Chapter 1

"Sunnyslope Terraces." The name conjured up two disparate images of "senior oriented" facilities: one, a cramped "assisted living facility" crammed with old folks waiting to die, a twenty-first century geriatric concentration camp smelling of disinfectant with fresh flowers in the lobby; or, two, a bland collection of suburban condominiums with safety rails next to the toilets and walk-in showers. I was hoping for the second, but I steeled myself against the possibility of the first.

I had picked up the condo for what I had hoped was a below-market price. At worst, I could turn it around in a few months and get back my money. At best, I could move in and use it as a base of operations.

I sell insurance to the "senior market:" long-term care policies, "final needs" policies, annuities. Moving into a building full of seniors with assets to reposition would be like placing a shark in a fish tank: free lunch for quite a while if I swam in the proper direction.

I had picked up the condo in an "Estate Liquidation" in Atlanta. I smiled, remembering my adventure.

As I said, I sell insurance, so I need to have a full set of insurance licenses. Since I do "asset repositioning," I also need a full set of securities licenses. And with securities licenses comes the requirement to spend about a week each year performing "compliance training." "Compliance training" is bureaucrat-speak for hours in a classroom being lectured about recent changes in securities laws and about the procedures necessary to "protect the client." If they really needed protecting, they'd have a conservatorship already established and the money would be in gold coins in a safety deposit box.

My securities dealer offered compliance training as a week-long marathon in various resorts around the country. I picked a week in Hilton Head. The program offered fifteen modules, of which I needed to complete ten different ones. Rearranging the program with a scissors, I found that I could take two different modules each afternoon for the week, leaving mornings available for golf. Afternoon golfers could only get two tee times in the week in order to achieve their ten different modules. The sole downside of morning golf was that I would have to pass on the convivial evenings in the bar, if I were to get up to be ready for a seven am tee time. Sitting around drinking Scotch with insurance agents is not my idea of a good time, but five rounds of world-class golf on someone else's nickel, ahh, that's joy. By the time I got in my reservations, I was able to arrange tee times at seven and seven-fifteen and seven-thirty. Start at eight, and I would have to either cut my rounds short, depending on the speed at which my unknown foursomes would play, or cut into lunch. Neither was a desired fate.

I found that my golf partners at the dawn tee times had all come to the same conclusion regarding scheduling: we included three AA members, an Orthodox Jew, two Baptists, and a follower of some unpronounceable guru, who was from, of all places, Philadelphia. We had all come up with the same plan, and were all in the same sessions. By Tuesday lunch, we were known as the "fearsome twelvesome." We sat together on the breaks, drinking iced tea (I preferred what was referred to as "that Northern stuff," without the sugar) or lemonade and swapped lies. On Thursday, Mordecai, who I found was an avid real estate investor, handed me a copy of the Atlanta paper, folded to the classifieds.

"Take a look at this 'out of area.' Isn't that your neck of the woods?"

The ad was the smallest possible: "1200 sq ft senior condo. San Mateo CA. Attorney. 404-555-1212."

I nodded. "I could invest a nickel."

Mordecai was emphatic. "If it was probate, they'd have to say 'probate, ' even down here where the laws don't apply." Once a cynical New Yorker, always a cynical New Yorker. "Since it says 'Attorney, ' it might the family's attorney liquidating granny's estate. If the family wants out fast, you might pick up a sweet bargain."

"I'll call."

I called, and indeed it was the family's attorney.

Southerners seem to want to tell you everything. And sometimes it's even what you want to know. "At least Mrs. Abernathy had the sense to put everything into the living trust. I tell you what. The kids want cash fast, so make me an offer I can't refuse. Twelve hundred square feet, senior, so it's not luxury. I don't like messing with out of state real estate brokers. Sharks, I tell you, sharks, sharks, sharks. And in California folks don't even have lawyers protecting you in real estate deals. Give me a quarter of a million and close in thirty, it's yours."

"Two seventy five, you carry the paper, and we close as soon as we can."

"You know, you've got a good attitude. Sure you ain't from these parts?"

I laughed. "California born and bred. I'm stuck in class through Friday afternoon, out in Hilton Head."

He laughed, now that business was out of the way. "I tell you what. You talk to my secretary: she's a real crackerjack with those damn airlines. You rent a car, drive to Hotlanta, stay at the Mariott, and we can sign papers Monday morning. I'll have fleeced my quota of foreigners for the week, and you can fly out Monday night on Delta. That's a real Southern airline, not like whatever you flew in on, and they fly to foreign countries like California."

"OK."

I gave his secretary my flight information, and she placed me on hold for a few minutes. "Y'all fly out Monday at five. You'll have to give the girl at the counter a hundred bucks to change the ticket, but that's the way it is. I can get you into the Mariott for Saturday and Sunday."

"Fine."

Of course, Monday morning the lawyer hit me up for nine thousand, eight hundred twelve dollars and some odd pennies for "closing costs," but I had the condo for nothing down. He was a good ol' boy, though, and took a check after he had his secretary call my bank to verify funds. The paper was against the condo, so I figured that I could walk away from the whole thing if I needed to.

Wednesday morning, I drove over to "Sunnyslope Terraces." At least to the address that I had from the attorney's papers. I found a twelve story concrete tower, with balconies on each corner, and landscaped grounds and a triple-decker parking structure. One I saw the inside, I would find out if my bargain was worth triple or only double what I had paid.

I parked in "visitor parking" and headed for the lobby.

The forty-something brunette at the concierge station was friendly when I showed her the sheaf of papers that I had from the lawyer. "Oh, you bought Mrs. Abernathy's unit? Such a nice, nice lady. Such a shame. I can show you the unit, but you can't do anything with it until I find out that everything all got recorded. Let me get the key."

She fiddled with her telephone for a moment, then disappeared into a back room.

"Will you be moving in?"

I nodded.

"It will be nice, having a bit more male attention around here.' She idly unbuttoned the second button on her blouse as we waited for the elevator. "It's warm today." Another button.

Things were definitely heating up.

Eleven E was a corner unit, with a view to the northeast, overlooking the San Francisco Bay. I could just make out the Bay Bridge in the distance. Two decent-sized bedrooms, a large living room with a gas fireplace, a semi-formal dining area, a nook that could pass for a 'den, ' and an efficiency kitchen. Mrs. Abernathy's possessions still filled the rooms.

The concierge looked around the living room. "We'll need to clean this place up, pack everything, send it to her next of kin."

"I'll call the lawyer, see what he wants to do. I bought the place furnished."

She looked at the walls. "And you may want to get the place painted before you move in.

Most of the couples where a man has moved in to units here have also had the kitchens redone with Wolf and Sub-Zero. This is the original kitchen from when the building was built. I know most of the contractors that have been through here. I could help you, point you in the right direction,..."

I noted that the kitchen was not the only thing that was pointed in the right direction. Two thumb-size nipples were poking at the fabric of her blouse.

She turned to me. "What do you do?"

"I sell insurance."

"Retired?"

"Still working."

"You're not gay?"

"No."

"Are you, uh, married?"

"I was."

She stepped over to me.

"I could really help you, um, find your way around, uh, the building." Her head was tilting back. I'm not totally oblivious. My lips met hers, and I put an arm around her back to steady her. She hooked an arm around my neck. The kiss was hot and deep. Her other hand found my crotch, and quickly felt the outlines of my rising manhood. I used my hand to massage a breast through layers of fabric. She pulled her head back and extracted her tongue from my mouth.

"Too damn many biddies in the building, I'll have to share. But you will take advantage of my 'consulting' services?"

"Yes." I figured daily service calls would be required until the contractors were finished. There are worse duties in the world.

"We need to get back downstairs. But first..."

The second kiss was hotter than the one before. She ground her breasts against my chest, her crotch against my tumescence. Her tongue found places in my mouth that I had not found with my toothbrush. Her mouth was warm, and the rest of her appeared to be heating up.

"It will be nice, having working plumbing in the building." I don't think she was worried about the pipes in the walls.

She shook her hips to get her skirt back into a semblance of order, and tucked her blouse back into her waistband. The buttons got rebuttoned.

"Now just a little one, before we go."

This one was chaste, at least compared to its predecessors. She was breathing hard, and appeared a bit flushed. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a card case, and extracted a card.