“Besides property development, of course,” I interject.
“Art—” Felix catches himself. “—chitecture. Artchitecture,” he repeats, adding the “t” again, like that’s his unique pronunciation.I’m a guy who likes a nice hard consonant. Nothing to see here.
At least he didn’t mention musicals.
“That can be useful. As long as you don’t get too up in your head about these things. It’s a business first. You have to operate in the real world.” Mr. Odell pauses in case we want to write that down. I pretend to make a note on my phone.
“You’ve been doing some fascinating projects around here,” Felix says, throwing in a little flattery with the segue.
“A few,” Mr. Odell agrees. “But I don’t turn my nose up at a run-of-the-mill job. Work isn’t supposed to be entertaining. A lot of kids today think life is all about fun and personal fulfillment. Good luck building a career on that.”
I wonder if he’s including Bradley in that assessment.
“What would you say your greatest challenge has been, as a developer?” I put in, before he can expound on the problems with my generation. “Are there ever times when people are not on board with a project? Or maybe you have trouble securing the piece of land you want?”
“Are you talking about quote-unquote environmentalists?”He shoots Felix a look I interpret asTell me you didn’t bring a tree-hugger in here with you.
“I was thinking more like those stories you see on the news about the one homeowner who doesn’t want to sell their farm, holding up a railroad or something.”
Mr. Odell leans forward, elbows on his desk. “That’s where salesmanship comes in. You have to make your vision too compelling to ignore.” He pauses, putting on his tough guy voice. “And if that fails, you find a different lever. Either sweeten the pot or turn up the heat.”
I steal a glance at Felix, in case he has a better grasp of this cooking metaphor, but he’s focused on Bradley’s dad.
“And… Bradley worked with you on some of these projects?” I hint, after what feels like a long enough silence to seem impressed.
“I’ve been showing him the ropes since he was a kid. That was how we first bonded, you know. When I married his mama.”
“Over business?” To Felix’s credit, he makes it sound like a reasonable stepfather-son activity. Who needs baseball?
Mr. Odell settles back in his chair, resting his hands on his stomach. “I wanted to get him a dog, but he had all those allergies. So I started taking him on job sites with me.”
“He liked that?” Felix guesses.
From the set of his jaw, I expect Mr. Odell to fudge the truth, but his answer is matter-of-fact. “He liked wearing the hard hat. And going out to lunch.”
I’m no business expert, but it doesn’t sound like a job description. Maybe in management.
“He was a handsome kid,” Mr. Odell allows, like that makes up for Bradley’s shortcomings in other areas. “Talked aboutgoing into TV for a while there. I told him he could be the face of Odell Property Development instead. Personable, like his mama. Maybe too friendly at times.”
Luckily my face is already frozen in a mask of wide-eyed fascination, because Bradley’s dad shoots me a considering look.
“He was more on the marketing side?” Felix translates, drawing Mr. Odell’s attention to him. “Public relations?”
“Until recently. That’s the tragedy of it.” He picks up a neon-green golf ball from a wooden dish, rolling it between his hands. “If Bradley had buckled down sooner, he could have left a permanent legacy behind.” From a desk drawer he removes a manila file folder. The sticker on the tab readsBRAD’S PAD.
“This was something he cooked up this last month.” He slides a crumpled sheet of paper across the desk. I start to reach for it when he adds, “He had this copy in his pocket, when they… found him.”
I snatch my hand back. What the hell? That thing is covered in death cooties. Mr. Odell doesn’t appear to notice my reaction. He’s too busy studying what I recognize as a drawing of Castle Claude. Unlike the blueprint we found in the Queen B’s apartment, this one shows the familiar outline of the current building, turrets and all. There’s a note printed in careful block letters above an arrow pointing at the wall:
PAINT OUTSIDE GRAY OR BLACK (NOT PINK).
Was he a secret goth?That’s my first thought, before I take in the other details.
GAME ROOM
WEIGHT ROOM 1
WEIGHT ROOM 2
