Page 4 of Blame it on the Bet
“It’s oatmeal,” Helen says from the doorway when she sees me scowling down at the grayish mush. “You need something hot and substantial. There’s also a cup of fresh berries there.”
I sink into the very expensive ergonomic chair behind my desk with a loud grunt. Once upon a time, I would only hire assistants of the leggy, blonde variety. And, while they made for some lovely scenery around the office, none of these women had any actual administrative experience. They were all models and actresses and screenwriters just waiting to be “discovered.” It was a mess all around. And then came Helen.
Five minutes into her job interview I’d pretty much decided to add her to the “don’t call us, we’ll call you” pile.
Then she did something very interesting. She pointed out there was a stain on my tie. Who does that? Who risks pissing off—or, worse yet, embarrassing the person who’s conducting your job interview? Helen. That’s who. It was right then and there that I realized she was exactly what I needed. A no-nonsense woman who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, no matter what was at stake. An assistant who would always have my back. I’ve never regretted that decision. Except for maybe now as she eyeballs me with a mixture of pity and concern.
“Thank you for the breakfast,” I say, gesturing to the low- cholesterol feast on my desk. “And the clothes. I appreciate it.”
She nods curtly.
“I know. If you didn’t, I wouldn’t.” She comes to take a seat in front of my desk. “Now, let’s go over your schedule for the day?—”
“Uh-uh.” I interrupt her, shaking my head as I spoon some oatmeal into my mouth.
Wow, it’s actually good.
“The highest priority today is the Minnesota property,” I say. “I pitched it to Cinecore six months ago, and they want to know why the acquisition is taking so long.”
“Still nothing from the owner? What’s his name… O’Halloran?”
I nod. “Jack O’Halloran. He was in. We only had to sign the final papers, and then he just dropped off the face of the earth. I’m guessing he got cold feet.”
“Yeah, I might get cold feet, too, if I were doing business with you,” Helen mutters under her breath, but she continues before I can comment. “All right. How would you like to
proceed, then?”
That’s the other thing I like about Helen—she gets right down to business.
I tap a few keys to wake up my computer and then scan my emails. Still no response from the owner of O’Halloran’s Pub. Well, this is his unlucky day because I’m done playing nice. We had a gentleman’s agreement, and I’m about done being a gentleman.
“I’m going to give him a call. If I can’t get an answer out of him—or if he decides to hide like a chicken—then I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”
“So, it’s a possible Truittism Number Two then?” she asks with raised eyebrows.
I grin from ear to ear. Yes, Helen was a brilliant hire. She’s memorized my entire litany of truisms, or Truittisms, as I like to call them.
“Exactly.”
“All right, I’ll leave you to it, then. Let me know what I can do to help. Meanwhile, I’ll be at my desk answering the messages that came in overnight.”
Once she’s closed the door, I pull out the file and open it on my desk. There are pictures of the property, along with copies of the deed, Certificates of Occupancy, and a ream of banking and loan records that I shouldn’t have…but do. I’ve spent a lot of time cultivating a network of “spies” all over the country. When one of them spots an available property— or a property that’s about to become available—he or she contacts me. If the lead pans out, there’s a nice finder’s fee involved for them. This pub in the tiny town of Mayhem is a perfect fit for one of my projects, and I have no intention of losing it at the eleventh hour.
I pick up the phone on my desk and punch in the number listed in the file, and within a few seconds, a telephone is ringing somewhere in the middle of the country. Once. Twice. Three times.
“O’Halloran’s,” an impatient female voice barks at me across two time zones.
“With whom am I speaking, please?” I keep my tone brusque and businesslike.
“This is Walker.”
Funny, I thought Walker was a guy’s name. Maybe I didn’t hear her right.
“I’m sorry, did you say Walker?” And then I just can’t help myself. “Like Walker, Texas Ranger?”
“Hah! That’s so hilarious,” she replies in a tone that is anything but amused. “’Cause, you know, I’ve never heard that one before.What else you got? Luke Skywalker, maybe? Or one of those zombie things from The Walking Dead? Go ahead, I’ve got all day,” she snarls down the line.
Suddenly I’m not feeling so clever anymore. I clear my throat and start again.
