My Darling Husband(47)
My restaurants are filled with men who talk like this, in flowery sentences delivered in dignified twangs that echo of cotton fields and weekend hunting lodges. They pull up to the valet stand like they just arrived from the country club, in custom shoes and neck scarves doused in designer cologne, and they buy buckets of Screaming Eagles for them and all their friends. They run big companies and sign big checks.
What they do not do is take a job as an insurance adjustor.
“Thank you for that, Matt. I appreciate your dedication to the cause, but as I’m sure you can understand, I have lots of people counting on me for their livelihoods. How soon do you think we can get them some compensation?”
I may not have grown up in the South, but I can play good ol’ boy like the best of them.
“Well, I suppose that depends in large part on the conversation you and I have here today. What can you tell me about the Pharr Road establishment?”
“I can tell you the building on Pharr does not belong to me. I haven’t taken ownership yet, and just between you and me, whether or not I move forward on the purchase is kind of up in the air.”
He makes a humming noise. “Still. I find it a little interesting you put down that kind of earnest money on a building just around the corner from your existing restaurant on Bolling Way. Less than a quarter of a mile to be precise, and featuring a rear lot that’ll fit fifty-plus cars. I checked the zoning, and what do you know? The City of Atlanta has earmarked it for restaurant use.”
The rubber band around my chest wraps tighter. I don’t like where this line of questioning is headed.
My laugh tries for casual but misses by a mile. “All that’s true, but have you seen the place? It’s a real dump. One I no longer have the time or the funds to renovate. Looks like Lasky will be staying put.”
“How much do you think it’ll cost to fix it up? You’re a businessman, Cam. I’m assuming you’ve done the math.”
Hell yeah I’ve done the math. Four thousand square feet of prime real estate smack in the second wave of the Buckhead development, easily accessible from both Buckhead and Midtown, and an owner who’s beyond desperate to sell. A no-brainer, assuming I could cough up the money—which I can’t. Not without another investor with deep, deep pockets.
“I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“How much, Cam?”
I fight the urge to scream. The clock on my dash ticks to 5:30, and we still haven’t gotten to the payout or talked about the possibility of him writing a check for the money I need to save my family. I white-knuckle the steering wheel, my body a sizzling bundle of reflexes and raw nerves.
“A million, give or take, for the reno plus furnishings. And then there’s the cost of the building—which again, isn’t mine.”
“But it’s under contract. You put down a significant chunk of earnest money.”
“Money I’m fully prepared to walk away from. Recent developments have changed my investment strategy somewhat.”
“Are you referring to the fire?”
“I’m referring to the hole in my bank account!”
I wince at his stretch of silence.
“Look, I’m sorry. My nerves are shredded. The truth is, Bolling Way is the only shop keeping me afloat, which means I need that insurance money as soon as humanly possible. I needed it yesterday.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how this works. What do you think, that I just drive around town with a trunk full of money? I don’t even own a checkbook. There’s a process for these things, which starts first and foremost with you filing a claim. Then, once that’s approved, we have up to thirty days to process the payment. Now, I’m not saying it will take that long, but you see where I’m going with this? It’s going to take some time.”
“Okay. Well, what about an advance?”
“You could request an advance, but that’s only meant to tide you over for the first few days. Advances are typically a very small portion of the total estimated amount, and even then, it’ll be tomorrow before I can work through the paperwork.”
The reality hits me like a fist in the face—no insurance money today, no way of plugging that $700,000 hole—along with a more urgent problem: a man coming at me on the other side of the windshield. A crackhead, that much is obvious from the slant of his mouth, his vacant expression, the way his limbs flop around in a sloppy gait.
My hand reaches into the space below my seat, my fingers closing around the handle of the Smith & Wesson. I flip the safety and drag the weapon onto my lap, holding it steady.
“Flavio can handle the claim,” I say while looking the crackhead straight in the eye, holding his gaze, daring him with mine. He peers through the side window, sizing me up, too. I see his eyes settle on the logo on my shirt, then wander on to the truck’s rims, the oversize tires and custom grill.
Not today, dude. You do not want to fuck with me today.
“Whatever information you need, Flavio can provide.” I watch the crackhead in the side mirror, his gait slowing at the back bumper. My body is on high alert, but my heartbeat finally eases up, settling into a deliberate, steady rhythm. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m kind of in the middle of some—”
“Just one more thing.” Matt’s genteel twang is gone now, replaced with something flat and razor-sharp.