landed and took off.
“So no pressure,” Mack muttered as they slowed at the check-in kiosk.
“Nope. None at all.”
The uniformed guard waved Lane through. “’Mornin’, Mr. Baldwine.”
“’Morning, Billy. How’s Nells?”
“She’s good. Thanks.”
“Tell her I said hello.”
“Always.”
Lane proceeded over to the modernist concierge building and kept on going, passing round-topped hangars where hundreds of millions of dollars of aircraft were stabled. The chauffeur entrance to the runways was a motion-activated gate in a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence, and he sped through, the 911 hitting the tarmac like something out of a magazine ad.
John Lenghe’s Embraer Legacy 650 was just coming over, and Lane hit the brakes and killed his engine. As they waited, he thought about him and Jeff going at it.
Man, you’re just like your father.
Glancing over at Mack, Lane said, “I should have called beforehand and told you what was up. But right now, there’s so much going on, I’m scratching my watch and winding my ass.”
Mack shrugged. “Like I told you, we got no problems if my silos are full. But explain something to me.”
“What?”
“Where the hell is senior management? It’s not like I miss the bastards, but I got voice mail on every single one of them yesterday. Did you fire them all? And you could make my day by telling me that they cried like babies.”
“Pretty much. Yup.”
“Wait—what? That was a joke, Lane—”
“They’re not coming back anytime soon. At least not to the business center at Easterly. Now, as for what they’re doing down at headquarters?
I haven’t a clue—probably looking to throw me off a bridge. But they’re next on my fun-filled to-do list today.”
As his Master Distiller’s jaw dropped open, Lane got out of the convertible and jacked his slacks up. Lenghe’s jet was similar to the ones that made up the BBC’s fleet of six, and Lane found himself doing the math on selling all that sky-bound steel and glass.
There had to be sixty million right there.
But he was going to need brokers to handle the sales properly. You didn’t Craigslist something like an Embraer.
Mack stepped in front of him, the man’s big body the kind of thing you couldn’t walk through. “So who’s running the company?”
“Right now? This moment?” Lane put his finger up to his mouth and cocked his head like Deadpool. “Ah … nobody. Yup, if memory serves, there’s nobody in charge.”
“Lane … shit.”
“You looking for a desk job? ’Cuz I’m hiring. Qualifications include a high tolerance for power plays, a closet full of tailor-made suits, and a disaffinity for family members. Oh, wait. That was my father and we already got stuck in that rut. So blue jeans and a good mid-court jump shot will work. Tell me, do you still play basketball as well as you used to?”
The jet’s portal opened and a set of stairs extended down to the asphalt. The sixty-ish man who emerged had the stocky build of a former football player, a square jaw like an old-school comic book superhero, and was wearing a set of golf shorts and a polo shirt that probably needed safety glasses to be viewed properly.
Neon fireworks against a black background. But somehow, it worked on the guy.
Then again, when you were worth close to three billion dollars, you could wear whatever the fuck you wanted.
John Lenghe was on the phone as he came down to the tarmac. “—landed. Yup. Okay, right—”
The accent was flat as the Midwestern plains the man came from, the words as unhurried as the stride of his easy descent. But it was wise not to be fooled. Lenghe controlled sixty percent of the corn-and wheat-producing farms in the nation—as well as fifty percent of all milking cows. He was, literally, the Grain God, and it was not a surprise that he wouldn’t waste even a trip down a set of stairs when he could be doing business.
“—I’ll be home later tonight. And tell Roger not to mow my grass. That’s my damn job—what? Yes, I know I pay him and that’s why I can tell him what not to do. I love you. What? Of course I’ll make you the pork chops, honey. All you have to do is ask. ‘Bye now.”
Okaaaaaay, so that was his wife on the phone.
“Boys,” he called out. “Unexpected surprise.”
Lane met the man halfway, putting out his palm. “Thanks for seeing us.”
“I’m sorry about your dad.” Lenghe shook his head. “I lost mine two years ago and I’m still not over it.”
“You know Mack, our Master Distiller?”
“First time in person.” Lenghe smiled