He definitely notices. He doesn’t stop.
I watch him drive off, standing on the sidewalk like an idiot.
Five hundred dollars clutched in one hand like a gift from heaven.
Or more like a bribe from hell.
STELLAN
The golf cart teeters and nearly goes over as I take a wild turn going way too fucking fast. Wind whips through my hair, and a group of old bastards watches me with real rage. These country club people don't seem to like me very much. One waves a club and yells something obscene.
I choose not to reply. My better nature prevails. Which might be a first.
“Offer them two million,” I shout into my phone as the cart clatters onto a path. “Go up to five if you have to.”
“Five million?!” My realtor sputters at the other end of the call. She’s a sharp lady, but this is absurd even by my lofty standards. “Stellan, that building isn’t worth more than $1.5M at most.”
“Then get the deal done.”
“The building isn’t even on the market. I put in some calls?—”
“Six million. Eight. I don’t give a shit. Make it happen, Cathy.”
She lets out an aggrieved sigh. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises. This might not be about money.”
“It’s always about money, and you know it.” I come to a skidding halt at the back side of the club’s main building. It’s a bougie spot outside the city in the affluent Main Line suburbs. Real estate is obscene out here. An actual golf course is like playing putt-putt on top of gold.
I hang up and shove the phone into my pocket. With a whistle and a smile, I stroll into the back entrance. Nobody’s around as I make my way toward the kitchen, pausing only to poke my head into the dining room. It’s early, a little past nine in the morning, so the place isn’t too crowded. Most of the members are out playing.
That’s good. Don’t want to disturb their breakfast.
I find the double doors and push through. Several cooks are lazily prepping for lunch. A few look up with confused frowns, but nobody moves to stop me. The main chef is likely busy with the few breakfast orders that did come through.
“Morning, gentlemen,” I say as I walk past.
One older Hispanic guy squints at me. “You lost?”
“No, amigo, estoy exactamente donde necesito estar.”No, friend, I’m exactly where I need to be.
He looks bemused as I keep going deeper into the kitchen. It smells like bacon and French fries. The heat coming from the ovens is oppressive. No wonder people hate working back-of-house jobs. It’s a never-ending shit storm.
I find my friend waiting back at the dishwashing station. Which is an honest-to-god surprise. I expected to roll through and leaveempty-handed. No part of me imagined this scumbag would actually show up for an early morning shift.
But there he is. Brain-dead, swaying on his feet, probably coming down from a vicious high, but alive and well. He’s balding, tattooed on his neck, slovenly with a patchy beard and greasy skin, plus a dozen or so scars crossing along his hands and arms. He doesn’t notice me until I’m right on top of him.
“Hello, Hector. Been a while.”
Hector, my very good friend, stiffens. He looks back at me in a panic. His squinty eyes widen. “Stellan? What the fuck, bro?”
I press the tip of my knife tighter against his spine and lower my voice. “If you make a scene, I’ll kill you before I leave. We need to have a friendly talk.”
Hector clears his throat. “Yeah, okay, sure. There’s the walk-in right over there.”
I add some pressure on the knife. “I don’t like the cold. Try again.”
“Fuck, bro! The bathroom!”
“Take me.”
