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The man looked helplessly from Shooter to Abby and back again. “Yes,” he finally said weakly.
“Good,” Shooter replied. “Glad we’re on the same page.” He nodded to both the man and Abby and walked away. Abby gave the guy a reassuring smile even though she’d much rather kick him in the nuts and headed toward the car.
“Oh, please be careful,” the man pleaded.
Abby refrained from rolling her eyes at him. “Why’d you come to Burnout, Sir?”
His back stiffened. “Because it’s supposed to be the best in the city!”
Abby winked at him as though that was all there was to say on the matter.
***
On Monday morning, Abby tore through her closet, trying on outfit after outfit. She had no idea what was appropriate attire for stealing a hotel. In the end she chose a pair of black slacks and a matching black fitted blazer. She figured it would hide bloodstains. She lifted a cardboard box from her kitchen counter and lugged it to her Camaro, stuffing it onto the passenger seat. Her arms ached by the time she managed to heft it onto the check-in counter in the lobby of the Custer.
Susan, bewildered, looked from Abby to the box and back again. “What’s this?” she asked. Abby grinned at her.
“Susan,” Abby half-whispered. “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
An hour later the private car Abby had hired arrived out front and Mr. Hilliard, looking sharp in a gray pinstripe suit, emerged. He took in the facade of the historic hotel and Abby saw him nod to himself before he came through the double doors of the lobby. He positively beamed when he saw Abby.
She took his coat and led him into the conference room. Checking her watch, she bid Mr. Hilliard to wait a few moments as she marched down the hall to Kessler’s office where she could hear her boss and her boss’s boss chumming it up behind the closed door. Without bothering to knock, she opened the door and breezed in.
“Alice!” Burton said, his jovial tone was clearly fake and there was a menacing edge to his voice as he spoke. “So, what’s the big emergency?” the Custer’s soon-to-be former owner demanded.
“Conference room,” Abby snapped and without waiting for an answer, she turned and swept out of the room.
Kessler came out, hot on her heels. “Wait just a damn minute,” he demanded. “Why the hell would you call Burton and why-?”
Abby whirled on him, her glare so penetrating that Kessler actually backed up a step. “Conference room,” she seethed and threw open the oak door as though to punctuate her demand.
Kessler spied Hilliard and had no idea what he was in for but came into the room, Burton followed, looking vaguely amused at the whole thing.
Abby let Burton take a seat at the head of the table, with Kessler on his right.
“I’m on a tight schedule here, gentleman,” Abby declared. “So let’s get started.” She shut the door behind her and turned to face the two men who had been making her life miserable since she arrived in Rapid City.
“This hotel is in trouble,” she announced.
“Alice-” Burton said, clearly annoyed now.
“Abby!”
Burton looked taken aback at her sharp tone.
“My name is Abby. You should know it. Because I’m buying your hotel. For the bargain basement price of 3 million dollars. Plus a cash incentive.”
Burton looked at Kessler and then at Abby. “What?” he asked and Abby could not stop herself from actually rolling her eyes at her boss who could not be less qualified to own a plastic Monopoly hotel let alone a gem like the Custer.
“I’m. buying. your. hotel,” she said slowly, emphasizing that she though Burton was basically a moron.
Burton’s jaw set. “It’s not for sale.”
Abby sighed and flipped open the briefcase she’d brought along with her. She grabbed a sheaf full of 8 X 10 glossies and tossed them across the table. They were surveillance shots of the working girls coming to and from the Custer.
Burton stared at them, but then regained his haughty air and sneered at her. “This is nothing,” he told her. “This is bullshit.”
Abby picked up the second stack of photos and flung them. They were license plates of the cars whose drivers availed themselves of the Blue Orchid’s services. “This is just the polite version. For Mr. Hilliard,” Abby said, nodding at the older man. “I’ve got your whores on video, too.”
That part was actually a bluff. But Abby was a Vegas girl through and through.
“Now,” she said authoritatively. “Like I said, I’m buying the Custer for 3 million dollars.” She turned the briefcase around, revealing the rest of its contents to Burton and slid it across the table toward him. “The 3 mil is for the IRS, all nice and legal-like. This,” she said, indicating the 2 million in cash, “this is yours to do whatever you want.”
