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“Oh, Vi. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
I wasn’t used to seeing Mona frown. “It’s just dinner, that’s all. He’s a lonely guy.”
“I’m a lonely guy, too, Blondie. Stop by my place after dinner and I’ll give you a lesson on finishing the deal. Wear something tight and low-cut.”
I’d sooner drink Drano. “I’ll pass.”
“Your loss.” Ray nodded at the calendar hanging on the wall. “With your time just about up, I guess I should call my nephew and tell him to have his interview suit dry-cleaned.”
Ray had made it no secret that he’d been ticked Jane hired me back in May for the newly-created Associate position, instead of waiting another month for his nephew to finish realty school. As Deadwood’s reigning King of Schmooze, Ray wasn’t used to rejection, but no amount of dining—or whining—had convinced Jane to take on a fourth employee.
I lifted my chin. “I’m not out of the game yet.” I had a Hail Mary play left in me still, I was sure of it.
With his trademark smirk in place, Ray sat forward as if he had a secret to share. “Harvey isn’t going to sign any contract, Sweetheart. He’s just dangling a carrot, hoping to get some young tail. Did he tell you that he got kicked out of the Prairie Dog Palace Casino last week for wagging his Johnson at a busload of pretty old maids from Canada?”
That wasn’t true—well, not exactly, according to Harvey. Besides, it didn’t matter if it was. I needed a sale, even if it cost me a little dignity and a lot of antacids.
“Sunshine,” Mona said, “your asshole meter is red-lining.”
Ray waved off Mona. “Face it, Blondie. You’re like Wild Bill and Potato Creek Johnny around these parts—history.”
I picked up my stapler with every intention of imprinting ‘Swingline’ on Ray’s forehead via blunt force trauma.
The front door whisked open and a tall, sandy-haired Don Juan zeroed in on me with a white-toothed grin that saved me from a potential assault charge.
“Hello, Miss Parker.”
I lowered the stapler, a little starry-eyed by Don Juan’s dazzling features. “Have we met before?” I was sure I’d have remembered him.
He held out a postcard I recognized by sight.
A month ago, I’d had the harebrained idea of making up postcards using a family picture to help round up some business. The whole “look at me, I’m just a friendly mom who wants to help you sell your house and make all of your dreams come true” kind of card. It had drained my dwindling savings account of several hundred precious dollars.
“Ah. You got my postcard. How can I help you?” Please say you want to sell something.
“I want to sell my house.”
Yes!I offered Don Juan the seat across from me and grabbed paper and pen. “Let’s start with your name.”
“Wolfgang Hessler.”
“Hessler? Spelled the same as the jewelry store in town?”
“Exactly. That’s my store.”
“Oh. That’s a nice store.” That was like saying the Hope diamond was a “pretty stone.”
Hessler’s Jewelry Designs was one of the two primo jewelry stores on Main Street—heck, in western South Dakota. There were none of the usual Black Hills Gold grape-leaf pieces in his store window, only original designs that took my breath away. Not that I could afford even a single earring from his shop, let alone two. But I often drooled in his store’s window while scarfing down chocolate from the Candy Corral, located a few doors down.
“You’re Wilma Hessler’s kid?” Ray rolled his chair over and joined the conversation in spite of my eat-shit-and-die glare.
“Wilma was my mother, yes.” Wolfgang’s articulate use of the English language seemed out of place.
“I thought you moved to San Francisco.” Ray knew everything about everyone in town. That’s probably what had made him the top salesman every month for the past five years, and possibly the only reason that Jane put up with his chauvinistic ass.
“I did.”
“Are you going to sell the jewelry store, too?” Ray asked. If I’d had a Kleenex, I’d have given it to Ray to wipe the drool from his chin.
