Page 12 of Honor

“I had a hot dog,” I tell him what he already knows since the evidence is in the trashcan beside my desk.

Not only did Miss Starling come back to the office with a hot dog, but she took the liberty of ordering a side of their homemade crispy fries.

“I’ll grab some dinner there later,” he tells me. “Unless you want me to sit in on the meeting with the winery.”

I shake my head. “No need. I’ve got it covered.”

“Good.” He nods. “I’m due for a night at the gym.”

“After you eat a hot dog?”

“Two hot dogs.” He wiggles two fingers in the air. “I view it as fuel before my muscles are set on fire.”

I’ve watched the man work out. He doesn’t fuck around.

“I view it as a gut ache.” I fist the napkin into a ball and toss it into the trashcan. It lands squarely on the discarded hot dog wrapper and signature green and white Pickled Dish take-out bag.

“About Randall…” His voice trails as he tugs on the knot of his tie to loosen it. “We’re the right firm to handle the spa sale.”

I agree, so I nod.

“Use your position as the best man to get it done.”

It’s not an order by any means. It’s a simple suggestion that has taken up space in my mind all day.

“If he’s considering selling the spa chain, we’ll buy it, spruce it up, and sell it to a competitor,” he adds.

That’s how most of our smaller business sales play out. We offer the owners a reasonable price, they counter, and we end up landing exactly where we wanted to all along.

Then, we send our advisory crew in to painstakingly pick apart every aspect of the operations. The three of us meet with those advisors and develop a plan to up the ante so we can sell for a massive profit.

That approach has always worked well for us. I suspect it always will.

“I’ll handle it, Baden.”

I don’t add more because there’s no need. My word is my bond with my friends. If I tell them I’ll get something done, they don’t need to question it.

“I know.” He loosens his tie even more.

It’ll be in his jacket pocket within the hour. Meanwhile, I have several hours left in this office before I can call it a day.

“Mr. Hunt?” Miss Starling calls from the open doorway of my office. “The Bogners stopped by without an appointment.”

The Bogners own three bowling alleys that are keeping them tied to New York even though the sun and sand are calling their names.

“Set us up in one of the conference rooms.” Baden tugs the tie over his head before tossing it on my desk. “Order in some iced tea, brownies, cookies, shit like that.”

Standing, I chuckle. “I see where you’re going with this.”

The Bogners long to have afternoon tea with their friends, who retired to Florida two years ago. If they get a taste of what that could be like in one of our conference rooms this afternoon, they’ll be that much closer to signing a contract.

“On it,” Miss Starling says. “May I suggest the atrium instead of a conference room?”

Baden and I look at each other.

“She’s fucking brilliant,” he says. “The Bogners want a garden in Florida, and that goddamn atrium looks like a jungle right now.”

It better not. We pay a small fortune to have the space groomed by a professional. The lush plants and exotic flowers inhabit a corner of the upper floor of this building. It was just another conference room when we took over the lease, but with the right engineers and architects on the job, it’s been transformed into an all-glass oasis. It was an added expense that I wasn’t sold on until Vance convinced me that it would increase employee productivity and impress clients.

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