Page 48 of The Biting Bargain

"There, there," he mutters, patting my back like he don’t know what to do. "It's going to be okay."

"It's going to be okay?" I yell, sick to my stomach at the thought of what DiMartino’s goons have done to him because of me. "The restaurant is in ruins. You look like a prizefighter."

"But I'm still standing." Dad grins, not without some pride. His cell phone mutters something, but it's just the robotic voice on tape telling us that our call is very important and we should please have a little patience.

"Where have you been, Pumpkin?" he asks.

"Longer story." I wipe my eyes. "What happened to you? Were these guys in here? What did they do to you?"

Dad sets to an answer I already know I'm going to like even less, but there's another squawking voice from the cell, the customer service rep is back, and Dad continues to bark into his phone.

"Look, this policy is 30 years old! I'm entitled to the full payout!"

"Everything okay?"

Again, I flinch as Vincent emerges next to me like a dark monolith, giving me a sideways glance. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think he was concerned.

"I don't know," I mutter, glancing quickly at my hands, and then at my dad's back, his bandaged arm gesturing furiously through the air as he continues his rant. My instincts have never been very good, but I wouldn't say everything is okay here.

"You can't do this!" Dad yells into the phone. "The entire business is down! We need this policy."

My stomach turns into a lump of ice. Of course the insurance company won't pay. And that means we’re bankrupt. And that means Dad has to shut down the restaurant. The family is finally ruined.

And who's to blame?

Disaster Polly.

As usual.

I feel more than I see Vincent moving next to me. Before I can so much as blink he's standing next to my dad. He can't even protest as Vincent plucks the phone out of his hand.

"What the hell..." Dad starts, but Vincent shushes him with a look.

"Good evening," he says into Dad's cell phone, sounding all business. "My name is Vincent Renard. I'm taking over Mr. Bukowski's case. With whom do I have the pleasure?"

Vincent steps away from Dad's desk a few paces as the conversation runs its course. Dad looks at me, befuddled.

"Who the hell is that? Your lawyer?"

"Something like that..." I mutter as Vincent turns his back on us. Hardly daring to breathe, I listen as he calls the employee's supervisor to the phone. And then his supervisor. And tells them in an ice-cold voice that they better Google who the actual owner of their insurance company is. And that they should process this case with the utmost priority if they still want to have a job tomorrow.

Classic capitalistic power move.

"This order is coming from the top. Do you understand?" he says, totally businesslike. "The policy will be paid out in full. No deductions."

I stare at Dad.

Dad alternately stares at me and Vincent.

Vincent hangs up and hands my father back his phone.

"This has been taken care of," he says, equally businesslike.

"What the..." Dad sputters, staring at the cell phone in his hand like it's a jinxed fish. Then back at me. Then at Vincent.

"You'll be getting a call from my assistant," Vincent says. "He'll take care of the repairs."

"Repairs?" Dad croaks, and at the same moment the cell phone in his hand rings.

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