Page 7 of The Right Stuff

Nash

SO SHE'S A FRUITCAKE.

I back away from the counter, putting distance between myself and the unhinged one.

“Actually, we both know that's not true, Tru,” I say carefully. “I own this bar. Me and a sweet little old lady named Gertrude Finnegan.”

She raises her delicate hand. “I go by Tru Stanhope. Tru is short for Gertrude, for obvious reasons.”

Gertrude Finnegan, my silent partner, suddenly isn’t so silent anymore and unease creeps up my spine.

“We've been ...downsizing my properties, and I've come here to maximize the potential of the establishment.”

I hold my face very still, trying not to overreact. “How do you get Finnegan from Stanhope?” It isn’t my biggest concern, of course, but I need time to think.

She straightens like she suddenly remembers she has a steel spike for a spine. “Stanhope is my maiden name.”

My eyes immediately go to her ringless hand. “So where is Mr. Finnegan?”

“He's out of the country. I’ve looked at the numbers. We need to turn Ironwing into a successful business venture. I can't sell it—”

“Sell it? Wait just a minute here.”

“And you can't afford to buy me out, so I am going to fix it.”

I balk. It's my bar. Technically she owns 60 percent of it. But it’smybar. “What do you know about running a bar, Wordsworth?”

She looks around and shrugs. “How much worse can I do than you are?”

What an uppity little...

“I also own 60 percent of the apartments upstairs. I’ll be staying there until we get this place in tip-top condition.”

“We have a tenant in #2.”

“Then I’ll stay in #1.”

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