It was a typical hot Sunday afternoon open house. The usual suspects of condo commandos, retired nobodies, and the ever present snowbirds that stayed behind for summer filed through. None were buyers, Finn could tell. All they wanted to see was how the Epstein’s had decorated and to tell him how it was overpriced.
“Like these idiots know shit.” He thought.
A loud crash came from the kitchen. When Finn entered he found a nosy neighbor, from Iowa or Minnesota or some frozen state, had walked face first into the sliding glass door.
“You need to put something on this glass. Someone could get hurt.” She said in her monotone nasally accent.
“I’ll take care of it right away.” Finn told her.
The snowbird slowly wondered around looking at the décor continuing to check her nose for blood. When she got to the front door she rubbed her nose one last time and commented.
“You know this is way overpriced.”
Finn hated his life. After 10 years selling real estate in the sleepy community of Vero Beach, FL he had had it. He had a Finance degree from the University of Florida and lost a promising career with a large bank after a merger left him unemployed. After losing his job Finn pursued his dream of working for the FBI. He sat through and passed all the tests given. All he was waiting for was an acceptance letter that never came. So he packed up his family, moved back to Florida and did what everybody does when they move to Florida. He got his Real Estate license.
He joined the biggest firm in the area and things started happening. Within a short time Finn was selling luxury beach front homes and making more money than he ever could have made working at a bank. He owned a beautiful house on the Indian River Lagoon, two boats, three cars, two golf club memberships, five rental properties and was in the process of purchasing a small commercial building when the crash hit. Shortly into the real estate crash he had to file bankruptcy and shortly after the bankruptcy his wife had taken the kids moved back to Savannah leaving him with nothing. Now he was divorced selling $50,000 condominiums and doing price opinions for banks on foreclosed properties. All of the foreclosed properties were disgusting. Most had mold, missing appliances, stains of unknown origin, dead rats or raccoons in the pool and the occasional lone squatter: thus the Glock he carried concealed in his messenger bag.
Mona was doing the same as she had done every Sunday for the last 30 years, holding an open house. Mona owned one of the top brokerages and was the most hated Realtor on the Treasure Coast of Florida. She started with small houses and now sold everything of value on the barrier island. She wasn’t hated for her sales, but for her way of doing business. She would step on anyone that got in her way. She would lie, cheat or steel to get a home sold. Her clients loved her because she got the job done. The other Realtors hated her for her dirty style. The thing is you would never recognize her if you only saw her face on her card or in her advertising.
Like all Realtors she loved her glamor shots. Mona had hers taken 15 years ago when she was 55, thin and just starting her long love affair with Botox and cosmetic surgery. She’s now a 70 year old with perky boobs, no wrinkles, blond hair, an ever present surprised look and a turkey neck (that wrinkly sagging skin you see on the neck of a turkey).