8400 Southern Border
Mark was still trying to maintain a low profile, even though some of his latest antics were sure to spread rumors. We avoided being seen in public places together which made eating out extremely difficult. Not wanting to invade yet another client's refrigerator, I suggested we go to a small Mexican restaurant for lunch.
"Why would this place be safe?" he asked. "Don't the high and mighty of Merryville eat Mexican food?"
"I'm sure they do. But not where I'm taking you. We'll be the only Gringos there and none of the city council members speak Spanish."
We pulled up to 'Juan's' just after noon. The small parking lot was crowded with rusty pickup trucks and work vans. Juan's customers were mostly construction workers and landscapers, people who worked with their hands and backs for a living. My dress and Mark's slacks made us feel conspicuously overdressed when compared to the other patrons, not to mention our pale complexions. But when Juan greeted me by name as I walked in the door, two men scooted their chairs to the other end of the long single table, making room for us to sit.
"Does 'Janis' mean 'big breasted blonde' in Spanish?" he asked. "Or are you a regular?"
"At least once a week," I answered. "Best tacos in town. And who can refuse a two-dollar Corona?"
"I certainly can't. Why don't you order for the both of us?" Mark turned his attention to his smart phone while I told Juan what we wanted. Mark was still heads down in cyber space when Juan brought our drinks. Rather than interrupt whatever it was that made him ignore me, I sipped my cerveza and listened in on our table mates' conversations.
Yes. I speak Spanish. Fluently. Thanks to a Puerto Rican nanny when I was a child. But I don't brag about it. I'm not that woman who goes into a Mexican restaurant and orders in Spanish just so people know how talented she is. Just the opposite. I only use my bilingual skill when it is absolutely essential, when I need to communicate with people who don't speak English. Not because I'm embarrassed by my Puerto Rican accent or I'm trying to force the Spanish American population to learn English. It's my ace in the hole.
Sometimes, pretending to not understand what is said around you can have its advantages. Take the three lawn maintenance workers sitting next to us.
"We've got the house on Southern Border next," the lead man told him compadres in Spanish.
"Is that the one where the mujer with the big tits sits by the pool to tease us?"
"Si, and the sun is out today."
"I hope she is wearing the pink bikini," the third worker said. "Last month, when she turned over to get sun on her back, you could see all of her ass."
"All of it?"
"Everything except for a piece of string down her butt crack."
"Do you think she does it on purpose?"
"She has to. If she didn't want us to look, she'd go inside, like all the other women."
"Enjoy it while you can," the lead man said. "There's a for sale sign in the front yard. The next owner will probably be an old hag."
Good chance the Mexicans wouldn't have had that conversation if they knew I understood everything they said. Not that the location of an exhibitionist sunbather was valuable information, but if they had mentioned somebody who needed a realtor, I would have been all over it.
"I've got a couple of ideas for our next stop," I told Mark after we finished our lunch.
"As do I," he said. "Let's start with this place, it's just around the corner."
He handed me his phone which was open to the navigation page with 8400 Southern Border Trail as the destination.
"You speak Spanish?" I whispered.
"I hope she's wearing the pink bikini."
***
Mark drove while I pulled up the listing. 8400 Southern Border Trail was a four bedroom, three and a half bath ranch on an acre of land... owned by Mike and Beth Mayfield. He was a mid-level executive in the soon to be closed auto plant. She started life as his secretary and recently graduated to the wife position. Considering the market, their asking price of three hundred fifty was reasonable, but I was sure Mark would try to talk them down.
"I'll give them a call to make sure somebody's home," I said.
"Call her husband's office. Find out when he's coming home."
"You want him here?"
"Of course not. I want to know how much time we have."
I dialed the number and got his secretary.
"Hello. This is Mrs. Joplin; I was wondering if I could have a half hour of Mr. Mayfield's time this afternoon?"
"I'm sorry," the woman said. "He's booked solid through quitting time. Would tomorrow afternoon at two thirty work for you?"
"I think I have something else planned for tomorrow," I lied. "I'll get back to you."
"Can I tell Mr. Mayfield why you want to meet?"
I hung up without answering.
"We're good until five," I told Mark. "Hopefully whatever you have planned for this poor woman won't last that long."
Going against everything taught in realtor school, we arrived at the Mayfield house unannounced. Mark rang the doorbell. We waited for a minute and then he rang it again. He was just about to go around to the back of the house when Beth opened the door wearing a bright pink bikini under a semitransparent cover up.
I introduced myself and apologized profusely for not making an appointment. "We tried to call your agent," I lied, "but kept getting his voice mail. Would you mind terribly if my client took a quick peek inside your house?"
"It's kind of a mess," Beth said, positioning herself so we couldn't see past her well-tanned and toned body.
"That's not a problem." Mark pushed the door full open and walked in without invitation. "I'm sure I've seen worse."
"Is he always this rude?" Beth said loud enough for Mark to hear.
He ignored her comment and kicked a few cardboard boxes out of his way as he headed for the back patio. Beth followed him out and I followed Beth... getting a good look at her backside. The Mexican landscapers were right. Her thong bikini bottom didn't hide an inch of her tight, well-formed ass cheeks.
As if on cue, I heard the sound of lawn mowers and gas-powered trimmers start up when we reached the pool deck.
"That's a good-sized lawn," Mark said. "Would you mind telling me how much you pay these guys to maintain it?"
"Way too much, I'm sure."
"How long has this particular crew been doing your yard?"
"I don't know. My husband's had a lawn service for several years, but this might be these idiots' first time here. They all look the same to me. Just a bunch of illegals who spend half their time ogling women and the other half drinking beer."
"So, you don't know their names?"
"My husband calls them Jose, hose B and hose C." She laughed at her own joke.
"Do you ever tip them?"
