Chapter 5Hennessy
Chapter Five
HENNESSY
O’Halloran’s Pub is dark. Dark paneling, dark wood floors. A huge, dark bar and matching dark barstools accented in dark burgundy. A half-dozen dark tables and chairs. And, all of these deeper hues might make the place depressing, it’s actually quite the opposite. The atmosphere of the place is warm and welcoming—the perfect spot to get out of the cold and into the cozy. We’re between lunch and dinner service right now, and there isn’t another soul in the place when Bryan Truitt follows the father inside. I level my best disdainful look on him from behind the bar.
“I’m really sorry,” he says sincerely. “Sorry for your loss and sorry for acting like a jerk?—”
“You had business with my father?” I cut in coolly, not interested in his platitudes.
He nods.
“Well, it couldn’t have been too important, seeing as how you didn’t even know he was dead,” I point out. Before he can reply, he’s saved by a bit of divine intervention.
“Henny, love, how about a drink for our weary traveler, hmm? You can put it on my tab.”
“Please, Father Romance,” I begin. “Father… Romance ?” Truitt blusters.
A huge toothy grin from our local man of God. “Nickname, son. I’m Father Grigory Romanski. I’m the rector at Basilica of St. Mary of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Mayhem.”
Our guest snorts—though, I’m not sure if it’s over the name of the church or the priest.
“What are you drinking?” Father Romance asks, unoffended.
“Uh…Stoli, please, neat.”
I fix the drinks and set them out in front of the two men. “What is that you’re drinking?” Truitt asks, peering
curiously into Father Romance’s cocktail
“Ah, an oldie but a goodie! It’s a Rye Presbyterian.”
“What, don’t you Catholics have your own drink? You
have to borrow one from the Protestants?” he quips, and the two of them laugh.
I’m not so easily amused as I shoot some seltzer into a glass of my own and lean across the bar so I can get a good look at this guy’s face when I speak to him. All in all, it’s not a bad face. His jawline is well defined but not too angular. His nose has the slightest hint of a bump—a previous injury, perhaps? It’s flanked by eyes the color of warm, golden- brown caramel. His hair is tousled but not in any organic way. There’s some sort of product holding the thick, dark-brown strands perfectly in place. Oh yeah. This guy’s got “Big City” written all over him.
“All right, Mr. Truitt. What, exactly, did you and my father have going?” I ask, not letting on that I’m already aware of his dealings with my dad.
He pulls a file folder from his briefcase and hands it to me. I open it and scan the pages, flipping quickly from one to the next. This all looks to be in line with the documentation I have back in the office.
“So he was going to sell the pub to you,” I murmur. “He was,” he answers cautiously—clearly unsure of where he stands with me. I might understand a little of the densely worded pages I’m looking at, but then again, I might not. He bets on the latter. “We were just about to formalize the deal when your father…he…well, you know. But I assure you, Miss O’Halloran, everything is in order. This is a perfectly valid contract. I suppose —if you really wanted to spend the money—you could consult an attorney. But keep in mind that can be a considerable expense just to be told it’s a done deal. I mean, I’m here. I’ve got the cash. Why don’t you and I just finish what Jack and I started?”
He’s confident and casual, one brow arched in a gesture that screams, “Go ahead, challenge me, I dare ya!”
I do dare, because I know better. Bryan Truitt may have an outstanding poker face, but he has absolutely no idea who he’s playing against.
“So…you don’t think I need to have an attorney look this over?” I ask innocently. “I mean, there’s a lot of jargon here…” My brows furrow in concern as I scan the page in my hand.
His lips tip up into a placating smile that I might find offensive—if I didn’t find it to be so…sad. He has no idea he’s about to hang himself, so I just keep handing him the rope. I catch a glance of Father Romance out of the corner of my eye. He has a hand over his mouth to hide his smile.
“You know, I can just give you the gist of it. No reason to pay some bloodsucking ambulance chaser,” Bryan says, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in disgust. “They’ll just eat away at your father’s estate until there’s nothing left.”
I set the papers down on the bar and look him straight in the eyes. Maybe I’d have gone easier on him if he hadn’t just dropped my father into this. I take a long, deep breath and plaster a “sweet as pie” smile on my face.
“Well, you’re just so…so very kind to be so concerned for me and my family.”
“Ah, well, anything I can do to help you out at a difficult time like this,” he replies, placing a reassuring hand over mine. It’s warm and strong. “Hey, what do you say we find a notary, sign the paperwork, and I’ll take you out for a nice dinner to celebrate.”
Father Romance coughs now, trying to disguise a laugh. I slide my untouched glass of seltzer his way and return my concentration to Mr. Bryan Truitt, who still has his hand on mine.
“Oh, that’s so tempting!” I exclaim. “But I’m afraid I have some work to do for my job. My real job. You see, I’m just in town long enough to get things settled here. Then it’s back to Minneapolis for me.”
“Oh ho! That’s the big city around here, isn’t it? And what does a lovely lady such as yourself do in a hustling, bustling metropolis such as Minneapolis? You aren’t, by chance, a brain surgeon, are you?” he teases.
I throw back my head in an amused laugh.
“You’re so funny,” I gush. “No, actually, I have to review some case notes for my boss. I’m first chair on a big trial coming up.”
I watch as his face goes ashen. Suddenly he’s not looking so confident anymore.
“You’re…you’re a lawyer?” he asks, unable to disguise the gulp in his voice.
I smile brightly and nod.
“Yes, actually. I’m a Hennepin County public defender. So, no need to spend money on a bloodsucking ambulance chaser…because I am a bloodsucking ambulance chaser.”
“I—I…I didn’t know…” he stammers.
“Clearly,” I say, my voice turning icy in a heartbeat.“Not having a very good time of it, are you, Mr. Truitt? You’ve come all this way only to find that my father is dead and his daughter is an attorney who actually understands everything in your proposed contract. I mean, what are the odds?”
“Henny…” Father Romance says softly. It’s a warning—a caution that I shouldn’t get carried away with my evisceration of the strong-jawed, weak-minded Bryan Truitt.
I extricate my hand from where it’s still lodged under Truitt’s and struggle to appear somewhat calm and professional in the face of his assumptions.
“Mr. Truitt, we both know that without my father’s signature, this contract is invalid. And it’ll remain that way unless and until the executor of his estate signs it. That would be me.”
There. I’ve called his bluff, and I’ve won. I stare at his dumbfounded face, waiting for him to pack up his toys and go home. But that’s not what he does. Bryan Truitt closes his
gaping mouth, adjusts his tie, and takes a deep breath. “Well then, Hennessy O’Halloran, what can I do to get
you to sign on the dotted line?”
I give him a cross between a scoff and a snort. “Nothing.”
“I find that hard to believe. Everyone has a price. What will it take? Another ten percent on the purchase price? Twenty? How about twenty-five percent over market value?” I stare at him incredulously. Something is very wrong here. This pub is priceless to my sisters and me, but the kind of money he’s talking about is ridiculous considering the market right now.
“Why do you want this property so badly, Mr. Truitt?” I ask suspiciously.
He shrugs and smiles, much more confident than he was just a moment ago.
“Let’s just say it’s the perfect fit for one of my clients… and I’ve already invested a good deal of time and effort into this deal during my negotiations with your father. And, here’s the thing—I’m a matchmaker, you see. I pair investors looking to expand into new territory with the ideal venue for their project. It’s a win-win for the company and the community.”
“And you,” I point out.
“And me,” he agrees. “So, what do you say, Miss O’Halloran? Want to make a match with me?”
I hold his gaze for a long beat before I speak again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Truitt, but O’Halloran’s is not for sale.”
He seems to consider this for a second then rummages around in his briefcase for another paper. He pulls it out and studies it before talking again.
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Miss O’Halloran—but if it’s not for sale now, it will be very soon, according to the information I have. I believe the bank has called this loan, and you have less than six weeks left to make good. Otherwise, it goes to auction. The property will be sold to the highest bidder—which will be me—then the loan will be satisfied, and any remaining funds returned to you… after the trustee’s cut and after all applicable fees have been deducted, of course. Trust me when I tell you there won’t be enough cash left to use for the down payment on a new car, let alone a new building.”
I feel the intense heat of my face flaming scarlet. Father Romance isn’t chuckling anymore. In fact, he’s looking very concerned as he puts a hand on Bryan’s arm.
“Son, I think this might be a good time for you to have a walk around Mayhem?—”
“No,” I cut him off. “This would be a good time for him to get back in his car, drive to the airport, and go home to the land of sand and sunshine because there’s nothing for him here.”
Truitt hops off his barstool, grabs his briefcase, and flashes me a bright white, perfectly aligned smile. I’d like to slap it right off his face.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Miss O’Halloran. I’ve already spotted a couple of things I’d like to see right here in the quaint town of Mayhem. I think I’ll hang around for a night or two. Maybe longer.”
With that, he turns on his heel and walks out the front door, careful to go the long way around the snow bank this time.