A Bargain in Wishville
“Might as well sell it for a pittance, since it’s trash anyway.”
Inside the office sat a man whose face had gone red as if he were drunk, more like a Native American than a white man.
A thick belly, a bristling mustache, tiny eyes.
The air in factory owner David Thompson’s office stank of rot.
Nicot ine, whiskey, and that greasy, stale odor peculiar to white men all mixed together in the room.
He had sunk deep into a worn leather chair and was shouting into the phone.
“I told you, I don’t have any money this week either! How many times do I have to say it? Do I have to curse you out before you understand? Huh!?”
A faint, pleading voice leaked through the receiver.
David snorted.
“What? A contract? Heh, you fucking black bastard, you’re talking to me about a contract now? What the hell does that scrap of paper matter? What matters is how much cash I’ve got in my wallet! If I don’t have money, I can’t pay. If I can’t pay, I can’t pay! Understand that, you black bastard!? And since I’m at it, about those bolts you delivered last time—half of them were defective. One out of three boxes was rusted through. I’m not paying for that piece of shit, so deduct it yourself.”
Angry protests burst through the phone, but David only idly picked at the grime under his fingernail.
“Hey, hey, hey. Keep your voice down. What do you have to be so upset about? I’m the one who should be swearing. There are lines out the door from people who want to sell parts besides your company. If you want even that money, wait quietly until next month. Got it? Otherwise, don’t be surprised if I cut you off.”
Then, without waiting for a reply, he slammed the receiver down hard enough to crack it.
Clang!
With a rough sweep of his hand, David shoved the mountain of papers on his desk aside.
“Dunning notice,” “final warning,” “unpaid wage list”—the documents flew across the floor with the dust.
Then came a knock.
Knock, knock, knock—
Someone was at the office door.
David ignored it even after hearing the sound.
So the door was flung open.
“Boss!”
A Black laborer in shabby work clothes stood in the doorway.
His hands, jutting out from sleeves stained with grease and grime, were trembling badly.
“It’s been three months, Boss. Three months and I still haven’t been paid. Please… my kid’s sick. I need money for the hospital.”
“What’s this? Marcus? I didn’t tell you to come in, so why are you crawling in here? Are you crazy, you black bastard? Why are these darkies getting so full of themselves these days? Damn. The world must be going to hell. Things were better back in my father’s day. If this had happened then, we’d have whipped these black vermin bloody and hung them from the elm tree out front…”
“I waited outside for three hours. Please, just this month’s wages…”
“None!”
David roared.
“I said there’s none! How many times do I have to tell you? You people—one after another…”
“But Boss, my family—”
“Shut up!”
David snatched up the ashtray from his desk.
“Get lost, you negro bastard!”
The ashtray struck Marcus squarely in the forehead.
Thud!
Marcus staggered and grabbed the doorframe.
Blood dripped from his forehead.
David clicked his tongue at the sight.
“If you come barging in again, I’ll call the cops. I’ll report you for trespassing and have you and your family—your whole roach-infested lot—deported back to Africa, so you’d better learn your place.”
“……”
Marcus backed away, wiping the blood with a trembling hand.
The door shut.
Bang!
David slammed his fist down on the desk.
“What the hell is this world coming to? Hah! Back in the day, those bastards would’ve been grateful to just pick cotton and get two slices of bread a day. What, wages? Hah. Don’t they know what the KKK is for? If only we’d burned those bastards alive…”
His hand throbbed, but his anger still hadn’t cooled.
Then came another knock.
Knock—
“What now! Do all of you want to die!? I said I don’t have money!”
David barked at the door.
When it opened, a white man in a neat suit stepped inside.
Carefully combed blond hair, polished shoes, an expensive-looking watch.
David flinched a little.
“Who the hell are you? If you’re here for money too, get lost. I don’t have any. Not even enough to eat, let alone die on.”
The man didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
He approached the desk and produced a business card from his card case, offering it with a polite gesture.
“I’m attorney Vito Hamilton. I’ve come regarding the old mechanics’ lien on Thompson & Sons Construction. Wishville.”
“……?”
David narrowed his eyes.
Thompson & Sons Construction.
A company his grandfather had run, only for his father to run it into the ground.
Now it was a ghost company, existing only in the registry books.
And the ghost claim it had left behind.
Trying to stay calm, David pulled a cigar from the drawer and bit down on it.
…Wishville? That piece of trash land?
With as much dignity as he could manage, he struck a match and lit the cigar.
Vito gave a small exclamation when he saw it in David’s mouth.
“Oh, Boss. That’s an Arturo Fuente Opus X, isn’t it?”
“Oh? You like cigars, do you, counselor? Sharp eye.”
“Top-grade Dominican wrapper, Nicaraguan filler. Deep aroma, smooth finish. Must run more than thirty dollars a stick.”
“Right. Thirty-five bucks apiece.”
David puffed on the cigar and lifted his chin.
“Got it as a gift from a client. Last Christmas. Whole box.”
“Impressive.”
“Back when we were doing well, stuff like this came in all the time. Whiskey only single malt, wine only Napa Valley vintages. But this year?”
David snorted.
“Know what came this year? A fruit basket. A fruit basket. One of those cheap supermarket ones, too. Had a discount sticker still on the peel. Bastards. Couldn’t even bother to peel off the sticker before handing it over.”
“……”
“When we’re hurting, everybody acts like we’re nothing. Assholes. They wagged their tails when we were on top, and now they’re throwing us bargain-bin fruit baskets? Unbelievable. Just how much money have I made those guys over the years? Ungrateful scum.”
For a while, complaints and grumbling poured out of him.
Vito listened with patient professionalism.
At last, David asked, “So. Why’d you come? About Wishville?”
“Yes.”
Vito opened his briefcase and unfolded a file.
“As you can see, it’s the second lien on the abandoned mining district in Wishville. A construction-labor lien, a mechanic’s lien. The creditor is Thompson & Sons Construction. Established in 1968, with a principal amount of forty-eight thousand dollars.”
“……”
“Over the decades, interest has compounded according to the state statutory interest rate, so on paper it appears to have grown to more than seven times the original principal.”
Vito put a slight emphasis on “appears.”
The implication was clear: what could be collected in reality was an entirely different matter from the number on the books.
Without catching the little psychological gambit, David nodded.
Vito went on.
“The problem is the property attached to that lien. An abandoned mining district, no new development plans nearby, and tax liens from delinquent county property taxes stacked ahead of it in priority. To turn this claim into cash, you’d first have to file suit and enforce the lien.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly thinking about it. My father had already given up on it years ago, and I figured as much myself.”
“Exactly. Filing, title cleanup, site appraisal… just the legal fees alone would run into the thousands. And with a rural county court system like this, you’d be looking at at least a year for a first ruling, maybe two. If the debtor files bankruptcy in the meantime, you’re back in federal court, waiting in line all over again.”
“So?”
“If you take it to court, the chance of recovery is extremely low. You’ll just burn time and legal fees. As far as I know, there are almost no cases where an old construction lien like this was recovered at face value. My client doesn’t want a wasteful fight like that.”
“Then what exactly are you saying? I get all that, so just get to the point. I’m a busy man.”
David pressed him impatiently.
If he were truly busy, he wouldn’t have spent so long whining about every little thing earlier, but Vito saw no reason to point that out.
“My client has somewhat unusual tastes. He has a strange habit of collecting dead-end properties. That’s why he wants the rights to Wishville as well.”
“That’s an awfully peculiar hobby. Is there some development news I don’t know about?”
“As you know, none whatsoever. I’m just handling what came to me. We’re buying a lot of dead-end properties besides this one. Wishville isn’t special in itself. Well, anyway.”
Vito continued, “As you also know, these old claims are usually settled not at the face value on the books, but at what can realistically be recovered—in other words, somewhere around a portion of the principal. A clean little deal: sign the papers today, forget about it tomorrow.”
David did the math in his head.
“Fine. I need at least thirty percent. Interest excluded—thirty percent of the principal. Fourteen thousand four hundred dollars. That’s something I could consider.”
“Mr. David.”
“What.”
“If this claim were valuable enough to recover thirty percent, why haven’t you turned even a single dollar of it into cash until now?”
“That’s because… I’ve been busy!”
David’s voice rose.
Vito’s smile grew even more subtle.
“Of course. I can see that you must be very busy. Judging by the factory, you don’t exactly have time to worry about a lawsuit over an old claim like this, do you?”
Vito’s gaze swept across the desk.
Dunning notices, final warnings, unpaid wage lists.
In truth, he didn’t even need to see those to know how bad the factory’s condition was.
Vito had already done his homework on the man named David Thompson.
Three tax-lien records filed with the county, two registry records showing the factory machinery pledged as collateral, and thirty-six wage complaints filed with the labor board.
The seventy-thousand-dollar operating loan from First National Bank was already three months overdue, with every piece of machinery in the factory pledged as collateral.
Machines, presses, welders, and the rest—next month the bank’s truck would come and haul everything away.
And when David could borrow no more from the bank, he had gone to Tony Marcos, a Brooklyn loan shark.
The loan was twenty thousand dollars at 3.5 percent interest per week.
A murderous arrangement that added up to fourteen percent of the principal every month.
Even that interest had already gone unpaid twice.
Knowing all this, Vito decided there was no reason to indulge David’s circumstances.
“My client wants this matter settled right now,” he said.
“And I’m fairly certain Mr. David here could use cash right now too.”
David’s brow twitched violently.
“I’ll make you an offer.”
Vito held up three fingers.
“Three percent of the principal. One thousand four hundred forty dollars.”
“……What?”
David shot up from his seat.
He slapped his protruding belly and shouted, “What did you say? Three percent? Are you kidding me? There’s more fiber in my body than that!”
“I’m not kidding. I’m giving you a realistic number.”
“Realistic? You filthy thief! Damn it, this is why white people can’t get anything done! You’re even worse than the black bastards! You want me to hand over a forty-eight-thousand-dollar claim for fourteen hundred bucks? How is that realistic? That’s your delusion!”
“Mr. David, you know as well as I do. This claim hasn’t brought in a single dollar in the past thirty years. It won’t in the next thirty either. It isn’t a claim anymore; it’s a scrap of paper.”
“……!”
“Even that price was generously set by a few eccentric rich people who collect cursed land for occult reasons. If you don’t sell now, you probably won’t be able to sell it at all. The last thirty years were like that, and the next thirty will be the same.”
David’s face turned crimson.
“Ten percent, minimum! I won’t go below ten percent!”
“Ten percent? Ha-ha-ha—perfect stand-up material. A Wishville claim for ten percent of the principal.”
Vito gave a quiet laugh.
“Mr. David. If this were a claim worth ten percent, why did you leave it rotting in a drawer for thirty years?”
“That’s because…!”
“Because you were busy? Because you had no time to sue?”
Vito slowly stood.
He started putting the documents back into his briefcase.
“Understood. Then you can stay busy. This claim will keep rotting in David’s drawer. Ten years, twenty years, thirty years. Forever.”
“……!”
“Call me when you’re less busy. Though if my client takes interest in another dead-end property and buys that one first… well, by then I suspect Wishville won’t be worth fourteen hundred dollars anymore. Maybe one hundred forty. Honestly, at that price, I might be interested in buying it myself. If that happens, sell it to me instead. Well then.”
Vito picked up his briefcase and turned toward the door.
He had barely taken one step, then two, then three before—
“Wai-ait!”
David shouted in haste.
Vito stopped.
But he didn’t turn around.
David exhaled sharply through his nose.
“……Five percent.”
“……”
Vito slowly turned his head.
It was only a pretense of thought.
His client, Lee Sanha, had originally set thirty percent as the base price and had even said he’d be willing to go as low as fifteen.
But there was such a thing as a lawyer’s pride. Why should he obediently follow the client’s bottom line?
Sanha. You’ll be glad you hired me, over and over again.
Vito grinned and said, “Five percent.”
“Right! Two thousand four hundred dollars! That’s something I can think about!”
David blurted out in a hurry.
His earlier bravado was gone without a trace.
Vito let the silence stretch for a long moment.
“……I don’t know what my client will say,” he said at last.
“……”
“But I should preserve your dignity too. Four percent. I’ll draw the line there and do what I can.”
“Fine! Let’s do that! Damn it! But the contract has to be signed and the payment made today! No deposit, no balance, none of that! Finish everything before the sun goes down! Got it?”
“I’ll do my best to move it along as quickly as possible.”
At Vito’s answer, David collapsed back into his chair.
He had gotten four percent instead of the three percent he’d expected, so it was still a big win.
David let out a breath of relief as if he had triumphed in some great negotiation.
* * *
After Vito left the office, David leaned back in his chair.
“Heh-heh-heh. So there’s actually someone willing to buy that trash land in Wishville. You live long enough, you see everything.”
He had offloaded the cursed albatross his family had been carrying since his grandfather’s time for a whopping $1,920.
There was no need to worry about principal or interest; as that lawyer had said, it was money he was never going to collect anyway.
Only cash he could hold in his hand had any real value, didn’t it?
“What should I do with it?”
Then he remembered a car advertisement he had seen in a magazine not long ago.
A full-color ad that filled two pages.
At the bottom, in big letters, it read: 1992 Ford Explorer.
“Yeah, that’s it!”
XLT trim, automatic transmission, power windows, air conditioning, and even a shiny new cassette player on the dashboard.
“If I finance it, I can totally afford it.”
David grinned ear to ear.
Imagining himself roaring down the highway in a gleaming new car made his nostrils flare with delight.
The only factory owner in the middle of a parking lot full of old pickup trucks, rolling in with a brand-new vehicle.
That would surely establish his authority over the workers too.
David got to his feet.
“I’ll make the contract next week.”
As he stepped forward—
Rustle!
A single sheet of paper lay beneath his foot.
The list of employees’ unpaid wages.
David stomped right over it and kept walking.
“Hmm-hmm-hmm. New car~ new car~”
He hummed with pleasure as he went.
* * *
“Glad that ended well. I should report back now.”
Walking out of the factory, Vito loosened his tie slightly.
The person he had to report to about this negotiation was his client: a mysterious East Asian boy who happened to be a Harvard freshman.
Uncle Wolfman insisted I meet him out of curiosity, and he turned out to be far smarter than I expected. But what kind of plan is that brilliant head working on, anyway, that he wants to buy Wishville?
He had managed to buy it as cheaply as possible, but even so, the land was still trash.
I don’t get it. I should just do my job properly.
Vito headed toward the parking lot.
Then his gaze stopped at the far corner.
There, three or four laborers in work clothes were gathered, smoking cigarettes.
He could see a piece of gauze taped across the forehead of one Black worker.
Vito listened in on their conversation for a moment.
“Marcus, you okay?”
“That fat bastard David threw an ashtray at you, right? Is he insane?”
“We waited three hours, and the second he opened the door he just told you to get lost… Hah. This month’s pay is late again… That makes three months now.”
“Same here. My landlord says if I can’t pay rent by next week, I’m out. I’m screwed.”
“Me too. My wife says she can’t take this anymore.”
Every face was heavy with worry.
Vito took a few business cards from his inner jacket pocket.
“Excuse me.”
Every laborer turned to look at him at once.
“You all seem to be having trouble with unpaid wages. I’m a lawyer.”
He held out a card.
One laborer waved him off roughly.
“A lawyer? We don’t have money for a lawyer.”
“I won’t take an upfront fee. You can pay the contingency fee after you recover every cent of your back wages.”
Vito’s eyes shifted to Marcus’s forehead.
“That injury—your boss did that? David?”
“Yes, but…”
“Then we can add assault charges as well. Both criminal and civil damages. Contact me here. If you come to my office by Monday with a medical certificate, we’ll take care of it.”
“But the boss doesn’t have any money. He really doesn’t, that’s why he can’t pay.”
“No. He does.”
Vito smiled thinly.
“He just took about nineteen hundred dollars in cash and put it in his pocket, so go right now. If you say you’re filing assault charges, he’ll pay. Come by my office after that. I’ll give you a consultation.”
He left those words behind and turned away.
From behind him came the sound of Marcus and the others rushing en masse toward David’s office.