thebanker, who was watching the crowd and searching for the competition.
“It’s Pete Flint, maybe one more.”
That son of a bitch. When Carl nodded at twelve, Brianna practically had her tongue in his ear.
“We have twelve million.” The crowd exploded with applause and hoorays, and the auctioneer wisely said, “Let’s catch our breath here.” Everyone took a sip of something. Carl gulped more wine. Pete Flint was behind him, two tables back, but Carl didn’t dare turn around and acknowledge their little battle.
If Flint had really shorted Krane’s stock, then he would reap millions from the verdict. Carl, obviously, had just lost millions because of it. It was all on paper, but then wasn’t everything?
Imelda
was not. It was real, tangible, a work of art that Carl could not lose, not to Pete Flint anyway.
Rounds 13, 14, and 15 were dragged out beautifully by the auctioneer, each ending in rapturous applause. Word had spread quickly, and everyone knew it was Carl Trudeau and Pete Flint. When the applause died, the two heavyweights settled in for more. Carl nodded at sixteen million, then accepted the applause.
“Do we have seventeen million?” boomed the auctioneer, quite excited himself.
A long pause. The tension was electric. “Very well, we have sixteen. Going once, going twice, ah yes—we have seventeen million.”
Carl had been making and breaking vows throughout the ordeal, but he was determined not to exceedseventeen million bucks. As the roar died down, he settled back in his seat, cool as any corporate raider with billions in play. He was finished, and quite happy about it. Flint was bluffing, and now Flint was stuck with the old girl for $17 million.
“Dare I ask for eighteen?” More applause. More time for Carl to think. If he was willing to pay seventeen, why not eighteen? And if he jumped at eighteen, then Flint would realize that he, Carl, was staying to the bloody end.
It was worth a try.
“Eighteen?” asked the auctioneer.
“Yes,” Carl said, loud enough for many to hear. The strategy worked. Pete Flint retreated to the safety of his unspent cash and watched in amusement as the great Carl Trudeau finished off a lousy deal.
“Sold for eighteen million, to Mr. Carl Trudeau,” roared the auctioneer, and the crowd leaped to its feet.
They lowered
Imelda
so her new owners could pose with her. Many others, both envious and proud, gawked at the Trudeaus and their new addition. A band cranked up and it was time to dance. Brianna was in heat—the money had sent her into a frenzy—and halfway through the first dance Carl gently shoved her back a step. She was hot and lewd and flashing as much skin as possible. Folks were watching and that was fine with her.
“Let’s get out of here,” Carl said after the second dance.
C H A P T E R 4
D uring the night, Wes had somehow managed to gain the sofa, a much softer resting place, and when he awoke before daylight, Mack was wedged tightly by his side. Mary Grace and Liza were sprawled on the floor beneath them, wrapped in blankets and dead to the world. They had watched television until both kids dropped off, then quietly opened and finished a bottle of cheap champagne they had been saving. The alcohol and the fatigue knocked them out, and they vowed to sleep forever.
Five hours later Wes opened his eyes and could not close them. He was back in the courtroom, sweating and nervous, watching the jurors file in, praying, searching for a sign, then hearing the majestic words of Judge Harrison. Words that would ring in his ears forever.
Today would be a fine day, and Wes couldn’t waste any more of it on the sofa.
He eased away from Mack, covered him with a blanket, and moved silently to their cluttered bedroom, where he slipped into his running shorts and shoes and a sweatshirt. During the trial, he tried to run every day, often at midnight, often at five in the morning. A month earlier, he’d found himself six miles from home at
“It’s Pete Flint, maybe one more.”
That son of a bitch. When Carl nodded at twelve, Brianna practically had her tongue in his ear.
“We have twelve million.” The crowd exploded with applause and hoorays, and the auctioneer wisely said, “Let’s catch our breath here.” Everyone took a sip of something. Carl gulped more wine. Pete Flint was behind him, two tables back, but Carl didn’t dare turn around and acknowledge their little battle.
If Flint had really shorted Krane’s stock, then he would reap millions from the verdict. Carl, obviously, had just lost millions because of it. It was all on paper, but then wasn’t everything?
Imelda
was not. It was real, tangible, a work of art that Carl could not lose, not to Pete Flint anyway.
Rounds 13, 14, and 15 were dragged out beautifully by the auctioneer, each ending in rapturous applause. Word had spread quickly, and everyone knew it was Carl Trudeau and Pete Flint. When the applause died, the two heavyweights settled in for more. Carl nodded at sixteen million, then accepted the applause.
“Do we have seventeen million?” boomed the auctioneer, quite excited himself.
A long pause. The tension was electric. “Very well, we have sixteen. Going once, going twice, ah yes—we have seventeen million.”
Carl had been making and breaking vows throughout the ordeal, but he was determined not to exceedseventeen million bucks. As the roar died down, he settled back in his seat, cool as any corporate raider with billions in play. He was finished, and quite happy about it. Flint was bluffing, and now Flint was stuck with the old girl for $17 million.
“Dare I ask for eighteen?” More applause. More time for Carl to think. If he was willing to pay seventeen, why not eighteen? And if he jumped at eighteen, then Flint would realize that he, Carl, was staying to the bloody end.
It was worth a try.
“Eighteen?” asked the auctioneer.
“Yes,” Carl said, loud enough for many to hear. The strategy worked. Pete Flint retreated to the safety of his unspent cash and watched in amusement as the great Carl Trudeau finished off a lousy deal.
“Sold for eighteen million, to Mr. Carl Trudeau,” roared the auctioneer, and the crowd leaped to its feet.
They lowered
Imelda
so her new owners could pose with her. Many others, both envious and proud, gawked at the Trudeaus and their new addition. A band cranked up and it was time to dance. Brianna was in heat—the money had sent her into a frenzy—and halfway through the first dance Carl gently shoved her back a step. She was hot and lewd and flashing as much skin as possible. Folks were watching and that was fine with her.
“Let’s get out of here,” Carl said after the second dance.
C H A P T E R 4
D uring the night, Wes had somehow managed to gain the sofa, a much softer resting place, and when he awoke before daylight, Mack was wedged tightly by his side. Mary Grace and Liza were sprawled on the floor beneath them, wrapped in blankets and dead to the world. They had watched television until both kids dropped off, then quietly opened and finished a bottle of cheap champagne they had been saving. The alcohol and the fatigue knocked them out, and they vowed to sleep forever.
Five hours later Wes opened his eyes and could not close them. He was back in the courtroom, sweating and nervous, watching the jurors file in, praying, searching for a sign, then hearing the majestic words of Judge Harrison. Words that would ring in his ears forever.
Today would be a fine day, and Wes couldn’t waste any more of it on the sofa.
He eased away from Mack, covered him with a blanket, and moved silently to their cluttered bedroom, where he slipped into his running shorts and shoes and a sweatshirt. During the trial, he tried to run every day, often at midnight, often at five in the morning. A month earlier, he’d found himself six miles from home at
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