life he would never have, but which at that moment seemed real enough to him that he could hear the chirping of birds and feel the heavy, satisfying click of tumblers falling as he unlocked the front door.

“Plenty of room for the kiddos to roam,” Livermore was saying, pointing out the dimensions of a hedged backyard. “Are you married, Mr. Eddy?”

He shifted on his feet—a twinge of embarrassment as he considered manufacturing a make-believe family to tell Livermore about. Finally he shook his head.

Livermore waved the idea away as if he felt silly for even bringing it up. “Plenty of time for all that,” he said. “California is for new beginnings. The start of a new chapter. Believe me, because I speak from experience.”

Eddy reminded him that they hadn't talked about money, and Livermore nodded like he'd asked him if he believed in God. Slowly he took Eddy through the four different tiers of available properties. The floor plan they'd been looking at was for the top available model, called the Presidential Line. It ran eight thousand dollars. Eddy had several hundred dollars in his pocket, but not that kind of money—not at his fingertips, anyway, even if Livermore gave him the doughboy discount.

“Interest rates have never been lower,” the real estate agent said. “I don't want to pressure you, but my train leaves in two hours and if you can muster a down payment today, I could save you some money and lock you in at 4.66 percent.”

It felt like a shove, jogging Eddy from his fantasy. He gave Livermore his driest smile. “I assure you, sir,” he said. “You won't pressure me.”

Livermore's friendly stare flickered and came back to life. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he said. “I just figured, why lay out all that dough at once if you don't have to? For a big shot such as yourself, seventy-eight dollars a month on a fixed ten-year plan? That'd be a steal on a cherry spot like this. Why, if investment is what you're after, these places are practically guaranteed to double in value before your term is up.”

“Sight unseen?” Eddy said. “If I didn't know better, Mr. Livermore, I'd think you were trying to scam me.”

The color in Livermore's face darkened—something Eddy might
not have thought possible—and he made a show of pulling his watch out of the small front pocket of his vest. He studied it, snapping it shut with an audible click. “This is my name,” he said, reaching out to tap the bottom of a placard, where the Frank & Livermore crest and address were printed. “My name, sir. It's everything I am and everything I stand for, and I assure you what I've told you here today is very much on the level. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a very limited window of time here.”

He began taking down the placards and stacking them against a wall near one of his suitcases. Eddy blushed. There was still something about the picture of the house, about the floor plan, that moved him. He realized he'd like to see the place in person. Surely, once his business in Montana was completed, O'Shea would owe him some time off. He'd never taken a vacation in his life, and this time he would have earned one. The idea of California—a place so warm the sunshine could turn you the color of old leather—had been growing inside him since he first saw the advertisement. If he went there and it was half as good as Livermore said it was, maybe it could be something all for himself. A place for his golden years, if he lived that long, or a place to start over if things ever finally bottomed out with O'Shea.

“I'd like to see it,” he said. “That's all I meant. If I've offended you, I apologize.”

Livermore was wrapping the placards in white cloth, but he glanced up, still not looking all the way convinced. “Nobody's saying you have to buy right now,” he said. “If you put down a five percent deposit of earnest money, I could have the home office save you a plot until you can get down there on an investor's trip. Take a look around. Make sure I'm not just peddling snake oil. The only catch is, if we go that route, I can't lock you in at these rates. All I can give you is a good-faith estimate.”

“Good faith,” Eddy said.

“Sure,” Livermore said. “We can both sign some paperwork saying this is the deal I've offered you. If you go down to California and like what you see—and, believe me, everybody likes it—the people in the office down there will do their level best to give you the same rates.”

“But it's not guaranteed,” Eddy said.

“No, sir, it's not,” Livermore said. “But it's as close as we can get if you're not prepared to go all in today.”

Eddy thought it over. Five percent was three hundred and seventy-five dollars. Still a chunk of change, but he could cover it. What did it matter in the long run? he figured. Even if he decided this had all been a gag, he wouldn't really miss the money. He could earn that much in a week back in Chicago when O'Shea finally let him come home. Until then, the monthly wire transfers he received to keep the hunting camp up and running were paying his way. He looked at Livermore, standing there now with his hands in the pockets of his slacks, and decided the man was giving it to him square. If he wasn't, that was something he could deal with at a later date. If the real estate agent was traveling around, checking into hotels under his real name, he'd be easy to find. Eddy also still had the Frank & Livermore advertisement in his pocket. The address printed there would at least give him a place to start looking.

He consulted his own watch and discovered he'd already stayed in town longer than he had meant to. No bother. If he hurried back he would still have time for a quick supper before he had to meet the men who were coming to the hunting camp.

“Is it a lengthy process?” he asked. “Doing this paperwork?”

It turned out Livermore already had the papers mostly filled out, and kept them all in the small side compartment of his soft briefcase. They completed the forms in duplicate at the table in the room's dining nook, and if Livermore found it strange when Eddy counted out the five percent deposit from a riffle of cash he kept in his pocket,
the man's face didn't show it. When it was all completed they shook hands again, Eddy holding his breath and then wiping his hand on the leg of his trousers. As Livermore bent over the table to stack the papers, he was seized by another coughing fit, this one worse than the first. Eddy took a step back, dismayed, imagining Livermore blowing tiny chunks of spittle all over everything.

The fit lasted only a few seconds and then the real estate agent adjusted his vest and kept stacking. When he had it all together, he turned, wordlessly offering Eddy his copies in one outstretched hand. Eddy looked at the papers, suddenly feeling as if a thin layer of grime was covering his skin. He could see damp spots on the top page, but Livermore just stood there, offering it to him with a smile.