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“A million, give or take, for the reno plus furnishings. And then there’s the cost of the building—which again, isn’t mine.”
“But it’s under contract. You put down a significant chunk of earnest money.”
“Money I’m fully prepared to walk away from. Recent developments have changed my investment strategy somewhat.”
“Are you referring to the fire?”
“I’m referring to the hole in my bank account!”
I wince at his stretch of silence.
“Look, I’m sorry. My nerves are shredded. The truth is, Bolling Way is the only shop keeping me afloat, which means I need that insurance money as soon as humanly possible. I needed it yesterday.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how this works. What do you think, that I just drive around town with a trunk full of money? I don’t even own a checkbook. There’s a process for these things, which starts first and foremost with you filing a claim. Then, once that’s approved, we have up to thirty days to process the payment. Now, I’m not saying it will take that long, but you see where I’m going with this? It’s going to take some time.”
“Okay. Well, what about an advance?”
“You could request an advance, but that’s only meant to tide you over for the first few days. Advances are typically a very small portion of the total estimated amount, and even then, it’ll be tomorrow before I can work through the paperwork.”
The reality hits me like a fist in the face—no insurance money today, no way of plugging that $700,000 hole—along with a more urgent problem: a man coming at me on the other side of the windshield. A crackhead, that much is obvious from the slant of his mouth, his vacant expression, the way his limbs flop around in a sloppy gait.
My hand reaches into the space below my seat, my fingers closing around the handle of the Smith & Wesson. I flip the safety and drag the weapon onto my lap, holding it steady.
“Flavio can handle the claim,” I say while looking the crackhead straight in the eye, holding his gaze, daring him with mine. He peers through the side window, sizing me up, too. I see his eyes settle on the logo on my shirt, then wander on to the truck’s rims, the oversize tires and custom grill.
Not today, dude. You do not want to fuck with me today.
“Whatever information you need, Flavio can provide.” I watch the crackhead in the side mirror, his gait slowing at the back bumper. My body is on high alert, but my heartbeat finally eases up, settling into a deliberate, steady rhythm. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m kind of in the middle of some—”
“Just one more thing.” Matt’s genteel twang is gone now, replaced with something flat and razor-sharp.
“Yeah, what?” I clock the guy’s slouchy stride, the way he ducks his head under that hoodie, how his hands swing long and free.
“Earlier this afternoon, I had a very enlightening discussion with a Mr. Spivey at the Abernathy leasing offices. He says you’re scheduled to start paying rent at the end of the year.”
Abernathy, the landlord. My gut twists with unease because yet again, I know where this conversation is headed.
“Wasscheduled.Was. Obviously, this fire changes things. Mr. Spivey already told Flavio they’d work with us on the lease.”
“That’s not what Mr. Spivey related to me. He said the two of you have been involved in a bit of a tiff. He accused you of trying to wriggle your way out of what’s supposed to be a five-year lease.”
“That’s all true,” I say, because there’s really no use in denying it. Tim Spivey has probably fifty emails from me and my attorney throwing every excuse at the wall to see if one would stick. The Bolling Way shop was making a killing, not just for me but for the entire development. More diners meant more shoppers, hordes of happy, tipsy folks with plenty of money to spend. I was willing to stay, but only if they dropped the monthly payments on the last two years of the lease. Preferably, to zero.
“Next time you talk to Mr. Spivey you can tell him a move to Pharr Road is off the table. Lasky Steak is going nowhere.”
“I’ll do that, Cam, but just so we’re clear. You do understand how it looks, right? A catastrophic fire smack in the middle of a lease dispute. The timing is beyond convenient.” His accent is back, the words delivered slowly, precisely, like a doctor reporting bad news.
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I must not be making myself clear. I’m not insinuating anything. What I’m doing is making an accusation, and I’m not the only one. The investigator agrees the fire looks suspicious. He even threw around the wordarson, and multiple times. If that’s the case, if the fire was intentionally set by you or someone directed by you, then that would qualify as insurance fraud. A felony.”
The words are like an ambush, prickling my skin with alarm. “Check the security footage.”
“I have. Seems the camera was turned on, but the wire from the unit to the monitor had come loose. The last recording from your security company was taken just before midnight last night, a good ten hours before the fire. The footage from today showed a blank screen.”
In other words, no way to prove who set the fire—and more importantly for this particular conversation—no insurance money from Matt today. Maybe ever.
He’s still talking, something about next steps and legal matters, but I’m not listening because a shadow has fallen across my side window. The crackhead, going for my door handle.