Page 123 of His Wounded Heart

Chapter Thirty-One

I’d met the type before. The two Harris boys are just like a lot of the lobbyists and politicians that I would occasionally have to deal with up on Capitol Hill. All tan and teeth with no honor. And Carla was another easy one to read. She fit right into the Beverly Hills types who occasionally accompanied their husbands down to San Diego while they golfed. They would drink, eat a lettuce leaf, and gossip at some country club.

I came in wearing chinos, an expensive button-down shirt, and nice loafers. I throw a leather portfolio and pen onto the conference room table as if I own it, then I sit down.

“Can I have your card?” Junior asks.

“Let’s cut with the niceties, shall we?” I pick up my pen and open the binder to a blank page. “The way I hear it, you need my… shall we say, friend, to come forward. Because every day they don’t, you’re burning money. Doesn’t that about sum it up?”

“All I know is your name. What company do you work for?” Junior persists.

“I’m me, Simon Clark. I’m retired. I’m here in the best interests of my friend, and I’m not sure you have their best interests at heart.”

“Cut the crap. Your friend is that back-woods trollop, Linda Avery.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Linda, Minda, Trenda, whatever her name is. She spit out some brat, and now thinks she’s entitled to tens of millions. Well she can think again.”

“Mrs. Harris,” I say calmly. “I don’t know who this Linda person is. I’m representing my friend.”

“Are you saying there could be more than Trenda’s kid?” Richard gasps.

“Shut up, Richard,” Junior says calmly. Richard shuts up. “Mr. Clark, what I don’t quite understand is how you or your friend think it is a problem for us if they don’t come forward. We didn’t have this money when our father was alive, so why is it important that we have it now?”

“Speak for yourself, Brant,” Carla snarls. “Your father paid all my bills. Now that he’s gone, I’m left hanging in the breeze. You two might be fine because you can siphon off money from the business, but I don’t have that luxury.”

“We’re not siphoning off anything, we’re taking our salaries and all other compensation like bonuses and expenses that are due to us,” Richard says smugly.

Junior slaps the table. “I said, shut up, Richard!”

I chuckle. “Quite the little duo you have to handle, Junior.”

“I prefer to be called Brant.”

I pick up my pen and write down Junior, large enough for everybody to see.

Junior flushes.

“So, as I was saying, you have—”

“Who are you representing? I demand to know!” Carla’s voice could shatter glass.

I look at my watch. We’ve been dicking around for twenty minutes. Dex’s guy needs at least twenty, he’d prefer thirty. Then he’s got people who are hitting each of these losers’ residences while they’re here, so forty minutes would be best.

“Lady, and I use the phrase loosely, you are not in a position to demand shit.”

She stands up and grabs her purse. “Then I’m leaving.”

I look over at Junior.

“Sit down, Carla,” he says in a tired voice.

“But, Brant, he’s not being helpful. You said he was going to ask for a cut, then make the other heir go away.”

I chuckle. “Is that how you saw it going down, Junior? How do you figure that? For all you know, I’m representing my wife. Seriously, for such a so-called high-powered businessman, you’re not too smart.”

“Don’t lie to me. You called this meeting. You want something to feather your own nest.”