Fiction
Two Before The Wedding Part 4
A Sunny Alexander-Johnson And Henry James Series
My name is Sunny Alexander-Johnson, and I’m Henry James, and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.
Like watching a pot of water that never seems to boil, we kept staring at the clock hanging on the wall of the bullpen, waiting for a call from Donnie and Rebecca.
It seemed as if time was rushing by, which didn’t help the sensations of urgency tugging at our nerves, and it seemed as if it was taking the cyber twins an uncomfortably long amount of time to get back to us.
As paradoxical as our current situation was, the fact we were both as nervous as a long-tailed cat trapped in a room full of rocking chairs wasn’t helping the situation.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to give them a call, Henry. Surely they’ve found something by now.”
“Put the phone down, princess. They’ll call us when they do.”
“Listen, old man…”
“I said, put the phone down Shaundrika. Us calling them every five minutes is only going to slow them down.”
“Oh, but it’s okay you called them twenty minutes ago?”
“Look. It’s eleven-thirty. Why don’t we get out of here and have us an early lunch? You pick the place. Sitting here, waiting for the information is going to drive us bat-shit crazy.”
“I hate to admit it, but you’re right. I’m about ready to jump out of my skin. Let me go to the ladies’ room; then we can go.”
“Uh, Johnson?”
“What?”
“You wanna leave your cell phone? I’m guessing you won’t need that to pee, will you?”
“Dammit, Henry. Why in the hell would you even think I’d be making a call from the bathroom?”
“Because I’d probably do the same thing. Come on, woman, give it up.”
“What the hell ever, old man.”
The call came just as we were getting ready to head to the elevators.
“This is Henry. Hey Donnie, let me put you on speaker. Okay, whatcha got?”
“You guy’s hunches were spot on Henry. Has either of you heard of Brentwood?”
We looked at each other, shrugged, and then concentrated on the phone.
“No, should we have?”
“Probably not Sunny. Brentwood is a stretch of acreage split by the Colorado River. It’s almost a thousand acres of partially developed land between Mount Bonnell and Emma Long Metropolitan Park.”
“Uh, okay. And?”
“Well, the information this dude gave you and both of your hunches were correct. Although we can’t see the bids, we did discover two companies that recently filed zoning requests.”
“How recent?”
“One last week and the other yesterday, Henry.”
“Let me guess. One is for commercial the other for residential.”
“Exactly.”
“You have the names of these companies?”
“Just texted them to you guys Sunny. Oh, and while I was working this angle, Becca was able to source the destination of that email.”
“It was sent from a coffee shop on Lake Austin Blvd, just north of Westfield and the municipal golf course.”
“Excellent, Becca. Text us that address too.”
“Already have.”
“We can’t thank you two enough for all your help.”
“After what you and Henry have done for us, Sunny, trust us, the pleasure is all ours. Be careful out there, and let us know if you need something else.”
After punching the speaker button and disconnecting the call, we both started inspecting the text messages Donnie and Becca sent us.
“Okay, which one first?”
“Let’s go with Bartley Manufacturing Inc. It’s a safe bet that’s the commercial bidder.”
“Perfect, let’s do this.”
“You not hungry?”
“Not really, Henry. We’re running out of time here. But I do have to use the bathroom. Give me a couple of minutes. I can take my phone with me this time, right?”
“Smartass. Yeah, on second thought, you probably need to take it. That way, you can call for help when you realize you’re too heavy to get off the pot.”
“Bite me, Henry.”
We’ve often found in our line of work that sometimes the fastest way to get in front of a puzzle wasn’t to call and try to set an appointment with it.
Of course, we’ve been escorted from premises by security officers who probably played professional football as a hobby, but our statistics were in the high nineties on the plus side.
Bartley Manufacturing Inc. was a sprawling compound of glass covered stainless erections presenting a modernistic appeal. On the way over, we’d tried to do a little research.
Howard Bartley, the CEO, and the owner had, pardon our expression, built Bartley Manufacturing from the ground up. Fifty years of manufacturing highrise wonders here in the states and all over the world had firmly cemented this man and his company on the top of the heap.
We entered the lobby, which resembled the appearance of a chic hotel. Charcol tiles gleamed image sharp reflections of the people traipsing along. The receptionist desk, centered in the enormous expanse of flooring, was a large circular affair of teak and glass and stainless.
Three ladies with headsets were masterfully handling the constant assaults of people approaching them, along with dozens of phone calls coming in.
“Wow.”
“Wow is right, Henry. Look at this place. Where are you going?”
“Elevators.”
“Don’t you want to check in and see if Bartley’s even here?”
“Let’s find out ourselves. I’m willing to bet the top floor is where we’ll find him. Start figuring out a way we can get past his secretary.”
The elevator we chose was packed with suits and women in their business slacks and jackets peering down their noses at us as though we were a couple of street urchins. After several minutes, we were the only two in the car and still heading up.
“We’re just going to barge in on him?”
“Ain’t that how we always play it?”
“Yeah, Mr. Finesse, that’s how we always play it.”
When the elevator doors slid open, we stepped into a lobby that looked like it could double as a glitzy cocktail lounge. We stared at the four couches strategically and fashionably arranged around the room. Each sofa possessed it’s own coffee table of brass and teak and bracketed by matching teak end tables, each equipped with a lamp. Neither of us expected to see a baby grand piano sitting near a wall of clear glass from the floor to the ceiling.
The entire room screamed opulence at it’s best and worst.
Just inside the glass double doors, we saw the man’s four receptionists.
“Oh holy shit Henry, talk about being outnumbered.”
“Yeah, I almost feel sorry for them.”
Read On — Two Before The Wedding Part 5
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