“You sound disappointed.”
“Not hardly. Grab a rag, moneybags, and start wiping.”
CHAPTER NINE
RONIN understood why Thaddeus Pettigrew preferred to conduct meetings in his private executive dining room at his high-rise office building. The real estate, restaurant, oil, and timber magnate couldn’t go anywhere without being approached by business associates, wannabe business associates, the media, or critics.
Yet Ronin knew agreeing to TP’s parameters put the power in his hands. He suspected from their very first meeting that TP recorded their conversation. Since many of their discussions included what could be considered criminal activity, Ronin had configured a scrambling device he kept in his pocket whenever they held a meeting. If TP was aware of it, he hadn’t mentioned it. Ronin believed his business relationship with TP survived and thrived because Ronin looked after his own best interests first.
He took the elevator to the thirtieth floor and was met by a curvy brunette who proclaimed herself TP’s personal assistant. Funny how fast TP went through assistants; in ten years, Ronin hadn’t seen the same one twice.
And if Amery was impressed with his private elevator, she’d really be blown away by the one that led to TP’s office. A glass elevator on the inside of the building. Given how much she loved his rooftop garden, this three-story glass atrium, which had been designed to mimic a rain forest, would be right up her alley. Even when the snow flew and the temps dipped below freezing, it felt like the Amazon in here.
The assistant led him into the executive room where TP held court. He stood and held out his hand when Ronin approached.
“Ronin, I was glad you called. I’ve heard some interesting tidbits in the past few weeks that no one will confirm, but I know I’ll get the truth from you. Before we delve into that and the favor I need to ask you, care for a cocktail?”
“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
TP beckoned his personal assistant closer. “Bambi, be a dear and fix us a drink. Chivas and water.”
“Right away, Mr. Pettigrew.” She stepped to a well-stocked bar, mixed the drinks, and had them on the table almost before Ronin took a seat.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
TP shook his head and blew a big puff of cigar smoke in her face.
She didn’t even blink or cough before she tottered out of the room.
“Bambi?” Ronin repeated. “Is that her real name?”
“The guy at the strip club who lent her to me for a few weeks swears it is.”
Don’t ask.
“So what’s this I hear about you getting the f**k beat outta you in the cage?”
“Which time are you referring to?”
TP’s shaggy gray eyebrows rose. “Jesus, Black. It happened more than once? What? You getting soft or something?”
“Just old and stupid. I filled in for a fighter, and my brain forgot to remind my body that I’m thirty-eight, not twenty-eight.”
“Don’t you train every goddamn day so you’re ready to fight anytime, anyplace?”
“Yes. But like in the business world, theory and practice aren’t always copacetic.” Ronin shrugged. “Still hurts like a motherfucker to get knocked out. That aspect hasn’t changed. The recovery time is longer too as I’ve aged.”
“So the rumors aren’t true? You weren’t a last-minute add-on as a dare?”
“No. My only pro-level fighter backed out of a scheduled bout. It was a rare foray into official fight promotion for us, and rather than lose more money, I fought.” He grinned. “Ended up getting my ass handed to me—at least during the fight.”
“No one else would be grinning about that, Ronin.”
“Yet you are.”
“Yep.” TP grinned widely. “Like you, I hate bein’ predictable. Pays to keep people guessing.”
“And it always pays well for you.”
He grunted. “Not always. Let’s get the first business discussion out of the way. Why’d you want to know about that property on Baldwin?”
“The lone tenant is a friend of mine.” Ronin explained the incidents, ending with, “I hadn’t heard of those organizations moving into that neighborhood. Figured you’d know something about it.”
“I’d heard a blip or two over the past few months but nothing solid. I’ll be keeping a better eye on it now. I’ll also pass the info to Stanislovsky. I know that won’t sit well with him.”
“How is Max?”
“Headed for divorce court again. This marriage lasted barely three years. He set her up in business, some healthy frozen yogurt chain. She had some success with it, so she figures that entitles her to a bigger piece of all of his business.” TP sighed. “He could’ve saved himself two divorces and ten million bucks if he’d listened to my advice.”
“Which is what?”
“Keep your woman—or women—out of your business.”
Surely he’d misheard that.
“I see by the look on your face you think I’m sexist.” TP shrugged and puffed on his cigar. “Maybe I am. I’ve been married thirty years. Not once have I ever asked my wife’s opinion on a possible business deal. Not once have I given her the details on how I make the money she’s more than happy to spend.”
“So you don’t share anything with your wife?”
“Businesswise? Nope.”