The Rented Mule (9 page)

“Look, I’m feelin’ generous today ’cause the market’s about to set a new record high and I’m gettin’ out, so here’s what I’m gonna do: I’m gonna give you some more time…
but you gotta throw me a bone… something serious… to prove to me that I should have this kinda faith in you. I got folks in my organization that wanna hurt you… or somebody you love… to make it as clear as moonshine to you the seriousness of your situation—to get your attention. But I… because I like you, I’ve kept ’em distracted. So I need a real good reason not to break—”

Gates was about to hyperventilate. He was shaking and beginning to sweat through his shirt.

“I own a lake cabin… on Lake Martin… it’s worth maybe four-hundred grand… I’ll bring you the title. I can execute a quit claim deed,” Gates blurted.

The cabin was actually worth about $300,000, but Gates didn’t think Mitchell would have it appraised anytime soon, and it would gain him some ground on the debt.

“I like that. I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers. That’s good, Gates. That’s just what’s needed to keep you undamaged… for a while anyway.”

“I can get the deed tomorrow.”

“Do it and call me. This’ll buy you thirty days. Not thirty-one. You hear me?”

Gates stood up to leave. “Yes. Thank you. Thank you, Mitchell.”

“Sit!” Mitchell yelled.

Gates did.

“Now, I don’t wanna hear about you bettin’ with anybody else… you hear?”

“No, I won’t. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Yeah well… we’ll see about that. One other thing, I’m workin’ on a solution for you to get
all
the proceeds from the sale of your business.”

“How would that work?” Gates said, growing numb.

“Don’t you worry none ’bout that. Let’s just say, I have a man who knows how to get things done. He’s…
very creative
.”

Gates wanted to run. Every fiber of his being was telling him to get the hell out of there as fast as possible. He began to stand, “I’ll call you about the—”

“Sit your ass back down! Let me be clear. You’ll wish you were dead if you don’t pay in full. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. Thanks. Can I go?” Gates stood, extending his hand to shake. Mitchell ignored him and turned around to one of his computer screens.

Gates quickly walked out, past the Muscle standing inside, next to the open office door.

Gates didn’t look at any of the bar patrons as he hurried out into the bright sunshine of the parking lot, squinting his eyes. He felt a lurch in his stomach. Before he had time to react, he threw up on the gravel parking lot. Wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve, Gates tried to breathe deep. He looked around to see if anyone was watching.

The investigator across the road sitting in the white surveillance van, painted to look like a telephone company repair vehicle, clicked off a sequence of photographs as the video cameras rolled. He recognized the guy puking in the parking lot.

The other special agent, wearing headphones and making notes, looked over with a sly grin and asked, “Isn’t that our buddy, Old Money?”

“Yep.”

As Gates approached his car, he clicked the unlock button on his key fob. The BMW’s alarm chirped. He climbed in, shut the door, started the engine, and then cranked the AC. Exhausted, he leaned his forehead against the steering wheel.

F
rom birth, Don Daniels was immersed in the ethos of the financial world. It was formalized in college and put into practice upon graduation, with his first job packaging mortgages for a firm in Atlanta. Eight years later, he went to work for his father in the family’s title company. A few short years after that, Don began working directly for his father at their bank. When his father died under suspicious circumstances two years later, Don took control of all the family’s businesses.

Over the course of the last several years, Don had been left standing at the altar of two mergers—one with a large regional bank and the other a giant Wall Street financial institution. He had wanted both badly. There was something never disclosed to him that made both acquisition teams drop out during their due diligence.

At this stage in his career, Don had hoped to have enough money to burn a wet cow. But things hadn’t panned out. The banking business wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t making him as rich as he wanted. Since his wife died, he had become a bigger
risk taker—looking for creative ways to diversify and grow the stale bank. He wanted a way to go out on top. Acquiring the Tower Agency was one small step. Buying it made sense for a variety of reasons. He loved the steady, apparently reliable cash flow, and he had someone in mind to run it. Don had other, much grander, irons in the fire as well.

Don Daniels was sitting in his downtown Montgomery office thinking about Gates. He suspected drug abuse. He knew that Gates had been born into the lucky sperm club and that Gates did not have the strength of character to handle the responsibilities and opportunities afforded by old money. Don didn’t want anything to do with Gates after the acquisition.

Don’s thoughts drifted to Cooper. He wanted to keep Cooper, since he managed the day-to-day business. The rub was that sellers typically lose their strong connection to their business after they sell, and it was impossible to gauge their future commitment to its success. It was not a matter of if, but when—they all lose their fire.

I can own Cooper if I loan him the money for the property he wants so badly. Hell, in this shitty economy no other bank’s gonna mortgage unimproved land for recreational purposes. If I do it, then I’ll have even more options.

T
he sun was about to set when Jenny decided that she had seen enough horse farms for one day and turned around to drive past the Target’s house again.

With her digital camera, she had taken a dozen or so photographs of barns, gates, and riding arenas she thought exceptional. She kept a comprehensive folder filled with photos of and magazine articles about the same, hoping that one day she could incorporate the best of what she liked into her own stable. Very few days passed without her either adding something to the folder or daydreaming about her findings.

It was dusk as she approached the entrance to Wynlakes. She noticed that the security station was staffed with a guard she didn’t recognize. Calling him a “guard” would be affording him way more status than deserved. This guy was intently listening to a talk radio show, paying little attention to his surroundings. When Jenny slowed to a stop, the old man grudgingly strolled out. When he saw the attractive driver, he perked up.

“Evenin’, darlin’. Can I help you?” The old man politely asked with a smile, bending down to her open window.

For the second time, Jenny was going to pour on the charm for one of the development’s rent-a-cops.

“Why yes, I know this is going to sound crazy but I… I’m just so embarrassed… ya see, I’m new in town, and everybody talks about Wynlakes and how nice it is, and I was hopin’ I could just drive through and see some of the beautiful houses,” she explained as she batted her eyes.

The guard said, “I ain’t supposed to let joy riders in. But I’ll tell you what: I’ll make an exception…” as he looked around to make sure no one was watching, “just for you. And be sure you go by the clubhouse. It’s
real
nice.”

Jenny slowly brushed her hair behind her left ear and said, “Thank you. Thank you so much. You’re soooooo sweet,” as she drove off with a little wave. Checking her rearview, she noticed that the guard didn’t even attempt to look at her car tag.
Thank goodness these guards are all guys.

As she slowly drove through the neighborhood, she wondered what type of careers these people had in order to afford such nice homes and multiple expensive vehicles.

Turning onto the Target’s street, she paid particular attention to the surroundings. The huge door to the garage was up, and she could clearly see a camouflaged golf cart parked very close to the far wall and a red Volvo almost in the center. In the driveway was a dusty, green pickup truck that would have been out of place in any similar neighborhood outside of the South. Lights were on all over the house and through the glass front doors Jenny could see the flickering of a television.

She wrote down the name on a mailbox three houses away from the Target’s in case another guard ever challenged
her about why she was there. She dialed Clarence’s cell number as she pulled out of Wynlakes and onto Vaughn Road.

“Yo, baby,” he answered, obviously in a good mood.

“You got a minute?” she asked politely.

“Sure. What’s goin’ on?”

“I found the house, and I’ve studied most everything on my list. I still haven’t actually seen our
friend
though. But I will tomorrow,” Jenny promised, stressing the word “friend” so that Clarence would know she was being careful not to divulge specifics on an unsecured telephone.

“Thoughts?” Clarence asked.

“Nice house,
very
nice neighborhood, but we’re gonna have to do this somewhere else.”

“Too many eyes?” he asked, seeming to know the setup.

“Way too many. When y’all comin’ up?”

“Maybe day after tomorrow, Thursday at the outside. I’ll let ya know in plenty of time. When I get there, we need to go over your notes before I check out where we’re gonna be…
keepin’ the merchandise
. That’ll give us a few days for…
J. R.
to work his electronic magic.”

“Sounds great. Just let me know, and I’ll reserve y’all a room.”

“Be sure you get two beds,” Clarence responded.

“Ahh… I thought you and
J. R.
were tight?”

“Not that tight.”

Jenny laughed. “Okay, I understand. When are you thinkin’ we’ll do this?”

“Don’t know yet. I fo show don’t wanna rush it. Once all three of us agree that we’re buttoned up, we’ll get this party started.”

“Cool. Just let me know if there’s anything else you need me to do.”

“Thanks, girl.”

“Ciao.”

Jenny folded shut the phone and turned on the car’s CD player. Sara Evans began singing “New Hometown.” Jenny joined in as she thought about her future horse farm and her evening plans—a quick swim in the pool, check e-mails, and then pile into bed for a mini-marathon of
House Hunters International
.

1
^ST
TUESDAY

C
ooper arrived at the office at his usual time, carrying a
USA Today
and a Styrofoam to-go box containing his daily dose of cholesterol—cheese grits and smoked sausage.

The previous night had been extremely stressful with Kelly’s unrelenting demands relative to getting the house ready for the tea, the kids acting out, and then the remote for the television in the den was missing. He had turned the house upside down unsuccessfully looking for it. Cooper couldn’t easily change channels, but he wasn’t about to ask Kelly for help nor was he going to watch TV in their bedroom where she was camped out planning her big event. Piper went to a friend’s house to study, and Ben was helpless with electronics, although he could hook up the Wii. Cooper finally fell asleep after watching a hunting show about the virtues of food plots.

Leaning back in his office desk chair, he planned the rest of the week—MidState Bank, conference calls, growing piles of paperwork, and a host of client meetings loomed. There
wasn’t much time for anything else. After a while, Cooper’s mind drifted to his marriage. He was miserable and didn’t know how much more he could stomach.
I guess I still love her… but I’ve definitely lost that being in love feelin’.

Kelly was a good mother to their two great kids, but along the way Cooper and Kelly had grown apart. His unrelenting focus on his career had taken a severe toll on their relationship, and Kelly, for inexplicable reasons, decided her life’s role was to climb the societal ladder while ignoring their marriage.

Cooper never considered his options until he started thinking and dreaming about Brooke.
I can’t think about this shit right now
, he thought as he switched on his computer.

Cooper Dixon had a great number of skills, but operating a computer wasn’t one of them. He barely knew the basics, having never taken a class nor having any instruction. Only in the last year or so had personal computers started making a bit more sense to him. The tipping point was when he was told to think of the computer as a big filing cabinet and its desktop as the physical top of his desk, with different files lying on it. Just open a file, work on what’s inside, close it; pick up another, do the same thing or move something out of that one and put it in another or make copies and put copies where they need to go; put one file inside another, and so forth and so on. Simple, really.

He leaned forward, clicked on the Internet icon for the Weather Channel to check the central Alabama weekend forecast. No rain, just lots and lots of heat. September, besides being statistically the worst month for the stock market, is the driest month in the Deep South. He smiled at that correlation.

Systematically, he navigated his way to his e-mail icon and opened his in-box. Scanning halfway down, he saw an
e-mail from Brooke. His heart skipped a beat. “Hi” was the subject line. The text simply read, “Good morning. How you doing today? Busy?”

Cooper clicked Respond and typed, “I’m fine. Thanks for asking. How are you?” and hit Send.

Leaning back, he waited, wondering if she was at her computer at that very moment. He felt young again, his body stirring.

After only a few moments, Cooper saw her e-mail arrive and anxiously opened it. “I’m good. Lunch?”

Cooper smiled and typed. “Sure. Where?”

“Whatever works for you.”

Having never strayed, even mentally, Cooper had to carefully consider where to meet. The more upscale places presented potential problems with one of Kelly’s friends seeing him—it would get back to her that he was dining with a beautiful woman, and he didn’t need that.

“The Farmers Market Cafe at one?” Cooper smiled as he typed. “They have a great blue-collar lunch and the best fried-green tomatoes.” He hit Send and thought,
Although it’s usually full of political movers and shakers, it sure ain’t on Kelly’s list of places to eat. It’s as safe as it gets
.