Page 48

No. I can’t risk it. It’s a potential death sentence. Involving the cops has got to be the absolute last resort.
So then...what? Call the house and explain? Beg him to hold off until the banks open in the morning? That would give me the rest of the night to pull together another four hundred thousand and think through my defenses. An automatic weapon. A Kevlar vest so I can take the bullets meant for Jade and the Bees. If I can hold him off until tomorrow, I’ll have time to come up with a plan.
Still, I imagine Jade, sleeping on that blue chair with a gun pointed at her head, sharing fifteen extra hours of oxygen with a psycho kidnapper. One wrong move, one moment of impatience and his trigger finger could get twitchy. The kids would be witnesses, so they’d die, too.Boom boom boom. My whole family, lying in a sticky pool of their own blood. Wiped out in an instant because I couldn’t come up with the ransom.
Which means there’s only one answer, only one possible recourse: get the money and bring it to the house by seven. It’s the only way to keep Jade and the kids alive. Failure is not an option.
And then I remember the fire.
The one that licked my Bolling Way kitchen to death and took out my best source of income. The one that sparked in an outlet next to the cooking oil, exploding into a fireball when it hit the ceiling’s flammable noise panels.
Now it’s like pulling a crumpled lottery ticket from your pocket and seeing the winning numbers, like ripping open the candy bar to uncover the golden ticket. All this time, I’ve been sitting on a pot of money I didn’t even think about. A flicker of hope sparks in my chest, and my lungs swell with gulped air. I yank on the wheel and swerve onto the dirt shoulder, tires kicking up rocks and garbage as the truck skids to a sloppy stop.
Flavio picks up on the first ring. “Finally. I’ve been leaving you messages all afternoon. Where are you?”
I look around, blinking through my windshield at the run-down terrain. Boarded-up buildings and chop shops behind chain-link fences, an occasional fast-food joint—the cheap and dirty kind. Scaryville, as Jade would call this place. Bankhead, I’m guessing.
“Running a couple of errands. What’s the word from the insurance adjustor?”
There are still all sorts of obstacles, I know, but if I could somehow manage to get my hands on a check, I could take it to one of those check-cashing places—Western Union or one of the sketchy ones that stay open late for suckers like me, desperate people willing to pay an obscene rate for quick cash. But even then, even if I had to forfeit what? Ten percent? Twenty? The payout will still be more than what I need. I’d walk away with plenty of cash for Jade and the kids.
“That’s what I’ve been calling you about,” Flavio says. “He wants to know about the building on Pharr.”
I frown. “What about it?”
“Actually, he’s standing right here. Why don’t I let you talk to him.” Not so much a question as it is a statement, and one that ticks a warning beat in my chest.
There’s a shuffling on the line, the cell phone exchanging hands, followed by a new voice, deep and heavy on the syrup.
“Hey, Cam, Matt Brady here. I’m sorry you and I haven’t had a chance to chitchat before today, though I surely regret what’s got us on the phone now. I want you to know, however, that you and I will get to the bottom of this fire. I assure you, I’m here for the duration.”
My restaurants are filled with men who talk like this, in flowery sentences delivered in dignified twangs that echo of cotton fields and weekend hunting lodges. They pull up to the valet stand like they just arrived from the country club, in custom shoes and neck scarves doused in designer cologne, and they buy buckets of Screaming Eagles for them and all their friends. They run big companies and sign big checks.
What they donotdo is take a job as an insurance adjustor.
“Thank you for that, Matt. I appreciate your dedication to the cause, but as I’m sure you can understand, I have lots of people counting on me for their livelihoods. How soon do you think we can get them some compensation?”
I may not have grown up in the South, but I can play good ol’ boy like the best of them.
“Well, I suppose that depends in large part on the conversation you and I have here today. What can you tell me about the Pharr Road establishment?”
“I can tell you the building on Pharr does not belong to me. I haven’t taken ownership yet, and just between you and me, whether or not I move forward on the purchase is kind of up in the air.”
He makes a humming noise. “Still. I find it a little interesting you put down that kind of earnest money on a building just around the corner from your existing restaurant on Bolling Way. Less than a quarter of a mile to be precise, and featuring a rear lot that’ll fit fifty-plus cars. I checked the zoning, and what do you know? The City of Atlanta has earmarked it for restaurant use.”
The rubber band around my chest wraps tighter. I don’t like where this line of questioning is headed.
My laugh tries for casual but misses by a mile. “All that’s true, but have you seen the place? It’s a real dump. One I no longer have the time or the funds to renovate. Looks like Lasky will be staying put.”
“How much do you think it’ll cost to fix it up? You’re a businessman, Cam. I’m assuming you’ve done the math.”
Hell yeah I’ve done the math. Four thousand square feet of prime real estate smack in the second wave of the Buckhead development, easily accessible from both Buckhead and Midtown, and an owner who’s beyond desperate to sell. A no-brainer, assuming I could cough up the money—which I can’t. Not without another investor with deep, deep pockets.
“I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“How much, Cam?”
I fight the urge to scream. The clock on my dash ticks to 5:30, and we still haven’t gotten to the payout or talked about the possibility of him writing a check for the money I need to save my family. I white-knuckle the steering wheel, my body a sizzling bundle of reflexes and raw nerves.