Roseman-designed vessel on the high seas…”
“And, all in?”
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Well, you didn’t get this from me, but ninety-seven million, all in.”
Jarrod whistled. “That’s a lot of sausage.”
“You can say that again. Looks like my clients are returning. What do you say we, uh…”
Jarrod stuck out his card. “Sure. Call me sometime.”
Jonathan held it as if it were a polished emerald. “Will do. Definitely.”
Jarrod carried two sets of business cards. One with his cell number and direct line on it. The other without. Jonathan got the one that fed into Gwen.
The king and queen reappeared, and together with Jonathan, bid their farewells.
Once they disappeared, Jarrod sagged against the clubhouse wall. At least the instructors at the Farm would have given him and A+ for being the chameleon to extract the information. But what a thunderbolt! The Valkyrie and the Pissarro sold! William would sooner part with his kidneys. So what the hell was going on?
Somewhat dizzy, he headed back through the clubhouse. He was in the foyer en route to the driveway when a voice behind him said, “Mr. Stryker?”
He turned and saw a trim, fiftyish man in a black blazer with the Bridgemount crest on the pocket. The salt-and-pepper hair framed a square face he recognized but couldn’t place exactly.
A hand extended. “Michael Wheaton. Executive director of the Bridgemount.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”
“No problem. If you are not in a hurry, I wondered if I might impose for a few minutes of your time.”
“Why, certainly. With regard to …?”
“Let’s go to my office. It’s more comfortable—and private—there.”
Jarrod followed him down the hall, unable to shake the feeling he was being taken to the principal’s office. Somewhat ironically, he walked past the portrait of William Blackenford, one of three past presidents of the Bridgemount Yacht Club, smiling imperially down at him.
They entered the inner sanctum of the executive director’s lair, which was absolutely full of nautical regalia. A big portrait of an America’s Cup race and an antique helm wheel were plastered on the wall, while a brass telescope rested by the bay window. Jarrod guessed Mr. Executive Director probably used it to watch nubile babes sunbathing on mega yacht row.
Wheaton sat down behind an antique desk that was probably pinched from Versailles or somewhere like that, but Jarrod was mightily unimpressed. The board paid this guy maybe a half mil a year to keep the bar stocked and the Persian rugs vacuumed, but he was just hired help and a rounding error to the nines and tens who populated this place.
With a hand, he motioned for Jarrod to sit.
“So,” Jarrod began, as he sat down, “what can I do for you, Mr. Wheaton?”
Wheaton leaned back in the throne-like Chesterfield chair and began, deferentially, “Well, as you probably are aware, the Bridgemount has two kinds of memberships. Individual and corporate. Individual memberships are 2.5 million for initiation and twenty-five thousand a month dues, while corporate initiation is 5 million and a hundred thousand a month in dues.”
“Yes, but as I understand the bylaws, the valet parking is free.”
Wheaton gave a polite chuckle. “And don’t forget the complimentary beer nuts on the bar.”
“That’s why I come here. Now that we’ve established the numbers and perks, where is this going, Mr. Wheaton?” Amazing. He’d only known this prick for less than four minutes and already disliked him intensely.
Wheaton cleared his throat. “Well, this is somewhat awkward for me as William Blackenford is one of our past presidents, after all. I have sent him some private letters about this but have not received any response, so I wondered if I might impose on you to raise the issue with Mr. Blackenford. Discreetly, of course.”
“I’m a little fuzzy on what the issue is, Mr. Wheaton. Enlighten me.”
“Ah, well,
“And, all in?”
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Well, you didn’t get this from me, but ninety-seven million, all in.”
Jarrod whistled. “That’s a lot of sausage.”
“You can say that again. Looks like my clients are returning. What do you say we, uh…”
Jarrod stuck out his card. “Sure. Call me sometime.”
Jonathan held it as if it were a polished emerald. “Will do. Definitely.”
Jarrod carried two sets of business cards. One with his cell number and direct line on it. The other without. Jonathan got the one that fed into Gwen.
The king and queen reappeared, and together with Jonathan, bid their farewells.
Once they disappeared, Jarrod sagged against the clubhouse wall. At least the instructors at the Farm would have given him and A+ for being the chameleon to extract the information. But what a thunderbolt! The Valkyrie and the Pissarro sold! William would sooner part with his kidneys. So what the hell was going on?
Somewhat dizzy, he headed back through the clubhouse. He was in the foyer en route to the driveway when a voice behind him said, “Mr. Stryker?”
He turned and saw a trim, fiftyish man in a black blazer with the Bridgemount crest on the pocket. The salt-and-pepper hair framed a square face he recognized but couldn’t place exactly.
A hand extended. “Michael Wheaton. Executive director of the Bridgemount.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”
“No problem. If you are not in a hurry, I wondered if I might impose for a few minutes of your time.”
“Why, certainly. With regard to …?”
“Let’s go to my office. It’s more comfortable—and private—there.”
Jarrod followed him down the hall, unable to shake the feeling he was being taken to the principal’s office. Somewhat ironically, he walked past the portrait of William Blackenford, one of three past presidents of the Bridgemount Yacht Club, smiling imperially down at him.
They entered the inner sanctum of the executive director’s lair, which was absolutely full of nautical regalia. A big portrait of an America’s Cup race and an antique helm wheel were plastered on the wall, while a brass telescope rested by the bay window. Jarrod guessed Mr. Executive Director probably used it to watch nubile babes sunbathing on mega yacht row.
Wheaton sat down behind an antique desk that was probably pinched from Versailles or somewhere like that, but Jarrod was mightily unimpressed. The board paid this guy maybe a half mil a year to keep the bar stocked and the Persian rugs vacuumed, but he was just hired help and a rounding error to the nines and tens who populated this place.
With a hand, he motioned for Jarrod to sit.
“So,” Jarrod began, as he sat down, “what can I do for you, Mr. Wheaton?”
Wheaton leaned back in the throne-like Chesterfield chair and began, deferentially, “Well, as you probably are aware, the Bridgemount has two kinds of memberships. Individual and corporate. Individual memberships are 2.5 million for initiation and twenty-five thousand a month dues, while corporate initiation is 5 million and a hundred thousand a month in dues.”
“Yes, but as I understand the bylaws, the valet parking is free.”
Wheaton gave a polite chuckle. “And don’t forget the complimentary beer nuts on the bar.”
“That’s why I come here. Now that we’ve established the numbers and perks, where is this going, Mr. Wheaton?” Amazing. He’d only known this prick for less than four minutes and already disliked him intensely.
Wheaton cleared his throat. “Well, this is somewhat awkward for me as William Blackenford is one of our past presidents, after all. I have sent him some private letters about this but have not received any response, so I wondered if I might impose on you to raise the issue with Mr. Blackenford. Discreetly, of course.”
“I’m a little fuzzy on what the issue is, Mr. Wheaton. Enlighten me.”
“Ah, well,
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