Chapter 27 #2
I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to answer that, but then decided he’d thrown it out there without expecting a response—he was offering his interpretation of a rich person’s ambiguous musings. He’d probably spent enough time with J.R. Simmons to pick up a few mannerisms.
But it served its purpose, because the receptionist looked even more uncomfortable.
James and I were on opposite sides of the room. I wondered if I should sit by him, but I suspected it only reinforced the impression of our divided stance on this visit.
“I’m so sorry if my questions seemed out of line,” I said graciously. “We’re just used to the way things are done in Louisville. Hopefully, Mr. Harlan will get us sorted out before we leave.”
She nodded.
“But I do have one more question,” I said. “We’re in desperate need of a new accountant. I figure since you’re Mr. Harlan’s right-hand person, you’d likely know of some good ones.”
She brightened up. “I can definitely help you with that. We use Henderson and Matthias.”
I pulled a notebook out of my purse and wrote it down. “That’s so helpful. Thank you, Beth.” I shot a glance at James. “Much more helpful than Franklin Delgotto, Jeff.”
He kept his gaze on his phone and said dryly, “It’s not Delgotto’s job to find our accountant, and the one she just told you likely won’t be helpful. We need someone who’s willing to be creative.”
Beth stared at him with a look of indecision.
I grimaced. “We got into a little trouble a few years ago, so we found someone who helped us make one thing look like another.” I gave her a knowing look.
“You know how things are. Those fussy people who don’t understand what it takes to run a business like to put their noses in the books.
We had to find someone to help us … smooth things over.
” I smoothed out some imaginary wrinkles on my pant leg.
She started to say something, then stopped, indecision flickering on her face.
I considered pushing harder, but she looked like she was still wrestling with how much she should tell me.
So I picked up a three-year-old copy of Newsweek and flipped through it without reading, while James scrolled on his phone with a scowl that screamed this is a waste of time.
Beth looked like she might finally be ready to speak when a man stepped out from the hallway.
He looked pretty much the way I remembered him. There was a little more gray at his temples, but the used car salesman aura was still there. I couldn’t help wondering how he got clients. He made me want to take a delousing shower, not sign a multi-million-dollar contract.
Then again, he was probably exactly what the people who hired him were looking for.
“Mr. and Mrs. Beachum,” Harlan said, flashing a smile so wide it made him look like the Joker. “So sorry to keep you waiting. I hope Beth offered you beverages.”
James shot a look of distaste at the Keurig on the counter across the room. “We prefer espresso to drip coffee.” His upper lip curled. “If you can call that watered-down crap coffee.”
I guess he wasn’t wasting any time letting Harlan know he was an asshole.
I had to stifle a laugh at the flash of horror on Miles’s face, but he quickly recovered. “We can send out for something, if you like.”
“We won’t be here that long,” James said, looking down at him. Literally. Harlan was maybe five-eight, and that was with a generous tape measure.
Harlan plastered on his best salesman smile. “Well, hopefully that means it won’t take me long to convince you to sign with me. Come on back to my office.” Then he turned and headed down the hall.
James moved beside me, and I stage-whispered loud enough for the receptionist to hear, “Behave, Jeff.”
He only hummed as we followed Harlan.
The narrow hallway looked in need of a fresh coat of paint, and the photos were of office buildings. Nothing personal. No awards or certificates. Nothing for James to insist on examining later.
We walked past a small kitchen, a door labeled bathroom, and a closed door with a plaque that read Ryan Delaney.
Harlan led us through a door at the end of the hall and into an office that was larger than I’d expected—spanning the full width of the building. The furnishings matched the vibe of the waiting room.
An L-shaped manufactured desk sat to the right of the door. It looked like he’d purchased it at an office supply store a decade ago. His chair was chrome with black vinyl that had faded with age. The two guest chairs were chrome too, with navy vinyl seats.
But on the other side of the room was a long rectangular table covered with blueprints.
James spun slowly, taking it all in with a look of disdain.
Harlan studied him for a beat, then his face brightened. “I’m so glad I could shuffle things around so we could talk about your project.” He gestured to the chairs. “Please. Have a seat.”
He walked around his desk, lowered himself into the chair, then folded his hands over a stack of papers. “Beth says you have a thirty-million-dollar project.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said with a warm smile. “We’re looking to take over the property on Oak and Monroe. We’ve already met with Franklin Delgotto, and he won Jeff over. Isn’t that right, Jeff?”
James shot me a glance that suggested I had the intelligence of a bean plant, then turned to Harlan. “Delgotto runs a much more professional outfit. It’s obvious you couldn’t develop a parking lot. This place is a dump.”
“Don’t let appearances deceive you, Jeff,” Harlan said good-naturedly, leaning back in his chair and resting his folded hands on his stomach. “I prefer to put my money into my toys.”
James gave him a sideways look. “So you’re a child.”
Harlan laughed. “No, although my ex-wife would likely disagree.”
I offered a polite smile, but James looked unimpressed.
We could’ve pressed him on his toys—a possible excuse to get him and James out of the room—but it was too soon.
Harlan sat up, still smiling. I got the feeling he’d smile even if a rat was nibbling on his toes. “Tell me about your project.”
Going off the script we’d created, I launched into a story about a mixed-use plan and sprinkled in some developer buzz words like cap rates, anchor tenants, and long-term returns.
Harlan listened intently, nodding along. When I finished, he nodded again. “I can do all that.”
“Would you mind showing us?” I asked. “Do you have any graphics or graphs?”
He blinked, like I’d asked him to teach me how to knit.
“She’s asking for a PowerPoint,” James muttered, then turned to me. “Honestly, Amber.”
I wasn’t sure if he was aiming his disgust at me or Harlan, maybe both of us. But Harlan took the bait. “I can definitely show you a presentation.”
He turned to his computer and typed in a password so ridiculously easy I almost laughed.
bigboy1–all lowercase
While Harlan pulled up a PowerPoint and turned the screen slightly to give us a better view, James shot me a questioning look.
I gave a slight nod. Got it.
Harlan started his presentation. After about five minutes, James cut him off, which to be honest, was four minutes and ten seconds longer than I’d expected.
“I’ve heard enough,” he said, annoyed.
Harlan jolted in his seat. “I can give you the condensed version, if you prefer.”
James leveled him with a look. “This is bullshit. Delgotto said it was impossible to give us everything we asked for, and your amateur slides aren’t going to convince me that you can.”
Harlan laughed. “I hate to speak ill of a competitor, but Franklin can be a little … old-fashioned in his thinking. I like to think outside of the box.”
My face brightened. “Oh, I like the sound of that.”
I snuck a glance at James, who was giving Harlan a steely gaze.
I turned back. “We like to think outside the box too.” I let the words hang, then added, “We think creativity in all areas is underrated.” I paused again. “We want to partner with someone who is open to new ideas—and willing to take risks.”
Harlan stared at me for a beat. “What kind of risks are we talkin’ about here, Amber?”
“I’m talking about greasing a few sticky wheels if the engine gets stalled on the tracks.” I kept my tone casual, like I was talking about building permits, not bribing people.
He nodded slowly, as if weighing my statement. “Do you anticipate any engines getting stalled?”
James spoke up. “If you run enough engines, they’re all bound to stall at one point or another.”
Harlan nodded. “True. True.”
“Delgotto understood what we meant,” James said. “We didn’t have to spell it out for him.”
Harlan lifted his hands in defense and laughed, like this was all good-natured banter. “Now hold on there, Jeff. I never said I didn’t get it. I just wanted to make sure we’re all on the same page.”
“I’m not sure we’re even readin’ the same book,” James said, disgust drenching his words.
Indecision flickered over Harlan’s face, quickly followed by determination. “I understand your concern, Jeff, but you have to understand mine. We’ve just met. I can’t disclose my full repertoire of tricks for greasing those wheels to the wrong people.”
“You’re calling us the wrong people?” James stood. “Then I don’t see any reason to waste any more of my time.” He gave me a sharp look. “Amber.”
“Wait!” Harlan called, panic cracking his voice as James headed for the door.
James stopped and turned back, his face a mask of cold contempt.
“We can discuss a few things,” Harlan said quickly, “so you understand the scope of my services. But I value discretion on all sides.”
James held there for a long moment, studying Harlan like an ant under a magnifying glass. Then he sat again, wearing a look of bored impatience.
Harlan turned to me, his eyes darting between us like he was scrambling for his next move and coming up empty.
He wasn’t going to give us anything unless we proved we were just as dirty as we were hinting. I decided to take a chance and maybe get more out of him than we’d planned.
“Mr. Harlan,” I said slowly, like I was talking to a preschooler.