Page 26 of Blame it on the Bet
My assistant is silent for a long moment, but I can feel her disapproval from two time zones away.
“All right, then, suit yourself,” she says at last. I always do.
Chapter Eleven
HENNESSY
Watching Walker tend bar is mesmerizing. She makes the pouring and the shaking and the stirring into a gracefully choreographed ballet.
“Okay, so now what?” she asks once I’ve walked her through this morning’s catastrophic meeting at the bank.
“Well, there are three ways this can go. A—we can raise the money, pay off the loan, and live happily ever after.”
“I like A,” she says with a nod of approval as she flips a cocktail shaker up in the air.
“Show off,” I mutter with a grin before continuing. “Ah, well, A may not be that simple. Option B is that we sell the pub—preferably to someone who won’t flatten it and turn it into a mega mall.”
“And what happens if we don’t come up with the money or a buyer?” she asks as she dumps the shaker’s contents into a martini glass and pushes it toward me. It’s blue. Like, really blue. I just stare at it. “Go ahead,” she coaxes with a thrust of her chin.
I pick up the drink and take a tentative sip, surprised at the blend of tart and sweet that explodes in my mouth.
“Oh my God, Walker…that’s really good! What is it?” “I’m calling it an Aquatini,” she informs me.
“Mmmm,” I murmur on my second sip. Then I set the glass down so I can answer her question properly. “So, that scenario would lead us to the very undesirable option C. The bank repossesses it, sells it, and we get whatever is left over after they’ve taken out fees and their cut. It’s lose-lose for us.”
In typical Walker fashion, she lets loose a string of expletives that likely has our mother whirling in her grave like one of those fidget spinner things. I patiently wait for her to finish, take a deep breath, and ask me an actual question.
“So, can you please just explain to me how we ended up in this crap situation in the first place? What the hell kind of a loan did Pops take that they can just demand full payment anytime they want?”
I consider how best to explain the complicated arrangement that I, myself, don’t have a total understanding of.“Look, in this case, the loan is based on something called a Deed of Trust. That means that Pops pretty much signed the pub over to a third party when he took the loan.”
“What? He’d never do that!” Walker jumps in. “Who’d he give it to?”
I shake my head and hold up a hand to stop her before she slips into another torrent of profanity.
“No, it’s not what you think. It’s a very common practice with commercial properties. It’s usually a neutral third party—like a title company. They’re supposed to hold the deed to the pub until the loan is paid off, at which time it reverts back to the owner, in this case, Pops. But—and this is a big but—if the loan goes into default, or if—like in our case—the owner of the property should die, the bank can immediately call the loan due in full. That’s what happened here. And that’s where the trustee comes in. That agent is responsible for the sale of the property—not the owner. Not Pops. Not us.”
Walker puts her palms down on the shiny surface of the bar and leans forward, dropping her volume so none of the patrons milling about will overhear.
“Are you telling me that if we don’t cough up the cash or find a buyer ourselves, then someone else is going to decide who to sell to?” she asks in an incredulous whisper.
I nod.
“It would seem so. Which is why Bryan Truitt filed an intent to purchase. It’s not binding in any way, but he’s making it known that he’s an interested party should the loan go into default and the property need to be sold or auctioned off. But, listen, I’m not a real estate attorney, so I don’t know the ins and outs. I can probably get some advice from one of the senior attorneys at my office… But, honestly, I don’t want them knowing my personal business. I’m sure Wally will help us if he can, but based on what I saw this morning, he’s in a little over his head here.”
“Bryan Pruitt,” she says.
“It’s Truitt, actually, but no, I’m talking about Wally,” I correct her, reaching for the azure cocktail again.
That’s when I realize she’s not looking at me. She’s looking past me. I swivel on the stool, and there he is in his trench coat, briefcase in hand as he crosses the room to where I’m standing.
“Hennessy O’Halloran,” he says brightly.
I turn around slowly, one eyebrow cocked, and find Bryan Truitt with a crooked grin that makes my heart beat a little faster. I have to admit, as ridiculous as his suit may be for this weather, he looks better in it than any of the suit- wearing attorneys I’ve ever worked with. It fits him like a glove, hinting at a broad, well-toned chest and strong arms. And, my God, the pants…
Okay, okay. Enough gawking at the enemy!
“Well hello, Mr. Truitt,” I begin, trying to sound unaffected by his presence. “I have to say I’m surprised to see you’re still here. I just assumed you’d be gone by now, considering there’s nothing for you in Mayhem.”
