The Downtown Deal Read Online Free Page A

shop may have been modernized somewhat over the years, but many of the
people who work there are thirty- and forty-year veterans, overflowing with
tales of mobsters, movie stars, and magical Vegas moments.
    Evenly-set
teeth gleamed white against cocoa-colored skin. She didn’t wait for an answer,
as she said, “You don’t need a menu, do you, honey?”
    “Actually,
Shirley, I’m meeting someone today."
    I
looked past her into the crowded room. Most of the booths and tables were
occupied, while waitresses scurried around, taking orders and carrying wide,
round trays filled with meals and drinks.
    Then
in a booth along the wall to the left, I saw him nursing a cup of coffee.
    Shirley
motioned me in. I stepped carefully around a busboy, as he refilled coffee cups
and water glasses for a roisterous party of eight at a large nearby table.
    Eventually,
I arrived at the booth, where I took a seat opposite John Brendan Blake.
    He
stood as I approached. We greeted each other around a handshake, while a trace
of a smile briefly dashed across his tanned face. His bluish-green eyes came
alive, as though he were suddenly awakening from a daydream. As usual, he was
decked in expensive clothing, wearing a close-fitting, single-breasted designer
suit, midnight blue, with a cream-colored shirt and a garish orange tie that
clashed with everything, nearly ruining the whole look. A silk handkerchief of
muted grays and yellows peeked out of his breast pocket.  
    I put
him in his early forties, but he had an energetic presence, cutting the figure
of a young entrepreneur. That was understandable, since he built the Blake
Enterprises behemoth out of nothing more than the fine silken threads of his
imagination and dreams. That kind of effort takes a dedication and an energy
which I definitely do not possess.
    But, I
have to say, even though I'm not wild about him personally, it's guys like
Blake who built this city, and every city, for that matter. At a great price to
themselves, I might add. They eventually wind up with wrecked marriages, plenty
of enemies, and no life at all.
    So
much money, and so little time to enjoy it.
    Right
away, the waitress descended upon us. Her dark brown hair was twisted back up
into a bun, while her lined face and worn name tag told of many years at this
old property, as well as many stories in her memory. She fit right in at the
coffee shop, though, smiling as she brushed a dangling, tired shock of hair
from her eyes, then positioned her pen to take our order.
    I
wanted a club sandwich and a beer, Blake ordered an Asian salad. He asked if
they had San Pellegrino. They didn't. He was not pleased. Reluctantly, he
settled for iced tea.
    Finally,
he said, “How's it going, Jack. Learn anything out at the house?”
    "Maybe.
First of all, do you have the photograph?"
    He
nodded, then reached into his breast pocket, behind his silk handkerchief,
sliding out a color photo. It was a three-by-five shot, professionally taken.
    "It
was the shot she used for her website and her business cards," he said.
    "She
had a website? Of her own?"
    "It
wasn't her website, actually. She was a realtor. Worked for Silverstone
Towers. The photo appeared on their website."
    "What's
Silverstone Towers?"
    "One
of those big new high-rise condo buildings going up. Well, it's not really
going up just yet, but it's been announced. They're selling the shit out of
them just from the plans. Mostly out-of-towners, speculators, that kind of
thing."
    "Do
you have anything at all to do with its development?" I asked.
    "No."
    I
looked at her photo closely. Hair the color of dirty straw clung close to her
face, shaping it into a near-work of art. Spirited eyes and a captivating smile
told you this is someone you wanted to get to know. Her lips were medium-full,
a muted shade of red, and looked entirely kissable. I slipped the picture into
my shirt pocket.
    I
said, "Like I told you, I was at the house this morning. Are you familiar
with the Farrow