“Nothing! Nothing at all, sir.”
“I’ll give you two fucking seconds to explain it to me.”
Frank clears his throat. “Mr. Hale, I can explain?—”
“Then explain.”
Frank’s face goes through several shades of red before settling on a kind of mottled purple that cannot be cardiovascularly healthy.
“It’s not just the HVAC,” he admits finally. He sounds almost relieved to be confessing. Guilty conscience, I guess. “The walk-in coolers for the seafood concept are the wrong size and we’re having the damndest time getting the supplier to call us back about it. The gas lines for the open-flame stations can’t handle the BTU load we need. And the ventilation hoods—Jesus, the fuckin’ ventilation hoods—they’re commercial-grade, sure, but not rated for the kind of volume you’re planning to push through here.”
Bastian’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “Keep going.”
Frank’s torrent continues. “The water filtration system for the sushi bar isn’t compatible with Chicago’s water pressure. The temperature control units for the wine storage are backordered until May. The custom ovens for the bakery concept arrived damaged and the manufacturer is claiming it’s not their problem because we signed off on delivery.” Frank runs a hand over his balding scalp and sighs, like he’s aging years for every second that passes. “And the fire suppression system—the whole damn thing, Mr. Hale—needs to be completely redesigned because the inspector says the current configuration doesn’t meet code for a space this size with this many active cooking stations.”
The silence that follows is so thick I could spread it on toast.
“How long have you known?” Bastian asks quietly.
“Some of it? A few weeks. The fire suppression thing? That’s new as of yesterday. I swear, Mr. Hale, I tried to?—”
“You tried toburyit,” Bastian snarls. “You thought you could fix it before I noticed. You’re fucking me over here, Frank, and you really thought it would all just be fine.”
“No, sir, I— I— Well, sir, I’m just awfully sorry. The whole damn thing’s spiraling out of control.”
“How much?”
Frank blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“How. Much. Money. Are we talking about to fix all of this?”
The contractor’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Conservatively? We’re getting into the millions here, sir. Plus at least six weeks added to the timeline. Maybe eight.”
I watch the color drain from Bastian’s face. Then he turns on his heel and walks away without another word. Not to me, not to Frank, not to anyone.
He just storms across the construction site with his shoulders rigid and his hands still clenched into fists.
“Mr. Hale!” Frank calls after him. “Sir, if we could just?—”
But it’s too late. Bastian’s already gone, disappearing through the plastic sheeting and out into the weak February sunlight.
Leaving me standing there with Frank and his crew, my tablet full of notes that suddenly feel completely useless.
“Well,” I say into the awkward silence. “Shit.”
26
BASTIAN
con·fit: /kôn'fe/: noun
1: a cooking method where food is submerged in fat and cooked at low temperature for an extended period, tenderizing tough ingredients.
2: the act of someone slowly, relentlessly, unbearably working their way under your skin until you’re fundamentally changed, and you can’t even pinpoint the exact moment you stopped being the person you were before they showed up and ruined everything.
I keep it together until I’m out of sight.
Only when I’ve reached the ground floor and rounded the corner to find a little patch of solace behind Frank’s trailer do I stop.
