How are we supposed to do that?

—Champ

This stays between us peoples.

The us being you and me. The us being you and me and no one, meaning—No. One.

That cool?

Okay cool, if it’s cool with you then put that on something.

As a matter of fact, swear on what you need.

Mom says I’m selfish, but that ain’t it and though I can’t, no, I won’t say it to her, she should know. All this time I didn’t bare it because I couldn’t and I couldn’t because there was only so many times she could leave before the next time was it, before the next time turned me into another me. Wasn’t but so many times before that happened and I knew, even back then when I knew next to less than nothing, to be scared of who I’d become. So I put this abject slab where neither she nor no female could reach it forreal. And that’s where it’s been for so long you can’t know, where it’s been stashed until just this blink. But between us (what’s your word worth?), I’m going to risk it out again for my mother. It’s time to chance it out a last time for Grace and for me.

For the address that Jude gave, there ain’t no sign at all, just some copper-colored numbers (damn near nondescript) painted on a metal door smack between a tax prep business and Lock and Key Security. How I know, the windows of the others are scripted with company names, with phone numbers and slogans, the whole nine. The blinds are drawn to the window of Jude’s business, got me questioning whether I wrote the address down right or not. Even more uneasy, cause where Jude’s office is (or should I say where I hope it is) is out here where I don’t much roll, where most of the people I know don’t go either. Am I surprised when he answers? Let’s just say I wouldn’t have been shocked if he didn’t. Hey, he says with the zealousness of someone who’s lived evidence that the world plays fair. He slaps a sweaty palm in mine and invites me in. He tells me to have a seat and smashes into the leather office chair beneath a gargantuan plaque.

The Real Estate Guy

buy. sell. invest.

since 1990

The office is sparse. An oak desk, metal crates stuffed with manila files, tweed-seat chairs pushed flushed against a wall, for sale signs stacked in a corner. Jude tells me to pull up a seat and pushes a slab of bound sheets at me with the words big bust written on the cover. I scan the top pages, peek to see Jude reclined in his chair, his super-sized dome pressed against the wall below his plaque. When the market is strong, people think the goodness will last forever, Jude says. That they’ve stumbled upon the gleaming gold gates of the kingdom of fortunes. And history says that’s all the people need to toss the old rules right out a high-rise window. Jude blathers (imagine a hella-effeminate Don LaFontaine) minutes more of voice-over, and might keep on if I don’t speak up.

What is this for? Research? I say.

You could say that, he says. But more pleasure. This is the best thing ever wrote on the twenties bubble bust.

Okay. Got it, I say. History’s cool, but I’d love to hear about the house? Don’t mean to be so direct with dude, but who has time for the sidebars? Shit, we all know my bind, slap a blood-pressure cuff on me right now and witness a nigger that measures close to a stroke.

The house. Oh, that old thing, he says, and laughs. Even his laugh is mellifluous.

The other day I told Half Man about Jude’s dainty timbre and its comfort to me, but the homie wasn’t hearing none of it: Fuck how he sound, dog. That shit could be cahoots. Here’s the thing—he could be right. But here’s the thing, too—the homie could be wrong. And peoples, this ain’t in the least about what I stand to lose if this whiteman is playing me for a mark; it’s about all we stand to gain, what we will achieve cause I spoke it so (and what else must we need to make the universe acquiesce?) when this deal, that ain’t yet a deal goes through. Oh, you don’t know by now what that is? What, you ain’t been tracking? What’s in this for my beloved, for us few dear Thomases is this: a chance to resurrect and live. And for all the extraordinary bookie-types please, please, tell me how much for that is too much to risk?

Jude tippy-toes to the window and twists open the blinds and brightens the office. The security company’s van pulls up (I know this because even the van has signage) and a duo of stiff rent-a-cop types hop out and strut into the office next door. Jude takes his seat and checks a file. He shakes his mouse and stares into his computer. Bud, he says. I’ve always believed in educating my clients. So here we go. The first rule of real estate is, it’s never about buying or selling. It’s always about wants and dreams. About who wants what and when.

The night the owner dreams of a condo in Phoenix or a ranch in Durham, that house is as good as yours.

Huh? I say. Is that the plan? That don’t sound promising.

No, he says. That’s not it. But I want you to see how this works from the inside out. We’ve got good news. The husband has been eyeing early retirement. Says he and his wife may sell the house and move out of state.

Thinking or doing? I say.

Buying and selling is one big narrative and you have to realize if you’re at the start, rising in the action, have reached the climax, or are falling towards a denouement. That’s what I told them, and the good thing is, they’re listening. The trick will be convincing them that this is the perfect time in their story to sell.

How are we supposed to do that? I say.

Here’s another helpful bit of intrigue, Jude says. As it turns out he has family from the town over from my hometown. You’d think that stuff wouldn’t make a difference, but, bud, it all makes a difference.

My pager goes off. It’s a number I don’t know. A number I won’t answer. A number I won’t be calling back.

I’d love it if you could spell it out in plain English, I say.

There’s a true opportunity, Jude says. But I have to tell you. It’s hard as heck to be convincing without talking concrete figures. My question to you is, are you ready to talk numbers?

He quotes me what he thinks I’ll need to make as an offer they’ll accept, and shit, if my pressure was stroke-high a second ago, it’s got to have shot up near cardiac arrest. The number would be beyond my means if the hustle gods blessed me with a string of solid gold licks, but figure in what I lost and what I owe and believemewhenitellyou it may as well be the payoff for the fucking national debt. I tell Jude what I think I can raise, though in truth it’s about double what I believe within reach. I ask if we can make the down payment in cash.

Cash! he says. So you’re a cash guy? I love cash. Cash rules. But, bud, I’m afraid we can’t very well hand the owners a bundle of hundreds and fifties. We’d have to find another way to transact, money orders or a cashier’s check or some such. Let me think on it a bit. Jude don’t bother to ask where the money might come from—and let’s all call this benevolence.

Do we have a shot? I say. A real shot?

Of course. Of course. Don’t worry, with what you quoted we should be good, and if they ask for more, it shouldn’t be by much..

What about how much you want to do the deal? I say.

We can figure my fee later, he says. We’ll get a deal with them in place first.

Jude says sometime soon we should check out at least a few other properties, that he’d love to show me his neighborhood, his new place. He lives in Beaverton, and why oh why am I not surprised? There can’t be a swath of my fair city even a scintilla more befitting of a homogenous middle-aged white man.

You got it, I say.

We shake and he shows me out. I totter across the street with a math problem for a brain. Right, so oddsmakers there’s a forever source of ways this deal could fail, but as I said for my family, for all of us, I can’t let this dream defer, won’t let it fall apart. I glance back at Jude, and his chubby mug is lit with mirth.