Chapter 11
11
CARTER
W elcome to Big City!
I first spot the skyscrapers on the horizon one hour north of Small Town, but the signs and billboards spoke of its wonders for miles before. Shops and restaurants. Hotels and attractions. One could find anything they could ever need in Big City, or so they promise.
The closer I get to my destination, the more I can’t shake the feeling I forgot something.
I checked the room over twice, as always, so I know I left nothing behind. Still, the feeling is pervasive enough that I pulled off the road halfway through my journey to double-check for my wallet and phone charger.
Then I felt the eyes of a bunch of bikers wondering what I was doing in their parking lot, so I burned rubber right on out again.
The feeling persists as I arrive at the offices of Sure Thing Estates. I manage to shake it off as I make my way inside and greet the pretty secretary up front.
“Oh, you’re the acquisitions guy!” she says, her mouth full of pink gum. “Mr. Stacks has been expecting you.”
I start to explain my car trouble, but she doesn’t seem to care, already tapping her headset and chirping into it.
“Mr. Stacks, Mr. Cartwright is here to see you. Finally.”
She points me toward the chairs along the wall, and I head over to them. Before I can even sit down, a set of large wooden doors open across the room. A man steps out. He’s short and stout, with a bald and shiny head and a perfectly tailored pinstripe suit. Truthfully, it’s about what I expected. Most of the guys in this business look exactly the same way.
“Mr. Cartwright!” he greets as he shuffles toward me, his hand outstretched. “It’s about damn time.”
I stand up and bow apologetically. “I’m very sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Stacks. I had some car trou?—”
“Oh, pay no mind to that.” He laughs, still violently shaking my hand. “I would have waited forever for a guy like you. You’ve got quite the résumé.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Come on in.”
He leads me into his office and gestures for me to take a seat in front of his desk.
“Great view,” I note as I sit down, my eyes scanning the Big City skyline.
“That was completely flat before my great-grandfather showed up,” he gloats. “The Stacks built this city with their bare hands!”
I nod, doubting the veracity of that claim, but not caring enough to fact check it.
He goes on for a few minutes, giving his secretary enough time to wander in with bottles of water. As she leaves, she gives me a few winks, and I smile politely until she’s gone.
“Now,” Mr. Stacks says, clapping once. “Let’s get down to business, Mr. Cartwright. It is my understanding that you’re the guy to call when people want to... expand their enterprises.”
“I’ve done some work in that area, yes.”
“Some work.” He chuckles. “I heard you did some work in securing that land for the expansion of Cal Price’s resort. Ain’t that right?”
“Sorry, sir,” I say. “But I can’t divulge the details of my work with other clients.”
“Right. You don’t, but he did last week over a golf game, which is why you’re sitting here now.”
I bow my head, keeping quiet.
He laughs again and tilts back in his leather chair. “My family owns Big City. That was good enough for my father and his father, but I want more . I want the whole damn county.”
“A lofty goal, sir.”
“Are you from around here, kid?”
“No, sir.”
“Kiss County is... for lack of a better term, a tourist trap. People bound here from all over for the chance to get shot in the ass by Cupid’s arrow. Bit whimsical for my tastes, but who am I to judge?”
I don’t reply, curious where he’s going.
“Tourists need beds, and by the end of the decade, I want to own every single bed in Kiss County. The ones not owned by a resident, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I say, nodding along.
Mr. Stacks jerks open his desk drawer and withdraws a folder. “Starting with these,” he says as he pushes it toward me across the glass desktop.
I take one look at the photo and my heart nearly stops beating. Periwinkle blue exterior. Sunflowers and yellow daisies.
“Two Hearts Inn,” I say.
“You’ve been there?” Mr. Stacks asks.
I nod. “Yeah, I... I just checked out this morning, actually.”
“Beautiful property.”
“It is, yes.”
“I want it.”
My blood runs cold. “You want it?”
He smiles smugly. “Small Town ain’t much to look at in the off-season, but summer? Valentine’s?” He snorts. “Booked out for months, sometimes years, in advance.” He taps the desk by the photo. “Exactly the kind of sure thing property I need to expand into Small Town. You meet the owner?”
I nearly miss the question, my chest clenching hard. “Uh, yes,” I answer, nodding slowly. “Yes, Mr. Michaelson. He’s a good man. He built the inn with his wife and?—”
“You get the sense he’d be willing to part with it?” he asks, practically salivating over the idea.
I hesitate. “I’m not sure,” I answer, lying through my teeth.
He sits back, laughing gutturally as he licks his lips. “Let’s be sure,” he says. “How many rooms?”
“Ten,” I answer.
He grimaces. “We can fix that. We’ll tear out the trees behind it and add on to the building.”
“Well, the family lives on the property,” I say. “They?—”
“Perfect! We’ll kick ‘em out and there ya go! More rooms! We’ll build up to fifty rooms. No... seventy-five! Aw, fuck it, one-hundred! Go big or die. That’s the Stack family motto!”
My stomach churns, feeling sick as I imagine that beautiful place, the path to the dock by the lake… possibly gone forever in the name of greed.
“I want you to go back down there and get me a number,” he says. “Everything has a price tag. While you’re there, look around. Pull up the carpet. Kick up the floorboards a little. Find something I can exploit that’ll knock a few zeroes off the price. You do that kind of thing, right?”
I stare at the photo. “Yeah,” I answer, the words tasting of bile. “I do that kind of thing.”
He grins, showing off a row of aging yellow teeth. “Fan-freaking-tastic,” he says, sitting back. “You get me that inn, and this’ll be the start of a beautiful partnership.”
“It will?”
“Well, it won’t stop at Small Town,” he says. “Taking over that one-horse-ville is small potatoes compared to what I’ve got planned for Pleasant Place and Rich Valley. You do this for me — you be my guy on the front lines — and I’ll make your bank account very happy.”
I don’t reply. I don’t even nod.
He doesn’t seem to notice, though, his eyes shining with dollar signs like some cartoon villain.
“So, what do you say, kid?” Mr. Stack asks as he extends his hand to me across the desk. “Partners?”
I stare at it, quietly realizing what it was I left behind.