Everybody in the OC had a real estate license.

Everybody.

Every OC trophy wife who required a “career” for her self-esteem got a license. Every surf bum who needed a source of income (i.e., all of them) got a license. Dogs, cats, gerbils had real estate licenses.

If they weren’t actually selling property, they were financing the mortgage, doing the title or the assessment, consulting on getting the property ready to show.

Others were involved in “creative financing,” aka “fraud.”

The entire economy then was based on swapping real estate around, boosting the price with every pass. Everyone was living off the ginormous Ponzi scheme that was the real estate market in those days, hoping they wouldn’t get caught with the hot potato in their hands when the whistle blew.

People were using trash financing to buy three, four, five houses that they hoped to flip, so people had houses they needed to rent and there were real estate agents who specialized in rentals.

So finding a Realtor was no problem.

Finding the right Realtor was.

Because, generally speaking, Realtors hate dope growers.

24

You see, most dope growers don’t have Ben’s social conscience.

They trash a property out.

They rip it open and put in cheap, dangerous wiring that often sets the place on fire. Their power needs cause neighborhood brownouts. They tape plastic sheets over the windows to hide their nefarious activities. They have people coming and going all hours of the day and night. Their generators make noise; their dope smells. They not only take the value of a particular property down, they lower the value of the whole neighborhood.

They’re dirtbags.

Rental Realtors and property managers properly shun them.

So Ben and Chon had to find one who was blissfully unaware.