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And contrary to popular belief, the restaurant business doesn’t run on cash, not since an Atlanta bartender was killed in a late-night burglary a few years back. Overnight, every sit-down restaurant in town instituted a no-cash policy—Apple Pay or cards only. Even with the tip jars at the bars, even if I raided the valet stands, there’s no way I can come up with that kind of money, not before the 7 p.m. deadline.
Which brings me to problem number two: just under three hours for this mission impossible, and that includes driving time in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I’m still a good four minutes away from the office, and the banks close in—I glance at the clock on the dash—forty-eight minutes.
The vise around my chest twists tighter, sending a surge of adrenaline to my heart. It bangs against my ribs in an almost painful pulse, brisk and erratic. The last time I felt this way, an ER doc whipped out the heart paddles.
The lane to my left opens up, and I swerve into it and gun the gas, blowing past the SUV.
Problem number three: no police.
Honestly, this is the only one of his demands I can get behind. The idea of a bunch of armed cops swarming up the lawn, busting through doors and crawling through windows... I’ve seen enough movies to know how that scenario ends, and the thought of something happening to Jade and the kids makes my double-beating heart explode into quadruple time. Whatever made this guy decide today was the day to force his way into my house and hold my family at gunpoint, it’s not because he has any other options. His back is against a wall, and he’s obviously desperate. I don’t want to think about what will happen to Jade and the Bees if I fail.
So, on to solutions, then.
1. Gather up the money. Get as much as you can from the bank before it closes, and then whatever it takes. Loan shark, armed robbery, murder for hire. Whatever I have to do to scrounge up the cash, and do it fast.
2. Deliver it at the house before seven tonight.
3. Alone.
Oh, and 4. Don’t drop dead of a heart attack before you get Jade and the kids out alive.
I take a right at the light, tires squealing as I veer onto a two-lane road that runs along the rail yard, empty train tracks stretching out to my left. A shortcut from the southern tip of Buckhead to my office on Atlanta’s west side. If it weren’t for the blue-haired lady in front of me, a two-minute trip. I gun it around her ancient sedan, and the road opens up.
I pull up the number for my banker’s cell and hit Call.
“Cam, hey,” Ed says, picking up on the second ring. “I was just about to call you. I heard something about a fire?”
An instant reminder of the day’s first disaster. Now it barely makes a blip.
“Wow. Word travels fast, huh?”
Ed makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “Big city, small town. And you know how people here love to talk. I heard it from my wife, who heard it from the manager of the Restoration Hardware across the road. Was it bad?”
“Catastrophe territory, which is why I’m calling. I need to know how much is left on that line of credit and how quickly I can get to it.”
I know how much is left on the line of credit: a couple thousand and some change. Peanuts compared to what I need, but I also know how Ed ticks. He hates being confronted with a big ask. He likes to be buttered up, warmed up, massaged, and he gets a kick out of solving money problems. It’s basic psychology, really. People are more open to a proposition if they’re part of the solution.
There’s a rapid clicking through the phone, Ed’s fingers flying across the keyboard. “As I recall, it was somewhere around a couple thousand. A little more, maybe, but not much. If you give me a second, I can pull up the numbers.”
“What’s the chance of you guys increasing it?”
The clicking stops. “By how much?”
“By another half million, maybe more.” I wince. So much for buttering him up.
Ed blows out a long, slow breath. Silence on the line.
A couple of years ago, Ed would have signed off on the loan without question. Lasky runs tens of millions of dollars annually through his bank, and for what’s coming up on a decade. A consistent flow every year like clockwork—only now most of it goes to my investors. As my banker, Ed knows they’re the ones with the money, not me.
“Come on, Ed. You know I’m good for it.”
“I know you’re a fantastic chef and a hardworking businessman, yes, and that you’ve been an ideal client for the past seven-plus years. But I also know you’ve taken on investors and are probably already overextended as it is. And you read the papers. The market is volatile, and every banker I know is treading water, praying the economy doesn’t tank like theTitanic. I’ve been ordered to sit tight until further notice.”
“Sit tight on what—me?”
“Not you. Lasky Steak.”
“That’s the same damn thing!”