Chapter 22 - The To Do List

Chapter 22: Chapter 22 - The To Do List

Jesse swiped to answer.

"Aunt Marie."

"Did you get the text I just sent you?" No hello. No how are you? Straight to business, just like this morning.

"I did," Jesse said. "It’s a phone number. What’s it about?"

"That number belongs to Ben Pruitt."

Jesse frowned. The name rang a faint bell, like something he’d read in a newspaper years ago.

"Who’s Ben Pruitt?"

"An attorney. One of the best real estate and property litigators in New York. Thirty years in practice. Judges respect him. Other lawyers are afraid of him." She paused. "And most importantly, he isn’t in my family’s pocket. Leonard and Mason have tried to buy him for years. He’s never taken their money."

Jesse sat up a little straighter in the booth.

"I want you to call him," Marie went on. "As soon as possible. Today, if you can. My brothers have threatened to use their army of lawyers to crush you like a bug."

The eviction notice.

He’d almost forgotten. In the middle of the system, the Porsche, the promotion, Tatiana, Rudy and Carrie, the yellow envelope from the guy on the bike had slid to the back of his mind.

He counted in his head.

Six days. He had six days left before the Goldfinches could legally start throwing his things onto the sidewalk.

Jesse was quiet for a moment.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked. "Really. Why?"

He heard her breathe on the other end.

"Because I can’t have you living on the streets, Jesse." Her voice softened. "You know I have a place you can stay. A room’s ready for you any time you want it. But that’s not the point. That house was Emma’s. It’s the last thing she had. I just don’t want you to lose it."

Jesse didn’t know what to say to that.

Before he could figure it out, Marie spoke again.

"Call him."

The line went dead.

Jesse slowly lowered the phone and stared at Ben Pruitt’s number on the screen.

Even with his Aunt’s help now, Jesse still didn’t know if he could trust her.

But for the first time, he wanted to.

Jesse leaned back against the booth and looked out the window at Ditmars Boulevard, at the traffic and the people and the pigeons fighting over a dropped pretzel.

His mind was already running through everything he needed to do.

There was a lot. More than he’d ever had in his life. A company to deal with. A harem system he barely understood. A modeling agency he hadn’t even visited yet. Natalia. Carrie. Percy Bonham breathing down his neck about his father.

But four things couldn’t wait.

One. Call Ben Pruitt and set up a meeting. Today. Six days wasn’t much, and if Marie was right about the army of lawyers her brothers had, Jesse needed someone just as dangerous in his corner.

Two. Wire the payment to Mr. Hassan before the end of the day. He’d given the old man his word, and his word was the only thing keeping the Giza 45 out of Milan. He wasn’t going to trust Andrew to authorize it, not after the look on his face this morning. If he had to, he’d pay it himself and send Standard & Silk the bill.

Three. Track down Dean Monroe.

Dean had been his father’s personal accountant back when Jamie Byrne was still a respected name. He was one of the few people from that world who hadn’t been arrested or disappeared.

Jesse needed to ask him about his mother’s Cayman Islands account.

He already knew it was empty. It had been empty for years. It was one of the handful of family accounts the Feds hadn’t bothered with when they tore Jamie Byrne’s life apart. It was in Emma’s name, not his father’s, and there was nothing in it worth seizing or monitoring.

But an empty account in his mother’s name was still an account. And an offshore account nobody had looked at in thirteen years could explain a lot of things.

Like a brand-new Porsche Panamera, for instance.

Percy Bonham had already asked where the car came from. Jesse had seen the look in his eyes. That wasn’t going to be the last time he asked. Sooner or later, Percy or somebody like him would come knocking with paperwork, trying to tie every dollar Jesse spent back to his father.

When that day came, Jesse wanted an answer ready. A paper trail that led somewhere clean. Somewhere that belonged to his mother.

And Dean Monroe was the only man alive who knew exactly what that account looked like.

Four.

Jesse touched the bridge of his nose. The crooked bump where the bone had healed wrong. Then the corner of his left eye.

McQuise Hospital.

The staff there knew him by sight. He’d been in three times since he finished high school. Every time, he’d booked consultations with the same two doctors, Dr. Ramsey for the eyes and Dr. Kessler for the nose. Every time, he’d sat through the exams and nodded along while they explained the procedures. Every time, they’d hand him the cost estimates. And every time, he’d fold the paper in half, thank them, and never come back.

He’d heard the receptionists whispering about him on his last visit. The window shopper. Comes in, looks at everything, never buys.

Jesse smiled to himself.

Not this time.

This time, the window shopper was going to buy the whole damn store.

"Here you go."

Jesse looked up.

Carrie stood beside the booth holding a large white plate with both hands. Her cheeks were still faintly pink. She set the plate down in front of him with exaggerated care, as if it might explode.

Then she straightened up, took a breath, and spoke in a crisp, bright, perfectly clipped British accent.

"Braised short rib, sir. Slow-cooked for eight hours. Red wine reduction, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, and glazed heirloom carrots." She folded her hands primly in front of her apron. "It’s not on the menu. The chef made it special."

She sounded exactly like Julie Andrews.

Jesse had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

He looked down at the plate. The short rib was dark and glossy and practically falling off the bone. The sauce pooled around the mashed potatoes in a deep, rich red. Steam curled up from the carrots. It smelled incredible.

He looked back up at Carrie.

She was watching his face with wide, nervous grey eyes, waiting.

Jesse picked up his fork, turned it slowly between his fingers and smirked.

"This better be good."