Page 58 of Loss and Damages
The channel’s news anchor begins a recap of the press conference and my father turns the TV off.
He’s about to open his mouth, maybe to congratulate me again on the purchase, when once more my PA stumbles into the room. “We need to get out of here. Someone just called in a bomb threat and said, ‘If Milano is forcing us out of our homes, we’ll force him out of his.’”
“Go on,” I tell her. “Stay safe.”
She heads toward the elevators with the rest of our staff.
Police will need several hours to clear the building and the next few days to search the floors letting the explosive detection dogs sniff every crevasse. This isn’t the first time we’ve been threatened and it won’t be the last. I made light of helping the families who live on the 1100 block relocate, but I may need to put my money where my mouth is. The tenants are retaliating out of fear and it may be worth it to placate them.
It’s the law that premises are evacuated in a bomb threat situation, and Milano Management and Development is no exception.
“You’ll let me know?” my father asks, the celebration plans going up in smoke.
“Yeah. I’ll give you a call.”
He’ll hide at his mistress’s apartment, and he joins the last of the staff in the elevator to ride down to the lobby where his bodyguards will escort him to his car.
I don’t rush and gather what I’ll need to work from Leo’s apartment for the next little while, and I call a city taxi service, ordering a cab to wait behind the building. It’s not like me to play it safe, but if someone wants me dead, I don’t need to make it easy.
With everyone gone, the executive floor is quiet, but police and German shepherds swarm the lobby. I let security handle it.
The taxi is waiting in the alley, and climbing into the backseat, I give the driver Leo’s address. I sit low, ducking my head as he merges into traffic, blending in with the other taxis. There’s safety in numbers, exactly what I counted on. I want to call Jemma, apologize for leaving this morning and tell her not to worry about anything she sees on the news or online, but she’s opening the gallery and I don’t want to bother her. Her little cottage feels so far from what I’m dealing with, and I wish I could be like my father, say to hell with it all and do what I want. He’s still grieving Leo’s death, but I haven’t been given the luxury to do the same.
The driver idles behind Leo’s building, letting me out, and I go in through the security door using the key Leo gave me years ago, not one person noticing me. I find refuge in his apartment, in the quiet, sitting at his desk, Jemma’s headshot staring at me from the brochure propped against a reading lamp.
I miss her, and it’s only been eight hours since I’ve seen her, wrapped my body around hers in bed.
I click on the TV that’s attached to his study’s wall, and the news channel is playing live coverage of the bomb squad searching the building for a bomb that isn’t there. Several squad cars barricade the street, and the entire block is cordoned off asa safety precaution. The voiceover reiterates the sale, and they splice in Wilkins’s speech at the press conference.
An enterprising news journalist is standing outside the rent-controlled buildings on the 1100 block interviewing tenants and what they think of the sale.
“He’s getting what he deserves,” says an elderly woman who has tears in her eyes. “My husband and I have lived in this building for over fifty years. We rented our apartment as newlyweds and raised our children here. Where are we supposed to go?”
“When my parents passed away, we moved into their unit,” explains a young woman who has a baby on her hip, another child growing in her belly. “My husband was just laid off and the rent is a lifesaver. We’ll never be able to afford another apartment this size.”
The reporter interviews anyone willing to talk and there are many who want to have their say. Pitts wasn’t the greatest landlord, reluctant to spend even a penny more than he had to, but suddenly he’s a godsend to those in need.
I turn the TV off in disgust.
Leo’s apartment isn’t a refuge anymore, it’s a trap, but I have nowhere to go and I have to be smart and bide my time until I can go back to the office.
Giving in to my need to contact her, I want to text Jemma that I’m all right, but I don’t have her number. I gave her mine, but during dinner and then afterward, asking her for her cell number was the last thing on my mind. It’s not on the gallery’s brochure, only a landline number and a business email. I text Duncan.Get me Jemma Ferrell’s cell phone number. She lives in Hollow Lake.
Yes, sir,he responds.
My PA would have done it too, but the bomb threat might have upset her and I try not to bother her at home. I could havesearched for it online, but Duncan will be quicker and I don’t want to wait any longer than necessary.
He comes through just a minute later.218-333-6699.
Thank you,I reply, and immediately save it in my phone. I start a message and tell her if she wants to call on her lunch break I’ll be available to talk. I wait a moment for her to respond, but as I thought, she’s busy with the gallery, and I set my phone aside and use the next few hours of uninterrupted time to finish paperwork.
I have no choice but to provide the tenants proper notice to vacate, and by then, we’ll be heading into winter. I won’t be able to start on my plans until next spring at the earliest and I shift my focus away from the 1100 block to Oakdale Square. I can’t help but think of Jemma rising to their defense, the families who live in the trailer parks that glut the area and drive down the value of the entire neighborhood. I tap my pen against my lips.
I could build better housing. Housing that looks aesthetically pleasing. But what’s the point of that when I’m tearing down the 1100 block to build a luxury skyscraper? If I wanted to cater to the poor, I could leave the 1100 block intact. Or I could simply have not purchased it at all. The paltry rents Pitts collected may have been enough for him to get by, but it’s a penny in my bank account and the buildings, now that they’re mine, aren’t worth keeping.
The allure of Jemma’s happiness won’t leave me alone, and I focus on Oakdale Square, writing a list of the properties I now own and the properties whose owners have yet to sell. It won’t be long until I can lay claim to the entire area. It’s not a five-mile radius, but it’s enough.
I could do what Wilkins said he’d do but never did. Clean it up. Invest. Build businesses that would anchor the neighborhood and turn Oakdale Square, maybe not into a high-class suburb, but somewhere a family wouldn’t be embarrassed to live in.
