The Son Also Rises

"What if we can make more money for you in six months?" I asked.

"I don't see how you can do that," said John Smith, "You don't even have a bank account."

"How do you know that?" asked Stan.

"We checked," said John Smith.

I put a hand on Stan's shoulder. I knew the good man was trying to defend me, but this was not the time or place. Stan looked at me. I nodded.

"We would like to get six months to recoup all of the lost revenue from tenants with who have not paid the rent since my father was sent to jail," I said.

John Smith looked surprise. His lawyers started talking to each other in hushed tones.

"How are you going to do that?" asked John Smith.

"You can get a better price for the apartment complexes if they are fully rented and all accounts paid in full," I said.

"We had not planned on being landlords," admitted John Smith, "We only want our money back."

"I understand," I said.

"We realize we might not get all of our money," said John Smith.

"What if I told you that you can get your money and more?" I asked.

"I don't know," said John Smith, "We were hoping the auctioneer can get a reasonable price for those apartment complexes."

"If you give us six months," I said, "We can guarantee you will get your money and more."

"Like I said," John Smith said, "We are not in the real estate business and do not wish to be a landlord."

"Let us do that for you," I said.

"What are your friend's qualifications?" asked John Smith.

"Stan has been a property manager for my father for over fifteen years," I said, "His apartment complex has the lowest delinquency rates of all of my father's apartment complexes."

"What are your qualifications?" asked John Smith.

"I have been the maintenance man for my father's apartment complexes since I was thirteen years old," I said.

There was a surprised gasp from each one of the people on the other side of the table. John Smith was horrified.

"There are child labor laws in this state," said John Smith, "You must be joking."

Stan leaned forward.

"You won't find this on the company ledger," said Stan, "Mike is paid in cash."

"How do we know that?" asked John Smith.

"How do you think Michael Skinner, senior, keeps his overhead low?" asked Stan.

John Smith and his team of lawyers looked over my father's financial information. They all seemed amazed.

"There are no line items for maintenance," said John Smith, "How is this possible?"

Stan pointed to me.

"This man here does all the maintenance for all the apartment complexes," said Stan, "He gets paid less than minimum wage."

"That is against the law," said John Smith.

Stan and I laughed. John Smith was not amused.

"What is so funny?" asked John Smith.

"My father doesn't like to pay much for anything," I said, "That includes his son."

"We work for the lowest rates in the city," said Stan, "Check your numbers."

The lawyers did check the numbers in my father's financial statement. They were all shaking their heads.

"This is pathetic," said John Smith, "These labor rates are way below industry standards."

"Exactly," I said, "We are willing to continue these rates for six months."

"Why would you do that?" asked John Smith.

"If you don't get enough money for the apartment complexes," I said, "You won't be able to offer me another check."

"How much can we get for those apartments complexes?" John Smith asked his team of lawyers.

The auctioneer's estimate was less than the amount of the check that my father had wrongfully taken. John Smith sighed. This was not the answer he wanted to hear.

"I want you to recover your money," I said.

"Okay," said John Smith, "That seems fair."

"If you don't recover your money," I said, "You can't offer me another check."

"We need you to tell the general public that our products are safe," said John Smith.

"Exactly," I said, "We can get you more for those apartment complexes if all delinquent accounts are brought current."

"You sound like an accountant," said John Smith.

"I am taking classes at the community college," I said.

"Is your father paying for your education?" asked John Smith.

"Not since the accident," I said.

"I see," said John Smith.

"I can't speak for my father," I said, "I have no idea why he would steal money from his own son."

"We know all about your father," said John Smith, "But we don't know anything about you."

"How much time does the bankruptcy court need to liquidate all of my father's assets?" I asked.

"We are estimating that it will take at least a year," said John Smith.

"Why not give us six months to collect all the delinquent rents?" I asked, "Why not let us get most of the apartments rented?"

"Can you do that?" asked John Smith.

"We can do that," said Stan.

"If we fail," I said, "The bankruptcy court seizes the apartment complexes anyway."

"I see," said John Smith.

"You get your money one way or the other," I said.

"If you can pull this off," said John Smith, "We can all make a lot of money."

"All we ask is to give us six months to get the apartment complexes ready for sale," I said, "You can even pick out the real estate broker."

John Smith turned to his legal team. They threw out a few names for Mr. Smith to consider.

"I think we can handle the real estate broker," said John Smith, "Just have everything ready for sale in six months."

"Yes, sir," I said.

"Thank you, sir," said Stan.

I stood up when John Smith stood up. I shook his hand and thanked him profusely. Stan did the same.

"We will talk to the bankruptcy judge," said John Smith, "We will ask them to keep you and your staff for the next six months."

"You can keep all the profits from the sale," I said.

"Do you still want to do that public service message for us?" asked John Smith.

"After the six months," I said, "I will do whatever you need for me to do."

John Smith nodded and disappeared through a door on the far side of the conference room. The security guard stood beside us. He escorted us out of the conference room, into the foyer, and back out into the parking lot.

"How are we supposed to collect all that rent money?" asked Stan.

"I have a plan," I said.

"Most of the property managers have gone," said Stan, "We don't have the manpower to do all the collecting and all the maintenance."

"I am already doing all the maintenance," I said.

"What about the collecting?" Stan asked.

"I think I need to call my mother," I said.

"Does she have friends who can help her get all the rent money?" asked Stan.

"We will see," I said.

"Okay," said Stan, "I hope you know you are doing."

The first person I called was Greta. I called her on my cellular phone.

"Hi, Greta," I said, "Is this a good time to talk?"

"I told you that I don't ever want to talk to you again," said Greta.

"I know," I said, "But this is not about you being my sister or Betty being my real mother."

"What is it?" asked Greta, "You have sixty seconds before I hang up."

"I need Betty's help," I said, "I need people who can collect the rent money for my father's apartment complexes."

"Your father has property managers to do all of that," said Greta.

"Most of them have left," I said, "Only Stan is left."

"I am sure your father can hire new property managers," said Greta.

"That won't happen," I said.

"Why not?" asked Greta.

"My father got dragged off to jail," I said.

There was a gasp. I could hear Betty's voice in the background. Greta was trying to relay the information to her mother. Finally, Betty picked up the phone.

"Mike," said Betty, "Is that you?"

"Mom," I said, "I am so sorry."

"I should have asked more questions after I realized that you looked like my husband," said Betty.

"It was not your fault," I said.

"It was not your fault, either," said Betty, "I just never realized my husband would try to marry his own daughter."

There was awkward pause as Greta and Betty started arguing on the other end of the telephone line. When they were through, Betty returned to the telephone.

"Greta threw up when she got home," said Betty, "I would have thrown up, too."

"My father got twenty five years in prison for check fraud and bigamy," I said.

"Did my husband have two trials?" asked Betty.

"No," I said, "The same judge was hearing both cases and combined the two."

"I see," said Betty.

"With my father in jail," I said, "No one is collecting the rent money anymore."

"That means you get no paycheck," said Betty.

"Exactly," I said.

"You might be working for free," said Betty, "But no one else will work for free to collect the rent money."

"We need to add some incentives," I said.

"What incentives?" asked Betty.

"The collection agencies usually want a cut of the check that arrives," I said.

"Exactly," said Betty.

"We can ask these debt collectors to get keep whatever they gather over and above the stated rent due," I said.

"What about the police?" asked Betty, "Would these renters go to court if my people get too rough?"

"We only have six months to get all the rent collected," I said, "The apartment complexes will be sold long before anyone is seen in court."

"That could work to our advantage," said Betty.

"Can we get these people to help us collect the rent?" I asked.

"I will start making phone calls," said Betty, "I will have them call you if they are interested."

"Thanks, mom," I said.

"I love you, son," said Betty, "You don't know how long I have been searching for you."

"I love you, too, mom," I said.

Suddenly, someone was yelling something on the other end of the telephone line. There was an awkward pause.

"You are the one who slept with my husband," said Betty, "Don't point fingers at me."

There was more yelling on the other end of the telephone line.

"At least my boyfriend loves me," said Betty, "I can't say the same thing for your ex-husband."

Then, the telephone line went dead.

The next day, Stan and I waited in his office just before 8 o'clock. There was a knock on the door and I promptly opened it. Two men in brown and tan uniforms strolled inside. Both men had shaved heads and steel-rimmed sunglasses. None of the uniforms had any markings or lettering. They wore no nametags or identification cards. They did have two large caliber semi-automatic pistols with additional ammunition on their belts.

"Good morning, gentleman," said Stan.

"Are you Mr. Skinner?" asked one of the men.

"I am Stan," said Stan, "That there is Mr. Skinner, junior."

I picked up a clipboard.

"Do we have any non-lethal weapons?" I asked.

Each of the men pulled out a stun gun. They showed me the indicator lights. Each stun gun appeared to have a full charge.

"Ready for action," said the two men.

"Let's get to work," I said.

Stan picked up the phone.

"I'll have the day laborers park on the far side of the apartment complex," said Stan.

"Thanks, Stan," I said, "We'll start on the north side and make out way to the south end."

I took the two men with me and knocked on doors. I had a list of all the delinquent accounts. When a resident refused to answer, I would unlock the doors for the two men. The two men would rush inside and fire their stun-guns at anyone inside. Even though I did not agree with their methods, I knew I was on a deadline. There were hundreds of tenants who had not bothered to pay their rent once they heard my dad was in jail and the property managers left town.

Once the tenant was dragged outside the unit, they were handcuffed and asked to pay. If they refused to pay, I asked Stan to send the day laborers into the apartment. Within fifteen minutes, the tenant's property was loaded onto a dumpster. I would switch out the lockset and set the tenants free. After visiting six or more tenants, word spread that the sheriff was kicking people out who did not pay their rent. As expected, the remaining tenants flooded the property manager's office. Stan was happy to collect their delinquent rents and a hefty penalty fee.

At the end of the day, Stan added up all the penalty fees. I had my two men sign a release waiver and turned over the sum of all the penalty fees. It was a giant stack of cash and I showed them the receipts. Since I had no idea what these men were capable of doing, I showed them the utmost respect and I made sure the two men were handsomely paid. As I had discussed with Betty, I did not ask them for their names or their criminal background. This was strictly a business deal and I paid the fees. After everything was said and done, the men did not complain and happily left with all their cash.

That night, I left Stan and the apartment to see Gretchen at another one of the apartment complexes. I wanted so much to get Elaine's approval. She had been very encouraging. I had a feeling that Elaine wanted time alone with me, but Gretchen had mysteriously attached herself to me. I wondered if it was a strange brother-sister bonding, but I would have preferred the company of an insatiable vixen like Elaine.

I knocked on Elaine's apartment door. Suddenly, there was a great deal of commotion behind the door. A high-pitched voice started to ask questions from behind the door.

"Go away," said the high-pitched voice.

The high-pitched voice belonged to none other than Gretchen.

"It's me," I said, "Mike."

More noises emerged from behind the door. I started to get worried.

"Is everything okay?" I asked.

"Just a minute," said Gretchen.

"Sure," I said, "Have you seen Greta?"

"I'm here," said Greta.

"Good," I said, "Did you get the pictures?"

"Yes, I did," said Greta.

After another minute, the door opened. Gretchen stood there breathless. She wore an oversized t-shirt and possibly some panties, but I was not sure. Then, I was unceremoniously dragged into the apartment and the door shut behind me. Greta was behind the door. They two lovely and gorgeous women both had oversized t-shirts. It was very easy to see through the thin fabric, but I tried not to stare. I was not sure what was going on, but I had the feeling I had interrupted something. Immediately, I tried to excuse myself.

"Is your mother here?" I asked Gretchen, "Do you want me to come back when you have the pictures uploaded?"

"Mom is not here," said Gretchen.

Elaine had gone to work and only Greta was there with Gretchen. Earlier in the day, Greta had taken photographs of all of my father's sports cars. Days ago, the bank had seized my father's house, but surprisingly, the contents had not been removed yet. Instead, the bank had placed a chain and a lock on the front gate to the house. A "no-trespassing" sign was posted over the gate to keep people away.

With the help of a ladder, Greta was able to jump the concrete block fence and enter my father's garage. Unbeknownst to the bank, Greta still had a key to my father's house. In less than an hour, Greta had snapped photographs of all my father's sport's cars.

Personally, I didn't know how Greta or Gretchen would interact with each other. They both had the same father, but that was no guarantee that they would work together. When I arrived at Elaine's apartment, Greta and Gretchen were sitting in front of a computer. Earlier in the day, Greta had pilfered a laptop from my father's office. They were both sitting in front of the stolen laptop. Greta had connected her camera connected to the computer to download all the photographs of my father's sports cars. The laptop was connected to the Internet and Gretchen was posting pictures of the automobiles.

"How are we doing?" I asked.

"We are doing fine," said Gretchen, "We have just uploaded the photographs."

Several of the photographs flashed across the screen. I nodded my approval.

"Those are some nice photographs," I said.

"Thank you," said Gretchen.

"Did you have trouble getting into the garage?" I asked.

"The alarm system was active," Gretchen said.

"How did you get past the alarm?" I asked.

"I still have the remote control to the garage," said Greta.

"Did the bank ever ask for the garage remote control?" I said.

"No," said Greta, "I found it strange they that did not ask for the remote."

"Did my father have remote garage controllers on every car?" I asked.

"That is probably why they did not ask for my garage remote control," said Greta.

"Do you think my father had list of all of his sports cars?" I asked.

"I did not find a list inside the house," asked Gretchen.

"Maybe it is in the computer," I said.

"I will have to check into that," said Gretchen.

"My dad keeps spreadsheets of all of his financial information," I said, "It makes sense that he has a spreadsheet with all of the information on each automobile."

"Why would anyone do that?" asked Gretchen.

"My father took better care of his sports cars than he did his children," I said, "I am sure he kept records of when service was done to all of his automobiles."

Greta rolled her eyes. She seemed to agree with me.

"That is absolutely true," said Greta, "Your father cared more about those stupid sports cars than he did his own wife."

Gretchen and I looked at each other. We noticed that Greta was still referring to Mr. Michael Skinner, senior, as her husband. It was assumed that Greta knew that her ex-husband was actually her father. The thought that my father actually married his own daughter made me sick inside. Not only did it make me sick, this gave me one more reason to hate my father. I had lusted after Greta, and the thought of Greta having sex with my father made my stomach churn.

I looked at Greta and Gretchen. They were so similar in size and shape. Both were blonde with perky breasts and a lean body. Both had blue eyes and a cute nose. The only difference was their hair style. Greta had braided pigtails which made her look younger. They were both sitting in chairs facing the laptop computer in their oversized t-shirts.

"I don't know why," I said, "My father was wrong in treating you so poorly."

Greta's mouth was open, but no words emerged. She seemed surprised at my comment. Vividly, I remembered our last encounter. Greta was so upset when I told her the news about her real father. She was so mad and I felt so guilty about breaking the news to her. In a way, Greta wanted to blame someone and I was conveniently present. Still, I was not willing to detest Greta completely. None of us would have ever imagined the personal devastation that my father had doled out. My father's senseless actions had permanent ramifications that reached back almost twenty years.

"I didn't know you felt that way," said Greta.

"You deserve better," I said.

Greta could not believe my words.

"I can't believe you just said that," said Greta, "I was so angry with you when you told me the truth."

"We were all angry," I said.

"There is no reason you need to be so nice to me after how I treated you last time," said Greta.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"You were angry and I was angry," I said, "Everyone was mad that day."

I looked over at Gretchen. The young girl was looking at my face and Greta's face. She was trying to figure out what was happening.

"Relax, Gretchen," I said, "I am not trying to take Greta away from you."

At that, Gretchen's face blushed. She stumbled for something to say. Greta rolled her eyes and looked at Gretchen.

"I guess Junior is not as dumb as he looks," said Greta.

"How did you know?" asked Gretchen.

"You two are almost naked," I said.

Greta laughed. Gretchen frowned. The young girl did not understand what was so funny.

"What is so funny?" asked Gretchen.

"Mike has seen me naked before," said Greta.

"What?" Gretchen asked.

"She sleeps in the nude," I said.

"So do you," said Greta.

I looked at Gretchen.