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Dominic
Ilie awake for hours after Gabriella leaves, staring at the ceiling, my cock aching, my thoughts bouncing from one topic to another. It takes more than the usual three cups of coffee the next morning to make my brain start working. I’m pouring myself the fourth when the phone rings.
It’s Andreas Papachristou, who owns the Hellenic, one of the other two independent casinos in town. After the initial greetings and small talk, he gets to the reason he called. “The votes are in, Crawford,” he booms. I hold the phone away from my ear. Andreas has two volume settings—loud, and louder. “Congratulations. You’re the Businessman of the Year. The banquet is in a month. Start working on a speech.”
What? I shake my head in bemusement, wondering if I heard the other man correctly, and gulp down my coffee. Nita is in view, and I hold up the mug in mute appeal. I’m going to be jittery later, but it’ll be worth it to feel awake now.
“Say something, Crawford,” Andreas prompts. “I’m honored, you shouldn’t have, I can’t believe it, thank you—any one of those things will work.”
Businessman of the Year. The honor makes me feel strange. “I feel old,” I blurt out. My parents won the local business association’s award five times in a row. The first time they’d received the award, I’d been sixteen, a bored teenager who’d been unimpressed by his parents’ contribution to the city. I’d gone to the banquet—I might have been a bored teenager, but I hadn’t been rebellious—but I’d skipped the speeches in favor of making out with Sneha Patel in the parking lot. “You sure you have the right person?”
Andreas laughs. “Yes, Crawford, I’m sure.” His voice softens. “Stuart would be proud of you.”
My heart pangs, as it does every time I think of my dad. Of the many days spent in hospital rooms, hoping against hope for a miracle. Some drug, some chemo, some radiation that would stop the tumor growing in his lungs.
The five-year survival rate for Stage Four lung cancer patients is less than five years. My dad hadn’t beaten those odds. He’d died quickly, all things considered, and with the clarity of time, I’d come to think of that as a blessing all on its own. He hadn’t suffered. He’d been surrounded by his family when he died. My mother, me, Aunt Patricia, Uncle Robert, my cousins, we’d all been there.
Mom had fled Atlantic City after his death. I’d understood her desire to escape the memories that haunted her. My own response had been different. I’d thrown myself into the Grand River. It wasn’t rational, and it wasn’t logical, but to me, the Grand River had become an extension of my father. And if it did well—if I did well—I would keep his memory alive.
Denton Mitchell will never get his hands on my casino. I will never let him take what my parents built and ruin it. I will never let my father’s memory be spoiled in such a way. Never. I will run the Grand River into the ground myself before I let that happen.
I’ve been silent too long. I say something to Andreas. Belatedly remember to thank him for the news he’s given me. Then I hang up, gulp down the coffee that Nita left me—I didn’t even hear her come into my office—and reach for my phone.
Yesterday, Raj told me that Randall Paulson had called off the sale of the diner. I promised him I’d look into it. I’d started out by checking in with Jerome and Maggie at the diner, and Raj had been correct—the two of them were definitely still planning on retiring and moving to Florida. Jerome and Maggie have one child, a daughter, Grace, who lives in Tampa with her husband Tarek and their three children. At the diner, Maggie couldn’t stop talking about being closer to her grandkids.
Which leaves Paulson.
I know Randy. Not too well, but we’re both members of the same country club. We’ve even golfed together from time to time. There’s no reason Randy shouldn’t sell to the Grand River. Our offer price is more than fair. Even at best of times, the diner never made a lot of money, and these are not the best of times. Most tourists come to Atlantic City to gamble, and they tend to eat in the casinos. The Grand River alone has six restaurants, catering to every budget. You want fancy chefs and expensive steak? We’ve got it. Award-winning Chinese food? We’ve got that too. Twenty-four-hour, All You Can Eat buffet? Yes, of course. We have everything a guest could want and more.
Jerome and Maggie stayed in business because they were popular with the locals. But a new business would find it hard to thrive.
Randy owns a trio of luxury car dealerships. He sits on City Council. He doesn’t have time to be messing around with being the landlord of a small diner.
He isn’t a fool. He knows all of this, which is why he was amenable to the sale in the first place.
So, what changed?
I’m willing to bet that I know the answer. Denton Mitchell has brought pressure to bear.
I dial Paulson’s number. “Randy,” I boom, doing my best Andreas Papachristou imitation. “How’ve you been?”
“Dominic,” he replies, a definite note of wariness in his voice. “I can’t complain. You?”
“Ah, you know how it is.” I stand up and cross the room to look out the window. It’s a glorious day. Clear blue skies, not a cloud in sight. “I’m looking outside and wondering why I’m not on the back nine right now, a cold beer in my hand. You in? I’m buying.”
He knows what this call is about, and it’s not about golf. There’s a split-second of hesitation, and then he acquiesces. “Sure.”
We avoidthe difficult conversation as we go through the front nine. It’s only when we get to the more secluded tenth hole that I broach the subject. “So,” I say bluntly. “Raj tells me you’re not selling to us anymore. What’s Mitchell got on you, Randy?”
Paulson shanks his drive. His ball disappears into a thicket to the right of the fairway. I wince. “Sorry,” I murmur apologetically. “Let’s pretend that didn’t happen.”
He snorts. “Please. You are a terrible golfer. I don’t need any favors from you.”
I take my shot, which predictably rolls into the rough. Randy gives me a sardonic grin. We start walking toward our balls, and Paulson clears his throat. “Listen, forget about the parking lot, okay?”
“What the fuck does Mitchell have on you?”
“Nothing.” He sighs. “Crawford, I know the situation is fucked up. But Mitchell is cornered, and cornered men make foolish decisions. I just don’t want the hassle. Not for a goddamn parking lot.”
