about real money one day. One day soon. Can I come down to see you?”
“No need,” Frank said. He was suddenly angry, irrationally angry, with a juvenile feeling that felt something like petulance. “I told you, it’s not for sale. It’s my restaurant.”
“Don’t you mean it’s your mother’s restaurant?”
Frank felt a twinge at the top of his spine.
“You seem to know a lot about this property, Mr. Cryder.”
The man on the phone chuckled again. “Oh, it’s easy, you know, we look these things up in the tax rolls. It’s all right there. Your mother owns the restaurant. And your mother and father own the adjacent property to the south, isn’t that right? Your parents’ home? I’ll definitely be interested in speaking with them, as well.”
Your parents’ home . The twinge increased, a prickling feeling at the nape of Frank’s neck. It was his mother’s home. Arla’s. He knew she’d paid off the mortgage with the money left to her from her parents after their deaths. He knew it was Bolton money behind the deed at Aberdeen, and he knew it was Arla’s sweat—and his own and Carson’s too, come to think of it—that had kept the old place standing in the years since his father left. His father. For all Frank knew he could be dead. A vision of Dean’s face appeared before him: dark haired, blue eyed, his skin grown leathery and worn through the years. Even twenty years ago he’d looked beaten. Frank could only imagine what he looked like today. There once was a time when Frank had wished Dean would come back. Now he didn’t know what he wished for.
“Mr. Cryder?”
“Yes, Frank?
“Can I tell you something?”
“Why, of course.”
“Man to man?”
“Yes.”
“You listening?”
“Yes, Frank.” Frank pictured him. Though he’d never met the man, he conjured an image and would have bet money on its accuracy—pallid skin, rubbery jowls, a too-tight oxford shirt with monogrammed cuffs. Hard-soled shoes. Soft hands. He could almost see the man leaning forward, clutching the phone to his ear, an expression of expectancy in his small eyes.
“You talk to my mother about this, or my father for that matter, if you can even find him, and I will kick your fat greedy ass from here to Welaka. The restaurant is not for sale.”
A pause. Then: “Mr. Bravo, I do believe it’s a free country.”
“Not here in Utina, it isn’t. Ain’t nothing free here, asshole.”
Frank hung up the phone.
Three hours later, Uncle Henry’s was hopping. The thin early-lunch crowd had dispersed, displaced by the crack-of-noon late risers looking to drown their previous night’s indiscretions in a plate of fried shrimp and a cold draft. On the back deck, Irma wrestled with bunting, trying to give the place an air of festivity for the evening’s fireworks. Frank had left Morgan in the kitchen and had taken up his usual post behind the bar, where he could survey the restaurant and keep a steady eye on things.
He didn’t hate the bar. He’d built it himself, in fact, had torn out the original Uncle Henry’s bar more than twenty years ago when it had begun to buckle from the weight of so many bent elbows, so many come-ons and boasts and debates, so many memories. He was glad to have it gone. The new bar, Frank’s bar, was made of soft yellow pine but coated with a layer of resin thick as a man’s thumb, so rather than nicks or cuts in the wood the bar had, over time, collected soft dips and creases that gave it a comforting, welcoming appearance, like a down duvet. Frank tended it alone, always, even in the busiest parts of the night, when the patrons stood three deep before him, calling his name and waving bills in the air. He couldn’t stand anyone behind the bar with him, so he compensated for the lack of help by becoming faster, faster, faster, a master of efficiency and consolidation of effort. He liked the busy times best of all. He didn’t have to talk with anyone then.
Except that strategy
“No need,” Frank said. He was suddenly angry, irrationally angry, with a juvenile feeling that felt something like petulance. “I told you, it’s not for sale. It’s my restaurant.”
“Don’t you mean it’s your mother’s restaurant?”
Frank felt a twinge at the top of his spine.
“You seem to know a lot about this property, Mr. Cryder.”
The man on the phone chuckled again. “Oh, it’s easy, you know, we look these things up in the tax rolls. It’s all right there. Your mother owns the restaurant. And your mother and father own the adjacent property to the south, isn’t that right? Your parents’ home? I’ll definitely be interested in speaking with them, as well.”
Your parents’ home . The twinge increased, a prickling feeling at the nape of Frank’s neck. It was his mother’s home. Arla’s. He knew she’d paid off the mortgage with the money left to her from her parents after their deaths. He knew it was Bolton money behind the deed at Aberdeen, and he knew it was Arla’s sweat—and his own and Carson’s too, come to think of it—that had kept the old place standing in the years since his father left. His father. For all Frank knew he could be dead. A vision of Dean’s face appeared before him: dark haired, blue eyed, his skin grown leathery and worn through the years. Even twenty years ago he’d looked beaten. Frank could only imagine what he looked like today. There once was a time when Frank had wished Dean would come back. Now he didn’t know what he wished for.
“Mr. Cryder?”
“Yes, Frank?
“Can I tell you something?”
“Why, of course.”
“Man to man?”
“Yes.”
“You listening?”
“Yes, Frank.” Frank pictured him. Though he’d never met the man, he conjured an image and would have bet money on its accuracy—pallid skin, rubbery jowls, a too-tight oxford shirt with monogrammed cuffs. Hard-soled shoes. Soft hands. He could almost see the man leaning forward, clutching the phone to his ear, an expression of expectancy in his small eyes.
“You talk to my mother about this, or my father for that matter, if you can even find him, and I will kick your fat greedy ass from here to Welaka. The restaurant is not for sale.”
A pause. Then: “Mr. Bravo, I do believe it’s a free country.”
“Not here in Utina, it isn’t. Ain’t nothing free here, asshole.”
Frank hung up the phone.
Three hours later, Uncle Henry’s was hopping. The thin early-lunch crowd had dispersed, displaced by the crack-of-noon late risers looking to drown their previous night’s indiscretions in a plate of fried shrimp and a cold draft. On the back deck, Irma wrestled with bunting, trying to give the place an air of festivity for the evening’s fireworks. Frank had left Morgan in the kitchen and had taken up his usual post behind the bar, where he could survey the restaurant and keep a steady eye on things.
He didn’t hate the bar. He’d built it himself, in fact, had torn out the original Uncle Henry’s bar more than twenty years ago when it had begun to buckle from the weight of so many bent elbows, so many come-ons and boasts and debates, so many memories. He was glad to have it gone. The new bar, Frank’s bar, was made of soft yellow pine but coated with a layer of resin thick as a man’s thumb, so rather than nicks or cuts in the wood the bar had, over time, collected soft dips and creases that gave it a comforting, welcoming appearance, like a down duvet. Frank tended it alone, always, even in the busiest parts of the night, when the patrons stood three deep before him, calling his name and waving bills in the air. He couldn’t stand anyone behind the bar with him, so he compensated for the lack of help by becoming faster, faster, faster, a master of efficiency and consolidation of effort. He liked the busy times best of all. He didn’t have to talk with anyone then.
Except that strategy
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