The Bourbon Kings
Page 35
Shelby Landis hit the stairs at the kind of clip he had once enjoyed but had failed to appreciate, and it felt like it took a hundred thousand years to join her on the upper floor.
And by then, he was out of breath to such a degree he was wheezing like a stuck tire.
Turning away from her, he found that there was no light shining under Moe’s door, but he wouldn’t have bothered the man with any kind of introduction anyway. With the Derby running in less than forty-eight hours, the man, assuming he was home, would be passed out.
Especially considering one of their two horses might have to be scratched from the race.
As Edward went across and tried the doorknob to the other flat, he didn’t know what he was going to do if it was locked. He had no clue where keys might be—
The door opened wide, reminding him that he was in the minority of paranoids out here on the farm. The light switch was to the left on the wall, and as he clicked it on, he was relieved that the place didn’t smell too musty and that there was, in fact, a couch, a chair, a table, and a tiny kitchen that made the galley one he had look industrial by comparison.
“Did your father ever tell you why I owe him?” he said as he limped over to a darkened doorway.
“No, but Jeb wasn’t a talker.”
Flipping a second switch, he found that, yup, there was a bedroom and bath, too.
“This is what you’ve got,” he said, pivoting around and becoming exhausted as he measured the distance back to the door.
Fifteen feet.
It might as well have been miles.
She walked over to him. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
She put out her hand and met his eye—and for a moment, he felt an emotion other than the worm of anger that had been churning and burning in his gut for the last two years. He wasn’t sure how to define it—the sad thing was, though, he wasn’t sure he welcomed the shift.
There was a certain clarity to having such a unilaterally hostile operating principle.
He left that palm hanging in the breeze as he dragged his body over to the exit. “We’ll see if you thank me later.”
Abruptly, he thought of the whole don’t-cuss, no-alcohol thing. “Oh, one more rule. If my drapes are drawn, don’t bother me.”
The last thing he needed was for her to find out he cavorted with loose women. And paid them for the privilege. He could just imagine that conversation.
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded and shut the door. Then slowly, carefully, executed his descent.
The truth was, Jeb Landis had been the one to turn him around, such as he was. Without that man’s swift kick in the ass, heaven only knew whether Edward would still be on the planet. God, he could remember with such clarity the trainer coming to see him in that rehab hospital. In spite of Edward’s no-visitors, no-exceptions rule, Jeb had gotten past the nursing station and marched into his room.
They had known each other for well over a decade before that intrusion, Edward’s interest in, and ownership of, racing horses, coupled with his previous commitment to being the best at everything, meaning that there was only one man he wanted training his stock.
He would never have predicted the guy to be some kind of savior for him, however.
Jeb’s come to Jesus had been short and to the point, but it had gotten through, to the extent it had, better than all the cajoling and handholding had. And then a year after Edward had moved in here, thrown out his business suits, and decided this would be his life, Jeb had told him he was leaving the Red & Black and going to California.
Probably because the bookies up in Chicago wanted a piece of the guy.
In all those years, before and after the kidnapping, the subject of Jeb having any offspring had never come up. But, yes, of course, he would take the man’s daughter in.
And fortunately, she looked like she could take care of herself.
So the repayment of the debt was going to come cheap.
At least, that was what he told himself that first night.
Turned out that wasn’t true, however … not by a long, long shot.
TWELVE
“It cost me a hundred thousand dollars to sit next to you.”
As Gin used an antique Tiffany fork in the Chrysanthemum pattern to toy with her food, she barely heard the words spoken into her right ear. She was too busy focusing through the crystal stemware on the bouquet in front her. Samuel T. was off to the left, and with this rose-centric focal point, her peripheral vision could keep tragic track of him and his little girlfriend, Veronica/Savannah.
“So you can at least speak to me.”
Shaking herself, she glanced over at the dreaded Richard Pford IV. The man was as his boyhood self had been: tall and thin, with eyes that could cut glass and a suspicious nature that was in contrast to his enviable position in the Charlemont social hierarchy. The son of Richard Pford III, he was the sole heir to Pford Liquor and Spirits Distributors, a nationwide network that funneled wine, beer, bourbon, gin, vodka, champagne, whiskey, etc., onto the shelves of bars and stores across America.
Which was to say, he could well afford to pay six figures for a specific seating assignment every night of the week and twice on Sunday.
He was swimming in millions—and people hadn’t even started to die in his family yet.
“My father’s deals are not my own,” she countered. “So it looks like you’ve wasted that money.”
He took a sip from his wineglass. “And to think it went to the U of C basketball program.”
“I didn’t know you’re a fan.”
And by then, he was out of breath to such a degree he was wheezing like a stuck tire.
Turning away from her, he found that there was no light shining under Moe’s door, but he wouldn’t have bothered the man with any kind of introduction anyway. With the Derby running in less than forty-eight hours, the man, assuming he was home, would be passed out.
Especially considering one of their two horses might have to be scratched from the race.
As Edward went across and tried the doorknob to the other flat, he didn’t know what he was going to do if it was locked. He had no clue where keys might be—
The door opened wide, reminding him that he was in the minority of paranoids out here on the farm. The light switch was to the left on the wall, and as he clicked it on, he was relieved that the place didn’t smell too musty and that there was, in fact, a couch, a chair, a table, and a tiny kitchen that made the galley one he had look industrial by comparison.
“Did your father ever tell you why I owe him?” he said as he limped over to a darkened doorway.
“No, but Jeb wasn’t a talker.”
Flipping a second switch, he found that, yup, there was a bedroom and bath, too.
“This is what you’ve got,” he said, pivoting around and becoming exhausted as he measured the distance back to the door.
Fifteen feet.
It might as well have been miles.
She walked over to him. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
She put out her hand and met his eye—and for a moment, he felt an emotion other than the worm of anger that had been churning and burning in his gut for the last two years. He wasn’t sure how to define it—the sad thing was, though, he wasn’t sure he welcomed the shift.
There was a certain clarity to having such a unilaterally hostile operating principle.
He left that palm hanging in the breeze as he dragged his body over to the exit. “We’ll see if you thank me later.”
Abruptly, he thought of the whole don’t-cuss, no-alcohol thing. “Oh, one more rule. If my drapes are drawn, don’t bother me.”
The last thing he needed was for her to find out he cavorted with loose women. And paid them for the privilege. He could just imagine that conversation.
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded and shut the door. Then slowly, carefully, executed his descent.
The truth was, Jeb Landis had been the one to turn him around, such as he was. Without that man’s swift kick in the ass, heaven only knew whether Edward would still be on the planet. God, he could remember with such clarity the trainer coming to see him in that rehab hospital. In spite of Edward’s no-visitors, no-exceptions rule, Jeb had gotten past the nursing station and marched into his room.
They had known each other for well over a decade before that intrusion, Edward’s interest in, and ownership of, racing horses, coupled with his previous commitment to being the best at everything, meaning that there was only one man he wanted training his stock.
He would never have predicted the guy to be some kind of savior for him, however.
Jeb’s come to Jesus had been short and to the point, but it had gotten through, to the extent it had, better than all the cajoling and handholding had. And then a year after Edward had moved in here, thrown out his business suits, and decided this would be his life, Jeb had told him he was leaving the Red & Black and going to California.
Probably because the bookies up in Chicago wanted a piece of the guy.
In all those years, before and after the kidnapping, the subject of Jeb having any offspring had never come up. But, yes, of course, he would take the man’s daughter in.
And fortunately, she looked like she could take care of herself.
So the repayment of the debt was going to come cheap.
At least, that was what he told himself that first night.
Turned out that wasn’t true, however … not by a long, long shot.
TWELVE
“It cost me a hundred thousand dollars to sit next to you.”
As Gin used an antique Tiffany fork in the Chrysanthemum pattern to toy with her food, she barely heard the words spoken into her right ear. She was too busy focusing through the crystal stemware on the bouquet in front her. Samuel T. was off to the left, and with this rose-centric focal point, her peripheral vision could keep tragic track of him and his little girlfriend, Veronica/Savannah.
“So you can at least speak to me.”
Shaking herself, she glanced over at the dreaded Richard Pford IV. The man was as his boyhood self had been: tall and thin, with eyes that could cut glass and a suspicious nature that was in contrast to his enviable position in the Charlemont social hierarchy. The son of Richard Pford III, he was the sole heir to Pford Liquor and Spirits Distributors, a nationwide network that funneled wine, beer, bourbon, gin, vodka, champagne, whiskey, etc., onto the shelves of bars and stores across America.
Which was to say, he could well afford to pay six figures for a specific seating assignment every night of the week and twice on Sunday.
He was swimming in millions—and people hadn’t even started to die in his family yet.
“My father’s deals are not my own,” she countered. “So it looks like you’ve wasted that money.”
He took a sip from his wineglass. “And to think it went to the U of C basketball program.”
“I didn’t know you’re a fan.”
