Realtor Revenge is the sequel to Real Estate Games. For the full experience, I suggest you start with Part 1 of Real Estate Games.
***
Realtor Revenge
Chapter 7
Dinner with the Chinese
Mark did it. Despite his propensity to fuck every woman he met. Even with his annoying habit of offering my body to half the male population of Merryville. He managed to buy every available piece of property in town. And not a day too soon.
The day after we signed the last contract, the first contingent of overseas buyers showed up. A dozen Chinese checked into the Merryville Inn that afternoon and met with Mark and me for dinner at the Sharper Knife that evening.
The nine men and three women were all conservatively dressed in what looked like recently purchased business attire. Only two of our visitors spoke English. Sheying Li, a petit woman in her late twenties, was their official interpreter and Zhuoli Kang, the senior member, an engineer who had studied in the states, had an adequate grasp of our language. I sat next to Li at dinner and, with her help, was able to carry on the semblance of a conversation with the rest of my table. It wasn't the most enjoyable dinner party of my career, but the customers seemed to enjoy themselves. I considered it a success... until the unfortunate incident towards the end of the evening.
The wait staff was taking our dessert and coffee orders when one of the Chinese men made a big production of presenting Mark with a box of tea... hand carried from China. Being the good host, Mark asked a waitress to bring in hot water and cups so we could all enjoy the special tea together.
Now I'm not a tea drinker. Hot, iced or otherwise. So, when they brought me a cup of hot water and one of the award-winning tea bags, I politely declined and asked for a cup of coffee.
From the reaction of every oriental in the room, you'd thought I stripped naked and deep throated the waiter. All conversation stopped. All eyes turned toward me.
"It is very excellent tea," Li whispered into my ear.
"I'm sure it is," I said. "I just prefer coffee."
I heard a chair slide across the floor and looked up to see Mark walking towards me.
"A moment of your time Miss Hardwood," he said beckoning with his finger.
Mark led me to a small alcove in the back of the restaurant, hidden from public view. I turned towards him, expecting a quick explanation about the importance of tea in China. Instead, he pushed me against the wall, grabbed me by the throat and lifted me off the ground.
"What I am doing is far too important to be fucked up by you," he growled through clenched teeth. "Refusing a gift, even as small as a cup of tea, is a huge insult to Orientals. From this day forward, you will follow the customs of every client we bring to town. If they eat goat, you eat goat. If they wear dead cats on their heads, you ask where you can get one. And if they offer you a cup of seaweed tea, you drink it and ask for more. Do you understand?"
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to enthusiastically nod my head and admit to my error. But I couldn't, because he had a death grip on my neck.
Realizing my predicament, but unwilling to lower me to the ground, Mark shoved his right hand under my dress, pushed my panties aside and shoved two fingers inside my vagina. He kept his left hand on my throat but slowly transferred the bulk of my weight to his right. I was far from comfortable, but at least I could breathe again.
"I... I'm sorry," I gasped when air returned to my lungs. "I didn't know."
"Didn't know or didn't care," he said and dropped me to the floor. "Take a few minutes to compose yourself and then get your ass back in there and apologize... like your life depends on it."
***
Three more weeks. That's how long until the city council approved the corporate tax breaks. Once that was done, I would no longer need the services of Mr. Mark Seiman. Burying the man alive was too good for him. I'd have to find a more agonizing way to end his life. Maybe Flanagan had some ideas. He usually did.
***
The Scenic Route
First thing on the next morning's agenda was a tour of the now deserted car plant. The Chinese hoped to take it over and Mayor Stuffit was happy to be their host. After two hours of looking at idle assembly lines, vacant offices and empty storage areas, I was ready to move on to something else... anything else. But the Chinese engineers had more questions than the caretaker staff had answers. Mark wasn't invited on the tour, which gave me an opportunity to leave early... using the excuse that I had to supervise preparation of the following luncheon with the full city council.
There were two routes from the plant back to Merryville. The four-lane expressway or a slightly longer, but much more scenic, country road. It was a nice day, I had plenty of time, and I drove a Porsche.
I took the scenic route.
The blood red Mustang convertible with the top down pulled up behind me about a mile after I left the plant. It insisted on driving three feet from my rear bumper despite several opportunities to pass. The sun's reflection off his windshield prevented me from seeing the driver's face but, whoever it was, he was pissing me off. There is a pecking order on the open road and a twenty-five-thousand-dollar Ford does not have the right to tailgate a hundred-thousand-dollar imported German sports car.
I down shifted and punched the accelerator to the floor, quickly putting a football field between me and the asshole in the Mustang. But as soon as I backed off the speed, the Mustang was back on my ass.
I tried it again. Down shift. Punch it. Make the Ford a dot in my rear-view mirror.
Just when I thought I'd finally taught my stalker a lesson in highway etiquette, the Porsche quit accelerating. In less than a minute, I went from just over a hundred down to forty. The Mustang was catching up and I couldn't figure out what was wrong with my ride. I rounded a corner and hit a three mile straight away which led directly into town. If I could coax one more burst of speed out of my traitorous car, I'd be back in civilization.
It wasn't to be. No matter what gear I selected, even with the gas pedal on the floor, the car insisted on going forty miles per hour. Not thirty-nine, not forty-one. The needle never wavered from forty.
The Mustang quickly caught me and switched lanes to pass. I pounded the steering wheel in frustration. Not only did the jackass in the Ford get the better of me, but now I'd have to take an hour out of my day to take my car to the shop... an hour I didn't have.
Instead of blowing by me, like it should have, the Mustang slowed and pulled up beside me... obviously planning to do or say something obnoxious. I was getting my one finger salute warmed up when I glanced over to discover the driver was a woman... without a stich of clothing. Her blonde hair looked like it hadn't been brushed in weeks. Her skin was so white it was almost transparent. And, as if all that wasn't on the far-right edge of the fucked-up scale, her hands were chained to the steering wheel. But she wasn't just any pale, naked woman chained to a blood red Mustang convertible.
She was Janis Moorehead.
I only saw her for a few seconds. She pulled alongside my misbehaving Porsche, gave me a wink, and then sped off. But a few seconds was all I needed to recognize the woman I had personally placed in the grave two weeks earlier.
My Porsche returned to normal a couple of minutes after the Mustang encounter. I considered racing after her but decided instead to take my car to the dealership. The short-lived inability to go over forty was my primary concern, but I also wanted them to check out the air-conditioning. It had to be malfunctioning. Why else would the inside of my car be freezing when it was at least eighty outside?
***