Looking back, this email sounds very spammy. But this guy (who I'll call Mr. X) wasn't offering discount Viagra, and he wasn't asking for any help with transferring his billions of dollars into America via my personal bank account. This was very early on in my career and, at this point, I was very eager for more leads, sooo.... I answered it.
"Yes! Of course I can help you find an apartment!"
I had no idea when I hit "Send" that I was putting myself first in line to ride the world's scariest and most outrageous sales roller coaster.
I emailed back and forth with Mr. X to get to know him a bit and get a better sense of what he was looking for. When he said he "worked in energy," it was like someone had stabbed me with a sharp red flag that read, "This guy is totally fake or a drug dealer. Run away now."
But I didn't.
Instead I did a quick Google search and got just enough evidence to think he was real. Maybe. His name was linked to a very expensive house outside of Paris. If he could afford that, there was a chance he was legit and I could make the biggest sale of my career. I had hope. I was in. I said yes.
I had just the right listing, and it was my biggest listing to-date: a spectacular four-bedroom apartment in Midtown with a den and a separate dining room that was listed for $8.5 million. After looking at pictures and a video of the apartment, he offered $8 million, and after some negotiation with the sellers we agreed to $8.2 million.
Done!
I couldn't believe it. After months of doing rentals I had just sold a super expensive apartment over the internet to a guy who cold-emailed me. Nothing shady about that whatsoever.
I took myself out for a very lavish dinner to celebrate. All I had to do was get a couple of signatures, a deposit, and close the deal. Right?
And that's when the story of a simple real estate transaction turns into a Michael Bay movie:
Mr. X vanished. He wasn't answering my calls, emails, or texts. I had no idea where he was or how to reach him. I had just convinced my sellers to accept an offer from someone who in reality might be a twelve-year-old hacker, laughing at me from their Spider-Mad themed bedroom.
I was starting to regret ordering that expensive bottle of wine at dinner. "Why didn't I just order takeout?!" I thought.
The sellers were getting itchy to get the contract signed, and I was becoming increasingly nervous about who I had "sold" this apartment to. Telling my sellers, "Oh sorry. Turns out that the buyer isn't a wealthy foreigner but is actually a member of a child-run computer hacking gang," wasn't really an option.
The truth was I just wasn't sure. If I was 100% positive the buyer was fake, then I would have fessed up and dealt with the consequences. But Mr. X was the only lead I had, and until I knew for sure he wasn't real, I was going to do everything in my power to make this deal happen. So, I sent a dramatic and somewhat risky email:
"I'll be coming to Paris and would love to close this deal if you perhaps have a free second (and aren't actually a criminal trying to steal my identity)."
He wrote back immediately:
"LOL. How's tomorrow?"
Did I mention that I didn't really have plans to fly to Paris? Well, I did now. I wanted to show this buyer/drug dealer/child hacker that I was totally committed to him and closing the deal. I was hungry for this sale. (Literally because I spent my entire food budget on that dinner).
I proceeded to spend my last few thousand dollars flying to Paris to meet with a potential client (or criminal?). I didn't even pack. I put on a suit and boarded the plane with nothing other than the contract and his alleged address in Paris.
I was nervous. Mr. X knew I was coming, but I didn't have an official appointment. When I tried to look up his address, it appeared his office was located in an empty parking lot or behind a French car dealership. Nothing suspicious about that!
When I arrived in Paris after a long, uncomfortable flight, I took a taxi to the address he gave me. It did exist! But, no one was there. And, from the looks of the place, it didn't seem like anyone had been there in a long time.
Now, I didn't fly all this way stuffed between two snoring tourists for nothing, so I sat down on his stoop and waited. And got a macaron. Then waited some more. Then I decided, "Hey, I guess I'll get a croissant." I charged my phone somewhere, got another macaron. Waiting. Repeat.
As the day went on I started to feel depressed. I had just made a total fool of myself. My emotions ran from anger at myself to embarrassment.
"Why am I so stupid?!?!" I thought.
As I sat on that stoop feeling sorry for myself, I thought about what I would tell people when I got back. Like, "Oh, it was a great trip but he had to run off to Zanzibar to buy an elephant, so he couldn't see me." Or maybe I'd go with, "His busy pirate schedule of looting ships in international waters prevented us from having dinner." Or, worst of all, "His mom doesn't let him go out with strangers or buy multimillion-dollar apartments because he's actually a child."
But then something happened: I got an email with the address of a bar where he was hanging out. He wanted me to meet him there. I felt like I had opened a chocolate bar and found the last golden ticket.
He. Was. Real!
Mr. X turned out to be a fairly normal guy who just happened to be flanked by a team of bodyguards. He had an assistant whose sole job seemed to be to bring him espresso. He mostly wanted to chill and drink $700 bottles of vodka – preferably until 3 AM.
That's great, but I was there to get a contract signed, and he didn't even want to talk about it. Mr. X clearly enjoyed watching the preppy guy squirm. It was like a game to him, and he was setting the rules.
I began to beg:
"Will you at least read this if I do another shot?"
Not how I normally do business, but what did I have to lose other than my reputation and my career?
Just as I was starting to see double, he agreed to read the contract. Less than 2 minutes in, he asked:
"Why do I need to provide all this personal information? Do these people in New York not want my cash?"
After hours of drinking I was still able to switch on my inner salesman and flip what he viewed as a negative into a positive. I confidently replied:
"It's standard in NYC. Everyone must fill out the same paperwork. It keeps the city safer."
He seemed to buy that, but he still didn't sign the contract.
It was many shots and several hours later that I staggered out of that bar with a signed contract in my hand. It was a win, but a temporary one.
I got back to New York to find that Mr. X hadn't sent the deposit. A contract without a deposit is essentially a worthless piece of paper. It means nothing. Where was the 10% of $8.2 million? Was he planning to ship the cash over in bags like an old Western bank robbery movie? About a million phone calls and several new heart attacks later, I got a call from the lawyer while I was sitting in a taxi. A wire of $820,000 from Mr. X had just arrived.
And breathe...
Fast-forward to Mr. X's closing. It had been weeks since I'd heard from him and I was worried that he wasn't going to come through. This deal had been in the works for a long time and I was ready to be finished with it. The day of the closing I got a text:
"Meet me at the Mandarin Oriental. Now."
Oh my God. He's here in NYC?! Amazing. On the other hand, seriously? What a dick.
But I made it uptown in record time. Then I sat in the lobby waiting. For an hour. As I waited I reminded myself that he was making the rules for this deal and if I played his game I'd reap a big reward on the other end.
Remember, this was my listing, and this was a direct client, so the commission was 6% of $8.2 million (that's $492,000). That was more money than I thought I'd ever make in my entire career, let alone in one deal with a random guy from the internet!
Sales can mean playing games where you don't get to make the rules. My persistence with Mr. X would only work out if I was able to keep my ego in check and let him lead the way. As salespeople, we must be careful listeners, because clients are always sending messages about what they need and how they want to conduct business. In this case, the disappearing, lateness, and last-minute text messages said, "I am totally in charge. We're doing this on my terms and I'll sign the papers, send money, and close when I feel like it." Sure, I could have objected to this way of doing business, but would that have changed anything? If anything, it probably would have meant losing the sale, and that was not an option.
Mr. X finally came to the lobby with an entourage of bodyguards and assistants and we all piled into a fleet of black SUVs. I felt like a Secret Service agent (but without a gun, lifesaving self-defense skills, or cool sunglasses).
We started moving through the Manhattan traffic, and it's taking forever. But then wait a minute... why are we going through the tunnel headed for the highway? The closing is just downtown!
All my fears surrounding the shadiness of this deal come flooding back with a vengeance: are they planning to harvest my organs? Am I being kidnapped? AM I going to be sold as a sex slave?
Just as I'm texting my mother about my imminent death I notice we are at JFK airport. It's obvious I'm about to be taken hostage. We pull up to a black 747 and Mr. X gets out. A man approaches holding a bottle of champagne on a silver tray.
What. Is. Happening?!
Mr. X speaks to the man, signs a piece of paper, and gets back into the car and announces:
"Now I am ready to go to the closing."
No big deal. He just bought a 747 on the way to his closing!
After I regained consciousness and my blood pressure returned to normal, we headed back to Manhattan and close the biggest deal of my career.