Flipping

By Mary A Ellenton

Fay Famaghetti is ready for a change. She realizes that she is meant for something beyond the drudgery of working in her family’s Italian restaurant business. When she moves from her hometown of Brooklyn, New York to suburban Long Island, a unique opportunity in a traditionally male dominated profession presents itself and with not much more than a supercharged ambition and an accounting degree, self-assured Fay decides to go for it.

Willfully seduced by the greed of the era and prospering in the murky waters of a corrupted system, Fay quickly gets in over her head while mixing business with pleasure within the treacherous industry that helped tumble the world’s greatest economy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary A Ellenton
• Release date: Aug 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9780983906506

Book preview

FLIPPING

A Novel

by

Mary A. Ellenton

MAE

PRODUCTIONS

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in

or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials

in violation of the author’s rights.

Flipping is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright©2012, Mary A. Ellenton.

All rights reserved.

Designed by Moni Abbasi, New York.

Cover Photography at Kornfeld Studios, New York.

Published by MAE Productions, New York.

For the Hunan Girls

And as a single leaf turns not yellow but

with the silent knowledge of the whole tree,

So the wrong-doer cannot do wrong

without the hidden will of you all.

-Kahlil Gibran

CHAPTER ONE

The gravel in Mrs. Goodfellow’s driveway crunched under the tires of Fay’s Jeep Cherokee. Before stepping out she surveyed the large house in the town of Breezy View, a lower class suburb of Long Island, about an hour’s drive east of New York City.

The home’s disrepair was evident and the missing shingles and small trees growing out of the gutters broadcasted its neglect. Further observations caused Fay’s instincts to flex with concern for her safety—a makeshift doghouse with a curiously thick chain secured into the ground, a car without tires sitting on cinder blocks in the side yard, and a broken window repaired with plywood. She could just turn around and leave but she had already learned that for a hungry mortgage broker, these types of homeowners were fairytale clients, out of their element and compliant.

Her mentor, Josh Weiss, inspired by dipping interest rates and surging home prices, dreamed up these excursions. He didn’t want to miss any opportunity to capitalize on the escalating refinancing frenzy that had everyone clamoring to sell or remortgage. He wasn’t wrong either when he assured her that it was usually well worth the gas. All she needed to do was gain this woman’s trust in this first meeting and this little drive could turn into as much as nine grand in her purse for doing little more than submitting paperwork. The payoff seduced her to disregard a bad feeling that twinged and she turned off the engine.

She performed her ritualistic assessment of her face in the rear view mirror one more time and stepped out. She wasn’t an extraordinary beauty, but in real estate speak, she had what is called curb appeal. She knew how to accentuate her pluses to evoke interest, creating the expectation of something special. She had the most female of shapes, ample, yet sturdy. Her complexion boasted good health, a supple ruddiness from Italian ancestry. There was an interesting distinctiveness to her voice, she used its seductively low pitch as an effective prop. Those qualities and her ability to feign sincerity were a real one-two punch for winning over clients and her timing couldn’t have been better.

The country’s ballooning real estate market, destined to implode, had just started to swell. She took a deep inhale and cleared her thoughts to get into character. She had only been in the business a few months and quickly picked up on how skittish people became when a third party discussed their finances, but Fay was masterful at putting her prospects at ease. She perfected the subtle formula of how to dumb herself down in order to seem unthreatening and still retain her credibility.

Her phone rang. It was her ten-year-old son Angelo. It never failed, his timing couldn’t have been worse.

Hi Ang, she crooned, attempting to disguise her impatience.

Hi, Mom. I’m home. I’m calling just like you said.

Good boy. Do your homework and let Anna make you something to eat. I’ll be home soon.

What time?

I don’t know— soon.

You’re trying to sell a mortgage?

Yes, Ang.

Okay, bye, Mom. I love you.

I love you, too. Sorry I snapped at you.

She straightened her skirt and sauntered up the weed-dotted driveway. The ground was moist from the April rains and the heels of her Ferragamos were sinking into the patches of dirt along the way. She just knew that the gravel was destroying them beyond repair. The offensive smell of dog droppings hung heavy in the air as she stood in the unseasonable warmth and reached for the doorbell. She stopped. The distressed whimpering of a dog persisted from the far side of the house. Fay tentatively walked in its direction. A female pup, wrestling with the nylon twine that tethered it by the neck to a tree, stood at attention at the sight of her. Fay considered the stretch of dirt that separated them and then looked down at her shoes. She groaned up into the sky, put her bag down on the cracked walkway and tiptoed through the mud. As she knelt beside the pup, its tiny butt wiggled uncontrollably, its tail flailing in gratitude.

Okay, baby, Fay consoled her as she turned her counter-clockwise. What did you do to yourself?

The dog’s body stiffened as it looked past her. Its ears flattened out. Still in a crouched position, Fay turned her head upwards to see a tall, gangly-framed man standing over them. The eerie silence of his presence and the haunting emptiness of his eyes summoned a primal fear within her.

She had herself all tangled. Fay stood. Are you Mr. Goodfellow?

He motioned towards the front of the house as he scooped up the puppy then turned and disappeared down a cement stairwell.

Back at the front door, Fay made a deliberate effort to push the disturbing exchange out of her mind and rang the doorbell. She looked down at her shoes as she waited.

Wonderful. She tried to stomp the mud off them.

When no one answered she rapped on the weather-beaten door. Someone inside began struggling with the doorknob, she drew in a bracing breath.

Why, hello there, look how pretty you are.

Hello, Mrs. Goodfellow. Fay stuck out her hand to the pleasant looking older woman with a coffee complexion. I’m Fay Famaghetti. She could see a small boy inside running up the staircase behind the woman.

What a beautiful name that is. Come on in, won’t you, child?

One step and Fay was inside, trying her best to appear unaffected by the stench and squalor of the house. She was stumped for a second, not knowing what to say next. The obligatory, Oh, what a nice place you have here, not really an option.

Come on in now and let’s sit down.

The loud variety of noises coming from the second floor put Fay on high alert. There was the deafening sound of a television from somewhere upstairs and the ceiling creaked from human activity. The house was sprawling and in spite of being wary, Fay noted that it had good design and imagined that when it was cared for, it must have been a real beauty. All of its doorways were curved in an elegant arch and the heavy woodwork still retained its dignity in spite of the rest of the dwelling’s demise.

Mrs. Goodfellow led the way further into the house.

You don’t find too many women in your business.

Yes, you’re right. You don’t.

Fay followed close behind. She clamped her lips together to limit her intake of the odors of adult urine and old dog that stifled the air as they passed through the living room. A tiny old woman lost in a print dress sat on the couch watching the television with the sound turned off. Mrs. Goodfellow didn’t introduce her so Fay figured that maybe she was deaf and waved. The old woman waved back at her. In the kitchen, an overweight, unshaven man sat hunched over his food working on the bones of some undistinguishable meat.

Hi, Fay managed in her most pleasant voice.

He lifted his head and nodded to her, breathing heavily and making wet sounds.

That’s my husband, Chester. His heart condition and diabetes have kept him home for over two years, now.

Chester stuck out his stub of a leg from under the counter to confirm the statement.

Have a seat. Would you like some stew?

No, no thank you, Mrs. Goodfellow.

How about some iced tea? The woman gestured to a Tupperware pitcher on the table, its lid encrusted with gunk.

No, thank you. Fay tried not to cringe when her cream-colored skirt made contact with the filthy seat cushion as she sat. Her hair began to blow into her face each time the humming portable fan twisted in her direction.

She did her best to avoid looking at the kitchen counters, piled and crammed with a carnival of random items as she inched her chair away from the portable refrigerator precariously placed on the chair next to her. She assumed that the larger appliance must have been broken because it was pulled away from the wall with its door left open. She couldn’t help herself and stole a quick peek; a box of saltines, a pair of shoes and a plastic jack-o-lan-tern, among the bizarre variety of items stored inside.

How can I help you, Mrs. Goodfellow?

Mrs. Goodfellow sat down across from Fay and gently folded her hands on the yellow Formica kitchen table. A leather-bound Bible stuffed with worn bookmarks rested at her elbow. Since Chester got sick, it’s just been me tryin’ to keep up with the bills. She picked up a series of envelopes and let them drop out of her hand onto the table. I’m four payments behind. It’s not easy, you know. I work six nights at the hospital and I just can’t keep up.

I know it’s tough out there these days. Who else lives with you?

Well, there’s my daughter, Mrs. Goodfellow began counting on her fingers. She works at the post office. Her boyfriend moved in. There’s my son, he’s waitin’ on a job to come through. And there’s my sister’s boy and his wife and their two young ones. Her brother has been stayin’ with us too for a while. My sister was a widow and me and her used to share the place, but she’s gone now—back home to the Lord.

Fay felt a bristling around her neck and she cautiously turned to see a little boy, no more than three or four years old standing statue-like, staring at her.

Hello. What’s your name? Fay asked him.

That’s Thurman. My grandbaby.

Hello Thurman. How old are you?

The boy began to suck on his fingers.

Mrs. Goodfellow, how much do you owe on your home?

I really don’t know. I can’t find my papers.

We need to find out what you owe on your home to see what kind of equity you have in it. ...Okay, do you know what your FICO score is? She knew she had lost Mrs. Goodfellow again by her silence and blinking. Do you know what your credit score is, Mrs. Goodfellow? Fay attempted to bring her back, We need it so we can choose the right bank to work with you.

Out of the corner of her eye, Fay saw Thurman sitting on the floor close by. She turned her body to get a look at him. He was chewing on the electric cord of the portable refrigerator.

Hey! Is that thing on? Her eyes darted in search of anyone else in the room who shared her concern.

Mrs. Goodfellow looked down at Thurman. Oh, he fine. He’s just fine.

A door swung open violently, causing Fay to jump when it slammed against the wall. The sinister person she had encountered in the side yard rushed up from the basement led by two leashed, panting pit bulls. The man leered at her and then disappeared out the back door so quickly she wondered if she had actually seen him and his dogs.

Did you ever think of selling your house?

Well, I tell you, me and Chester, we talked about it a while back, seein’ how he can’t make the stairs anymore.

Just write your social security number down for me and your bank account number too. I also need your signature on this. It’s just a form stating that you’re working with me and that you give me permission to get the information we need to get started.

There you go, child. Thank you. God bless you.

Who was that man who came up from the basement, Mrs. Goodfellow?

That’s Terrance. My daughter-in-law’s brother.

He rents from you?

No. He just lives down there.

Fay tapped the edges of her papers on the table and tucked them neatly inside of her leather bag. Okay, then. I have all your information, she said as she stood to leave.

Good-bye Thurman. Where’s Mr. Goodfellow?

Mrs. Goodfellow shrugged and led the way back through the house to the front door.

The little lady on the couch waved good-bye and Mrs. Goodfellow shook Fay’s hand in the doorway.

I want to thank you for coming here today. I feel a great relief already. You’re a nice young lady. May the Lord bless you.

Thank you, Mrs. Goodfellow, and you can stop worrying. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure we get you straightened out. A hard-working lady like you shouldn’t be under all this pressure. Everything is going to be fine. I’ll call you in a few days.

Fay made a break for it as Mrs. Goodfellow called after her, Do you like crab? I want to make you some crab.

She closed her car door and exhaled with relief inside of its sun-warmed refuge. As she slathered on hand sanitizer a grin of self-satisfaction spread across her face. Mrs. Goodfellow was hers.

Fay turned out of the street and opened her window to let the warm spring air blow in on her and raised the volume of the radio. She had to laugh, she didn’t know what was harder to believe, that it could be so easy or how clueless people were. In the morning she would visit Josh’s office and he’d advise how to handle her new client.

Josh had hired her as a loan officer, breaking her into the business as a favor to Fay’s brother, Michael, a local restaurateur. Each of the mortgages she sold was submitted to the bank under Josh’s broker’s license and he claimed a greedy half of Fay’s commissions for the privilege, with the promise of an increased percentage for her as she became more experienced. But even though she shared her profits with him, she loved working with Josh. She loved the energy of his bustling office, mingling with his young staff, and the constant variety of clients that streamed through every day.

She had only started in the business six months earlier when she moved to Long Island from the Italian section of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn where she grew up working in her family’s Italian restaurant. Compared to the relentless grind of the food industry, soliciting mortgages was practically a pleasure.

The obligation of preparing dinner for her son and husband intruded on her thoughts. She was late as usual and it was almost time for Anna, her housekeeper to leave. Fay paid her well for staying with her only child, Angelo, AJ, for short, while she pursued her new career, but Anna had children of her own to tend to as well. Fay headed towards the supermarket and raced up and down the aisles plucking items that would become dinner.

While her husband, Genaro and AJ sat in the living room watching television, Fay prepared the tri-colored salad to top the chicken she had grilled. The vegetables were steaming and the garlic bread was filling the house with smells of their heritage. Having grown up in the restaurant business, she was comfortable in the kitchen and loved to be creative with food but her new love, the mortgage industry, sometimes rendered preparing dinner just another annoying chore. Her phone rang. Genaro’s eyes shifted from the television to his wife across the rooms.

This is Fay. She squeezed the receiver between her neck and shoulder as she pulled the bread out from under the broiler. Of course I remember you. The long line in the drugstore, she laughed. The split level on the dead end…that would be great. I would love to set up an appointment, but I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back?

She began bringing the food over to the table, eyeing her son and husband. Don’t kick the soccer ball in the house, please. I’ve asked a thousand times.

Before most women could even put together a meal of half the quality, Fay and her family were seated at the kitchen table enjoying their dinner.

You should have seen the client’s house I had to go into today, she said as she sliced into her chicken. You wouldn’t believe how some people live. I don’t even know how to begin to describe it.

Genaro refilled his wine glass.

Go ahead, Mom. Tell us. I want to hear.

Well, for starters, before I even get inside, the front yard has so much stuff lying around, it looks like a junkyard. Some of the windows are boarded up as if it’s abandoned...

Genaro looked up from his plate. And you go in? Are you stupid? How do you know what kind of lowlife is waiting inside?

No. I’m not stupid, Genaro. She was a referral. It’s not like I just started knocking on strangers’ doors or something. Josh knew where I was.

Josh, he snorted. You think he cares what happens to you? He went back to his meal. And that’s what you leave our son with a stranger for? he muttered into his plate. I don’t want to hear anymore.

I do, Mom. What happened?

Fay pushed her plate away. AJ stopped eating. Fay gave him a reassuring smile and kissed the air in his direction.

Genaro tore off another piece of bread. Your brother was on the warpath at work today with everyone, he chuckled.

What happened? Fay asked as she brought her dish to the sink.

"I was out picking up a produce order and the guys in the kitchen breaded and fried a delivery of spoiled chicken cutlets. Those baccalàs cooked off fifteen pounds before Michael caught it and had a fit on them," he laughed.

Fay shook her head as she turned around to him. Morons. Couldn’t they smell that they were bad?

Who knows? He had his horns out for the rest of the day. There were a few screw ups in the dining room and he just wouldn’t let it go. I don’t know why he lets himself get so crazy. I was so glad I was only working lunch.

If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you try running the show?

I should.

So do it.

We were supposed to do it together. Your father couldn’t have run his place without your mother along side of him all those years.

I spent my whole life working in the restaurant. That’s over for me. But you shouldn’t let that stop you if that’s what you want. She turned her back to him and busied herself at the counter.

What you’re doing isn’t a business for a woman. He scraped together the last of his food with his fork and raised it to his mouth. You’ll get tired of it.

She knew that her supply of whatever it is that keeps couples together, when they know that it’s done, was running low. More often she felt as if her marriage was infested with emotional termites, slowly destroying her from the inside. But like actual termite problems, everything looked fine from the outside.

Mom, will you be home in time to take me to baseball practice tomorrow?

What baseball practice? Genaro objected. What about soccer practice?

I like baseball better.

Take him to the soccer practice, Genaro barked.

Let him play what he likes.

Fay began to clear the table and Genaro retreated to the couch to watch television, lighting up a cigarette as he flipped through the channels.

How many times do I have to ask, Genaro? Go outside and smoke.

He waved his hand over his head at her as he went out the door, "Vado, vado." (I’m going, I’m going.)

By the time Fay finished putting the kitchen back in order and quizzed AJ for a spelling test, Genaro was snoring on the couch. Looking over at his sleeping form, she sat at the kitchen counter and began pouring over the paperwork on three different deals she had pending.

She was a perfectionist and wanted to make certain that there weren’t any errors in her clients’ loan applications so when Josh went over them, there would be no delays in getting them to the office processor. If all of the information was in order, the processor would check that the required documents were attached and then prepare a package for submission to the bank for approval. It was a tedious process with lots of details and as Fay was double-checking her figures, AJ appeared at her side holding a deck of cards.

Can we?

Ang, it’s almost nine. You have school tomorrow.

Just one game?

Set them up. She pushed her papers aside. Just one game. I’ll beat you quickly.

He hopped onto the stool next to her and hurriedly placed each card face down for his favorite card game, Concentration.

Once her son was satisfied with a win, he was happily off to bed and Fay went back to her papers.

Genaro tapped her on her shoulder as he stumbled past. Come on, it’s late, you coming up?

In a bit.

She heard the toilet flush on the second floor and listened as the house became still, slowly yielding to the after-hours quiet. She switched off her laptop and sat alone in the kitchen while she waited for her husband to fall asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Fay was in the elevator on her way to Josh Weiss’s office by ten the next morning. It was on the fourth floor of a sleek glass office building perched on stilts with a parking lot beneath it, just a fifteen-minute ride from her house.

Josh was a success story who influenced many to follow his lead. Although he had a degree in political science, he favored get-rich-quick schemes. After several failed ventures he resigned himself to working to appease his class-conscious parents and tried his hand at the mortgage business. Within a year he took over a floor in a building owned by his father, a wealthy cardiac surgeon. The timing was right and the money just never stopped.

When the polite chime announced her floor, the mirrored doors opened directly into Josh’s lively reception area. She walked towards the front desk where his young secretary, Danielle, was squatting on the floor in front of a wall of file cabinets, her leopard print thong rudely peeking out from above the waist of her pants. Fay could hear Josh rambling on the phone inside his office a few steps away and he soon appeared and stood nose to nose with Danielle. He wore an Armani dress shirt over his faded jeans and expensive leather loafers without socks. The fashion statement seemed ill-suited on his slight frame.

Okay, Danielle, I’m going to help you. Let’s pretend it’s yesterday—I just handed you the Meredith folder and I say, ‘Make two copies of everything and file it.’ What do you do?

Josh, I’m telling you, she pleaded her case to him in a typical Long Island nasal whine. I put it right in here. I don’t know what happened to it. She pointed to the squad of young loan officers who worked for Josh hustling in and out of the other rooms in the sprawling office. I bet you one of them has it and doesn’t even realize it.

Fucking annoying, he muttered under his breath. Keep looking... Hi Fay, go into my office. I’ll be right in.

Josh’s office was more like a living room with a big desk centered in the middle. Several deep, cushioned chairs rested on gray, wall-to-wall carpeting, an impressive sound system flanked with piles of CDs dominated one wall, and a dartboard hung on another. Fay sat on the black leather couch under the framed Scarface