"Then he can explain why he sent me to a shifter-owned business after I specifically said I wouldn't do that again."
Daniel is quiet for a moment. "Three days. Then come home."
"Three days."
I hang up. Stare at the popcorn ceiling. The HVAC hums — the same white noise in every city, every state. I've slept in this sound in Spokane and DC and Portland and Austin and a dozen other places where Coldwell wanted something that belonged to someone else.
I'm good at my job. That's not vanity, it's fact. I graduated top of my class. I know property law, market analysis, negotiation strategy. I can walk into a room and assess a situation in thirty seconds. I can read a financial report the way some people read novels. Coldwell hired me because I'm efficient and thorough and I don't get emotional about acquisitions.
But I'm also the guy who Googles the bars in every new city, picks one that feels right, and orders the same thing every night until the assignment is done. Hard cider and jalapeño poppers in Spokane. Pilsner and fish and chips in DC. It's a system. Structure in unfamiliar territory. A way to make every city feel manageable.
The bar today felt right. That's the problem. The nachos were good, the IPA was good, the booth had decent Wi-Fi and the right angle of afternoon light on my screen. The fact that it's full of shifters and I was there to displace them is a complication I don't want to think about right now.
IPA and nachos. Same booth. I'll go back tomorrow.
It's just due diligence.
* * *
The continental breakfast is exactly what I expected. Rubbery eggs, decent coffee, a waffle maker that takes three minutes and produces something that technically qualifies as food. I eat efficiently — proteins first, coffee black, fruit if it looks real. The couple at the next table is arguing about directions. The businessman across the room is on his third cup of coffee and hasn't touched his food. Hotel breakfasts are the same everywhere. Temporary people fueling up for temporary purposes.
I shower, dress — no suit today, business casual, chinos and a quarter-zip over a collared shirt — and spend the morning driving the area. The property assessment Langford sent was thin, and now I know why. There's nothing here. The commercial corridor is a two-lane road with a gas station, a diner, and a hardware store that looks like it's been closing for ten years. The nearest actual town is fifteen minutes east. The bar and its five acres sit at the edge of nowhere, buffered by undeveloped land and tree line.
I park twice to take photos and make notes. Traffic counts on the main road: twenty-three vehicles in an hour, mostly trucks and locals. Zoning is mixed-use but the infrastructure doesn't support retail density. No sewer expansion plans on file with the county, which I checked at the municipal building this morning. No pending highway projects that would change access.
This location makes no sense for mixed-use retail. Langford has to know that.
So why does he want it?
I drive back to the bar in the early afternoon. The parking lot has four motorcycles and an Audi that's nicer than anythingelse in a two-mile radius. The garage bays are open today — the mechanic from yesterday is under a bike, and there's a pickup truck waiting on the lift in the next bay. I assume the truck isn't one of theirs. So they do take outside work. I revise my mental note from yesterday: not purely a clubhouse. There's a real business here, just a quiet one. The kind that runs on reputation and word of mouth in a place where everybody knows everybody.
I park, grab my laptop bag, and walk in.
It's brighter than yesterday. Someone's opened the windows. The pastry guy is behind the counter with a tray of something that smells like brown sugar and butter. The one with the books from yesterday is perched on a stool beside him, eating one with his eyes closed in apparent ecstasy. They're joined at the hip, these two — the human and the pastry guy, some kind of unit I haven't figured out yet.
"He came back," the pastry guy says. Not to me. To the room.
"Afternoon," I say. "IPA, please. And the nachos."
The pastry guy pours the IPA without comment. Doesn't offer food from his tray. Still no other customers. Two PM on a Wednesday in a bar with good food and decent beer, and it's just me and them. Either this place survives on something other than bar and garage revenue, or they're all independently wealthy. Given the garage and the five acres, I'm betting on the former.
The book guy watches this exchange with an expression I can't quite parse. Amused, maybe, but weighing something behind it.
"I'm Toby," the book guy says. "We didn't really meet yesterday."
"Nicholas. Nico's fine."
"Nico." He says it like he's trying it on. "You always work from bars?"
"When I'm on the road. Offices are depressing and hotel lobbies are worse."
"Fair." He tilts his head. "So you're just going to sit here? Even though Knox said no?"
"I'm finishing my assessment. Different thing."
"Assessing what? Whether we'll change our minds?"
"Whether your property makes commercial sense for my company. So far, it doesn't." I pick up my IPA. "Which is a different kind of problem."
