Closer

“Dad,” Janine Singh whispered, even though Bo was not within earshot—he was still sitting behind a closed door in the ‘closing’ room that they were just temporarily leaving, where the interview had moments ago concluded. “I don’t think he even knows what a mortgage is.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Janie,” Marvin Oldham said, putting a loving arm around his 45-year-old daughter, as they walked down a short hallway, toward the break room. She was taller than him, now that he was stooped. His wool sweater-sleeve was scratchy on her neck, as he said:

“You heard Bo say it himself. He’s owned four homes! And each one has had a mortgage.”

“I’m not sure he really knows how mortgages work. And we have three other applicants with mortgage closing experience.”

Marvin’s step was, uncharacteristically, full of pep. Janine hadn’t had trouble keeping up with him since his second knee surgery, but today he led the way through the modest environs of Oldham, née Oldham Title Agency. They made it to the closet-sized break room—small enough that adding another person to the room would have made it feel cramped. Oldham and née Oldham stood back-to-back. Marvin pulled a tuna sandwich out of the mini fridge, took a bite, and said:

“I’ve got a plan! And it’s marketing. Marketing is what we need now more than ever. No more will we be losing so much damned business to Wildwood Title. Bo is exactly what we need. I can’t believe no one else has thought of this before. I can see it on an advertisement now: ‘Meet a legendary closer when you close on your home at Oldham, née Oldham!’”

“Legendary might be a stretch. And don’t you think this could backfire? I mean, he was a closer for the Cubs and we are in the heart of Chicagoland. The guy blew game 7 in the bottom of the ninth of the World Series. The way it happened, too. Kinda spectacular. Hitting a guy with the bases loaded, after walking three batters in a row—”

“That was over a decade ago, now, sweetie. And aside from that bad night, the guy was beloved. Beloved.”

Janine leaned against the water cooler, both index and middle fingers on a temple, slightly shaking her head, and trying not to breathe in the tuna fumes that after all these years she still wasn’t immune to. While watching the ripples in the tank, she wondered if she could tactfully bring up the not-trivial question of why a man who had made tens of millions of dollars during his baseball career would be considering a 9 to 5 job that wouldn’t yield even close to six figures per year. And, relatedly, she did her best to figure out how to broach that his answer—‘a number of bad investments, including matrimonial’—to her question trying to get at this during the interview had been totally unsatisfying, yet had somehow seemed acceptable to her father. She settled on:

“With all due respect, dad, don’t you think I should have veto power on this? I mean, you said yourself that you’ll be retiring at the end of next year. I’m the one who’s going to have to live with this decision.”

“Honey, think of it this way. This is my gift to you. That signing bonus he requested? It’s coming out of my retirement funds.”

“Dad! You’re actually going to give him the guaranteed signing bonus? I almost laughed when he asked about that just now. This isn’t Major League Baseball. We’re a struggling, family-owned title agency in a middle-class, suburban neighborhood.”

Marvin took another bite of sandwich, put it back in the fridge, and slammed the door shut. He turned around, to look at his daughter, as she turned around to face him.

“I know a winner when I see one. And boy, was his handshake firm. No wonder he threw a curveball like he did. I can still feel his grip.”

Marvin opened and closed his sun-spotted, right hand several times, wincing.

“But we need someone,” Janine said, “who actually knows the business of closing mortgages.”

“YouTube does wonders these days, for on-the-job learning. Lord knows, I’ve learned I was doing a thing or two wrong, over the past several decades, by watching those ‘so you want to start a title agency?’ videos.”

Putting both of his hands on Janine’s shoulders, looking into dark eyes that had always reminded him of his own—ever since she was a toddler—Marvin said as gently as he could, which wasn’t particularly gentle:

“Look, Janie. I didn’t question you one bit when you decided to take Ishaan’s last name. Even though it put a major wrench in the very name of our company, which people were just starting to get used to. But we made it work.”

“I’ll admit, you were stoic throughout that whole situation.”

“But to be honest, I think the née in Oldham, née Oldham might be scaring people off. People don’t know what it means. Which is why we need to try something new. Bo Jorowski new.”

Janine looked at her father, whose large nose had at some point grown hair that was too long to be contained, who had held her hand as she took her first pedals on a little pink bike, and who had not hesitated to make her a partner in the family business when her almost-decade-long quest to become a veterinarian had run out of steam. His toothy smile expanded as she continued to look at him, and she remembered how defeated he had seemed just a couple months ago sitting in a medical-grade recliner after surgery number two in the span of just three years. No hope, no spark, more or less lifeless; the complete opposite of his current resonance.

“OK,” she said, letting herself smile just a little. “I’ll follow your lead on this one.”

“Thatta girl,” he gleefully chimed. “Let’s go!”

Marvin left the breakroom at an almost-jogging pace, using short-stepped and bouncy, toddler-like movements that made the wooden hallway floorboards squeak like an excited piglet. Janine followed him toward the closing room. He knocked once on the door, then burst in, exclaiming:

“Bo Jorowski, meet Fannie Mae!”

As Janine walked in, following her father, Bo said solemnly and slowly, in low-pitched tones:

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I don’t eat chocolate anymore. Not since my diabetes.”

Janine did her best not to sigh as she sat down beside her father, on the opposite side of the oak table that Bo was sitting at. A beefy guy, about her age, Bo was wearing a button-up, plaid shirt and a blue ball cap with a red, white-bordered ‘C’ on it, and was eating Cheetos that he’d gotten from the basket by the front door. He was kind-of-smiling, in a somewhat-confused way that only showed a few of his teeth.

“Bo,” Marvin said jovially, “what I’m saying is you’ve got the job!”

“Aw, nice!” Bo said, smiling a little more assuredly.

Janine didn’t say a word, but tried to also smile.

“You know,” Bo said, “when my agent told me you’d gotten in contact with him, somehow, I couldn’t see where you were coming from. But now it makes a lot of sense. A lot of sense. And let me tell you, I could use a fresh start. And a paycheck.”

“A native son like yourself, Bo, I knew I couldn’t go wrong. Well, I’ve got that contract I discussed with your agent right here. I’ve reviewed it and, although that signing bonus is a bit hefty, I approve. Note that you’ll lose the $20,000 if you don’t last a month. But I’m not worried about that.”

“Sounds fair.”

Janine handed the contract to Bo, who briefly thumbed through it—leaving bright-orange Cheeto powder on each page—before signing.

*

Two months later:

“Janine,” Bo said from his office, tennis shoes upon the desk, “can you remind me again what a crow account is?”

“Seriously?” she snapped from across the hallway, in her office. “I’ll have you know that I spent nearly ten years studying to become a vet.”

“I thought that just required a deploy—”

“That included numerous internships which had me dealing with some of the most unruly and violent animals that you could imagine. Not just dogs and cats, but even raccoons and opossums. And do you know what that takes? It takes patience. I have it in spades.”

She got up from her chair, and walked over to the doorway, leaning out into the hallway. The office to her left, at the end hallway, was her father’s and the door to it was closed. She continued:

“I’ll have you know that not only have I run out of patience with you, but if you’re not careful, I’m going to march over there and take away that company phone I’ve been watching you play games on since you arrived fifteen minutes late this morning. This isn’t the bullpen, you can’t mess around all day!”

“But Mr. Oldham gave it to me.”

“Well, thank goodness, Mr. Oldham isn’t here today. Out with a sciatica flare-up.”

Janine walked across the hallway, ignoring a ringing phone on her desk, and sat in the chair across from Bo’s desk. He put his feet on the ground and crossed his fingers in his lap.

“I’ve been reviewing your cases all morning,” she said, “and what I’ve found is disconcerting, to say the least. The Mathenys’ escrow account isn’t funded, the Bradshaws’ lender hasn’t heard from you in weeks, and as it turns out there are three liens on the Tarkington house that you completely overlooked. On top of that, none of our clients even seem to recognize you!”

“My arm hurts,” he said, rubbing his right elbow.

“That doesn’t work anymore, Bo.”

After taking a moment to collect herself before continuing, Janine said:

“Or are you talking about that die-hard Cubs fan who hit you and said you haunt his dreams? Regardless, since you’ve arrived, we’ve lost the business of three real estate agents. Three! That’s almost half of our partners.”

“Well, what are you going to do, boss, fire me?”

Janine smiled at the thought of that, but shook her head.

“No, Bo. As much as I’d love to fire you, I couldn’t do that to my father. I’ve found a better solution. And as of this very moment, I’ve decided that I’m going to put it into motion.”

Bo spit something dark and juicy into the sardines can on his desk, but continued to quietly listen as Janine went on:

“Just about ever since you started working here, those vultures over at Wildwood have been circling. I’ve heard through the real estate agent grapevine—it’s extensive—that they want you. Somehow, Jerry Wild actually thinks you’re helping us.”

“Well, maybe I am.”

Janine glared at him for three full seconds without saying a word. Bo didn’t move a muscle the whole time. He didn’t even breathe.

“This afternoon, you’re going to be getting a call from your agent. We’ve got it all worked out. He’s already been in contact with Wildwood, and they have agreed to double the signing bonus we paid you.”

“Double?” Bo said, almost knocking over his spit can, as he leaned forward.

“Yes, Bo, double. There’s only one condition, so far as I’m concerned. If one word of this makes it to my father, I’m going to use the surveillance footage I have from the last three weekends of you traipsing in after-hours, apparently drunk, and taking cash from the safe. I’ll send this footage to my father, and then to the district attorney’s office.”

“It wasn’t much. I was going to put it back.”

“I don’t care anymore,” Janine calmly said. “Theft is theft. Your agent, by the way, knows about that footage. That’s why he hasn’t passed along the Wildwood offer yet. He knows not to until I’m ready. And oh, am I ever ready.”

Janine felt flickers of joy that almost tickled as she thought about the television advertisement that she was going to run, with her father’s approval. And, given his feelings about Wildwood Title, he’d certainly approve.

Closing her eyes, Janine could clearly see how the advertisement would run: a slightly grainy, 10-second clip from game seven of the World Series. The crowd’s roar is palpable. A younger and much fitter Bo takes a deep breath, winds up, and hurls a fastball squarely into the back of the batter with the bases loaded, which sends the winning run home. The distraught, Cubs announcer from that telecast basically sobs, ‘Bo blew it again.’ Then, there’s a fadeaway from the opposing team celebrating to a dark screen with the company logo on it, and an urgent voiceover: ‘Think twice before trusting Wildwood’s newest closer. Trust Oldham née Oldham with your title needs.’

She opened her eyes, and saw Bo sitting there, kind-of-smiling, lips jutting from his mouth just enough to show a few dirty teeth. Glowingly, Janine said:

“Pack your bags, Bo. You’ve been traded.”