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The house set well back from the street, behind a tall iron fence, mounted on top of a two-foot high limestone wall. It was punctuated by big limestone pillars about every ten feet. From where Bradley stood, he could see a little round, cone roofed entry, with a big round-topped door, and beyond that, three chimneys peaked out over a massive, overgrown willow tree that seemed to take up half of the huge front yard.
A survey of the surrounding houses showed him what he expected in this part of town, old, once wealthy homes, surrounded by overgrown, but once closely manicured landscape. The deferred maintenance here was a handyman’s dream, or a home flippers nightmare, depending on whether the elderly occupant had decided to give up the fight against time and downsize.
He’d come here following the directions on a somewhat cryptic hand-drawn map that had led, he believed to this street, three blocks north of the only Spanish bell tower in miles, and there hadn’t been an actual address, just four digits, 7734, which he knew, as any once fifth grade Gex X boy would, that upside down on a digital calculator spelled “hell” and was also the number barely legible under the ivy that covered a curved stone wall, leading up the low stone steps to the round-topped door.
A well-worn, green patinaed brass key seemed to burn cooly in the palm of his left hand, where he’d dropped it from the bottom of the envelope. He opened his hand and studied it, the embossed head of a lion stamped into the key, appeared to match the massive brass padlock on the iron chain wrapped like some serpentine guardian, around the central uprights of the massive iron gate. There was only one way to find out.
It had taken nearly three hours to get here, and Bradley hadn’t been sure if he even wanted to come, but after a visit to what he thought was his home, resulted in his retrieval of only three cardboard boxes of the clothes he’d owned when they first got married, and the keys to his 1999 Civic, which sat rusting at the curb, he hadn’t thought of anywhere else to go.
He could cash out his crypto, but his last experience with that had made Frodo’s journey into the heart of Mordor to destroy the One Ring seem like a family vacation, so that would have to wait. He was pretty sure his crypto wallet key was still tucked safely inside the back of his phone case, which he still had, although the phone, company property, had already been deactivated.
Usually dressed in hand-tailored suits, he’d been forced to disrobe at gunpoint by Raul, as his wife shouted instructions from an upstairs window.
“Ge the Rolex too!” she shouted.
“But that was an anniversary gift,” Bradley said.
“Prenup!” she shouted back.
Bradley was beginning to think he shouldn’t have trusted the attorney she’d paid to tell him the prenup was a fair contract. She’d wanted the silk boxers, but Raul had refused to force him to strip naked. Now, Bradley stood in an ill-fitting warm-up suit he hadn’t worn in fifteen years, or fifty pounds, still wearing his Nunn Bush wingtips, the only shoes he’d had.
When he’d realized that his phone was turned off and he couldn’t even call an uber, he’d managed to drag his three boxes the nine blocks to the Dollar General where’d he given most of it to two homeless men behind the dumpster, and used his last $10 to buy a little foldable metal cart for the remaining box, a befitting way to begin his new life of homelessness, Bradley had thought, chuckling sadly.
The only other contents of the envelope, were a picture, of what he guessed was this house, maybe sixty years before, and a handwritten note on a pink post-it.
“You’ve got six days to make your first deal,” the note said. “Martha will explain.”
So far, he hadn’t seen any sign of Martha, who he didn't know, or have any idea of how to contact. After doing a quick SWOT analysis, Bradley’s keen grasp of management had led him to conclude that staggering the three miles to this address was his only option at the moment. Or at least, the most promising.
The key slid into the lock, caught for a moment, then turned hesitantly. The lock sprang open, and the chain seemed to uncoiled itself without his help, as the gate lurched open a bit on one side. Just enough to squeeze through, which was good, but the old hinges had absolutely refused to carry it any further.
Gripping the handle of the cart with a white-knuckled determination, Bradley made his way up the drive. A pathetic sight, he thought. A former millionaire, pulling his entire worldly possessions on a dollar store cart. Bradley would have mocked himself silently while offering five dollars had he seen himself yesterday. Ironically, his mother had always reminded him, “That could be you someday. You don’t know their story.”
When he arrived at the front door, he paused. Now what? Should he ring the bell? He looked at the door, and there, on the lock, was a lion’s head, identical, he believed to the one on the key, which he’d left unthinkingly, in the padlock at the end of the drive. He sighed and turned back to get it, but was stopped by a friendly voice.
“You’ll be needing this then,” said the man, in a clipped British accent. He held out the key.
“Um, yes, thank you,” Bradley said. “I’m sorry if I’m trespassing, I got his key and a map…”
“Oh, it’s more likely I’m the trespasser. You must be Bradley,” the man said. “Boss said you’d be here or hoped you'd come, at any rate.”
“Yes, that's me. I’m sorry, who’s your boss?” Bradley asked.
“You’re uncle, Chester Mansley Cranston the third,” he said. “This is his house, or was, ‘til he croaked it day before last.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Bradley said. “Um, I lost my employer just this morning.”
“Right, boss’s brother, what a piece of work,” the man said. “Where are my manners?” he removed a tweed driving cap and held out a hand. “I’m Percy. I’m the gardener.”
Bradley shook his hand, the stared around blankly at the withered, overgrown landscaping.
“Oh, that’ll be put to rights, soon enough. Now that you’re here,” Percy told him. He gently took the handle of the cart from Bradley, “May I? Good, now, let’s get you inside.”
The key turned easily in the lock, and Percy stepped lightly over the threshold, pulling the cart behind. Bradley held back, unsure of the cloud of mustiness and dust that the door had kicked up. He sneezed, took a deep, calming breath, and stepped through, thinking, “What’s the worst that could happen?”