Seen It All and Done the Rest (10 page)

SIXTEEN

I
’ll wait,” I said to the babbling beauty at the front desk who was trying to tell me that Ms. Woodruff and Ms. Booker were both in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed.

“It’s going to be a long meeting,” she said, clearly not looking forward to the prospect of spending several hours trapped in a room with a madwoman who had blown in like an ill-tempered wind and already raised her voice well above the level of acceptable office decorum.

I didn’t give a damn about decorum. I was two minutes away from kicking open that closed door without waiting to be buzzed in and carrying my loud, indignant ass into the inner sanctum to demand some answers to my increasingly indignant set of questions. I took a seat on the gray sofa again and tried to calm down. The receptionist pursed her lips and turned back to her keyboard. She didn’t have much choice. She couldn’t very well throw me out. I figured I could take her if it came down to it, but she didn’t look like a woman to whom public tussling presented itself as an option. She was more likely to figure I’d get tired of waiting and leave on my own.

She could not have been more wrong. I had no place to go and no time to get there. I had trusted Greer Woodruff and Associates to look out for my property in exchange for fees for their services. In return, they had allowed my mother’s parting gift to become not only an eyesore, but a haven for neighborhood predators and thieves. They had effectively cut off my only current source of reliable income, not to mention Zora’s only real possibility of an inheritance. I wasn’t going anywhere until somebody explained to me what was going on.

I picked up
Atlanta
magazine to distract myself and flipped it open right to a big story on Atlanta’s growing community of women entrepreneurs. The first profile was of one Greer Woodruff, who the magazine called “a successful Atlanta businesswoman who combines active respect for tradition with a bold vision for the future.” You couldn’t prove it by me. Her background was impressive. Howard University undergrad, Harvard MBA, public and private sector experience at the highest level, and now president of her own urban redevelopment firm.

In the photograph the magazine ran beside her profile, she was leaning back against her desk with her arms crossed and a pleasant but serious look on her face. She was about my age, broad shouldered, beautifully made up, and dressed for success in a dark blue suit with a skirt, not pants, and a pair of plain black pumps. Her salt-and-pepper gray hair was brushed back from her face in soft waves intended to deflect your attention from the almost masculine cut of her strong jaw-line.

I tossed down the magazine wondering how long I really was prepared to wait without going off, when the inner sanctum door opened and Greer Woodruff strode into the waiting room, followed by four men and Ms. Booker, who was scribbling busily on a clipboard. Two of the men were wearing very expensive suits that were just a little too flashy for business, as were the too-big-to-be-real, too-big-not-to-be diamond studs the tallest one wore in his ears. Both of them were black and had their hair neatly trimmed and edged up so sharply they must have come here straight from the barbershop. The stark white of their very expensive shirts was even brighter next to their dark skin. One of the other black men was dressed in a BET version of hip-hop chic complete with pants riding so low that the crotch was almost at his knees and a golden dental grille that made his smile a study in conspicuous consumption.

The fourth man was a slender white man wearing a much more conservative and considerably cheaper suit and a grin that can only be described as shit eating. The others were laughing, but the best he could manage was an uncomfortable smile.

“So I told him he should make other arrangements,” the hip-hop fashionista was saying. “Or I’d see him on Election Day. Am I lyin’?”

He turned to the white man whose grin didn’t waver. “I’m sure the councilman heard you loud and clear,” he said. “Loud and clear.”

“Damn right.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself, Jimmy,” Greer Woodruff said, touching the hip-hop guy’s elbow lightly as if she was steering him out of her office.

That remark elicited another round of laughter and then her eyes fell on me. There didn’t seem to be any flicker of recognition, but her radar picked up the presence of a possible problem and set off a distant warning bell.

“Politics is easy,” Jimmy said, trying to extend his moment at the center of attention. “It’s the politicians that are a pain in the ass.”

Greer Woodruff flickered a look at Ms. Booker, who was surprised and not pleased to see me sitting almost exactly where she had left me a few hours ago. She broke away from the small group and headed for me immediately.

“Gentlemen,” Ms. Woodruff said, herding them toward the door and out to the elevator. “Keep me in the loop as you move ahead.”

“Ms. Evans,” Ms. Booker said, her voice quiet and firm. “I thought I asked you to call for an appointment.”

“I’m here to see Ms. Woodruff,” I said loudly. “I don’t need an appointment.”

The group at the door turned as one in the direction of my outraged assertion and Ms. Woodruff frowned and took a step in my direction.

“I’m Greer….”

But before she could finish, the white guy in the group stepped around her, his eyes wide with surprise and delight. “Oh, my God! Are you Josephine Evans?”

Nobody ever recognized me in Atlanta. I was as surprised as he was. “Yes.”

“Oh, my God!” he said again while the others looked at him for some explanation of how he happened to know the angry black woman waiting for Greer. “I’m Duncan Matthews. I saw you in
Medea.
Five years ago in Amsterdam. My partner and I were there for two weeks and I saw the show four times. Twice in a seat and twice standing room. Every show was sold out!”

“That was a good production,” I said, enjoying his enthusiasm in spite of myself.

“Good? It was amazing! I’ve never forgotten one second of it. You were magnificent! Absolutely magnificent!”

Greer Woodruff was running through her mental Rolodex and coming up empty. She tapped the man on his back gently. “Duncan? Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

“Friend? Oh, no! I’m not a friend. I’m a fan! A total fan!” He grinned at me and made a small bow. “Greer Woodruff, Jim Nguchi, Matt Lovejoy, Tyrone Parker, I would like to present Ms. Josephine Evans, the most amazing actress in the world.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’re very kind.”

“It’s an honor,” he said. “That scene at the end where you come out with the blood all over your dress, carrying your dead son? It still gives me chills to think about it. What are you doing here? Are you performing anywhere? Please say somebody is remounting that
Medea.
I’ll buy my tickets today!”

The three brothers exchanged looks to see if this was making sense to anybody but the white boy. It wasn’t, so they checked their expensive watches as if on cue. Their work here was done. It was time to go.

I smiled at the guy’s enthusiasm. “I’m sorry, but there are no immediate plans for that. I’m here on other business.”

Greer turned to Ms. Booker, hovering nearby. “Clarissa, will you make sure these gentlemen find their way to the elevator while I take care of our guest?”

“Of course,” Clarissa said, guiding them out the door as the elevator bell announced its arrival.

Greer turned to Duncan. “You’d better ride down with them, don’t you think? In case there are any loose ends.”

His disappointment was all over his face, but she was clearly calling the shots.

He smiled at me once more, reached into his pocket, and handed me a business card. It said,
Duncan Matthews Properties.
“If there’s ever anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to call on me.”

“Thank you,” I said, slipping the card in my pocket.

“No,” he said, putting his hand over his heart and bowing. “Thank
you
.”

“Mr. Matthews?” Clarissa said, holding the elevator door with one hand.

He grinned apologetically, kissed the hand I offered with a flourish instead of shaking it, and hurried off to regale his friends with tales of my magnificent
Medea.
They would probably think he was talking about the old lady in those Tyler Perry plays, except she would never kill a kid. She might smack one for bad behavior, but nothing terminal. Ms. Woodruff nodded at the receptionist who hit the buzzer so fast she must have already had her finger on it.

“Ms. Evans?” she said with a smile. “Won’t you come in? Let’s see if we can do some business.”

SEVENTEEN

M
s. Woodruff’s office wasn’t large, but it had enough windows to avoid being claustrophobic. Her antique desk was tiny and tasteful, just like in the photograph. I took one of the chairs provided for visitors and tried to collect my thoughts. She closed the door behind us, sat down, scanned her desk for something she didn’t seem to find, picked up the phone, and touched a button.

“Clarissa? Can you bring me that file we talked about this morning? I didn’t see it.” She moved a few things on the desk around officiously. “Oh! Yes, here it is. Thank you, Clarissa. Tell Marie to hold my calls, would you?”

She hung up the phone and clasped her hands in front of her. “I had no idea you were an actress,” she said, smiling with everything but her eyes.

I brushed that off immediately and cut to the chase. “Why didn’t you tell me about the house?”

Her smile faded. “I hope we haven’t gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“I’m afraid we have,” I said. “Have you seen it?”

“No, I haven’t been—”

“It’s a wreck,” I interrupted her. “The yard is overgrown and full of trash, the windows are broken, and there are squatters and criminals living there.”

“I see.”

I waited for her to offer some kind of explanation, perhaps even a plan of repair and recovery, but neither one seemed to be forthcoming.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I think, Ms. Evans, that you have the wrong idea about my role in all this.”

“I thought your role was to manage the tenants, keep the property in good repair, collect the rent, and deposit it in an account as per my instructions.”

She nodded like what I had just said confirmed her belief in the existence of an unfortunate misunderstanding. “That was the job of your old management company,” she said. “But they are no longer in business. Responsibility for your property and several others nearby in equally poor condition was acquired by my firm late last year as part of a larger financial settlement, but that is not really what we do.”

“What do you mean, not really what you do?”

“We are a real estate development and consulting firm,” she said. “We deal primarily with commercial acquisitions and inner-city development. These houses”—she said the word as if the structures to which she was referring were barely worthy of the name—“are in no way related to what we do.”

“Then why did you take them on?”

She sat back and looked at me like she was trying to determine how much of the sad story she was prepared to share. “Most of the owners, including yourself, are absentee. We’ve been trying to reach them, but we haven’t always been successful. Your old company’s records were often incomplete.”

“I’ve been living at the same place for the past twenty years, and as your friend made quite clear, I am in a highly visible profession. I’m not hard to find.”

We looked at each other across her desk for a minute and then she sighed like somebody who’s getting ready to give you the bad news.

“Ms. Evans, let me state my position as clearly as I can. We are a three-million-dollar-a-year operation. Managing run-down rentals in bad neighborhoods is of no interest to me whatsoever.”

“That’s abundantly clear from the look of the place.” She wasn’t the only one who knew how to adopt a snotty tone of voice and condescending attitude.

“I’m a businesswoman, Ms. Evans, just like you’re an artist. I don’t have a political agenda. I don’t have a social agenda. The only agenda I have is economic.”

She opened the folder that I assumed contained the details of the duplex’s demise. Her eyes quickly scanned the few papers inside, then she looked back at me. “Unfortunately, your property is in an area that is not slated for any commercial or residential development at this time. The value of the parcel you hold has actually declined in the past few years, and even though your old company sunk quite a bit of money into repairs and renovations—”

“How much money?”

She ran her finger down a line of numbers that I couldn’t read upside down. From what I had just seen, they couldn’t have spent much.

“According to these figures, close to twenty-five thousand just two years ago.”

“Twenty-five thousand?
Dollars?
”

She plucked out the sheet and slid it across the desk in my direction. “See for yourself.”

Electrical repairs, $3,500,
it said.
New plumbing fixtures, $2,500. Paint, $1,500. Screens and outdoor refurbishing, $2,200. Lawn repair and landscaping, $4,000.
The list went on and on, but I had seen enough.

“This is absurd,” I said. “The place is a complete disaster. There is no way they could have done all this.”

She nodded sympathetically and replaced the sheet in the folder. “The truth is, they probably didn’t do any of it.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Ms. Evans, the reason they are no longer in business is because of this kind of scam. They would spend the funds on hand for maintenance and repairs and leave the properties to fend for themselves.”

“That’s stealing!” I said, stating the obvious.

She nodded again. “Not to mention stupid, unethical, and easily traced. When they finally declared bankruptcy there was nothing left for creditors or property owners to claim to recoup their losses. We bought the whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel, for some apartments they own over near West End that have some potential, but as far as the individual properties…”

Her voice trailed off and she closed the folder firmly. “There’s really nothing to be done.”

“Nothing to be done?” I was echoing again, but what else was I supposed to do? I had no idea, so I just sat there, hoping something would come to me, but nothing did. This was bad, and the longer I thought about it, the worse it seemed. I had gone from being a well-paid actress with a nest egg to being a slumlord on hiatus in the space of just a few days. My head was spinning.

“I know this is a shock, Ms. Evans,” Greer Woodruff said, not unkindly. “And being an artist, business probably isn’t your favorite thing, am I right?”

I nodded, hoping she could see a light at the end of the long tunnel suddenly stretching out in front of me.

“I also know that for most of the absentee owners, these properties represented a significant part of their post-retirement planning.”

There was no need to tell her that I had done no post-retirement planning since I never figured on retiring. My plan was to keep acting until they carried me off the stage and buried me, preferably in full makeup. I nodded again.

“So, even though all this predates my involvement, I am prepared to do the best I can to set things right.”

“What do you have in mind?” I said, hating that I sounded so needy. I cleared my throat.

“I’m prepared to make you an immediate offer for your place. It’s not worth much now, but in ten or fifteen years, I might be able to put a package together that—”

“Ten or fifteen years?”
Damn that echo!

“Even then, there’s no guarantee that anyone will be interested,” she said. “I just felt that perhaps I’m in a somewhat better position than you are to speculate.”

“How much is it worth?” I said. If she made me a decent offer, maybe I could reinvest the money in something more secure and still get my nest egg together. I wasn’t retired yet. I still had time to regroup, but I needed some seed money in the worst kind of way.

“As is?” she said.

“As is.” No way I was going to throw good money after bad by trying to repair it. My mother had paid forty thousand for it twenty-five years ago. It had to be worth twice that now, if only for the land.

“Fifteen thousand,” Greer Woodruff said without blinking.

Before I could stop it, that damn echo leaped out one more time. “Fifteen thousand?”

“I can write you a check today,” she said calmly.

“It’s got to be worth more than that,” I said, shocked.

“Considering location, the condition of the property, and current market values, I think it’s more than fair,” she said. “It is, of course, your property and you’re welcome to do whatever you choose with it. But I would like to be clear about something.”

“Yes?”

“My offer is not open-ended.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, Ms. Evans, that when it comes to that particular property, it is a buyer’s market.”

I could tell she was a great businesswoman because that’s what she was giving me:
the business.
I don’t know why, but I didn’t trust Greer Woodruff as far as I could throw her. There was something else going on and until I knew what it was, I wasn’t going to agree to a damn thing. I stood up. “This is a lot to think about. I should go.”

She stood up, too, and walked with me as I headed for the door. “I’m sorry we’ve met under such trying circumstances,” she said as we passed through her lobby and out into the hall.

The elevator doors opened as if on cue. I stepped in and punched the
DOWN
button. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” she said, and gave me that smile again as the doors closed between us.

When I stepped outside, it was still a beautiful day, but I hardly noticed. I knew exactly where I was, but I don’t think I ever felt so far from home.