The house was an ordinary dwelling in an older suburban neighborhood of Los Angeles. I was there to appraise it for a dissolution of marriage. It was a bit of a drive from my office and I was supposed to meet the lady who was getting divorced.
I knocked and knocked but no answer. I knocked some more and the door finally opened just as I turned my back to leave. There stood a woman with tears streaming down her face. I introduced myself and she began to talk, explaining that she had been in the bathroom with a gun in her mouth preparing to shoot herself. But my incessant knocking interrupted her. She was terrified and thought that she would be penniless and a vagrant on the streets because of the divorce. I calmed her down and explained that she was receiving seven houses as a result of the settlement, and that she would own them free and clear with no mortgages—she was set for life! I then proceeded to appraise the home. When I left, I told her that I would gladly trade places with her. She felt better.
A few days later, I got a call from a man that turned out to be her godfather. He could not thank me enough for saving the client’s life. We palled around, his wife and the client, for about six weeks. He sent a Rolls Royce to pick me up and the divorcee would be inside. We went to fashionable clubs and fine restaurants, and never a word was spoken about the appraisals.
One evening, while he was somewhat intoxicated, the godfather told me he was in the Mafia and wanted to set me up in a good appraisal business in Las Vegas. The next day I called him and turned down the offer, saying that I was just a simple American and knew nothing of these things. He called one more time but I did not return the call.
