3
OLD, OUT OF date—that was the only way Pomeroy could describe Mr. Ackroyd’s place. It was the nicest in the canyon, because it had always been maintained, but the interior was like some kind of time-warp place, all wood and wool and books and old pottery. There were doilies sitting around on things, too, which was weird in a bachelor’s house, but the whole place was clean, and that was something to admire. Most men couldn’t keep a clean house. There was even a little closet near the front door with a broom and dustpan in it.
When Pomeroy had arrived that morning, Ackroyd was sweeping up the leaves and rose petals on the front porch, and had picked up the debris with the dustpan and put it into the bin instead of just sweeping it under the railing. Pomeroy had committed the scene to memory, playing it through in his mind to get the phrasing just right so he could tell the story to customers. That kind of attention to cleanliness and detail was why the place was in the shape it was in. That would be a selling point.
“I’d miss a television if I lived out here,” he said, watching Ackroyd prepare sandwiches in the kitchen. The old man moved slowly and methodically. Surprisingly, he had offered Pomeroy something to eat, for no reason at all—a sandwich, even though it was only eight-thirty, more like time for breakfast. Still, that was real hospitality, and Pomeroy made a mental note to that effect. Recalling it later in conversation could be impressive. He was a man who appreciated a good deed, regardless of the time of day….
“Don’t you miss television sometimes? On a rainy afternoon with nothing to do, say?”
“Never had a television,” Ackroyd said. “I don’t have anything against them, I just never got the habit, living out here.”
“It’s the old movies I’d miss—Judy Garland, Maureen O’Sullivan, Laurel and Hardy. I saw a great one just last night—Going My Way, with Bing Crosby. Have you seen it?”
“At the old Gem Theatre in Garden Grove. That must have been upwards of forty years ago now.”
“How about when the old lady comes in at the end? If that didn’t bring tears to your eyes …”
“Shameless,” Ackroyd said, “but effective.”
“Der Bingle,” Pomeroy said, sighing.
“Yes indeed.”
“That’s what they called Bing, people who knew him.”
“Ah,” Ackroyd said.
“Der Bingle. It’s German, I guess.”
“Sounds distinctly German, doesn’t it? Lettuce?”
“You don’t mind washing it pretty well, do you? I’m not tolerant of insecticides.”
Pomeroy looked around the living room, calculating the square footage. “Ever think of moving the hot-water heater out of the kitchen?” he asked. “That would be a selling point, moving it outside.”
“Is that right?” Ackroyd said, running the lettuce under the tap. “You wouldn’t think something that simple …”
“No, I’m serious. Just a couple of changes would make all the difference in the world. I’m talking a few hundred bucks. Wall-to-wall carpeting, maybe, and white paint on the woodwork. This place wouldn’t last on the market a week with upgrades like that.”
A coughing noise came from the faucet, as if there were air in the lines. Pomeroy grimaced. “Where do you get your water?” he asked.
“Spring up the hill, mostly. Late in the season or in drought years I draft it from the creek.”
“From the creek?” Pomeroy could see through the window that the property behind the house rose steeply up the hillside. It was green with undergrowth, most of it shaded by live oak and sycamore and maple. A water tank, maybe a thousand gallons, sat at the end of a dirt path a hundred feet up the hill. “Must be tough out here—pretty primitive for year-round living.”
“It’s all I know.”
“I’d like a place like this for a weekend getaway. Bottled water all the way. What do you think you’d need out of it?”
“I’ve always gotten what I need out of it.”
“I mean seriously. What kind of offer would I have to make?”
“I wouldn’t sell it.” Ackroyd laid the sandwiches on plates along with two variety-pack bags of potato chips. He poured iced tea out of a big jar into glasses and carried all of it out to the dining room table.
“Well, like I said out on the porch before we got to talking,” Pomeroy said, “I’d like to make you an offer.”
“I’m afraid it’s a waste of time. Napkin?”
“Thanks.” Pomeroy took a paper napkin from a holder and unfolded it on his lap. “I mean a serious offer. What I’d give you on this place would make a healthy down payment on one of those new condos out in Tustin Ranch. All the amenities right there—stores, jacuzzi, pool. You wouldn’t have to drink water that’s had fish swimming in it. Or worse.” He opened the sandwich and looked at the lettuce inside. “A condo’s a sound investment.”
“I’ve never been able to think of my home as an investment,” Ackroyd said. “That’s probably a personal failing of mine.”
“Hey,” Pomeroy said, shrugging. “Some people have no head for business. But then the right kind of money comes along and they learn fast. Crash course. That’s the best kind of education a man can get. You won’t find it in any of these books.” He gestured at the rows of books, dismissing them all. Then he waited a moment, giving the old man a chance to chew the idea over along with his sandwich. “What do you say?”
“Pardon me?” He was staring at the photos that hung on the wall above the bookshelves. “I’m afraid my mind wandered.”
“Name your price.”
“My price? Somehow what you’re suggesting sounds so exotic that I think we’re speaking different languages.”
He sounded almost testy. Pomeroy nearly laughed out loud. The old man was shrewd as hell; you had to give him that. Pomeroy winked at him, one salesman to another. Clearly he’d underestimated the old man, sold him short. “Money’s the universal language,” he said. “But I don’t have to tell you that. You’re good.” He shook his head in admiration. “Scotchman in the woodpile somewhere, eh?”
“In the woodpile?”
“Look, I’m serious. Quote me a figure. See if you can make me laugh out loud. What? Fifty K? Sixty?”
Ackroyd stood up without saying another word and walked into the kitchen. He was probably thinking about the money now, putting together a counter offer. Pomeroy would pretend to be shocked at the figure when the old man finally spit it out. The thing was that old boys like Ackroyd had been out of things for so long that they didn’t know what a dollar was worth when it came to real estate. You flatter them with the idea that they’re driving a hell of a hard bargain, and when you knuckle under and pay them off, they think they took you to the cleaners. Car sales was like that: well, there goes my commission…. Pomeroy pulled that old chestnut out of the fire every night of the year.
Ackroyd returned, carrying a paper lunch sack.
“All right,” Pomeroy said, “what would it take?”
Ackroyd picked up Pomeroy’s uneaten sandwich and put it into the sack along with the bag of chips. “I’m awfully tired all of a sudden,” he said, gesturing at the front door.
“What?”
“I’m afraid I need fairly regular naps. I’ve got to leave in a half hour, and I’d like to lie down for a moment first. If you’d like to take the iced tea with you, I can put it into a jar.”
“No, thanks.” Pomeroy was momentarily confused. The old man ushered him toward the door, showing him out. “Go ahead and sleep on it, then….”
“Please, Mr. Adams,” Ackroyd said, calling Pomeroy by his current business alias, “I’m not interested in selling my house. I’ve lived here for upwards of fifty years, and I mean to die here. There are things connecting me to this canyon that would bore you utterly if I tried to explain them to you, but I’ll guarantee that they’re sufficient to keep me here despite the lack of amenities, as you put it.”
He smiled briefly as the door swung shut. Pomeroy found himself standing alone on the porch. The old man was serious! He was apparently a nut. Pomeroy hadn’t pegged him for a nut. He got into his rented Thunderbird and turned out onto the road, pitching the lunch bag out the window when he was out of sight of the house. Nut or no nut, it was cat-skinning time. If he couldn’t take out an old fool like Ackroyd, then it was past time to retire.