“You tell me, Dad—he’s still here, and you and I had an understanding.” When his father refused to pick up on the comment, Griffin paused before the mahogany desk. He held up the larger of the two carryout bags. “I brought you turkey on rye. If I keep bringing you steak sandwiches, Mom will get after me. There’s also a side of fries. And a fruit cup, if you’re feeling adventurous.”
With irritation his father appraised the bag dropped before his nose. Everett was a large bull of a man, with a potbelly and a ferocious intellect. He liked appearing in the showroom unannounced to watch his minions scatter.
“You don’t need to bring me lunch, short stuff. I have a staff at my beck and call.”
Short stuff. At seventy, Everett stood six foot four. Age had stolen an inch of his height.
Griffin was six two.
“It’s my pleasure,” he said, ignoring the bait.
“You’ve been working across the street for two years now. We never ‘do lunch.’” Everett scratched the white thatch of hair rimming his temples. “Why is that?”
“You know why, Dad. If we make this a habit, I’ll get hooked on antacids. I’m a man in my prime. I shouldn’t have to deal with heartburn.”
“You come over for family dinners. I don’t see you popping antacids.”
“That’s different. You ease off the gas when Mom’s around.”
Superiority glossed Everett’s smile. “You may have a point.” He waved a benevolent hand. “Take a seat.”
Three chairs were arranged before the desk. Hard-backed, steel—they resembled prisoners lined up before a firing squad.
Griffin tossed his bagged lunch on the nearest one. “Hold that thought,” he murmured, falling upon inspiration. A new tactic.
Just to keep things interesting with Mik.
At the balcony, he watched the mechanic tear open a bag of peanuts. Earbuds stuck in his big, square head, his foot tapping along. Griffin drilled him with a hard stare. Mik looked around, starting suddenly when he encountered Griffin’s expression.
Nuts scattered across the floor.
Everett shouted, “Stop badgering him! I told you I’d talk to him, and I did!”
Griffin came back inside. “I didn’t ask you to talk to him. I want Mik fired.” Rustling the bag open, he withdrew his lunch.
Dodging the remark, his father landed his competitive gaze on the container. “What’d you get for yourself?”
“A salad, with ahi tuna.”
“Lettuce is a side dish. A man needs a hearty lunch.”
“And how long have you been taking statins?” When his father shrugged, Griffin switched topics. “What did you tell Mik?” For three days now, he’d been unsuccessful at prying the details loose.
“You first. Why was Rae at your firm on Monday? You never explained. Are you designing a website for the Witt Agency?”
“No.”
Everett smirked. “I know that, short stuff. I called Evelyn Witt to check.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“To see you squirm, I suppose.” With relish, his father bit into the turkey on rye. “The way I hear it, Rae almost rammed the building. The girl who left you in the dust back in high school, aiming her car like a bullet—craziest story I’ve heard in weeks. Why was she fired up?”
“It’s complicated, Dad.”
“Does this complication involve your sister?”
“The two issues are mildly related.”
Griffin speared a chunk of tuna. It was maddening how his father took every conversation hostage.
“According to your mother, Sally’s not speaking to you. Winnie said that’s why you missed our last family dinner.”
How to mend the relationship with his sister still eluded Griffin. Yet after Monday’s events, the falling-out with Sally seemed a minor issue.
Getting back on point, he said, “Let me make this clear. Mik was out of control when he confronted Rae in front of Design Mark. If I hadn’t intervened, he would’ve struck her. Dad, I’m a mature adult. I know when a man is a threat. Give him a severance package, then kick him to the curb.”
“He was mouthing off. Which is bad, I agree.”
Finishing his sandwich, Everett balled up the wrapper. He wasn’t used to anyone telling him what to do. He’d spent a lifetime calling the shots, with no one second-guessing his decisions. But three days of Griffin’s hardball lobbying was wearing him down.
Sensing an opening, Griffin pressed harder. “Mik has a drinking problem. His wife does too. Their homelife is a powder keg, and they aren’t happy about Quinn moving out. You do remember Quinn, don’t you? The little boy who used to spend every Saturday in the service bay because Mik dragged him to work? That kid should’ve been in Little League or horsing around on a playground. You remember, Dad. Mom used to show up at the dealership every Saturday to feed Quinn home-cooked meals and work on his reading skills.”