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Chapter 2
The bookstore was in the way.
Things rarely got in Barret's way.
Money made the world malleable. Shapeable. Obstacles were merely black lines on a white board, and it was as simple as wiping them with an eraser shaped like an obsidian credit card. There were no limits.
Often, it felt as though he could blink and reality would perfect itself; streamlining into a manifestation of smooth efficiency. This happened on a micro-level as well; he could set a half-eaten plate on his counter, turn his back, and by the time he turned around it would have disappeared, any crumbs swept away, the help vanished from sight like helpful, silent ghosts.
“Just buy the store,” he told Abe Shah. Shah was on the board at WunderSon Enterprises. He handled much of the day-to-day; acquisitions, mergers, smiling placating smiles at shareholders. He wasn’t a friend; Barret didn’t have any of those, but if he did, Shah was the closest approximation. A reedy little man with gold rimmed glasses, he had a tendency for ruthlessness that Barret appreciated.
“Tried,” Shah replied flatly. They were seated in his office. Glass and polished metal glinted from every corner. Shah had taken to the science-fiction villain aesthetics when decorating his office. Barret preferred the old style. Grand desks made of extinct trees, books bound with the skin of endangered animals, bottles of liquor aged and rare enough that they cost enough money to open entire wineries. Barret wanted people daunted while in his office. In Shah’s, he felt as though someone were going to put a microchip in his brain.
“Offer more.” Barret said. That was always the answer. Always had been, always would be. People had morals, sure. Stances. Sometimes, they even had values. But the moment the stack of money threatened to obscure all their little problems, the resistance vanished.
Average people were made of wet clay, and he could mold them as he wished.
“The owner refuses. What’s funny is, the business is actually going under. I got a look at their books, in two years they’ll be putting it up for sale, I guarantee it.”
“I’m not waiting that long.” They were expanding a set of production plants and the area with the bookstore had some of the cheapest commercially available land. It wasn't zoned for anything industrial, but that didn't matter to Barret; city council people didn't make much money. A trip on his yacht and a "campaign contribution" would fix any zoning issue.
Shah shrugged. “We could buy out the surrounding properties, get permits for building, turn the entire area into a construction nightmare, kill what little trickle of business they do have. Would still take a while. Or I could see if their zoning is correct, have the city lean on them for improvements, which they don’t have the money for, and bleed them that way.” Abe scratched his head, the machinations of business clicking along. “Or buy up the surrounding properties, raise the value, let her get destroyed by the increase in taxes. Still, that would take too long.”
“What did he say, specifically? The owner?”
“Well, she said that WunderSon should stick to paying lobbyists and leave bookstores alone. And then started citing some of our exploitative labor practices—” he raised his hands in a “what can you do” gesture. “You know how it is.”
“What’s her name?”
“Olivia Torres. Why?”
Barret stood up, buttoning his black suit, enjoying the way Shah’s ridiculous office reflected in his highly polished shoes. His body was chiseled by the best nutritionists, personal trainers and doctors a man could buy. His hair, light brown, was cut by a professional who served only the elites. “I’d like to speak with her.” Scalpels had visited his face with ruthless precision. Skin creams, whose cost could convince you that the blood of orphans formed its ingredients, kept his face clear of wrinkles, blotches, spots. His skin had been bronzed by high-tech tanning beds; he woke each day looking as though he had just come from the beach.
Barrett was confident that he could arrive in a gleaming luxury car, dominate the room and get this ridiculous woman to sell her silly little bookstore.
If he turned on the charm, he might even get it for cheap. Sure, the woman might give him a sob story. It was her dream, her life goal, it’s what she’d always wanted, etc. The price would rise with each tug on his blackened heartstrings, and he would nod sincerely.
I understand, he’d say. He might even roll up his sleeves and sit down next to her, indicating that, despite his wealth, he understood sacrifice and chasing a goal.
"I really, really understand," the billionaire thought.
***
His driver couldn’t find the store, which Barret thought seemed appropriate for such a place. It reeked of insignificance; a paper dream that could be swept aside by a strong wind.
He considered himself to be that strong wind.
Shah had offered to come with him. Or to send a team of lawyers. Barret’s head of security wanted to send someone too. Legions protectively surrounding their king, but what good was all that money if you had to hide behind others? It would disarm Torres to show up alone, confident, exuding that sense that he got whatever he wanted.
It was late afternoon by the time he got there. His driver slid the black car into a spot and hurried around to open the door for him. It was a testament to how used to wealth he was that he did not notice it; newly rich tourists who’d struck big on a start-up during one tech boom or another marveled at having other people scurry around to please you.
But if wealth was in your DNA, it was hardly remarked upon. On a certain high branch of the money tree, people became invisible.
Crossing the threshold of the DNF bookstore, hearing the cheerful -ding!- of the chimes above the door, smelling the book must and vestiges of the wood floor varnish, he felt a flash of annoyance. What a waste of time. The Invisibles had made themselves known, and now it was time to crush them.
He moved through the shelves to the counter, his eyes assaulted by cheery displays of pink, purple, green; sparkling covers and bookmarks adorned with eye-catching glitter, like fishing lures to draw in readers.
There was a woman at the counter. His age, maybe younger. Her face was passive but haughty; a certain disdain etched into her features,making Barret wonder if she always looked like that. Her entire demeanor was gloomy; from her bitter-black hair to her dark sweater to the brooding choker around her neck.
