Chapter 20Bryan
Chapter Twenty
brYAN
Truittism No.10: Beware the people who read between the lines…especially if that happens to be where you’re hiding.
I’m rattled. Not by the bagel-tossing toddler, but by his hair- tossing aunt. What was that back there? Since when do I go all sentimental over a piece of pie? And since when can I not stop thinking about Hennessy?
Well, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve had a hard time extracting her from my head since the second I laid eyes on her. But that was just physical—a perfectly natural response to an attractive woman.
Right?
Right.
So why am I thinking how I’d like to show her the little out-of-the-way restaurant in Malibu? And why am I wondering what her favorite flowers are… and her favorite color? Why is it that I suddenly care about how she feels more than how she looks in her tight jeans? And that last one’s by the slimmest of margins, by the way. Because Hennessy O’Halloran looks damn fine in her tight jeans.
“Ugh…” I groan out loud and pull the chair out from behind my desk, only to find Barack sitting in it. He’s curled up in a small, furry ball, his deep red sweater a bright accent against his tortoiseshell coat. He’s snoring. Yes, apparently this namesake of our forty-fourth president has a bit of a sleep apnea problem. And he drools, too.
“There he is,” King says as he sticks his head into my office. “Michelle has been pacing the place and yowling for him all morning.”
“Yeah, well, I might go into hiding, too, if there was a woman pacing and yowling for me.” I laugh.
The burly, older man squints, pushes his glasses farther up on his nose, and moves closer to get a look at the charts on my desk.
“Is that Iowa?”
“Yes, it is. I have a project in the works there.”
He nods and leans in, using his index finger to trace a line on the map with his finger.
“I know these parts. Very isolated community in the winter.”
“That’s why we’re looking to put a new supermarket there,” I explain, pointing to an area on the large, multicolor blueprint of the Hawkeye state.
Another nod as he considers this.
“So, not all your projects are malls and movie theaters?”
“Hardly,” I say, gently prodding the cat. He doesn’t move, so I tip the chair forward and he tumbles off, landing on his feet with an indignant meow. “Michelle’s looking for you,” I tell him as I shoo him away. I take the nicely warmed seat, open my laptop, and bring up a folder, waving King in for a closer look.
“Here,” I say, pointing to a picture of a gleaming white building. “That’s a new hospital in Missouri. And this…” I click and drag another image to the fore of the screen. “This is a senior center in Wisconsin. I mean, I do my share of commercial projects, but my skill set applies to more humanitarian objectives as well.”
“So how does it work, then, what you do?”
“I scout regions for investors. They want a movie theater, I find a venue that has a high likelihood of success based on placement, the size of the community, stuff like that. It’s essentially the same process if someone wants to invest in something like a clinic or a recycling center.”
King seems to consider this. “And here in Mayhem, you want to put up a movie theater.”
“I do,” I admit. “I think it could be a real asset to the region and bring some cash flow into Mayhem.”
“And what if we don’t want it?”
“Well, now, that’s always the question, isn’t it? Then, it comes down to you guys. I can’t build a thing that doesn’t have the consent of the town council and permits from the zoning board.”
King nods silently and works his way over to the calendar I have posted. I’ve highlighted a block of days and written countdown numbers in each box.
“This is how long Hennessy has before the loan’s due.” His words aren’t a question, they’re a statement of fact. I’m not sure if he’s guessed or if he knows something about this situation.
“Yes, it is. She’s down to a month now. I know she’s had some influx of cash, what with the chili cook-off and the new darts league, but I doubt she’s got more than ten-thousand toward the hundred she needs.”
I’m surprised to find that my words make me feel a little anxious for her. I’m even more surprised when crotchety old King Colby seems to pick up on this fact.
“You could be watching this all from Los Angeles,” he observes.
“Yes, I could be.”
“You’ve been here for nearly three weeks now.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Will you put in a bid if the property goes to sheriff’s auction?”
“It won’t go to sheriff’s auction.”
He eyeballs me for a few moments, head-to-toe, then, without warning, flips my board over so we’re looking at maps of Mayhem and pictures of the O’Halloran’s.
“I thought as much,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
“Did you?” I really want to know. I’m always curious to find out what it is that tips people off to me and my actions.
“Yup. You look at everything. You listen to everyone. You want to know the inner workings of this town in a way that most people don’t pay much attention to.”
“And what does that tell you about me?” I press, folding my arms and turning slightly to face him.
King scratches the white stubble on his chin before meeting my eyes.
“Tells me you care. More than you want people to know.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting the surly older man to say, but that certainly was not it.
“I’ve seen a lot of guys like you come through here and other parts of the state,” he continues in his gruff manner. “Usually they want to get in and get out. It’s just about the money to them. They don’t care what they do to the community, or what happens to the people who live in it after they’ve built their latest monstrosity.”
“I am that guy,” I assure him, with some measure of shame.
King takes a deep breath before flipping the board over so we’re facing Iowa again.
“No, I think you were that guy.”
I’m about to comment when Barack Obama comes tearing through the room making an ungodly noise. He’s a red streak as he dives under my desk. An instant later, Michelle flies in after him, sporting a very elegant cream- colored cowl neck. Which reminds me…
“Hey, King? What does one wear to a polka mass?”