Page 11

BARBARA

T ract housing blueprints and property maps lay spread across the conference table. The developer, a balding man in his fifties, sat back in his chair, hands steepled under his chin as he watched Victor pore over the plans.

“As you can see, Mr. Cardello,” the developer said, his voice gritty from decades of smoking, “these new neighborhoods will be a goldmine. With the post-war boom, people are clamoring for a slice of the American dream. A house, a yard, a place to raise their kids away from the grime of the city.”

Victor nodded, his expression unreadable as he traced a finger along the proposed streets and cul-de-sacs.

“I don’t doubt that, Mr. Kowalski. Though I’d like to know what you specifically mean by ‘grime.’”

Mr. Kowalski shifted in his seat, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his upper lip. “Oh, you know,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The crowding, the pollution, the crime. People want a fresh start, a place where they can breathe easy.”

His eyes darted away from Victor’s as his stubby fingers clawed to loosen his tie and his jaw clenched a bit too tightly.

“As long as that’s all you mean,” Victor said, his voice low and even. “I own a lot of properties in the city. I would hate to think you consider them grimy.” He drained the last of his coffee and glanced at me.

I rose from my chair and smoothed the front of my dress.

I retrieved the coffeepot from the sideboard and glided around the table to Victor’s side.

The scent of fresh coffee mingled with Victor’s crisp cologne as I leaned in.

Steam curled invitingly from the dark liquid as I tipped the carafe, pouring until his cup was full.

Victor gave me an almost imperceptible nod of thanks, his eyes never leaving Mr. Kowalski’s face.

As I moved to refill Mr. Kowalski’s cup, I felt his gaze crawling over my figure, eyes lingering a bit too long in places they shouldn’t. I kept my expression neutral, focusing on my task even as discomfort prickled under my skin.

“Cream and sugar?” I asked politely, holding the sterling silver creamer poised over his cup.

Mr. Kowalski’s thin lips curled into a smirk. “Yes, doll face. And in my coffee too.” He winked and shifted his gaze down to my bust.

Victor stood. “He doesn’t need any, Mrs. Evans.” He walked around the table, straightening his tie.

“Well, actually…some cream would be nice.”

I looked at Victor for direction, and he shook his head. I pulled back the creamer.

Victor perched on the edge of the conference table next to the developer. “I suggest you apologize to the lady,” Victor said, his voice eerily calm. Too calm.

“Come again?”

Victor shot his hand out, his fingers clamping down on Mr. Kowalski’s wrist with a viselike grip. The developer let out a yelp of surprise and pain, his eyes wide as saucers. I jumped back, my heart pounding against my ribs.

“Apologize to the lady.”

Mr. Kowalski’s face reddened, his jowls quivering as he stammered an apology. “I…I’m sorry, Mrs. Evans. That was…inappropriate of me.” Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his eyes darted nervously between Victor’s impassive face and his own trapped wrist.

Victor held him a moment longer, letting the lesson sink in before releasing his grip. He patted Mr. Kowalski’s shoulder, the gesture somehow more threatening than comforting. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

Mr. Kowalski nodded frantically, cradling his wrist to his chest. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to bolt from the room, property maps be damned.

“Now, about these developments,” Victor continued, as if nothing untoward had happened. He tapped the map to draw the developer’s attention back to the matter at hand. “I think we can make this work, but there will need to be some changes.”

Mr. Kowalski swallowed hard. His eyes darted to the map and then back to Victor’s face. “Changes? What kind of changes?”

Victor traced a finger along one of the proposed streets.

“For starters, we’ll need to ensure adequate infrastructure to support these new neighborhoods.

Roads, sewers, utilities. All of that costs money.

” He glanced at the developer, one eyebrow raised.

“Money that will need to come from somewhere.”

Mr. Kowalski nodded eagerly, seeing a chance to redeem himself. “Of course, of course. We’ve budgeted for all of that. It’s built into the cost of each lot.”

Victor smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure it is.”

I settled back into my chair, pen poised over my notepad, as I watched the interplay between the two men. The air in the room was thick with tension, and the ticking of the clock practically echoed in the silence.

Victor returned to his high-back leather chair at the head of the table, steepling his fingers under his chin as he studied the map.

“Infrastructure is only part of the equation, Mr. Kowalski. We also need to consider the long-term viability of these neighborhoods. The kinds of amenities that will attract buyers away from Lakewood and the other cheaper developments. We need to keep property values high.”

Mr. Kowalski nodded, dabbing at his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Absolutely. We’ve planned for parks, schools, and shopping centers. Everything a growing family could want.”

Victor leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee as he lit a cigarette. He took a long, slow drag, letting the smoke curl lazily from his lips as he studied the plans. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant clatter of typewriters.

“You’ve done your homework, Mr. Kowalski,” Victor said at last, tapping ash into a cut crystal tray. “And I’d like to help you. I really would.”

“But…”

Victor took another long pull from his cigarette, the tip flaring bright in the cool white light of the conference room. He exhaled slowly, the smoke drifting toward the drop ceiling.

“But,” he continued, his voice smooth as silk, “I have concerns about the margins on this project. The cost of materials, labor, permits…it all adds up quickly. And with the market being what it is, there’s no guarantee we’ll see your projected returns.

We may be in a boom now, but a boom only lasts so long. ”

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the polished mahogany table. The cufflinks at his wrists glinted—twin points of gold against the stark white of his shirt peeking out from his charcoal pinstriped suit jacket.

“If I’m going to put my money, my name, and my reputation behind this, I need to know it’s worth the risk. I need to see the numbers line up in a way that makes sense. I’m not running a charity here.”

A thrill ran through me as I watched Victor work, admiring the initial subtlety of his approach that culminated in a sharp punch.

Mr. Kowalski shifted uneasily in his seat and licked his lips nervously, his eyes darting between the papers and Victor’s impassive face.

“I understand your concerns, Mr. Cardello,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. “But I assure you, we’ve done extensive market research. These neighborhoods will practically sell themselves. The demand is there, and with the right marketing strategy, we’ll make a healthy profit.”

Victor leaned back in his chair, fixing the developer with a penetrating stare.

“I don’t doubt your research, Mr. Kowalski. I’m sure your bean counters and number crunchers did a fine job.” He stubbed out his cigarette and stood. “Come back to me with a twenty percent increase in my margin, and we’ll talk.”

Mr. Kowalski blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

“Twenty percent? But that’s…that’s not possible.

” He fumbled with his tie. “The margins are already razor-thin as it is. If we increase your cut by that much, there won’t be enough left over to cover our costs, let alone turn a profit. ”

My pen flew over the paper as I recorded Victor’s concerns and demands in my notes.

Victor shrugged, the motion fluid and effortless beneath the fine wool of his suit jacket. “Then I suppose we don’t have a deal.” He turned to me, his dark eyes glinting in the fluorescent light. “Mrs. Evans, would you be so kind as to show Mr. Kowalski out?”

I closed my notebook and stood. “Of course, Mr. Cardello.”

Mr. Kowalski lurched to his feet, desperation etched into his face. “Wait, wait,” he pleaded, holding up his hands, palms out. “Please, Mr. Cardello, let’s not be hasty. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement that benefits us both.”

Victor paused, his hand resting on the back of his chair. He cocked his head. “I’m listening.”

Mr. Kowalski swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his too-tight collar. “What if…what if we sweeten the pot a bit? Offer some additional incentives to make the deal more attractive?”

Victor’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Go on.”

The developer leaned forward, his voice low as if sharing a secret. “Picture this: not just tract houses and parks and schools, but an integrated commercial center. A drive-in theater, diners, a centralized shopping complex, and more.”

Victor sat back down, and I took my seat beside him and reopened my notebook.

“I know it’s a bit daring, but I really think this is where we’re heading. One-stop shopping. Why travel all over the city when you can get everything in your neighborhood?”

“And commercial properties keep paying out,” Victor added.

“Exactly! Houses pay once, and then they’re done. But businesses…” He waved his hand as he let his sentence trail off.

Victor nodded. “Come back to me with an updated proposal that meets my increased margin, and we’ll talk again.”

The men stood, and Mr. Kowalski rolled up his plans and papers and tucked them under his arm. Victor reached out to shake his hand.

“Mrs. Evans will show you out.” Victor didn’t let go of the man’s hand. “And I trust you will show her every ounce of respect she’s entitled to.” His voice was low and dangerous. “I certainly wouldn’t want any more…unpleasantness.”