“You want this in one cashier’s check, Mr. Hayes?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Made out to the Montgomery County Treasurer.”
“We charge a five-dollar fee for certified drafts,” Dave said, his voice flat and practiced. “And it will leave your personal savings balance at exactly two thousand and forty-three dollars.”
I thought about the forty-three dollars I had in my pocket when I first rode into Columbus in Nate’s passenger seat, wondering if we would have enough gas to make it to his cousin’s street.
“Draw the check,” I said.
He typed into his terminal and the printer behind him began to click. It was a high, rhythmic sound that filled the small cubicle.
“You need to sign the withdrawal slip first,” Dave said, pushing a white slip toward me with a thumb that had a black ink stain near the nail.
I signed my name at the bottom. My hand was steady, but the ink looked very dark against the white paper.
“Here is your draft,” Dave said, sliding a blue-bordered check across the desk. “Good luck with your purchase.”
I held the check by its edges, careful not to crease the paper. The numbers were printed in bold black ink: twenty-two thousand dollars. It felt lighter than a piece of cedar siding, but it represented every hour of demolition labor, every sheet of drywall I had hung, and every mile I had driven in the old Ford truck.
I walked out to the parking lot and placed the blue check inside my leather tool belt, which was sitting on the passenger seat of the truck.
Nate’s apartment smelled of fried onions and laundry detergent when I arrived at six. He was sitting on the edge of his mattress, which was pushed against the living room wall, tapping his fingers against his knees in the dim light.
“You got it?” Nate asked, looking up as the door closed behind me.
“I got it,” I said, showing him the blue-bordered check.
Nate took a deep breath and let it out with a low whistle. “Twenty-two grand. My dad hasn’t seen that much cash in one place since he sold his old John Deere tractor.”
“It is not cash,” I said, putting the check back in my pocket. “It is a promise.”
“You think Walter is going to be there?” Nate asked, his voice dropping. “At the courthouse?”
“He does not know the auction is tomorrow,” I said. “The notices went to his post office box. He has not checked it in three months because of the collection letters.”
Nate stood up and walked over to the kitchen counter, where my framing hammer and levels were stacked.
I picked up the heavy steel toolbox from the corner of the room. I laid my framing square across the top tray, then nestled my old circular saw next to the cord.
“You have the spare generator gas?” Nate asked, leaning against the doorframe.
“It is in the back of the truck under the tarp,” I said.
“I put a new spark plug in it on Tuesday,” Nate said. “The old one was fouled with carbon. You will need it if the power is cut at the house.”
“The power is still on,” I said. “Walter is still living there.”
Nate tapped his knuckles against the wooden doorframe. “For now. But if you win tomorrow, how long do you think the utility company keeps his name on the meter?”
“I will handle the utilities when the deed is signed,” I said.
“I checked the oil in your truck,” Nate said, not looking at me. “It was half a quart low. I put some ten-forty in.”
“Thanks, Nate,” I said.
“You want me to drive down with you?” he asked, turning around. “I can take the morning off. Tell the shop I have a dentist appointment.”
“No,” I said. “I need to do this alone.”
“Walter has friends in that building, Leo,” Nate said. “Old guys from the county board who used to buy him drinks at the legion. They might try to stall the bidding if they see you.”
“They cannot stall a public tax sale,” I said. “The rules are on the wall.”
Nate reached down and picked up my magnetic truck sign from the table, tracing the white letters of Hayes Restoration with his thumb.
“He is going to hate you for this,” Nate said softly.
“He does not have to know,” I said.
“He will find out the day the deed is filed,” Nate said. “The county clerk prints the transfers in the Wednesday paper. Everyone in Dayton reads those listings.”
“That is four weeks from now,” I said. “By then, the roof will be patched.”
I took the sign from his hand and walked out to the alley. The Ford truck was parked under the security light, its black paint covered in a thin layer of drywall dust. I pressed the magnetic sign against the driver’s side door, smoothing the vinyl with my palm until it stuck flat.
The highway down to Dayton was empty at six in the morning. The fields on either side of the road were gray with morning mist, the corn stalks dry and broken from the harvest.
I parked the truck three blocks from the Montgomery County Courthouse, near an old bakery that smelled of yeast and grease.
I sat in the cab and watched the street. A delivery truck unloaded crates of milk at the corner store. An old man in a gray coat swept the sidewalk in front of a barber shop.
At seven-thirty, I drove closer and parked in the county lot.
The courthouse was a limestone building with tall windows and three wide stone steps leading to the brass double doors.
A blue sedan pulled into the spot next to mine. A man in a dark wool suit got out, carrying a leather briefcase. He did not look at my truck or the magnetic sign on the door. He walked up the steps with his head down, checking his watch.
Another car parked near the entrance. Arthur Vance, the man Gail had mentioned, got out of a clean white pickup. He had a rolled-up newspaper under his arm and a large gold ring on his left hand.
He stood at the bottom of the steps for a minute, lighting a cigarette and looking at the sky. He looked like a man who was waiting for a store to open.
Another car, a green station wagon with rusted rocker panels, parked near the back fence. An older man in a yellow windbreaker got out, clutching a clipboard against his ribs. He looked like a retired builder who still kept his license active just to buy cheap lumber at these sales.
The wind caught the edge of my magnetic truck sign, making the vinyl flutter against the door. I reached out and pressed it down again, ensuring the corners were sealed against the cold metal.
The courthouse clock tower began to chime the eight-o’clock hour, the deep brass sound vibrating through the steering wheel of the truck.
I checked the pocket of my coat one last time. The blue-bordered cashier’s check was still there, tucked inside the manila envelope Gail had given me.
My father was probably sitting in the kitchen on Piedmont Road right now, drinking coffee from a stained mug, looking at the bills he could not pay. He had no idea that the deed to his house was sitting on a clipboard inside that limestone building.
I opened the truck door and stepped out onto the asphalt.
The air was quiet and smelled of wet leaves and exhaust.
I walked past Arthur Vance without making eye contact. He did not look up from his newspaper as I passed him.
I reached the brass double doors of the courthouse and pulled them open.
The hallway of the Montgomery County administration building was long and narrow, lined with pale yellow tiles that had been scrubbed until they lost their shine. I walked through the heavy double doors of Room 204 with my hands in my pockets, my left thumb tracing the small ridge of the scar on my palm.
The air inside smelled of wet umbrellas, damp wool coats, and the faint, sweet scent of floor polish. It was only ten past ten in the morning, but the room was already half full of men in work jackets and heavy boots, their low voices echoing off the high ceiling.
I chose a seat in the third row, near the heavy fire exit door on the left. Gail Vance had told me to find a spot where I could watch the hands of the other bidders without having to turn my face.
Watch the ones who do not have paper in their hands, she had told me when we sat in her Columbus office. The serious investors do not need to look at the tax listings because they have already run the numbers on every lot on the sheet.
A man in a tan windbreaker sat three seats down from me, a gold ring on his pinky finger tapping a steady rhythm against his plastic clipboard. His name was Arthur, a local buyer who specialized in picking up distressed properties on the cheap before the banks could list them.
At the front of the room, a long folding table was covered in green laminate, where two clerks sat behind computer screens. Auctioneer Keith, a thick-set man with grey hair and a blue lanyard around his neck, stood up and tapped his microphone twice.
A sharp whistle of feedback filled the small room, making the front row flinch, before dying away into a low hum. Keith adjusted his glasses and opened a thick manila folder.
Alright, we are starting the morning docket, Keith said, his voice flat and tinny through the wall speakers. Standard county terms apply, cashier’s checks or cash only, to be settled immediately upon the fall of the hammer.
I reached inside my work jacket, my fingers touching the stiff corner of the white envelope in my breast pocket. Inside were three cashier’s checks from my bank in Columbus, representing every dollar I had saved from the demolition jobs and the framing work.
First property up today is parcel number four-twelve, forty-two Piedmont Road, Keith announced, holding up a single white sheet of paper. Unpaid tax liens and outstanding judgements.
Arthur stopped tapping his clipboard. He did not look in my direction, but his shoulders shifted as he leaned slightly forward, his eyes locking on the auctioneer.
Minimum bid is set by the state at fifteen thousand dollars, Keith said, his eyes scanning the rows of metal chairs. Do I hear fifteen?
A tall man in the front row with a yellow legal pad raised his wooden paddle with a quick, practiced motion.
Bidder seventeen is in at fifteen, Keith said, writing a small mark on his ledger. Looking for sixteen.
Arthur did not raise a paddle. He simply nodded his head toward the front table, a tiny movement that the auctioneer caught immediately.
Bidder twelve has sixteen, Keith said, his pencil hovering over his paper. Do I hear seventeen?
The man with the legal pad nodded again, his paddle rising an inch.
Seventeen to bidder seventeen, Keith said.
I kept my hands flat on my knees, my boots tucked under the metal chair to keep from drawing attention. Gail had told me to wait until the smaller buyers dropped out before making a move, to let them think the interest was low.
Let them tire each other out on the single thousands, she had said. The real bidding starts when the jump is clean.
Arthur did not wait for the auctioneer to scan the room again. He raised his paddle before Keith could even call the next number.
Eighteen thousand to bidder twelve, Keith said, his eyes moving back to the front row. Eighteen is bid. Do I hear nineteen?
The man with the yellow legal pad shook his head slowly, drawing a neat black line through his notes before sliding his pen into his shirt pocket. He leaned back in his chair, his part in the sale finished.
Nineteen thousand, Arthur said, speaking out loud instead of using his paddle. His voice was quiet, dry, and certain, the tone of a man who bought three houses a month.