Aliens for Neighbors Page 6

  "I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole," Homer told his wife, Elaine, "if there weren't so much money in it. But things have been kind of slow with this higher interest rate and all and this deal would give me a chance…"

  "If it's Mr. Steen wearing his shoes on the wrong feet," Elaine said. "I don't think you need to worry. You remember Uncle Eb?"

  "Sure. He was the one who wore his vest inside out."

  "Pure stubbornness, that's what it was with Uncle Eb. He put it on inside out one day and someone laughed at him. So Uncle Eb said that was the way to wear a vest. And that's the way he wore it to his dying day."

  "Well, sure," said Homer, "that might be it, of course. But wearing a vest inside out wouldn't hurt your chest. Shoes on the wrong feet would hurt something terrible."

  "This poor Mr. Steen might be a cripple of some sort. Maybe he was born that way.

  "If you lease all those houses, we can go to Europe like we've always planned. As far as I'm concerned, he can barefoot if he wants."

  "Yeah, I suppose so."

  "And we need a car," Elaine said, beginning on her catalog "And drapes for the living-room. And I haven't had a new dress in ages. And it's shameful to be using our old silver. We should have replaced it years ago. It's the old stuff Ethel gave us when we were married…"

  "All right," said Homer. "If I lease the houses, if the deal holds up, if I don't get in jail—we'll go to Europe." He knew when he was licked.

  He read the contract carefully. It was all right. It said black and white, that he got the whole five thousand.

  Maybe, he told himself, he should have a lawyer see it. Congdon could tell him in a minute if it was ironclad. But he shrank from showing it. There seemed something sinful, almost shameful, about his getting all that money.

  He checked on the Happy Acres Bank. A charter had been issued and all regulations had been met. He checked on building permits and they were in order.

  So what was a man to do?

  Especially when he had a wife who had yearned loudly for ten years to go to Europe.

  Homer sat down and wrote an ad for the real estate section of the Sunday paper. On second thought he dismissed purple prose that he had planned to use. He employed the old key technique. The ad wasn't long. It didn't cost too much and read:

  $4.16!!!!!

  WOULD YOU PAY ONLY $4.16

  a month to live in a house

  that would sell for $35,000

  to $50,00O?

  If so, call or see

  JACKSON REAL ESTATE

  Specializing in Lake Property and Country Acreages

  The first prospect was a man named H. F. Morgan. He came into the office early Sunday morning. He was belligerent. He slammed the folded want ad section down on Homer's desk. He had ringed Homer's ad with a big red-pencil mark.

  "This isn't true!" yelled Morgan. "What kind of come-on is this?"

  "It's substantially true," Homer answered quietly. "That's what it figures out to."

  "You mean I just pay $4.16 a month?"

  "Well," hedged Homer, "it's not quite as simple as all that. You lease it for ninety-nine years."

  "What would I want with a house for ninety-nine years? I won't live that long."

  "Actually, it's better than owning a house. You can live there a lifetime, just as if you owned the place, and there are no taxes and no maintenance. And if you have children, they can go on living there."

  "You mean this is on the level?"

  Homer emphatically nodded. "Absolutely."

  "What's wrong with this house of yours?"

  "There's nothing wrong with it. It's a new house among other new houses in an exclusive neighbourhood. You have a shopping centre just up the road that's as good as any city…"

  "You say it's new?"

  "Right. There are fifty houses. You can pick out the one you want. But I wouldn't take too long to decide, because these will go like hotcakes."

  "I got my car outside."

  "All right," said Homer, reaching for his hat. "I'll take my car and show you the way. The houses are unlocked. Look at them and choose the one you want."

  Out on the street, Homer got into his car and sat down on something angular. He cursed because it hurt. He lifted himself and reached down and picked up the thing he'd sat on.

  It was nothing he had ever seen before and he tossed it to the other side of the seat. It was, he thought, something like one of those clip-together plastic blocks that were made for children but how it had gotten in his car, he could not imagine.

  He wheeled out into the street and signalled for the Morgan car to follow.

  There were Mrs. Morgan and Jack, a hell-raising eight-year-old, and Judy, a winsome five-year-old, and Butch, the Boxer pup. All of them, Homer saw, were taken by surprise at the sight of Happy Acres. He could tell by the way Mrs. Morgan clasped her hands together and by the way suspicion darkened Morgan's face. One could almost hear him thinking that no on was crazy enough to offer a deal like this.

  Jack and Butch, the pup, went running in the woods and Judy danced gaily on the lawn and, Homer told himself, he had them neatly hooked.

  Homer spent a busy day. His phone was jammed with calls. House-hunting families, suspicious, half-derisive, descended on the office. He did the best he could. He'd never had a crowd like this before. He directed the house-hunting families out to Happy Acres. He patiently explained to callers that it was no hoax, that there were houses to be had. He urged all of them to hurry and make up their minds.

  "They won't last long," he told them, intoning unctuously that most ancient of all real estate selling gimmicks.

  After church, Elaine came down to the office to help him with the phone while he talked to the prospects who dropped in.

  Late in the afternoon, he drove out to Happy Acres. The place was an utter madhouse. It looked like a homecoming or a state fair or a monster picnic. People were wandering around, walking through the houses. One had three windows broken. The floors were all tracked up. Water faucets had been left running. Someone had turned on a hose and washed out a fiowerbed.

  He tried to talk with some of them, but he made no headway.

  He went back to the office and waited for the rush to start.

  There wasn't any rush.

  A few phone calls came in and he assured the callers it was on the level. But they were still hard to convince. He went home beat.

  He hadn't leased a house.

  Morgan was the first one who came back. He came back alone, early Monday morning. He was still suspicious. "Look," he said, "I'm an architect. I know what houses cost. What's the catch?"

  "The catch is that you pay five thousand cash for a ninety-nine-year lease."

  "But that's no catch. That's like buying it. The normal house when it stands a hundred years, has long since lost its value."

  "There's another catch," said Homer. "The builder won't lease to you unless you buy a new car from him."

  "That's illegal!" shouted Morgan.

  "I wouldn't know. Nobody's forcing you to take the offer."

  "Let's forget about the car for the moment," Morgan urged. "What I want to know is, how can the builder put up a place like that for five thousand dollars? I know for a fact that he can't."

  "So do I. But if he wants to lose a lot of money, who are we to stop him?"

  Morgan pounded on the desk. "What's the gimmick, Jackson?"

  "The builder wears his shoes on the wrong feet, if that means anything to you."

  Morgan stared at him. "I think you're crazy, too. What would that have to do with it?"

  "I don't know," said Homer. "I just mentioned it, thinking it might help you."

  "Well, it doesn't."

  Homer sighed. "It's got me puzzled, too."

  Morgan picked up his hat and jammed it on his head. "I'll be seeing you," he said. It sounded like a threat.

  "I'll be right here," said Homer as Morgan went out slamming the door.

  Homer went down to
the drugstore for a cup of coffee. When he got back, a second visitor was waiting for him. The man sat stiffly in a chair and tapped nervous fingers on his briefcase, held primly in his lap. He looked as if he'd eaten something sour. "Mr. Jackson," he said, "I represent the County Realtors' Association."

  "Not interested," said Homer. "I've gotten along for years without joining that outfit. I can get along a few years more."

  "I'm not here to solicit membership. I am here about that ad of yours in the paper yesterday."

  "Good ad, I thought. It brought in a lot of business."

  "It's exactly the kind of advertising that our association frowns upon. It is, if you will pardon the expression, nothing but a come-on."

  "Mr… by the way, what is your name?"

  "Snyder," said the man.

  "Mr. Snyder, if you happen to be in the market for a place out in this area at the ridiculously low cost of $4.16 a month, I shall be glad to show you any one of fifty houses. If you have a moment, I can drive you out."

  The man's mouth snapped together like a trap. "You know what I mean, Jackson. This is fraudulent advertising and you know it is. It is misrepresentation. We mean to show it is."

  Homer pitched his hat on top of the filing cabinet and sat in his chair. "Snyder," he said, "you're cluttering up the place. You've done your duty—you've warned me. Now get out of here."

  It wasn't exactly what he had meant to say and he was surprised at himself for saying it. But now that it was said, there was no way of recalling it and he rather liked the feel of strength and independence that it gave him.

  "There is no use flying off the handle," said Snyder. "We could talk this over."

  "You came in and made your threat," Homer retorted. "There's nothing to talk over. You said you were going to get me, so come ahead and get me."

  Snyder got to his feet savagely. "You'll regret this, Jackson."

  "Maybe so," admitted Homer. "Sure you don't need a house?"

  "Not from you," said Snyder, and went stalking out.

  Must have hurt their weekend sales, Homer told himself, watching Snyder go stumping down the street.

  He sat quietly, thinking. He'd known there would be trouble, but there had been no way he could have passed up the deal.

  Not with Elaine set on that trip to Europe.

  And now he was committed. He could not back out even if he wished. And he wasn't sure that he wanted to. There could be a lot of money in it. The car deal he didn't like, but there was nothing he could do about it. And by handling it right, he might keep in the clear.

  Maybe, he thought, he should go out and talk to Steen about it.

  Gabby Wilson, his insurance-selling neighbour down the hall, came in and flopped into a chair. Gabby was a loudmouth. "Howsa boy?" he yelled. "Hear you got that Happy Acres deal. How's about cutting in your old pal on the insurance end?"

  "Go chase yourself," invited Homer irritably.

  "Heard a good story the other day. It seems this wrecking outfit got a job to tear down a building. And the straw boss got his orders wrong and tore down another building." Gabby slapped his knee and roared with laughter. "Can you imagine the look on that contractor's face when he heard the news?"

  "It cost him a lot of money," Homer said. "He had a right to be good and sore."

  "You don't think it's funny?"

  "No, I don't."

  "How you getting on with this Happy Acres gang?"

  "Fine, so far," said Homer.

  "Cheap outfit," Gabby told him. "I been checking round. They got some two-bit contractor from out in the sticks somewhere to do the job for them. Didn't even buy their material from the dealers here. The contractor brought his own crew with him. The developers didn't spend a nickel locally."

  "Unpatriotic of them."

  "Not smart, either. Houses probably will fall down in a year or two."

  "I don't care particularly. Just so I get them leased."

  "Do anything so far?"

  "Got some interest in them. Here comes a prospect now."

  It was Morgan. He had parked in front and was getting out of a new and shiny car, agleam with chrome. Gabby beat a swift retreat.

  Morgan came into the office. He sat down in a chair and pulled out his cheque-book. "I bought the car," he said. "How do you want this cheque made out?"

  Six weeks later, Homer dropped in at the shopping centre office. Steen was sitting with his feet up on the desk. He was wearing black shoes instead of the brown ones he had worn before. They still were on the wrong feet.

  "Mr. Jackson," he said easily.

  "I finally got rid of them. All the houses are leased."

  "That's fine." Steen reached into a drawer, took out a small book and tossed it across the desk to Homer. "Here. This belongs to you."

  Homer picked it up. It was a bank book. He opened it and saw a neat row of $4,500 entires marching down the page.

  "You made yourself a mint," said Steen.

  "I wish I had fifty more," Homer told him. "Or two hundred more. This thing is catching on. I could lease them in a week. I've got a waiting list longer than my arm."

  "Well, why don't you go ahead and lease them?"

  "I can't lease them a second time."

  "Funny thing," said Steen. "There's no one living in those houses. They are all standing empty."

  "But that can't be!" objected Homer. "There might be a few still empty—a few that the people haven't occupied yet. But most of them have moved in. They're living in those houses."

  "That's not the way it looks to me."

  "What's happened to those people then? Where have they…"

  "Mr. Jackson!"

  "Yes?"

  "You haven't trusted me. You didn't trust me from the start. I don't know why. You thought the deal was queer. You were scared of it. But I've played fair with you. You'll have to admit I have."

  Homer stroked the bank book. "More than fair."

  "I know what I am doing, Mr. Jackson. I'm not anybody's fool. I have the angles figured out. String along with me. I need a man like you."

  "You mean lease all those houses a second time!" Homer asked uneasily.

  "A second time," said Steen. "And a third. And fourth. Lease them as often as you like. Keep right on leasing them. No one will mind at all."

  "But the people will mind—the people that I lease those houses to," Homer pointed out.

  "Mr. Jackson, let me handle this. Don't you worry about a solitary thing. You just keep those houses moving."

  "But it isn't right."

  "Mr. Jackson, in some six weeks' time, you've made a quarter million dollars. I suppose that's what's wrong with you. I suppose you figure that's enough…"

  "Well, no. With income tax and all…"

  "Forget the income tax. I told you that this bank of ours had tax advantages."

  "I don't get it," Homer said. "This is no way to do business."

  "But it is," said Steen. "I challenge you to find a better way to do business. There's no end to it. You can become a multimillionaire…"

  "In jail."

  "I've told you we weren't doing wrong. If you don't want to handle it…"

  "Let me think it over," Homer pleaded. "Give me a day or two."

  "Noon tomorrow," said Steen decisively. "If you don't tell me you are willing to go ahead by noon tomorrow, I'll look for someone else."

  Homer got up. He thrust the bank book in his pocket. "I'll be in to see you."

  Steen put his feet back on the desk. "Fine. I'll be expecting you."

  Out on the concourse, Homer walked along the gleaming shop fronts. And the shops, he saw, were no more than half-staffed and entirely innocent of buyers. He went into a drugstore to buy a cigar and was waited on by a girl of just slightly more than high-school age. He failed to recognize her.

  "You live around here?" he asked.

  "No, sir. In the city."

  He went into a hardware store and into a grocery supermarket. He saw no one he knew. And that was
queer. He'd lived in the area for almost thirteen years and thought he knew…

  He recalled what Gabby had said about the contractor from somewhere out of town. Maybe, for some zany reason, Steen had a policy against employing local people. Still, he'd employed Homer.

  It was a crazy set-up, Homer told himself. None of it made sense—and least of all, the leasing of the houses a second time around.

  Perhaps he should get out of it. He'd made a fair amount of money. Right now, most likely, he could get out slick and clean.

  If he stayed, there might be trouble.

  He lighted up the cigar and went back to his car. Wheeling out of the parking lot, he headed for the road that led into the housing development.

  He drove slowly, looking closely at each house. All of them seemed empty. The windows stared blindly without drapes or curtains. The lawns had not been cut for weeks. There was no sign of anyone—and there should be children and pets playing. Almost everyone he'd leased to had had children and dogs and cats. The place should be jumping, he told himself, and instead it was silent and deserted.

  He stopped the car and went into a house. It was bare and empty. There was sawdust in the corners and wood shavings here and there. There were no scuff marks on the floor, no handprints on the wall. The windows had not been washed; the trademark paper still was sticking to them. He went out puzzled.

  He inspected two more houses. They were the same.

  Steen had been right, then. Steen, with his shoes on the wrong feet, and with something else—with his different way of talking now. Six weeks ago, when Steen had come into Homer's office, he had been stiff and formal, awkward, yet striving for preciseness. And now he was easy in his manner, now he put his feet up on the desk, now he talked slangily.

  There was no one living in the houses, Homer admitted to himself. No one had ever lived in them. He had leased all fifty of them and no one had moved in.

  And it had a fishy smell—it had a terribly fishy smell.

  On his way out, he stopped at Steen's office. The place was locked up.

  The old gateman opened the gate and waved at him from the window of his kiosk.

  Back in his own office, Homer took out of a drawer the list of leases he had drawn. He phoned Morgan, the first name on the lease.