Wyatt Earp: and the Boomerang Refugium Page 12

  “And a good year too, as of course are all years. Thanks Ray. Thank you muchly. Do you have any firm plans for the rest of the day?”

  He just looked at me and cheerfully said, “What are we doing?”

  “Are you up for a drive?”

  “When would you like to leave, and how far are we going?”

  “Say about a half hour or so. Gives me time to look around the garden and hang up my washing from last night. And with maps in hand, I thought we would check out the real-estate for sale near Redlands Research Station. It’s got about thirty hectares of mostly good red horticultural soil.”

  “Oakie dokie,” said Ray.

  After about forty minutes we took off and headed for Redland Bay, a pleasant seaside suburban farmland area protected from the Pacific Ocean by the islands of Moreton Bay.

  It was nice to be home, and not in a submarine, hospital bed or aeroplane. We took off and drove through Upper Mt Gravatt on our way to Redland Bay. When we got closer to our destination I said to Ray, “Mate. Just drive around on the major roads for a bit so we can get an overall perspective of the layout.”

  I was looking for facilities other than the research station, their proximity to the ocean, what other farms remained and what grew best in the area.

  “Look at that Ray. New four bedroom homes built on concrete slabs, on what was prime land for growing small crops such as vegetables and strawberries. Now near totally stuffed, growing concrete, bitumen and grass. You know, in the past people could rarely afford to buy turf, and yet it is normal these days to have turf included as part of landscaping packages to complete new homes quickly. The irony is that Redlands Research Station was involved in turf research, even to the extent of having about 170 demonstration plots of species, cultivars, even inter-generic selections, and in the government’s wisdom they all but closed it down in weeks following a change of state government. It’s not like the demand for turf is going away any time soon, either for home use or horse racing tracks or golf courses.”

  We continued driving. We came across a nearby caravan park that appeared to be substantially rundown, but apparently positioned on red soil for which Redland Bay was famous.

  “What’s so good about that Uncle Jack?”

  “Not much, but it does have potential for redevelopment. Could be interesting.”

  There was a faded sign at the entrance advising that all site leases were handled by one of the local estate agents, and both telephone number and address were listed.

  “Let’s head off for an early lunch, and we can check google maps satellite image, then check in with the agent.

  Lunch was pleasant enough, but I was eager to get on with a job in mind.

  The rental agent for the van park was affable enough, and after retrieving a box file from his shelf, we quickly had a list of what vans, cabins and empty sites were available and at what price. I said to him, “The place seems in need of some sparkle. Is it owner-managed by any chance?”

  He was hesitant to answer directly, and did not do so. My next line of questioning changed his attitude entirely, much like if he had been told he had won lotto. “You’re a licensed real estate agent.” A statement not a question. “If the whole place was for sale and you sold it, would the commission be worthwhile to you?”

  Without answering the question, he said, “Let me take your details and I will see what we can do.” He hesitated a moment further, then said, “And yes. I think it is owned by an elderly couple who live interstate. Let me get right on it and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thank-you,” and we left with a site map and keys to cabin 14.

  “You know Ray. I think our now friendly real-estate agent is either hiding something or lying, or both.”

  At the park, we entered through the front gate, did not see anybody at first and parked at cabin 14. First impressions: gardens unattended, dead shrubs in abundance, and garbage uncollected. The cabin had a small veranda, unswept. The outside table and chairs were filthy being covered in dust and dead insects. I opened the fly screen door and it nearly fell off. The hinges had an assortment of loose screws which barely held it in place. At least the key worked to open the cabin door. Ray and I looked at each other in disbelief. Newspaper and junk mail littered the floor, together with dead cockroaches and ants. The kitchen tap was dripping, and only one of two lights worked, and lacking its light cover the bulb’s glare was sharp. The condition of the rest of the cabin was just as shabby. I retreated to the front room and sat down.

  “What do you think Ray?” Not expecting a reply, I got up and we walked to the veranda, took my mobile phone out of my pocket and made a call.

  “Trevor. It’s Jack. Really appreciate a favour from you.” I was on leave from the police force and Trevor was an ex-officer now working privately. We had a system whereby we helped each other out without asking too many questions, or indeed often not asking.

  “Can you please check on a Mr Anthony Wong, his real-estate business here at Redland Bay, and also the caravan park he manages? Much appreciated.”

  “Get back to you Jack.”

  Got to hand it to Trevor. He’s fast and thorough. Thirty-five minutes later and my mobile rang.

  “Yes Trevor.”

  “Jack. Like the good news or the bad news?”

  “Just as it comes mate.”

  “Mr Wong is a bit borderline. No longer REIQ (Real Estate Industry Queensland) registered. Several previous arrests for fraud but no convictions. The agency is legitimately owned by one Anthony Chen, also a bit dodgy. The van park is owned by a company jointly owned by both Anthony’s. Rates are unpaid for two years, and they are about to default on loan payments.” He told me how much was owing. “No current development applications or nearby developments encroaching. Would you like me to dig a bit further or do you have enough for now Jack?”

  “No thanks Trevor. You’ve done well. Thanks mate. Will be in touch.”

  I walked around the cabin to catch up with Ray. “Looks like we are in business Ray. Let’s look around some more, do a mental tally on pluses and minuses, and clear out.” I wanted to look at what the soil was like on site and generally check on how serviceable the infrastructure was. The site had no outcropping rock that was evident about a kilometre away on lower slopes, and therefore appeared suitable for inexpensive excavation if needed. The friable red soil also appeared suitable for cropping. The infrastructure, however, was old and in need of much needed maintenance or renovation. We were about to leave when an elderly lady appeared out of a nearby cabin, closed the door behind her, started walking in our direction and waved to us as if wanting to talk to us. Which she did, with a voice of near anxious despair.

  “Hello there. Are you from the Council or a government inspector?”

  Think quickly Jack. “Good afternoon madam. Let me introduce myself. My name is Jack Sunn and this is my associate Ray.” Not being sure of how this was going to play out I was happy to currently leave out that Ray was my nephew. No need to lie, but keep the truth brief.

  “How may we assist you? We are doing a quick inspection of the property.”

  “Young man. I have been here for thirteen years. This place is … just falling apart.” She went on with a list of complaints in what was a controlled tirade, but a tirade none-the-less.

  “What can you do about this? I assume you can help in some way to put things right. The place is looking worse with each passing month, week and day that I am here.” She seemed on the verge of being visibly upset, and quite understandable as she seemed alone and about seventy or more years old. And of course I agreed with what she had said.

  “Madam. We’ll talk to the owners and see if we can sort something out.” I took out a notebook and pen, jotted a few words, and said, “You are from cabin 10, I see. Are you available here most of the time?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Then we’ll get in touch with the owners, make some further enquiries, and report back to you within a few days at la
test. I am not certain how long exactly, but I will be back, and if you are not here by chance I will leave a note under your door. Does that sound alright to you?” She agreed and looked a little relieved. “Thanks for your time. We’ll get right to it and see you soon. Good day.”

  We got back to our car, locked the doors and exited the front gate as quickly as possible and headed back to Sunnybank. Ray asked, “What was all that about Uncle Jack? You look kind of pleased with yourself.”

  I bordered on laughing, and told him how the estate agent, our new friend, had lied to us about the park’s ownership, and had fraudulently represented himself as a registered agent. “He and his co-owner are behind in rate payments and are about to default on loan payments. The place needs fixing if it is to remain open. My take is we can clean up twice. First with Anthony and his co-owner also named Anthony, and then with Mrs. ‘I’ve been here thirteen years.’ It most likely will be a few highly interesting days ahead.” I smiled, and we went home.

  That evening Ray and I sat enjoying a drink after dinner.

  “Ray. Let me tell you what I have in mind. While I was in Honolulu in lala land, one of the dreams I had involved taking over some property at Redland Bay, close enough to the research station for easy access, modifying the property for survival post some catastrophic event, so as to ultimately take over the research station land for food production. I certainly did not expect things to fall into place so quickly, but all for the better. Might also be a precursor for something similar in San Diego, but more on that later. In short, the owners of the park are in a bind. They owe back taxes and have a loan about to go bust. If that happens the bank sells to recover. I figure that with having new laundry facilities, newly serviced powered sites, and five cabins rented out, it could be about cash flow neutral if bought for the right price, which is the cost of the loan or thereabouts, plus the rates that are owed, and a little extra, about forty thousand. That way the Anthony’s get twenty thousand a piece, and walk out debt free. We get the property at about half price, and they avoid going to court for fraud. Seems like a reasonable plan. What say you Ray?”

  Ray refilled our glasses with the Redman Shiraz and said, “Got to hand it to you Uncle Jack. I think you’re on a winner.”

  About mid-morning the next day Anthony Wong rang.

  “Mr Sunn. It appears that the owners of the park might be interested in selling. Would you care to drop by the office so we can discuss the details?” I replied yes, and that I would visit in the afternoon after 3.30 pm, and hung up.

  What I did not tell him was that earlier that morning I had instructed my solicitor to draw up a contract of sale for the property, in my favour at my price. After hanging up I went to find Ray to tell him what was happening.

  “Feel like another visit this afternoon to see our friend Anthony?

  “Would not miss it. Another pleasure in stall.”

  We entered Mr Wong’s office at precisely 3.30pm. I let him talk first.

  “I’ve spoken to the couple who own the park, and they have instructed me to offer you a contract.” He then handed me a contract on REIQ paper. I took it from him, though he tried to maintain contact with it, and carefully read who the listed owners were, surprisingly correct, the suggested price which was ridiculously high, and any conditions and exclusions; thankfully there were none. I then opened my briefcase, placed the document securely inside, and withdrew my solicitor’s letter and gave it to him. To be sure he looked stunned. I explained that he had the option of being sued for fraud and false pretences, or ask his cousin Anthony Chen to be here in this office by 4.15 pm to sign the contract I was about to show him.

  “But first, Mr Wong, ring your cousin who I know is only a ten-minute drive away, and get him here. He is after all co-owner of the property. Now Mr Wong.”

  It was all Ray could do to contain himself.

  “Just tell him there has been a positive development, and you urgently need to see him in this office.”

  Seven minutes past four and the other Anthony appeared through the door. Introductions were made, and before they got a chance to speak further, I took control of the meeting.

  “Anthony’s. This is the deal. You both sign this contract, the one I had prepared, and you are debt free with twenty thousand each.”

  A nervous Anthony Wong signed immediately, but cousin Anthony was reluctant. His cousin then showed him my solicitor’s letter. I explained that by accepting my offer I would not press charges, which if they proceeded, guaranteed arrest and possibly gaol time for one or both of them. By which time they would also be in financial chaos. I further explained that my offer to buy the property was open until I left the building. The pressure was on. I looked at my watch, then started counting down from ten on my fingers, in a deliberate attempt to suggest I was about to leave, and indeed I was. Ray, on cue started to get out of his chair. It was then that Anthony number two snatched up the pen and signed. Ray witnessed and dated the document, and we made a hasty exit.

  When we were back in the car and driving away Ray said, “Damn fast Uncle Jack. All of a day and a quarter and you have those two dodgy brothers, well cousins, sign away a property for about half price. Nice work.”

  No doubt their solicitors will read the fine print. Notice I did not leave my solicitor’s letter with them. Simply no record now that it was ever brought into play, or ever existed. It’s a binding cash contract. I think we have enough time to drop it off on our way home. Maybe another Redman Shiraz tonight, and a Hellyears Road single malt to celebrate?”

  The following day I spent peacefully at home, while Ray stayed close to the caravan and cabin park to ensure that everything at the park remained intact. I reviewed Google’s satellite image, the map of the site, and photos we had taken with our mobile phones. What was needed was a substantial makeover that would allow the property, at the very least, to remain commercially viable and attractive to mobile home owners and caravaners. I also wanted to progressively transform the cabins into what could be a secure retreat for a small selected community. Presently there were fifteen cabins, twenty vans, and twelve powered sites. Both vans and cabins had some long-term tenants. An amenity block of showers, toilets and washing machines was also on site, but looked incredibly sad. One cabin was noticeably larger than all the others. It appeared to have once been the on-site manager’s cabin with an attached office or small shop. But there was currently no on-site management, and no store operated.

  Property settlement went through in record time the next day, with all keys and records being delivered to my solicitor to her satisfaction.

  Time to work. Ray had done a fine job of making sure the Anthony’s did not scavenge anything from the park prior to settlement. Nothing happened, and at least we knew nothing had happened. Overly cautious maybe?

  I called Ray and we had a light lunch at Redland Bay, and then returned to the park to start working. First was what I thought to be the manager’s cabin, then we would visit cabin 10. The manager’s cabin was a three-bedroom unit, fairly well appointed and in reasonable condition. Lights worked, plumbing was neat and not leaking, and the front office-store area could potentially be expanded. I did a quick measure of the office area and took some photos. A plan was developing, if only a rudimentary one.

  “Alright Ray, cabin 10 and see if Mrs. ‘I’ve been here thirteen years’ is in.” I did not even have to knock. She walked onto the cabin’s portico as we approached the steps leading up.

  “Good afternoon ma’am. Jack Sunn and my nephew Ray. How are you today?” I had with me a gift basket of fruit mince pies, shortbread, and a selection of Twining’s and Dilmah teas.

  “I would like to thank-you for talking with us the other day, and may I ask if you could spare a few minutes of your time this afternoon?” She appeared to be in her early seventies, and was as well dressed as she had been the other day. I do not know if she sensed a total lack of aggressiveness on our part or not, but she seemed pleased to see us and offered us
a cup of tea. I offered the basket and she accepted with a smile.

  “Please be seated. Out here is cooler than inside and I’ll put the kettle on.” She could not have been nicer. She returned with a clean floral table cloth, three cups with matching saucers, sandwich plates and a bowl with the fruit mince pies. She re-entered the cabin and returned with a teapot and caddy, with a milk jug on a tray.

  “Now gentlemen. My name is Beverly, but please call me Bev.”

  “Thank-you Bev. Please call me Jack.” I handed her my business card.

  “But Bev, firstly I would like to apologise for not completely answering your question the other day.” She said nothing and allowed me to continue.

  “The other day we were looking at this property with a view to purchase it if it became available for sale. What we saw was verified by your concerns, and certainly some changes are needed. As chance would have it, we were able to purchase the property this very day, and I would be happy to hear from you your thoughts on what is needed. I would also like to know what it was like when you first came here, if you don’t mind.”

  She remained silent, hesitated slightly, and then poured tea for each of us. The civility of the moment obviously brought back memories for Bev, and she dabbed her eyes with a serviette.

  “Please excuse me. It’s been a while since I have had visitors. My husband Kevin and I retired here 13 years ago. Before coming here, we had a corner store in the suburbs that became a business of the past, and we decided to retire here. We had owner-managers then who loved the place and kept it tidy and homely. They had a small supply of grocery items on hand like a small shop does, and nothing was overpriced. We all used it. However, it was not long after we came here that the gentleman passed away, and the lady decided to sell and live with one of her daughters. The people she sold to. Well they just seemed to not care. The shop was closed and no managers were appointed, and they put up the rent. Not long after that Kevin became ill, I suspect in part because the flavour of the park changed, and he did not know what to do about it. The thought of finding somewhere else to live became physically beyond us. With Kevin passing two years ago, I guess I’ve sat still not knowing what to do next, if indeed anything. Most of the residents here when we came have moved on. Can not blame them. Most of the vans and cabins now have young tradies and the like who cannot afford to buy a place of their own.” She teared a little, and continued. “It’s just not so nice now. I’ve lost my husband of forty-two years, lots of friends, and I only cook for myself. I once had a café and really enjoyed cooking all manner of cakes and biscuits. I miss the people most I guess.”