Page 17

Jack

The view on my monitor shows two talking heads in front of a whiteboard. After the upheaval within Sullivan Arms, it’s a good sign that Cliff Hartman, the head of compliance, and Phillip Moore, my interim head of sales, like each other well enough to convene in the same office for our meeting.

Cliff is a balding man with a few random long gray wisps of hair that cross a freckled scalp.

He’s a good guy and was one of my dad’s close friends and confidantes.

He’s also good friends with Uncle Mark. They’re about the same age, but my uncle makes noises about stepping aside whereas Cliff plans to die at his desk.

Of course, Mark Sullivan has been talking about stepping back for at least ten years. I doubt it will ever happen.

Phillip is in his late thirties, just a few years younger than I am.

He’s a go-getter and has great relationships with the dealers.

His weakness, as my uncle points out regularly, is his strained relationship with distributors.

But that’s only because Larry Reyes dominated all distributor relationships, a fact that led him into alliances with questionable characters.

Larry Reyes is dead. Suicide in his prison cell. But we all know it wasn’t suicide.

Cliff and Phillip converse back and forth discussing a mailing we’re planning for the dealers.

Compliance and legal review every piece of marketing material that goes out the door.

The ad agency included suggestions for a rewards system for the distributors as incentive for them to push Sullivan Arms products.

Cliff isn’t necessarily against it, but he doesn’t like the idea of doing anything that might encourage bending laws to sell more guns.

The conversation bores me, but also soothes me. Hearing them argue over advertising leads me to believe neither have it in them to push illegal shipments on the side.

“Jack,” Phillip says, turning in the direction of the computer monitor but probably looking at the video reflection of himself, “you’ve heard both sides. What do you think?”

“You want me to overrule compliance?” What a fucking waste of time.

“Well, we’re at an impasse. I understand what Cliff is saying, but we’ve done similar programs in the past. He’s taking an extremely risk-averse view.”

“Phillip, you’re new to this role. You’ve taken on a lot, and you’re doing a good job with it.

Let me make things easier for you. We don’t override compliance and legal.

Ever. You got that?” The glare from an overhead light reflects off Phillip’s glasses, preventing me from getting a good read on how he’s accepting this reality.

“I understand that Wayne did things differently. But I’d like to remind you he’s currently awaiting trial.

” I refrain from adding that I hope he rots in prison.

“That event alone has put Sullivan Arms in the news and most likely under regulatory scrutiny. Plus, let me remind you — we sell guns. We should always work within the confines of the law.”

Cliff gives me one solid, approving, almost fatherly nod.

The men within Sullivan Arms are what I think of as good ol’ boys.

They come by their love for guns honestly, having grown up developing their shooting skills with a love for hunting.

We have employees who come from all over, but there’s a core demographic that’s southern strong, so I always ramp up my southern dialect when interacting with my team.

“What else ya got?”

“The annual NRA banquet is coming up,” Phillip says.

Damn if it doesn’t feel like we have fundraising banquets every month. But he’s right. The grand doozy is around the corner.

“Yeah?”

“What level donation are you giving? Do we need to do an ad around it?”

He’s asking if I’m going to give over a million dollars. If I do, then I get an obnoxious jacket. It’s good industry PR. But if I can get out of going, I will.

“Right now, you’re our interim sales. Why don’t you make the grand donation? It’ll make a splash, and it’ll open up introductions for you to key accounts at the banquet.”

“You know I believe in the NRA, but I don’t have that kind of money to—”

“You donate it and expense it. Sullivan Arms pays, but it’ll look like it’s you.”

“I can help you with that,” Cliff offers. He’s perfected our political donation system over the years.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“No. Thanks, Jack. How’s Sophia doing?” A lot of men ask me that question, but Phillip has a way of doing it that comes across as genuine. Maybe it’s not so much how he asks, but the knowledge that he has kids of similar ages.

“She’s recovering.” The statement is more than I want to share.

It’s not like I’m going to tell my colleagues that she still refuses to talk to her friends.

I won’t share with them my biggest fears.

The obvious fear that she’s going to ask for tutors in the fall to avoid returning to school.

My deeper fear that she’s suffering more than I can comprehend.

And perhaps my darkest secret, my fear that my daughter will never open up to me.

I will never be a suitable replacement for her mother.

Cliff and Phillip offer a series of grim nods and grunts of understanding and I end the online meeting.

My phone rings thirty seconds before my scheduled call.

“Ryan.” I spin my chair to face the ocean. “How’s it going?”

“Good. It’s just me on the line. I’ll update the team after we speak.”

“Thanks. I know you prefer everyone joins in, but I need you to hear this, and only you. You’re still checking the property for listening devices, right?”

“We do a daily sweep.”

“Good. I need to meet with you in person.”

“When?”

“Today? Tomorrow?”

“Let me check with Alex. If she’s working this evening, I’ll fly down end of day.”

“Thanks.” My thumb hovers over the red button. He’s in charge of my security, so I ask, “Fisher told you about Ava’s run-in last night?”

“Yeah. He trusts her. Did you learn more?”

“Ran the photos Fisher took through the database. No arrest record. Yet. Now, Ava’s friend? Reid Miller? He’s got a rap sheet a mile long.”

“You think I should ask her to leave?”

“She’s clean. She hasn’t done anything wrong. But–”

“She’s got a weakness.” I know where he’s going. My exhale is louder than intended.

“Yes, but Fisher’s read is that she would never do anything to harm you or your daughter.” There’s a pause. “My sister is moving into Nueva Vida in two weeks.”

“Okay.” He never talks about his sister. I’d been surprised to learn he had one.

“She’s an addict.” He says it like that explains everything. “Was. Is. I don’t know. She’s in rehab. Ava’s center is highly recommended, but it’s hard as hell to get a spot. She gave her one.”

As if talking about Ava’s center compels her to appear, there’s a rap on my office door and she peeks her head inside.

“Lunch?” she mouths.

“I’ve got to run. I’ll share my schedule with you. Pick the time you want to meet, and we’ll discuss specifics then.”

Ava pushes the door open. She’s wearing black leggings, black running shoes, and a loose black sweater that hangs seductively off one shoulder.

It does, mercifully, conceal her breasts much better than the skintight tank tops she likes to wear.

The heavy eyeliner fails to hide her nervousness, and I gesture to a chair.

She hesitates, resting her hand on the back of the wooden frame.

“Chef is making lunch for Sophia and me. Sandwiches and soup. Thought I’d see if you want to join us. Get your order.”

Both Chef and Sophia text me regarding meals. Ava has something other than my lunch on her mind.

“I’ll text my order to the chef.” I go for cordial. “Thank you for thinking of me.” Her skin flushes, and those chipped fingernails tap against the back of the chair. The line of silver bracelets jingle, glimmering in the sunlight through the window. “Is there something else?”

“Do you have a minute?”

I hold my hand out, gesturing to the empty room. She’s in here. I clearly have a minute, or she would not have been allowed to enter.

“Sit.”

She continues standing, and my cheek muscles involuntarily flex.

“I’ve been here for four days now.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m building Sophia’s trust. Trust is important. And I’ve been thinking about that a lot.” Those long lashes flutter. “On one hand, seeing her so much, in a casual setting, has sped up the development of that trust. But this is not an advisable situation.”

“Have you made any headway?”

“Tomorrow will be our second session.”

“Only your second?” What the hell has she been doing?

“These things take time. She’s been through a lot. And you need to realize that the trauma she experienced doesn’t magically go away. It’ll never truly go away. But she will learn how to manage it.”

“Do you think she’s… has she mentioned cravings?”

“No. But if she does, you know there are options for managing cravings.”

“I don’t want her on methadone.”

“I don’t think she needs it. But if I change my mind, I’ll go to bat with you on that unfounded judgment.

” She’s no longer holding on to the chair for balance.

Lines form around her lips as she glares at me.

This woman really would fight for my daughter.

She and I are more alike than I originally thought.

“What she’s craving right now isn’t the drug as much as the release. She wants to forget.”

A meeting reminder flashes on my screen. The meeting is with our CFO to prep for an upcoming board meeting. I can’t miss it.

“Well, that’s not an option,” I say. “Earn your money and help her through this.”

I read through the meeting participants on my phone, and as much as I might like to continue talking with Ms. Amara, I cannot reschedule this meeting.

“I can’t make lunch. Ask Chef to bring my lunch in. Smoked salmon over a kale salad.”