Fiction
Two Before The Wedding Part 5
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.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4
The very minute we pushed through the pair of glass doors, we angled away from Howard Bartley’s open office door and picked a spot in front of a male receptionist at the opposite end of the counter. Then we picked a fight with each other, each of us raising our voice until we were nearly shouting.
“I told you this was never going to work, but no, you stubborn old man you didn’t want to listen to reason!”
“You know what partner? If you hadn’t squandered all of our savings on that strip center deal, we wouldn’t even be here!”
“Squandered? How dare you? How was I supposed to know the builder was going belly up?”
An older lady sitting behind the long counter got up and made her way down the line until she was standing beside the young man who was sheepishly listening to our tirade.
“Uh, excuse me…”
“You shoulda done your damn homework. Now we got to pay Bartley’s at least five times what we can afford to get the damn job done!”
“Excuse me, will you please stop yelling and tell us who you are and what this is all about?”
Which was just what we were waiting for. It was a safe bet we could make it to Bartley’s office and step inside without the woman blocking our path.
We turned and began to scurry for the open doorway as the woman bleated frustrated attempts to halt our progress. As we entered, a rugged-looking gentleman sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, which seemed swallowed by the sheer expanse of the room gawked at us, then swiveled to reach for his phone.
“I’m pretty sure your admins are calling security right now, Mr. Bartley, so you’ve got about a minute to make up your mind. Either you can call off your dogs and hear what we have to say, or you can read about it in Dark Sides when the story breaks in our magazine. Your choice.”
“Who the hell are you people?”
“My name’s Henry James, and this is Sunny Alexander-Johnson. We need to talk to you about Brentwood.”
It was easy to see we’d just struck a resonating chord with the man. The first sign we’d piqued his interest was when he placed the telephone back into the receiver.
The second, which told us we at least were going to get some time with the man, was when two red oak trees posing as security guards rushed into the room and grabbed us by the arm.
“Jerry. Tom. It’s okay. These two are acquaintances of mine. They just stopped by for a visit.”
“You sure, Mr. Bartley?”
Howard Bartley gave the security guard a curt nod, “positive.”
As the guards left the old woman we’d managed to outrun stalked in, her face screwed up into a dour expression as if she just swallowed an entire bottle of quinine.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bartley. I tried to stop them, but they just rushed in…”
“It’s okay, Margaret.” He gazed at us and said, “you two drink coffee?”
“Tons of it.”
“How do you take it?”
“I like mine straight black.”
“And you, Ms?”
“Alexander-Johnson. Black with two sugars.”
“Margaret, would you mind?”
“Not at all, sir.”
Howard Bartley waited until his admin closed his office door behind her then leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together. He gave us an inquisitive stare for a couple of seconds, his hazel eyes scanning our faces with a practiced look gained from years of doing business at the board room level.
“So, what’s this about Brentwood?”
“Is it true Bartley Manufacturing is bidding on the property?”
“Well, these are supposed to be sealed bids Mr…”
“James.”
“Mr. James. And I don’t know how you two found out, but yes, we’re bidding on the property.”
“Do you know who your competition is?”
Howard Bartley chuckled and leaned back as Margaret knocked on the door and then entered carrying a tray. She placed our coffees in front of us on the man’s desk then said, “anything else, sir?”
“No, Margaret, I suppose that will do.”
Again waiting until the woman left the room and shut the door, Howard took a sip and returned his cup to the saucer. Then he tapped a button on his phone.
“Roger?”
“Yes, Howard?”
“Could you come to my office for a minute? I’ve got some people here who want to talk about Brentwood.”
“Be right there.”
When the man disconnected, Howard took another sip of coffee and gazed at us.
“Roger Sterling is our VP of expansion. In fact, this entire thing is his idea. If it goes as planned, it’s going to be a sweet deal for him and for Bartley Manufacturing. We’re planning on opening up a completely new division of product manufacturing, and Roger will be the CEO of the division. He’s put a hell of a lot of time and some of his own money into this deal.”
There was a knock at the door. Immediately, following a man, much younger than Howard by twenty years or so strolled into the room. He stopped at the desk and crossed his arms in front of him at his chest. Although he smiled and nodded at us, his entire countenance seemed veiled and guarded.
Howard Bartley wasn’t the only person in the room experienced at understanding body language and sensing the true face behind a mask.
“Roger, these people are asking about Brentwood.”
“What about it?”
“Mr. Sterling, do you know who’s bidding against Bartley Manufacturing?”
The man turned away and stared in silence at Howard.
“It’s fine, Roger. I’m pretty sure they know anyway.”
Roger turned away and gazed at us, “yes, it’s a company out of Chicago. Ashton Wheaton Homes. They specialize in subsidized, affordable housing for low-income families.”
“Ah, that’s where I heard that name. Don’t they have a champion for them on the Austin planning committee?”
“Yes, ma’am. Daryl Thompson. Soon to be State Representative Thompson if he gets his way and convinces the committee to as he puts it, “do the right thing for the less fortunate citizens of the community.”
“You sound a little angry about that.”
“No, sir, I’m not. I’m pretty certain once the committee recognizes how many jobs this deal will bring to the community, they’ll award us the contract, and Ashton Wheaton Homes will be nothing more than a distant memory.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, sir, I am. I believe things have a way of fixing themselves. Anything else?”
“I guess not. Thank you for your time, Mr. Sterling.”
Wordlessly, the young man dropped his arms, walked to the door, and let himself out.
“Anything else I can do for you two?”
“No, I think we’re good, Mr. Bartley.
“Is that your family?”
Howard nodded and grinned, then picked up a large photo frame leaning to the right of his monitor and turned it toward us. He pointed to a beautiful woman standing beside him. Flanking him on the other side stood a frail-looking boy and standing in front of the three, a small girl who couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve. Behind then stood a building with the name Bartley Manufacturing emblazoned across the entrance.
“Yes ma’am. That’s Suzanne, my wife. And that’s Robert, the oldest. He passed away a couple of years after this picture was taken. And that’s our adopted daughter Angela. This photo was taken about thirty years ago, at the very first building my company ever built. We were all pretty proud back then.”
The man continued to stare at the photograph, hardly acknowledging us when we excused ourselves and left his office.
Read On — Two Before The Wedding Part 6
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