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Dominic
Ishower and grab another cup of coffee, and then I call Fred Jefferson, the president of Atlantic Southern. “Crawford,” he greets me. “What can I do for you?”
“I could have just called to catch up.”
“Before noon on a weekend? I doubt it.”
I grin. Fred’s ten years older than me. He’s the youngest-ever president of Atlantic Southern. The first Black president of Atlantic Southern. He’s been Businessman of the Year three years running. He’s smart as a whip and fiercely ambitious, and he hides that under a layer of pragmatism and good humor.
“You’re right, this is business.”
“You want a loan?”
“Not now, no.” Fred’s not going to be happy about the next part. “Your bank is about to loan Denton Mitchell thirteen million dollars.”
“What? No. The only loans we’re making of that magnitude are to—”
“PK Corporation, who manufactures equipment for deep sea oil explorations.”
Fred catches on immediately. “It’s a shell.” He swears under his breath. “You have proof?”
“I do, but it hasn’t exactly been acquired through legal means.”
“Ah, Carter Hughes strikes again. Thanks, Dominic. I appreciate the heads-up. Send me what you have, will you?” He sighs. “The loan documents went through several layers of scrutiny. We should have caught this. Looks like I’m going to have to fire some people next week. Have I told you I hate Mondays?”
“Keep this quiet? I don’t want my involvement mentioned.”
“Not a problem. Buy you a drink next week? How about Tuesday?”
If all goes well on Tuesday, I’ll be having dinner with Gabby. I hope.
“I’m busy Tuesday,” I reply. “Does Wednesday work?”
“Sure.” We make arrangements about where and when. Then, when I’m about to hang up, Fred asks a question. “Dominic, do you know anything about the entertainment industry?”
“Be more specific.”
“Nyla wants to be a singer,” he says. “She’s pretty good, and that’s not just the perspective of a proud father. She’s going to be on American Idol.”
“That’s fantastic.” Nyla is fifteen, just as smart as her parents, just as ambitious. Fantastic voice too. The music industry doesn’t always reward the purest talents, and success is never a guarantee, but my money is on her.
“It is both fantastic and the stuff of nightmares. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, but she’s also a teenager, you know? She wants to go to Los Angeles. Sarit and I are freaking out. I’ve got a lawyer looking over the American Idol paperwork, but I want someone familiar with the industry to walk her through what she might run into. Social media, paparazzi, interviews, that kind of thing? Nyla is pretty sheltered about that kind of stuff. We only let her open a Facebook account this year.”
Gabriella. She wants to start her own company, and this would be up her street. It’s not a large contract, but Fred is extremely well-connected in Atlantic City. If he’s happy with her work, he’ll open a lot of doors for her.
In Atlantic City. Not Manhattan. Are you doing this for Gabby? Or are you doing this for you?
Fine, I have ulterior motives. “All the cool kids are on TikTok and Instagram, from what I understand,” I tell Fred. “Not Facebook. Yes, I might know someone. Gabriella Alves is a PR consultant for Karpis & Associates. They specialize in sports and entertainment. Gabby is managing Nicky Z’s social media.”
“That sounds perfect. Would she be interested in some freelance work?”
My conscience mounts a belated attack. “Let me check with her.”
“Sounds good. Thanks again for the tip on Mitchell. You saved me a crapload of money, Crawford. Almost enough for me to forget you stole Businessman of the Year from me.”
I say something rude in reply, the two of us share a laugh, and I hang up with a grin. Then my smile fades.
I’ve just screwed over Denton Mitchell. I’ve killed his biggest deal, and in doing so, I’ve weakened him so badly that he’s in no position to buy my casino. I should be feeling triumphant. Ready to take on the world.
Instead, my thoughts keep circling back to Gabby. In the shower, I’d replayed the conversations I’ve had with her, and I reached a conclusion. Both Carter and I want a real relationship with her. I need to brace for rejection and put my heart on the line. I might not like her answer, but on Tuesday, I need to tell Gabriella we want more.
You haven’t even taken her out on a date.
Guilt prods me. I might make a dozen excuses, try to convince myself that I’ve been preoccupied with Denton Mitchell, with the way Ed Wagner is entangled in Mitchell’s web, with Carter’s custody battle, but it doesn’t change anything. I’ve been treating Gabriella like a sordid secret. Secret meals in my apartment after midnight, followed by fiery passionate sex. I haven’t taken her out. I haven’t introduced her to my friends, I haven’t asked to meet hers.
Words are cheap, but actions matter. Time to change up some things.
