Page 71 of Blame it on the Bet
“Yes, yes, I’d heard that the family was going to try and put together the money to pay off the loan…”
The odd little man stops his sentence short and looks at me for a beat longer than I’m comfortable with. The wheels are turning; I’m just not certain in which direction.
“Something wrong?” I ask, setting a cup of black coffee down in front of him.
He squints at me.
“No…yes…I mean, you just seem so familiar to me, Mr.…Truitt, is it? I’d swear we’ve met before.”
I’m quite sure we haven’t. No way I’d forget this guy. Not a chance.
“I don’t think so. I’m based out of Los Angeles, actually. I run a real estate development company—The Truitt Group. I match investors with properties, predominantly here in the Midwest,” I explain, hoping to move him off of who I am and on to what I do.
He’s nodding his head slowly…and then he’s shaking it. “I’d swear—” he begins, but I’ll never know exactly what he was going to swear because Hennessy chooses that moment to breeze back in.
She’s upped her wardrobe game a little with black dress slacks and a tailored blouse. Definitely part of her lawyer wardrobe. She managed to smooth her hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s put on more makeup than I’m used to seeing on her. The effect is stunning. I have no clue how any of her male adversaries can concentrate on their own cases when Hennessy O’Halloran is in the courtroom.
“Mr. Pettit, nice to meet you. I’m Hennessy O’Halloran,” she says, extending her hand with a bright smile.
And, just like that, old Squinty McTwitchypants over here has forgotten all about me.
“P–pleased to meet you…” he murmurs with a goofy, lopsided smile.
“Oh, good, Bryan’s gotten you some coffee,” she notes as she pours herself a cup and joins us at the table. “Now, what brings you here?”
“Well, you see, I’m the designated trustee on your father’s loan. Now, more often than not, these things are handled via internet and fax and such. But, as it so happens, my branch office is down in Rochester. And when my wife heard I was handling a property in Mayhem…well, she was adamant that we make the trip in person. Something about pie…”
“Of course,” Hennessy nods. “The Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop.”
“Yes, exactly!” he exclaims, seeming surprised that such a place really exists.
“Ah, well, it’s the best slice of pie on this side of the Mississippi.” Hennessy smiles warmly and then brings things back around to the business at hand.
And I’m glad because the sooner this guy is gone, the sooner we can?—
“Yes, yes. I suppose I’d like to get a sense of where you are with things. There are only about two weeks left, and I’ve had conflicting reports from the bank regarding your plans.”
“Yes. Well, ideally, we’ll raise enough money to pay off the loan and keep the pub. We’re getting closer…” she says, her voice trailing off a little hesitantly, “but we’re not quite there yet.”
“How much closer?” he asks, pulling out a pad and pen and starting to jot down a few notes.
She clears her throat a little awkwardly, and it occurs to me that I shouldn’t be here for this. It’s not really appropriate. “You know, I’m going to run downstairs to the pub. I think I left my”—I cast around in my head for an item—“body wash down there.”
“Your what?” Hennessy asks.
“You know, my body wash. I really like it, and I…I don’t want anyone to use it.”
It’s ridiculous, but it gets me down the back stairs with a quick wink at her over my shoulder.
The place won’t be open for another hour yet, so I park myself at a small table in a corner, the same one where Hennessy and I made our deal. The thought of it makes me smile. It also makes me wonder what the trustee is going to think about our crazy wager—if she even tells him about it, that is. Any financial guy worth his salt would consider it ridiculous and tell her I must have an ulterior motive. And I do.
I’d like to spend more time in Hennessy’s bed.
I pull out my phone and start flipping through emails and messages. Apparently I’ve been off the radar a little too long for some people’s liking. The first voicemail is from a local number that I don’t recognize. But the moment I hear the voice, I know exactly who it is.
“Oh, Bryan, this is Lucy Van der Hoovenwald. The cats and I have been worried sick since we heard about the melee at the pub last night. Winston Churchill was beside himself! You know he coughed up a hairball right on top of my lace toilet tank cover? You betcha that’s classic stress! Okeydoke, then, I’ll just see you when you come back. There’ll be a pork
and beans hotdish with Raman noodle salad tonight if you’d like to have dinner.”
