Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
ciple, in the emerging Republican tradition of distrust. Suspected of liberal ideas learned in
the North, Billy Prieshard had gone and bought up some apartment buildings and sold the
units as condominiums—what Dee's former boyfriend called condominials, to cast them in
laughable light where they belonged. Why, who else but a scalawag sumbitch would take some
apartments and sell them individually to separate buyers? Can you believe that shit? Con-
dominiums were a radical new concept in South Carolina, with no grass nor bushes nor yard
boys, none you'd need to care for anyway. But you would need to pay every month—
make
at ever damn month
—for someone to take care of things. That was the catch. Topping of all
that shit was the worst notion of all: this Billy fella made a heap o' dough in no time, and now
Mister Moneybags was banging
our
Delia!
I couldn't make the next payment on the little house the estranged wife and I bought for
twenty-five thousand by taking over payments with 5% down. But the bank didn't yet know
of my situation, and with equity, an enterprising fellow had a month to borrow eight grand
against the place on a dummy loan app, maybe ten grand, since those were the days of “bank-
ing relationships.” If you knew a banker and a couple three jokes bearing down on pussy and/
or football, you had a relationship. A relationship allowed the banking officer to approve the
loan. The loan app was required like resumes were required, to demonstrate adaptive ability
in a demanding society. Nobody checked.
I told Billy Prieshard I wanted to convert some condos like he did but on a smaller scale,
because I only had eight grand to draw on. Maybe ten. Maybe I could line up fifteen in a
pinch.
He said that could be the right amount to get going on a duplex or maybe even a fourplex,
but he'd searched the entire town and could flat guarantee: there weren't none.
Fuck.
He said, “Look. I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm full o' shit most of the time.
Okay? You go look for yourself. You find anything outa your range, you call me. We'll work
something out.”
That felt better. “What's your range?”
“I don't know.” With the casual power shrug of an original bubba who'd been to town, he
looked up as if to find his limit. “Maybe a million dollars.”
He could have said a hundred zillion, which was about how much a million was back then.
The region was crawling with rednecks like Dee's old boyfriend, with their outrageous con-
servative color and cocaine to balance the liquor—oh, and family values and a rebel yell as
necessary.
Why, sheeyit
.
Billy Prieshard had that same twang, but he'd graduated Yale law school and was deemed
dangerous because his law degree didn't show. Dee told me about his ticket to steal with a
wink to keep it on the Q.T., because Billy didn't want people thinking he was uppity or tricky
or taking advantage as a practicing member of the South Carolina Bar Association. Well, sir,
