Sherwood Blount’s First Million
Poor Texas boys used to get rich running cattle or drilling for oil. Now they get rich doing real estate deals out on the urban frontier. And those deals all start with someone deciding he doesn’t want to be poor—ever again.
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Sherwood wasn’t expecting this, and it took him a minute or two to get over his surprise and gather his thoughts. “Jerry Don,” he said, “this is two and a half million dollars profit for you. In cash. Cash. And you’re gonna get it zoned anyway.”
Stiles looked at Sherwood and spat into a paper cup.
“This is two and a half million dollars cash, Jerry.” There was pleading in his voice. “All you gotta do is get the property zoned. That’s not bad for five weeks of owning it.”
Stiles scratched his neck. Sherwood plunged ahead.
“Can I tell you something as a friend, Jerry? Take this contract and strike the commission. Just take it out. I don’t care. I just want you to sell the damn property.”
Now Stiles was interested. “You’re saying, taking the eighty-five thousand out?” The prospect of Sherwood doing all this work for no commission delighted him.
“If that’ll make the difference, yes. I don’t see how it’ll come down to that, but if it does, go ahead and take it out.”
“The point is, Sherwood, all week I’ve been afraid I was gonna have to sell the son of a bitch.”
“Don’t fall in love with it.”
Stiles looked at Norman. “He knows all the lines, doesn’t he, Norm?” He turned and looked at Sherwood seriously. “Well, let me think it over for a few days.” He looked at Norman again and broke into a broad smile. “Well, this is exciting!” He pounded his hand on his desk. “It really is. I mean, Goddam!”
Stiles was nothing if not clever. On Tuesday afternoon, June 26, he gave Sherwood a counteroffer that, on first glance, looked like a capitulation: an $8 million price for the land, plus $10,000 for each acre zoned multifamily, up to a maximum price of $8.5 million. If the city zoned 25 acres multifamily, Shaddock would have to pay $8.25 million; if 50 acres, $8.5 million; if 75 acres, the same price. Therefore, it was a contract subject to zoning, just what Shaddock and Weale wanted.
That was on first glance. In fact, if the zoning was all single-family, Shaddock would be stuck with the same $8 million price he had turned down before. So what Stiles had come back with was really just the same old offer. It was just written to look like it was subject to zoning, but it wasn’t at all. He wanted Shaddock to take the gamble on zoning.
From Stiles’ office, Sherwood drove to Forestwood Townhouse Community, a dry, treeless complex where Bobbie Jacobs McKamy lives. He had with him the information that $350,000 was indeed a fair price for the new house the McKamys wanted to buy. He also had a contract for the sale of a piece of land on the Dallas North Parkway that John owned, not his home place.
Sherwood waited a few minutes and then the McKamys pulled up in the Lincoln with the 2 BOBBEE plates. John was wearing a straw cowboy hat and a bright yellow blazer, Bobbie a pink dress. Sherwood helped them carry in some grocieries, John poured himself a beer, and they sat down to talk.
Bobbie’s house was a symphony in blue. The lamps had blue velvet shades. There was a blue sofa and a blue tufted reclining chair. Bobbie wore blue-tinted glasses. There were blue candles, blue vases, blue flowerpots suspended form the ceiling on blue ropes, blue drapes, blue statuettes, a painting of a sailboat on a wide blue sea.
“We’re leaving tonight at midnight for Mississippi to see Bobbie’s parents,” said John, “and then we’re going to San Francisco. We’re gonna be riding in a private railroad car. Now here’s what we’re gonna do. When we get ready to leave Dallas on the train, we’re gonna call the New York Times. We’re gonna call the Washington Post. They’re all gonna come and see our private car. This is how we’re gonna change the image of Dallas. We’re gonna change that Kennedy image. I’m sorry he got killed, Sherwood, and I’m sorry he got killed here.”
Bobbie interrupted. “John,” she said gently, “maybe we should get to the business at hand.”
“Absolutely,” said John. “I’ll call up my lawyer right now. Sherwood, you get on the extension. Now just let me put some ice in my beer and then we’ll be ready.” He wandered into the kitchen and returned with his beer glass jammed with ice cubes.
Bobbie looked sweetly exasperated. “Can I just say something?” she asked, simply and plaintively. “I don’t want much. Here’s all I want: I just want y’all to sell enough land so I can buy that house, and furnish it, and take a year off, and travel around the world. That’s all I want.”
“Okay, Bobbie,” said John. “I’m just trying to help this man.” He pointed dramatically at Sherwood. “Right here. Him.”
“And he wants to help us,” said Bobbie.
“Okay!” said John. “Great! What do we do?”
“We call the lawyer,” said Sherwood.
“Oh.” John looked mildly surprised. “Well, y’all go ahead. I’ve got to check on my tomatoes.” And he walked out the back door.
When Sherwood brought the new contract on Thursday afternoon, June 28, it took Shaddock about ten seconds to figure out what Stiles was up to now. If he accepted this offer and the city zoned all 201 acres single-family, he was going to have to buy it anyway, and he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to find out the zoning first, and then, if there was a good amount of multifamily, buy the land with the assurance that he could sell the multifamily to Weale. He didn’t want to roll the dice on the zoning, and since Stiles didn’t want to do that either, it seemed to him that there was no way to do the deal. As far as Shaddock was concerned, the deal just had to be subject to zoning.
“I got a suggestion,” said Sherwood. He leaned across Shaddock’s desk as if about to share a secret. “Okay, you be Stiles for a minute.”
“Okay.”
“Jerry Don, I got you more money than I offered you last Friday. I got you eight million, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars for that property. And it’s subject to zoning. And this is my final offer. You got three hours to make up your mind.” He leaned forward again, having finished his imaginary speech to Stiles. “See, Peter, I’m getting to a price where the temptation is gonna be irresistible.”
“Shit, two million, seven hundred and fifty thousand cash profit.”
“That’s the way we do it, right there.”
“Well, he might do it,” said Shaddock. “You can never tell.”
“Easy business, isn’t it?” Sherwood asked Buck on the way out to Stiles’ office Friday morning. “Money just rolls in, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so,” said Buck.
“But let me tell you this. Man, I’m so charged up right now I feel like I’m playing Texas again. We’re in the Cotton Bowl. I can see ol’ Darrell over there on the sidelines, pacing, wearing that headset. The Longhorn marching band’s playing. Whoo! Did I ever tell you about the ’71 Texas game, Buck?”
“No.”
“Well, that game was stolen from us by the line judge, C.J. ‘Bubba’ Gernand, the gutless wonder from Baylor. That ain’t no sour grapes, baby. That’s just a bold factual comment. Man, ol’ Sherwood was great that day. I must have made thirty tackles.
“Now here’s my strategy. I want to give Norman a chance to talk to Stiles before he makes up his mind. What I’m banking on is that Norman’s got a piece of this deal. See, we’re talking about a guy who works for a salary.” Sherwood shook his head compassionately. “Now let’s say he’s got twenty per cent of the deal. They clear two million, that’s four hundred thousand. Cash. Then he puts that into industrial property and really goes to town.”
He was right about Norman, at least. Stiles was in a meeting when Sherwood got there, so he could talk to Norman alone for a while. “Look, Sherwood, you know I want to buy this deal,” Norman said in confidential tones. “But let me tell you something about this, friend to friend. Remember last month, when Jerry had his lot drawing for his Riverbend development? Okay, well, Shaddock said he’d buy ten lots. Then we have the lot drawing, and Peter doesn’t even show up. We called him up. He said he didn’t like the lots but he’d buy eight of them. Then he sent his mother out with the contract. His mother! And that’s part of what’s eating Jerry about this deal.”
Stiles was in a bad mood when he came in, and in a worse mood after he had seen the new contract. “They just don’t understand how I’m ready to sell this sucker,” he said, exasperated.
“Jerry,” said Sherwood, “he’ll put the money up if you get the zoning.”
“But I’m not gonna do that. He’s not running any risk. He wants me to sell it to him after zoning. And I’m just not gonna sell this land that way.”
“Listen to what I’m saying, Jerry.”
“Well, goddammit, Sherwood, listen to what I’m saying.” Stiles seemed genuinely angry now, and Sherwood sat back in his chair and began to speak more calmly. There was obviously nothing to do but try a completely different approach.
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