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Just then my phone starts to ring and I excuse myself, handing my drink to my brother and I weave through the crowd until I hit the pavement outside. I’m only having birthday drinks because Scarlett’s soft hearted and organized it with Ryder, who is always up for a good time.
I hit answer. “Yeah?”
“We got a problem, boss.”
Georgio doesn’t even have to say what it is. I already know. Five foot almost nothing of a problem. “What happened?”
“We got the last signature, as you know. It’s just this fucking girl. She owns her building. She’s struggling to make payments, but we can’t price her out. I’ve tried underhanded, I’ve tried bullying. I’ve tried to scare her with some muscle. I even offered her that sweet deal tonight.”
“Let me guess.” I lean my head back against the brick wall as the beat of the music from within cuts through the chatter around me. “She turned you down.”
“We can go for more money. Add some other things. I wanted to check with you first.”
I’m about to green light it, but I stop. Who the fuck does this girl think she is? She can’t afford to turn me down, so there’s more here, and it’s going to take a little work to find out what that is.
“No. She’s already been offered millions. This needs a different approach.”
“I’m ready, boss,” says Georgio. “Whatever you think.”
Thing is, every problem has a root cause, and that leads to the solution. I need to do this myself. This is something that requires a deft touch, possibly underhanded. I really don’t care. I just want the right results.
“I’ll handle this one, leave it to me.”
When I hang up, I close my eyes.
Everyone has a price. It’s the matter of finding it. The thing that makes them tick. A plan starts to form.
Everyone has a weak spot. A breaking point. A thing they can’t resist. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. Everyone has one.
I’m going to find this Zoey Smith’s price and weak spot. I’m going to find the thing she can’t resist.
And if I have to destroy her to do it, so be it.
It’s dark, raining, the following early morning. I look at the narrow, dusty little store on the ugly street.
From across the street, the traffic sprays up filthy water as the rain pounds down. I’m relatively dry under my umbrella.
The store is nothing. It’s shabby. A narrow piece of history that should have met the wrecker’s ball decades ago.
A light shines from beyond the dingy window proclaiming Through the Cover of a Book. Underneath, in peeling cursive script, the paint reads Magic Awaits.
I mull it over.
Others just say secondhand books. Or name it after themselves or their gran or their three-legged sad puppy. This one promises the whimsical. It promises dreams.
Zoey Smith, I’m thinking, is a dreamer. The store isn’t just a business front. I don’t believe she’s that savvy to ride on a book lover’s weak spots, although maybe she is. But I’ll be surprised. No, everything I’m looking at says dreamer. Someone who loves books. Someone for whom money isn’t front and center.
In short, an idiot.
If I walk in with my umbrella and try to sweet talk her, or reason, it’s not going to work. I recalibrate my plan a little. It’s a good one, but a little fine tuning is always a boon. It’s how I get ahead. I pay attention to details.
No one here knows who I am. I don’t have a need to come down here. More so, I have everything under Edward Sinclair, my legal name. I don’t like Edward, but it suits me to use that. Just like staying away from the limelight does. I leave that splashy bullshit to Ryder.
So she wouldn’t have heard of Magnus Sinclair. Or Magnus Simpson, as I’m going with.
The problem with Zoey Smith, who on paper is a nothing, a thorn of stubbornness in my side, is that others might follow suit if I let her win.
She’s not going to win. The woman sells books and cookies and cakes. Which is so downhome crap I can’t believe she’s lasted this long in this part of Bushwick. She’s not in hipster heaven central. She’s in the ghetto, basically.
