The Rented Mule (8 page)

“Wow,” Brooke said. “I just figured you were stressed about an account or something.”

“Yeah, I wish that was it.”

“So what does your wife wanna do?”

“She wants the cash from the sale. But she doesn’t know about the land.”

“Well, I can sure see how all this would definitely be stressin’ ya out.”

“You can’t imagine… and please keep all this to yourself. Please. I really shouldn’t even be talkin’ about it.”

“It’s no problem. I totally understand. Listen, if you ever need to talk about this stuff… or anything, please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m a pretty good listener,” Brooke said, planting the seed.

Cooper paused, as he thought about her offer, before saying, “Thanks. I may take you up on it. I don’t have anybody I can talk to about this stuff. I really don’t want to sell. I mean… this business is my life… but, I hafta do what Gates wants, and he wants to sell
bad
.”

He took a swig of Coke, shook his head slightly, and continued, “The last few months have been freakin’ crazy ’round here, and I’m concerned about the employees, how they will take it… and if the new owner will keep all of ’em on board. It just really sucks!”

“You’re right; this is a
huge
deal. You definitely need to talk about it. Have you thought about buying Gates out?”

“Yep. I’ve thought long and hard about that, but I just can’t get my head around the idea of paying so much money for something
I
played the principal role in creating. I just can’t do it.” Cooper paused for a long moment, and then shook his head while looking out the window and said, “I guess that I’ll just start all over… if I can figure out a way around the noncompete language—you know, build something new.”

He turned to face her and wondered what she was thinking. He was enjoying her rapt attention, so he pressed on, “I’m fairly confident that most of our creative team would
follow me… and… I’ll need a good designer. Do you think that you’d be interested?”

“I’m flattered… yes, of course, I am.” She was thrilled, not so much with the job offer, but with an opportunity to work closely with Cooper.
This is perfect
, she thought.

“Good. Let’s keep all this between us. I’ll keep you updated as things progress.”

“Y’all’ll make good money when it sells, won’t ya?” she asked timidly.

Cooper didn’t hesitate replying, “Yes, especially Gates. He’s really pushing to get it done. It’s happenin’ way too fast for me. I know we could get more… but I guess I’ll just take my percentage and move on.”

“I bet you’re gonna miss this awesome view,” she said, looking out the window. “The view out my window is of a brick wall.”

“Your office is much more practical than this place. The buyer will add another six figures a year to their bottom line by just moving us into their office space. The rent on this place is
extreme
for a business our size.”

“I could be
really
creative in this office. The view inspires me.” Brooke was looking straight at Cooper, who was staring at the horizon.

“It works just the opposite for me. I catch myself daydreaming.” He chuckled.

“So what does Cooper Dixon daydream about?”

“Land with big deer, lots of turkeys, and a lake filled with largemouth bass,” he replied with a boyish grin.

She was melting from his smile. “Well… that sounds like a dream worth realizing to me. Make it happen.”

“Yeah, well… I wish it were that easy,” Cooper said, taking a swig from his Coke.

“Just build your wife a nice cabin, and she’ll love the place too.”

“You don’t know my wife.”

“True, I don’t. But you can’t give up on
your
dreams just ’cause they aren’t
hers
,” Brooke said, and then took a small bite of her salad. She looked him in the eyes and continued, “Ya know, it’s better to
live
your dreams than it is to just
dream
’em.”

“You’re right. You know, you really are easy to talk to.”

“Thanks. That’s nice to hear.”

Not only is she hot, she’s wise too,
Cooper thought and began cursing his lack of spontaneous wit or wisdom.
Shit, I’ll probably think of something really clever after she’s gone. Dammit.

“Wanna look at these drawings?” she asked, with a knowing grin.

“Sure, of course. Let’s finish eatin’ first. If you’ve got the time,” Cooper responded with a smile. He wanted the maximum amount of time with her. They could leisurely eat and then talk business. He loved her passion as she described her art.

“All. The. Time. You. Need.” Brooke let the drawn-out statement hang.

They had just stepped to the razor’s edge of the slippery slope.

Cooper tried to rationalize that it had just been an innocent lunch, but he knew better. All he could think about was the way she made him feel.

A
s Gates drove his BMW through downtown traffic, he became more and more fearful of the wrath of Mitchell Holmes. He had to tell Mitchell something today about his debt. Gates nervously tapped the steering wheel.
Ain’t no tellin’ what that nut job will do if I don’t throw him a bone
, he thought.

He had already liquidated a huge chunk of his portfolio, leaving about $200,000 in stocks. He knew better than to ask his father for assistance. He’d burned that bridge years ago, following the NCAA basketball tournament. His old man sensed that Gates was spiraling out of control. While his father would probably pay for rehab, he wouldn’t bail him out of any more legal or financial jams.

The driver behind Gates honked. He looked up to see the light was green. He decided not to call Mitchell, but to see him in person.
Maybe, I can explain this situation and ask for just a little more time… and pay higher interest on the whole nut
.

Gates never realized that it was the interest that got him into this tough spot. That and his inability to pick winners or cover the spread.

In the meantime, Gates had another bookie with which he could place smaller bets, just to keep him in the action.

Picking up his cell phone, he hit a speed dial number. “Hey, it’s 670, I need to check the early lines. What is it on Alabama? Seven… okay, what about Ole Miss and Auburn? Six? Got it… and what about LSU? Fourteen! Wow. I’ll call back with what I wanna do… oh yeah, what about Mississippi State? Good,
good
. Look, just fax me all the lines for this weekend. Thanks, dude.”

Gates calmly laid his phone in the tray beside the gearshift and exhaled.
Man, there are some outstanding matchups this weekend
.

The start of the collegiate football season was the most exciting time of the year for a rabid sports gambler. Gates didn’t care who won; he just wanted his team to cover the point spread. Early in his gambling career, he rarely bet on professional sports, but in the last few years he gambled on any sport or anything, anywhere in the world that he could find someone, somewhere to make book on. Gates was desperately trying to catch up. He never appreciated that you couldn’t catch up, at least not very often and never for very long.

As Gates pulled into the parking lot of the Johnny Wishbone Sports Bar & Lounge, he scanned the parking lot for any cars he recognized. He couldn’t help but see Mitchell’s candy apple red Hummer sitting under an awning at the private rear entrance. Its personalized tag read JUICE. He began to sweat.

Gates parked as far away from the other cars as he could. He left the engine and air-conditioning running while he
gathered his thoughts. Glancing around, he couldn’t see anyone. He quickly opened his glove compartment and pulled out a brown manila envelope. He flipped it upside down. A tiny resealable bag slid out onto his lap. The bag was almost empty. Gates groaned in disappointment. Running his fingers inside the bag, he then placed his thumb and forefinger in his nostrils and sniffed hard.

“Shit! Well, that’s gonna hafta do for now,” Gates said aloud and then rubbed his nose rapidly while looking at himself in the rearview mirror. He appeared trustworthy and respectable to anyone who didn’t really know him.
I can pull this off
.

Gates returned the envelope, pulled off his J.Crew silk tie, threw it onto the backseat, and climbed out. He locked the car over his shoulder as he approached the club.

Johnny Wishbone’s was a rough place on the best of days. The smoke-filled bar had more drug deals, stabbings, shootings, and fights than most clubs. Those interested in these activities used the bar as a search engine for whatever they wanted. Mitchell Holmes used it as a money-laundering front for his gambling empire. Once Mitchell figured out how to use credit cards and PayPal accounts for settling his clients’ gambling debts, the bar began accepting plastic. That’s when his fortunes mushroomed. Taxes and fees were significantly offset by the increased revenue and convenience of accounting for less physical cash. Now, the majority of cash taken in by the bar and debt payments was easily siphoned off for his personal use and to be personally deposited into his offshore “asset protection” accounts—which was becoming more difficult lately since the Feds’ dogs were now trained to detect large amounts of cash and the TSA either irradiated or molested airline passengers. Gone are the days of easily traveling with tens of thousands of dollars in one’s underwear.

Gates walked in and headed straight to the bar. The only other patrons were playing video poker. No one paid any attention to the new arrival. Ordering a Jack Black neat, Gates sat down on a stool to look for Mitchell. He realized he was still sweating. When the waitress set down his drink, he tossed her a ten-dollar bill and asked for Mitchell.

The waitress stared him down for a long moment, “Who’s askin’?”

“Gates Ballenger,” he responded and then took a swig of his whiskey. “He’ll wanna see me.”
More than I want to see him,
Gates thought.

“Sit tight, sport,” she quipped and walked to the back of the bar and out of view.

Gates nervously looked around at all the sports memorabilia. There were dozens of pictures of Auburn and Alabama sports legends. Gates’s left foot bounced on the bar-stool rung.

As the waitress sauntered from the back of the building, she motioned for Gates. He got up and walked around the bar. When he turned the corner, he saw a huge muscular black man with a silver metal detecting wand in his hand.

“Spread your arms and legs,” the massive man ordered as he walked toward Gates.

Gates assumed the position, holding his drink in one hand. Only an empty money clip caused any suspicion.

“He’s clean, Boss,” the Muscle hollered down the hall.

“Send him back!”

This was followed by an unintelligible string of words, broken by clearly discernible cursing, making the raspy male voice sound like a drunken sailor. Gates nervously took the final gulp of his drink. He smoothed his shirt and almost hyperventilated before shuffling into Mitchell Holmes’s office.

Mitchell never looked away from one of the half-dozen computer monitors and television screens. “Do you think Florida State will cover the spread against Miami?”

“What’s the line?”

“Four,” Mitchell answered as he swiveled in his chair to look into Gates’s eyes.

“Yes… absolutely,” Gates confidently stated.

“With your luck, I wouldn’t bet on it,” Mitchell laughed.

Gates nervously laughed along with him.

“In fact, you just convinced me to bet against ’em.”

Many people won big betting the opposite of Gates, and it aggravated him to no end. He even tried betting against his gut feelings and still lost.

“Yeah, that one’s gonna be interestin’,” Gates added with a slight smile.

Leaning back in his chair, Mitchell placed his feet up on his desk and laced his fingers behind his head. “So what’s the deal? I’m busy as hell, and I want my money. I notice you ain’t carryin’ a briefcase filled with cash.”

“We met today… with the bank… and everything is still a go… but we didn’t set a date… just yet. You’re gonna get your money… I swear… I just… it’s just… I wanted to explain the situation to you… in person.”

Mitchell stared at Gates for a long time and then said, “The problem is I don’t like your face. It reminds me that you owe me a hell of a lot of money.”

Mitchell lit a cigarette.

“That’s a good one,” Gates replied anxiously and then slightly laughed.

“Just what’s the freakin’ holdup?” Mitchell almost yelled.

“These things just take time. MidState Bank has done their due diligence, and we are just tryin’ to agree on the final numbers and some minor details. It’s gonna happen.
I swear it is. It’s just gonna take a little bit longer.” Gates cringed while he awaited Mitchell’s response.

Mitchell stayed reclined for a moment and then eased down his feet while slowly leaning forward as he took off his reading glasses. Rubbing his eyes, he swiftly stood, and Gates promptly sat down in an involuntary response to Mitchell’s predatorily quick movement.

Mitchell Holmes, with a well-deserved reputation for violence, was about fifty years old and physically fit. He had the hard look of significant prison time. Gates had been told that Mitchell always had at least one handgun within easy reach—even when he took a shower. Thinking of that made him more nervous.

“Gates, this gamblin’ business, ironically, is based on honesty. You win… I pay you. You lose… you pay me. Now here’s the problem: if you don’t pay me and somebody hears about it, then
they
don’t pay me and before long I’m just like the freakin’ gov’ment—I ain’t earnin’ money, just handin’ it out.” Mitchell chuckled. “Understand?”

Gates didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded.

“I never should have let this happen. I shoulda stopped it a long time ago.”

Mitchell knew Gates would eventually pay him, and he didn’t actually have any cash tied up in Gates’s bad run and, most importantly, he stood to profit considerably. He let Gates continue betting just to see how deep a hole he could dig. Gates was jinxed, and Mitchell was capitalizing on it. In fact, Mitchell had a little wager with another bookie on just how much he could milk out of Gates and his wealthy family.