Isaac pulled a chair out and sat down. “What are you drinking?”
“A gin rickey.”
He hailed the waiter, pointed to Vic’s drink, and thrust two fingers in the air.
Vic launched into a long-winded story about a crackdown on liquor licenses, but Isaac had no patience for it; he had kept him in suspense for long enough. At the first pause in conversation, after their drinks had arrived, Isaac interrupted him. “So you’ve had some time to think?”
Vic cleared his throat, sat up straighter. “I’ve talked to some of my guys. No one thinks Florida is coming back.”
“It’s been eight years.”
“Yeah, and the prices have remained flat.”
“Which means they’re ripe for a rebound.”
“Maybe,” said Vic. “Or maybe all of those nice parcels of cleared land are going to slowly sink into the swamp.”
Isaac cringed, thinking about Orange Grove Estates and the plots he and Jim had sold for Blackwell—not a single one of them cleared. He imagined the knotweed and saw grass eventually wrapping its way around the tennis court, until the netting all but disappeared.
“This guy, Jim, who’s arranging the purchase, he knows Florida. Has worked in the business for fifteen years now, first in sales but now as an appraiser. If he says this property’s undervalued, then mark my words—it’s a good buy.”
“If you say so. But the way I see it, there’s plenty to invest in, right here in Atlantic City.”
Isaac drained his glass, willing the meeting to be over. “In AtlanticCity, thirty dollars won’t buy you a big enough lot to put a shack on. You buy forty or fifty acres in Florida, that’s a lot of land.”
“Yeah, but Atlantic City isn’t going anywhere.”
Isaac signaled for the check.
When Jim had offered Isaac this deal, he had known Florida wouldn’t be an easy sell. Not like it was in ’23 or ’24. Plenty of people had lost money on land deals in Florida, and those who hadn’t had lost their shirts when the stock market crashed three years later. The country was still recovering, and Atlantic City, for all its playful pretense, wasn’t any different. Vic had been a good prospect, partly because Isaac knew that neither the Florida boom nor the crash of ’29 had touched him. At that time, all Vic’s money had been tied up in bootleg liquor.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” said Isaac.
“Maybe.” Vic didn’t look convinced.
“If you change your mind, you’ll need to act fast. I’m talking to several interested parties right now but held off on taking anyone else’s money until I knew what you were doing.” This was, of course, a lie. Isaac had talked to everyone he knew, and only a handful of them could be termedinterested. Three other people, besides his father, had put up money, and Isaac wouldn’t have dreamed of telling any one of them to wait on Vic Barnes.
Isaac had less than three weeks to get the rest of the money together. If the binder expired before he could close on the property, he’d lose his deposit, and there would be little, if anything, Jim could do to help him. It was one thing to lose his own savings but he’d put his father’s money toward the deposit, too. The idea of watching the money from that Campfire Marshmallows can disappear made Isaac’s stomach roil.
Vic stood to go, gestured toward their glasses—Isaac’s empty, Vic’s second glass untouched. “You’ve got these?”
Isaac nodded, begrudgingly, as Vic patted him on the shoulder. “See you around,” Vic said.
Isaac watched Vic walk out of the bar and across The Covington’s lobby. He reached for his wallet, paid the bill, then decided there was no reason to let Vic’s drink get poured out, so he picked up the glass,sweaty in his hand, and took several large sips. Condensation spilled onto the table in big, fat drops.
As Isaac held the glass up to his mouth, he saw a familiar-looking girl cross the lobby. Anna? Her hair was wet and hung down her back—he’d never seen it like that—but it had to be her. He watched her walk toward the bank of doors that led out to the Boardwalk. She was with a man, but Isaac couldn’t make out who he was. From the back, he almost looked like Stuart. Esther would be fit to be tied.
Isaac drained the glass, put it down on the table, and hurried to catch up with the pair. Why hadn’t he thought about Stuart before? The ne’er-do-well son of one of Atlantic City’s richest hoteliers would be the perfect investor. All the money in the world and no practical experience doing anything besides sitting on a beach. Stuart was holding a door for Anna when Isaac called to them both from the far side of the lobby.
Anna stopped, turned. Stuart studied the lobby’s expanse, looking for the source of the sound. When they saw that it was him, Anna looked discomfited but Stuart seemed relieved.
“Isaac, good to see you,” said Stuart, extending his hand. Isaac shook it, then ushered them both through the door and out into the night air of the Boardwalk.
“Been swimming?” Isaac asked Anna, with a nod toward her wet head. What he really wondered was whether they’d just come from a hotel room.
Anna didn’t answer him, so Stuart did. “I’ve been teaching her the basics.” He grinned at her, then added, “She’s a quick study.”
“That’s great,” said Isaac, trying hard to come off sounding like an affectionate older brother, a difficult feat considering he had barely spoken to Anna in the four months she’d been living with his in-laws. When Isaac went over for dinner, Esther was always there, ready and able to carry the conversation.
