Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 10

I'd wanted to cancel my Sat.u.r.day morning appointment with Philip Bazi, but I knew if I did, I'd spend the day sulking. After which, I'd have to call ten times to earn another time slot with the developer who coveted the Fielder mansion. Better to get it over with.

On the way to Xstatic, I'd stopped off to brush my teeth, wash my face, comb my hair and exchange wrinkled clothes for ironed ones. Fortunately, Destiny hadn't been home at the time.

Now, I was wis.h.i.+ng she had been, so we could have fought for a few more hours, a more rewarding activity than spending time with this jacka.s.s.

In person, Philip Bazi looked twenty years older than his published age of thirty-four. He had large, dark eyes that darted back and forth and eyebrows that extended to the sides of his face. He had dark hair, but only a bit of it, which he'd slicked down around his ears, leaving a ma.s.sive surface of s.h.i.+ny dome. His dark shadow of whiskers made it seem as if it were ten o'clock in the evening instead of in the morning, and the stubble only exaggerated the extreme length of his face and pitch of his ma.s.sive, beak-like nose. Hair sprouted from the backs of his fingers, almost enveloping a gold ring on his right hand, barely allowing the inlaid onyx to emerge. He wore a silk s.h.i.+rt, thankfully b.u.t.toned high, or I'm sure I would have seen a ma.s.s of black chest hairs.

His body language disgusted me, to the point I'd started to imitate it in a childish game. We both laced our fingers, stretched them above our heads and rested our intertwined hands on our necks. Twice, I'd mirrored the almost imperceptible thrust of his pelvis, a creepy move that had to be conscious on his part.

We were meeting in the bottle-service-only VIP room of Xstatic, a club he operated out of 12,000 square feet in one of the buildings he'd developed in the Golden Triangle neighborhood. Bounded by Speer Boulevard, West Colfax Avenue and Lincoln Street, the Golden Triangle was home to an eclectic mix of residences, businesses and organizations, deluding the Denver Art Museum, the main branch of the Denver Public Library and Denver Health Medical Center. Bail bondsmen still held their own, but nightclubs had pushed out meth clinics, mid-rise luxury condo buildings had replaced falling-down Victorians, and cafes and galleries had sprouted on vacant lots.

Philip Bazi had served as catalyst for most of these changes, according to him. All for the better, again his opinion.

I sensed that my lack of fawning over his achievements and obvious zoning out when he repeated himself pestered him, but he had a long way to go to reach my level of aggravation.

My agitation had begun as soon as I met him or, more precisely, smelled him. An overdose of cologne sparked my irritation, which accelerated with his limp handshake, undoubtedly reserved for women only, and nearly exploded as he scanned my body.

The intrusive exam lasted until he stalled at my b.r.e.a.s.t.s for the second time, at which point I said stoutly, "Not sold separately."

He pretended not to understand, and I didn't foist an explanation. Extra words only would have prolonged a visit I longed to cut short.

I felt as if I were in another world, living someone else's life.

The VIP room was separated from an onyx dance floor and two aluminum bars by folding garage-door walls. While Bazi had spent more than a million dollars on the deluxe nightlife destination, nothing in the designer showcase of custom furniture, lighting, sound and visuals emitted warmth or comfort. The look probably appealed to the "hip, upscale" patrons he wanted to attract, but it did nothing for me. The decor, dominated by red velvet couches, iridescent ceiling-to-floor orange drapes and gla.s.s walls with black metal blinds, made my head spin.

Chinese symbols floated above a mirrored lounge area, and in the darkness, after a few drinks, they probably fit in. In the harsh light of day, however, without the crutch of alcohol, they looked ridiculous. As did the track lights hanging from all variety of wires strung from wall to wall and dangling from exposed pipes in the ceiling. The tables appeared as if the designer had stolen an infant's set of learning blocks and copied them on a larger scale of primary colors and shapes.

My mod white chair, a companion piece to the chic plastic bar stools, represented the ultimate in discomfort. I s.h.i.+fted on it, slouched, sat erect, tucked a foot under me and used my hand for lumbar support, but nothing helped.

I took my time with a sip of orange juice before I said, "How can you possibly know what Roberta Franklin can or can't do?"

"No novice, no matter how well-intentioned, will succeed with a project this size."

"You think she'd fail with twelve units?"

"I know she would."

"While you would succeed with two hundred and twenty?"

"I would," he said, infinitely tickled. "Who wouldn't want to live in a secure, high-rise condominium building with a rooftop pool and swim-up bar, two nightclubs, a gourmet grocer, a spa, a sus.h.i.+ bar and a French restaurant? Underground parking and state-of-the-art fitness center-who would turn that down?"

"You're sure of yourself, despite nothing close to this scale existing in Denver?"

"After clients see the quality throughout, the copper-trimmed domes, the imported stone, the gold medallions, they'll compete to buy. Pro athletes, empty nesters, dual-income couples-they'll fight for access to this exclusive, elegant address."

"According to Elvira Robinson, the director of Save Our Denver, the neighbors will never allow this type of building."

"Neither she nor any neighbor has the right to block this project. Zoning took that away years ago by allowing the height and density of the building I'm proposing."

"What about blocking the views of nearby buildings?"

"I wouldn't have gone to this much trouble," Philip said indulgently, "if I couldn't promise my buyers a panoramic view of the mountains, with a guarantee that nothing will be built to the west. It appears that other high-rise developers didn't have the same foresight."

You don't have much respect for other developers, do you?"

"None."

Every other developer within a five-mile radius with a multiuse, multiunit project has tabled it because of the soft market, but not you. You're still putting pressure on an elderly woman."

"They're afraid to change the skyline. I'm not. I'll continue to bring reasonable offers to people of all ages, until the day they die. At their funerals, I'll woo their relatives."

"Two hundred and twenty more units can't be absorbed in the near future, according to local economists."

"Who cares about the near future?" Philip Bazi said over my words. "Other developers are afraid to pull the trigger on a deal this big. You know why? Because they have to obtain a certain percentage of pre-sales before they break ground. I don't."

"You don't care that two buildings in the immediate vicinity of Hazel Middleton's house sit half-empty, waiting for buyers who may never materialize?"

His wan smile turned into a scowl. "None is like this. Not even the two luxury towers I completed and sold in the Golden Triangle in the last three years. By the time other developers with less vision revive their plans, they'll have missed the window of opportunity. My philosophy is simple. Can I find two hundred and twenty people who will enjoy the privilege of living in the finest building in the western United States? Yes. Will the majority of those sales take place well after the building is under construction. Yes."

"It'll take years for this real estate market to turn around."

He smiled benignly. "Metrowide vacancy rates can pa.s.s ninety percent, interest can skyrocket into double digits, and I won't feel concern. My product has never sat on the market. Nothing can stop me."

"Except for Hazel Middleton."

He licked his lips. "She can delay me, but I'm a patient man."

"Or Roberta Franklin."

"She'll never follow through with this purchase."

"Have you met Roberta?"

"No."

"How can you know she's not capable?"

"If she had real estate development experience, I would have met her by now."

"She has experience."

"Has she made dreams rise from dirt?" he said with an unpleasant undertone.

"If you're talking about building from scratch, no. But she's successfully undertaken numerous remodels."

"It's not the same. Not all developers can turn a property into a financial success. It takes fiscal responsibility, market possibilities and guts."

"Which do you presume Roberta lacks?"

"That's obvious-the guts. She's a senior citizen, for Christ's sake. If she had the b.a.l.l.s, she would have done something before now. You can't show up for your first hand of blackjack and expect to play at the high-roller table. That's not going to happen in this city."

"Does that mean you believe the numbers are sound, that the market would support a twelve-unit concept?" I said without inflection.

He shot me a shrewd look and answered after a slight hesitation, "Yes."

"Then why wouldn't you do a project like that?"

"Because I've had to swallow too many cups of Hazel Middleton's weasel-p.i.s.s coffee to settle for entry-level sc.r.a.ps. I did fix-and-flips ten years ago, when my father cosigned my first loan. I'm not going back to that. How could I maintain the respect of investors and contractors?"

"You have no desire to preserve the building and make a million? You have to tear it down to make ten?"

"Try twenty, and we understand each other," he said crossly. "Tell Roberta if she can get the old bag to sell to her, I'll buy her out for half again the price she pays Hazel Middleton. Same day, cash transaction. She can wrap up one closing, attend another and make a quarter-million or more. No risk, no ha.s.sle. Guaranteed success."

I shook my head. "She won't go for that."

"I'll make it worth your while to persuade her. Say ten thousand, off the books, for one conversation we never had?"

I stiffened. "No, thanks."

"Easiest money you'll ever earn. What's stopping you?"

I shot him a withering look. "Integrity."

He laughed, an intimidating sound. "If you won't take that message to Roberta Franklin, maybe you'd rather take this one. If she insists n buying or developing the Fielder mansion, she'll encounter dire consequences."

Guaranteed?" I said sarcastically, mimicking his earlier predictions.

He c.o.c.ked his head to one side, raised both eyebrows and cracked a half-smile. "I wish her the best of luck," he said insincerely. "A lot can go wrong in development."

I matched his frozen stare with an icy smile. "Such as?"

"Shady financing."

"She has all her funds in place."

"Uncontrollable construction costs."

I could feel my face redden. "She's hired an engineer and architect to a.s.sess the costs. Three general contractors have given her bids within ten percent of each other."

"A downturn in the economy."

"She needs to sell a dozen condos, not several hundred," I said pointedly. "She breaks even at six."

Philip Bazi unclenched his left hand, and I saw a twitch in his forearm. "A crowded field."

"You said yourself, for one-of-a-kind products, there is no compet.i.tion."

The last caution, which he leaned forward to deliver, close enough that I could smell his foul breath, made me exit without a word in farewell.

He didn't deserve consideration, not after tossing off, "Workplace accidents."

Chapter 12.

My cell phone rang later that afternoon, with Destiny caving in first. "Are you ever coming home?"

"Yes."

"Why haven't you called?" she said, her voice breaking with emotion.

"I was out on an appointment."

"Are you still mad?"

"No," I mumbled. "Are you?"

"A little. Can we talk some more?"

"Not right now."

"Fran's there?"

"What do you think?" I said woodenly.

"She sees more of you than I do." Destiny paused before adding, "Will you please come home tonight?"

"Probably."

"When?"

"Soon."

"I love you."

"Thanks," I muttered. "I'll see you before seven."

My attempt at cordial brevity hadn't fooled my officemate in the slightest.

Fran Green overheard every word, filled in the blanks and shot me a dirty look before I could return the phone to my pocket.

"Are you two fighting?" she said loudly, pointing to her T-s.h.i.+rt, "Love Is The Answer."