Mrs. White and a bicycle standing against various backdrops of mountains, European villages, famous landmarks. On the desk was a chrome trophy sporting another bicycle and the legend “Amateur Time Trials Second Place Winner.” “Mrs. Camelia Chiquichano cited you as a reference on a loan application, and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about her.”
“This is a bit unusual, isn’t it? Aren’t these verifications usually done with a phone call?”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood. Are you the R in R and W Realty?”
“The R and the W—it’s a bit more impressive if clients think a realtor doesn’t work alone. Especially a woman.”
“She listed you as her employer on a recent home loan application.”
“Yes. She cleans all the offices in this building.” She added, “Which I own.”
“Has she worked with you a long time?”
“Six, perhaps seven years. She’s put together an apparently very successful janitorial business, and I’ve been happy to recommend her services to acquaintances. In fact, the last person I referred to her said she couldn’t take him—she has too much business now. It’s a real success story.”
“The cleaning crew are women? Spanish-speaking women?”
“Yes, and they’re very hardworking. I get the impression that Mrs. Chiquichano is a demanding employer.”
Something of a slave driver, in fact. “And,” I guessed, “you also helped her in a real estate transaction?”
“Why, yes, I did. I specialize in urban properties, particularly sleepers—those that are undervalued and can be enhanced with a little sweat equity. Mrs. Chiquichano mentioned several times that she was looking for a suitable investment property, and when this deal came up, I brought it to her attention.”
That was the kind of opening I’d been looking for. I told her about my adventures with my half of Mrs. Ottoboni’s duplex; she told me about the tribulations and triumphs—especially the triumphs—of what she called her “urban pioneers”: young couples, usually childless, who moved from the suburbs back into the city to buy and spruce up cheap older homes in run-down neighborhoods. We ended up talking over coffee around the low table spread with copies of Better Homes and Gardens and Denver Real Estate . Her motions were quick and nervous, but not random, and I suspected she had won the battle against cigarettes through a tremendous effort.
“So you found Mrs. Chiquichano’s home for her too?”
“No. Only the investment property—an apartment building over in Swansea. It was a good deal all around; the sellers were thinking of tearing down the building because it had deteriorated so much, and Mrs. Chiquichano was looking for a property she could improve and still profit from. Fortunately, I was able to put the deal together. It’s so difficult to find low-income rentals anymore, that things worked out quite well.”
“She had no trouble with the loan approval?”
“None at all—she put one third down in cash.”
“That much?”
Mrs. White smiled slightly. “Not all women are helpless and impoverished, Mr. Kirk.”
“And many women are very good business people, I agree. I’m just surprised that someone who immigrated ten or fifteen years ago, with no apparent marketable skills, would have saved up enough capital to invest in an apartment house.”
“Well, apparently she was very frugal for a number of years. And frankly, it wasn’t all that much—twenty thousand. As I said, the property was very run-down and the neighborhood is almost totally zoned for industry now. In fact, I think that was the last R-two zoning left in that block.”
“Wasn’t the land worth more than the building?”
“It could have been, except no one was interested in buying a lot that small, and the owners were tired of paying taxes. Plus, they faced a condemnation order on the building.”
“What did she put up for collateral?”
“It wasn’t needed. There’s a
“This is a bit unusual, isn’t it? Aren’t these verifications usually done with a phone call?”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood. Are you the R in R and W Realty?”
“The R and the W—it’s a bit more impressive if clients think a realtor doesn’t work alone. Especially a woman.”
“She listed you as her employer on a recent home loan application.”
“Yes. She cleans all the offices in this building.” She added, “Which I own.”
“Has she worked with you a long time?”
“Six, perhaps seven years. She’s put together an apparently very successful janitorial business, and I’ve been happy to recommend her services to acquaintances. In fact, the last person I referred to her said she couldn’t take him—she has too much business now. It’s a real success story.”
“The cleaning crew are women? Spanish-speaking women?”
“Yes, and they’re very hardworking. I get the impression that Mrs. Chiquichano is a demanding employer.”
Something of a slave driver, in fact. “And,” I guessed, “you also helped her in a real estate transaction?”
“Why, yes, I did. I specialize in urban properties, particularly sleepers—those that are undervalued and can be enhanced with a little sweat equity. Mrs. Chiquichano mentioned several times that she was looking for a suitable investment property, and when this deal came up, I brought it to her attention.”
That was the kind of opening I’d been looking for. I told her about my adventures with my half of Mrs. Ottoboni’s duplex; she told me about the tribulations and triumphs—especially the triumphs—of what she called her “urban pioneers”: young couples, usually childless, who moved from the suburbs back into the city to buy and spruce up cheap older homes in run-down neighborhoods. We ended up talking over coffee around the low table spread with copies of Better Homes and Gardens and Denver Real Estate . Her motions were quick and nervous, but not random, and I suspected she had won the battle against cigarettes through a tremendous effort.
“So you found Mrs. Chiquichano’s home for her too?”
“No. Only the investment property—an apartment building over in Swansea. It was a good deal all around; the sellers were thinking of tearing down the building because it had deteriorated so much, and Mrs. Chiquichano was looking for a property she could improve and still profit from. Fortunately, I was able to put the deal together. It’s so difficult to find low-income rentals anymore, that things worked out quite well.”
“She had no trouble with the loan approval?”
“None at all—she put one third down in cash.”
“That much?”
Mrs. White smiled slightly. “Not all women are helpless and impoverished, Mr. Kirk.”
“And many women are very good business people, I agree. I’m just surprised that someone who immigrated ten or fifteen years ago, with no apparent marketable skills, would have saved up enough capital to invest in an apartment house.”
“Well, apparently she was very frugal for a number of years. And frankly, it wasn’t all that much—twenty thousand. As I said, the property was very run-down and the neighborhood is almost totally zoned for industry now. In fact, I think that was the last R-two zoning left in that block.”
“Wasn’t the land worth more than the building?”
“It could have been, except no one was interested in buying a lot that small, and the owners were tired of paying taxes. Plus, they faced a condemnation order on the building.”
“What did she put up for collateral?”
“It wasn’t needed. There’s a
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