“I understand this. What about ownership? Dad’s death passed the company to mom, but the company’s ownership is still a question.” asked Allen.
“I was just coming to that,” replied Pruett. “Your mom left the business to you provided it remains profitable, in two-month intervals, for one year.”
Allen was smiling—not a big, happy smile but still a smile. Allen appeared calmer, but this was a sham. Allen was white-hot furious, but he kept the smile on his face.
“Well, that should not be a problem. I’ve done things to make sure the company’s profitability for the next year and beyond, so I am not even going to ask what happens if I fail. I will not fail, I am sure of it.” Allen said, determined and defiant.
“If you don’t want to know that’s okay I guess. I will mail you a copy of the will. Your version will not show the name or information of the other beneficiary. I will redact any information about them,” Pruett said.
Finished, he stood and offered his hand to Allen. Pruett did not want Allen in his office any longer than necessary. Allen put his hands behind his back, shook his head and walked out.
Steven Pruett sank back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. He told Clara to ask the deputy to stay in the office for another hour.
Allen Ridley ran out of The Ashley and to his SUV parked across the street. His tires squealed as he left the parking lot. The SUV moved so fast that the person following him could not keep up and had to rely on the GPS tracker to locate Allen’s vehicle.
Allen sped along the south side of Valdosta on Highway 41, through the small towns of Dasher and Lake Park. In Lake Park, he turned right and drove to the family lake house on Ocean Pond.
* * *
Allen pulled into the open carport at the lake house. He spotted two empty cardboard boxes in the corner of the garage. Allen grabbed the boxes and tried to unlock the door. Someone had changed the locks. Allen used his elbow to break the glass in the top half of the door. He reached in and unlocked the door.
He carried the empty boxes to the den. Pictures of Harvey, Myrtle, and Dottie filled the wall—no photos of Allen. Allen snatched the photos from the mantle and threw them in one of the cardboard boxes. He took the other box and made a sweep of the house, filling the box more family pictures. Satisfied the house was empty of photos, he carried the boxes out the back door of the screen porch to Dottie’s grave. Allen dumped them on Dottie’s grave.
Allen returned to the house with the boxes and went straight to Dottie’s room.
Nothing’s changed. Like the day I killed you.
Allen scooped Dottie’s clothes and toys from the closet and placed them in a heap on top of her bed. The rest he piled in the boxes. Allen shuttled back and forth, between Dottie’s room and her grave until Dottie’s room only contained a naked bed.
He found a half-full can of gasoline in the garage. Allen returned to the grave and doused everything, removed a book of matches from his suit pocket and started a flame.
Allen chanted, “Burn Dottie burn, burn Dottie burn!” as the flames jumped higher and higher.
The fire singed the moss hanging from the oak tree behind Dottie’s grave. After the flames had died, he spat on the grave.
Allen walked back to his vehicle, not bothering to go back into the house. He turned and admired his fire. The heap had burned to smoldering ashes. A few flames still sprouted from the granite slab. Through the smoke and the flames, he could see his sister’s headstone.
“Dottie, Dotteeee!” he shouted. “I am coming back in a few days with a sledgehammer and breaking your ass to rocks!”
* * *
Lewis Seiffert had watched from his office while Pruett read the will.
His cameras caught Allen speeding away from the parking lot across the street from The Ashley. Seiffert saw nothing which surprised him, Allen’s actions were predictable. Everything was going according to plan.
A few minutes later Seiffert received a call from Jimmy Miller. “Mr. Seiffert, I received an email from the Chinese factory this morning. They are ready to ship the locks. I need to know the destination address.”
“Hold on a second, Jimmy,” Seiffert said. He tapped a few keys on his computer and gave Jimmy a warehouse location south of town. “Have them sent there.”
“Thanks, Mr. Seiffert. Anything else you need me to do?”
“Nothing for now Jimmy. I’m sorry to say you are back to waiting again. But don’t worry, things will move fast in a couple of months,” Seiffert said. “I do have a special request though.”
“Sure what’s that?”
“Please join my family and me for Christmas dinner on Christmas day. You refused my Thanksgiving invitation but this time I must have a yes.”
“Okay, I’ll be there,” he said and added with a laugh, “with bells on.”
“Wonderful,” said Seiffert. “We get started about four in the afternoon. We look forward to having you.”
“Mr. Seiffert? Where do you live? If I’m coming, I need the address.”
“Come here around three forty-five, we’ll go from here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Livingston’s Bar-B-Q in Valdosta was one of the city’s institutions, an old, red-brick building on Valdosta’s south side with just enough seating for thirty people. The many years of smoke residue had stained the red-brick exterior. Grimy plate glass windows in the front were clouded by years of soot and grease. Stacks of hickory and pecan logs—used by Seab Livingston to cook some of the state’s best barbecue—choked the small parking lot and made parking difficult.
Smoke always poured from two massive chimneys at the back of the restaurant, the smell tempting people as they drove anywhere near the restaurant—smoke, the restaurant’s best advertisement.
Seab was in his mid-seventies. He and his wife Snuffy—called that because she loved to dip the powdered tobacco—opened the restaurant forty years earlier. Before that Seab had worked for the railroad, but an accident on the railroad had cost Seab one of his legs. Seab received a large settlement from the railroad and used the money to open Livingston’s and to send his only child, Matilda, through college. Snuffy ran the front of the restaurant while Seab oversaw the cooking in the back.
Matilda had blessed Seab and Snuffy with five grandchildren. The grandchildren were now adults and three worked in the restaurant. One worked in the back with Seab and was learning the secrets of Seab’s lip-smacking barbecue while the other two worked in the front as servers.
Seab had made more money in the restaurant business than he had received from the railroad and he and Snuffy were content.
His grandson kept pressuring him to buy the house and land next door, raze the house, make room for more parking and expand the restaurant. Seab always smiled and told him, “The Lord has been good to us. Best not press our luck with Him. Besides, we got more business than we can handle.” Seab didn’t need a big parking lot or a big sit-down restaurant because eighty-percent of Seab and Snuffy’s business was carry-out. The restaurant stayed busy with folks coming and going.
Livingston’s was the first of two stops Allen Ridley made in Valdosta after returning from the lake-house bonfire. Inside, he ordered five pounds of ribs and a gallon of Brunswick Stew.
Chairs for the carry-out customers lined the wall in front of the cash register. Allen sat in one of the two vacant seats. Livingston’s was busy as usual and Allen paid no attention to the man who sat and waited beside him. The man had arrived in a black Taurus just minutes after Allen.
Allen’s second stop was a few blocks west of Livingston’s. It was the same place where Marie had spotted him several weeks earlier. This time it was the white van following Allen. The driver of the black Taurus waited at Livingston’s for his carry-out order. Allen’s SUV slowed to a crawl. He turned into an alley and stopped.
The van traveled further down the street, found a different alley and turned around. It traveled back up the street until it had a view of Allen’s
SUV. The door of the van opened and a man came out wearing a uniform shirt bearing the logo of MediaNet, Valdosta’s local cable supplier. He pulled a ladder from the truck and propped it up against a building beside the van. The man climbed the ladder appeared to be working on the overhead lines. He continued to do this as he watched Allen Ridley’s SUV.
The fake MediaNet employee did not have to keep up his charade for long. Allen exited his SUV carrying the bags of ribs and stew from Livingston’s into the building beside his vehicle. The building was a simple, old brick building with a single door and a glass storefront. Curtains covered the storefront. The glass was painted black, making it impossible for anyone to peer inside the building. Someone from the inside opened the alley door as Allen approached. Five minutes later, Allen exited with a single bag, and a young black man followed him.
“Thanks for the food Mr. Ridley,” said the young man. “It’s always such a blessing when you come here. And Livingston’s, wow! Thanks so much.”
“Don’t mention it Ronnie. You know I’m happy to help whenever I can. Guess it’s a form of penance. I’m hoping the Man upstairs will forgive me for the crap I’ve done in my life.”
“God always has forgiveness for you, Allen. You’ve just got to accept Him into your life.”
“I know, I know. Thanks for sharing the ribs and stew with me.” Allen held up the bag. “I plan to come help you with the chow line during Christmas,” said Allen. “Tell that sister of yours I said hello.”
The black Ford Taurus caught up with Allen halfway through downtown Valdosta near the university. He continued to follow until he saw Allen pull into Wage’s Estates. He waited for five minutes and then drove towards Allen’s house, stopping several houses short.
They guy in the car had ordered ribs at Livingston’s too. Afraid of losing track of Allen, he had not opened the box containing the food. His mouth was watering, the box kept pleading, “eat me, eat me.”
He radioed his partner in the white van and said, “Back here at Ridley’s, looks like he is in for the night. I sure as hell will be glad when this gig is finished.”
The radio crackled back. “Roger that. I will be back at nine to relieve you. Enjoy your ribs.”
* * *
Allen sat at the kitchen bar and opened the bag from Livingston’s. He snacked on a rib and thought of his law practice. Since leaving his practice to manage his father’s company, Allen had no new cases or clients. Only one court case was left, a divorce case, scheduled for February. With no backlog of cases, his law practice was dead.
No worries. I can restart my practice in a flash. I can chase ambulances until I find more rich, blue bloods wanting to divorce their adulterous, cavorting husbands.
Allen clenched his jaw and made a fist.
But I won’t fail at running the business. I’ll make it bigger and stronger. I’ll show everybody. The company will spit out the cash and I will buy more companies, go to China and Vietnam and buy factories. One more year and the company is mine. Roll up the will and shove it, Myrtle!
His enthusiasm about the future triggered his guilt. He had not called the office today. He dialed the office and Marie answered his private line.
“Allen Ridley’s office,” Marie said.
“Hey Marie, you good-lookin’ hunk of woman. Guess who?”
“Allen,” she said and rolled her eyes. She put her finger in her mouth and made a gagging sign.
“That’s right. Sorry, I haven’t called in today. Is everything okay there.”
“Yep, everything is peachy here. Have you checked your email today?” she asked.
“No, not yet.” Allen continued to snack on the ribs as he was talking. “Why? What’s up?”
“Well for starters, there’s an email from the factory in Vietnam. They’ve been tracking our shipment and it should arrive in the port of Savannah right after the first, just in time. You have two emails from Mr. Berlage at Handy Lumber. They’re almost out of locks and he is pissed.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let me look at the emails and I’ll call him. Marie, I’m out for the rest of the week. If there’s an emergency, get in touch with me on the cell phone. If I don’t answer right away, I will call you back. See ya.”
He hung up the phone and Marie grinned, she was glad to have a four-day vacation from him. It was like getting Christmas a week early.
Allen pulled his laptop from his briefcase and opened it. He scanned through the emails. He saw one from the factory and two from Bill Berlage at Handy Lumber.
Handy Lumber was Ridley’s biggest customer. Seventy percent of their business came from Handy Lumber and they were the exclusive buyer of Harvey Ridley’s invention, the CereLock 2000.
Harvey’s relationship with Handy Lumber had existed for decades. It began long before the invention. Back when Harvey was making and selling small hardware and building material items, and Handy Lumber was just a fledgling building supply company on the outskirts of Macon.
Harvey stopped manufacturing his products in the States and began importing everything from China. At first, Handy Lumber complained about the Chinese imports. Harvey showed them the quality was as good. Handy Lumber was still not satisfied. He gave them special pricing and the complaints stopped.
Later, Handy Lumber cut out Harvey as the middleman and bought the small hardware items direct from China. Losing Handy Lumber’s orders almost forced him to close the company. Harvey, desperate to replace the lost business, and along with the help of Jimmy Miller, invented the CereLock 2000.
Harvey and Jimmy went to Handy Lumber’s corporate office in Macon and presented the lock to the owners of Handy Lumber and their product manager Bill Berlage. It met all the criteria for a new product at Handy Lumber—it looked great, offered high security and was innovative.
The presentation became a party. They all spent over an hour locking and unlocking the lock with their smartphones while Jimmy explained the features and advantages in greater detail.
Jimmy outlined a marketing proposal that Handy Lumber loved as much as the product.
Handy Lumber and Harvey Ridley signed a deal at the meeting. Ridley gave Handy Lumber the exclusive right to market and sell the lock in their two thousand building supply stores nationwide.
The CereLock 2000 had saved Harvey Ridley’s company from disaster.
Allen knew the history. If he had any chance of receiving the company from his mother’s trust, he had to keep Bill Berlage and Handy Lumber happy. He grabbed his phone and called Berlage’s office—it was on speed dial.
“Bill Berlage’s office, Sarah speaking,” said the perky voice on the other end.
“Hi, Sarah. Allen Ridley here. Bill Berlage please.”
“Yes, Mr. Ridley, he’s been expecting your call. Let me get him for you.” The on-hold phone played Christmas music which made Allen laugh considering the heritage of Handy Lumber’s owners, Milt and Phil Saperstein.
Someone stopped the music by coming on the line. “Berlage,” he spat out the words, “is that you Ridley?”
“It’s me,” replied Allen. He tried to lighten the mood and said, “I can’t believe the Saperstein brothers are playing Christmas music.”
“They don’t give a damn about the music. What they do give a damn about though is not having any inventory to sell. So, Allen, I have to ask, where are my damn locks?” Berlage was in no mood for humor.
“They are due to arrive in Savannah the first week in January. It’ll take a week to clear customs which should put them in Valdosta sometime around the tenth. Once we get them to the warehouse, we will split everything out and get them to the stores.”
“Damn Allen, you’re cutting it close. The stores are hurting for inventory. How many locks are coming?”
“One container, five thousand locks.”
“Oh my God, Allen, that’s not enough. Get another container going through the factory. They’re flying out of the stores. Call them now, wake somebody up if you have to and get another or
der going, now!” he slammed the phone down and cut off Allen before he could respond.
Allen sighed. This was not good. Terrible to have Bill Berlage pissed at him and worse he had not anticipated Handy Lumber’s inventory needs.
And all this was hurting his cash flow. The company needed to send another thirty percent deposit to the factory before manufacturing. The seventy percent balance was due before the order shipped. Handy Lumber took sixty days to pay their account with Ridley’s company. He had to wait sixty days before he received another penny from Handy Lumber.
It was great to receive orders, but the factory deposits and prepayments, coupled with Handy Lumber’s slow payment, was emptying the company’s bank account.
He swept the money worries and financial cobwebs from his mind.
Cash will be tight for a while. But the profits, the profits were seventy thousand dollars per order! This month’s shipment, plus today’s new order from Berlage, a profit of one hundred forty thousand dollars in the first quarter. I’ll fill the bank account again in no time. An awesome way to start the year!
He turned back to his computer, emailed the Vietnamese factory and ordered another container of locks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ridley Specialties and Supply, under Marie’s supervision, was starting their annual Christmas party and Marie was thinking Allen would be a no-show. Allen had only called her twice over the past four days. Marie asked if he would be in the office for the Christmas party, he grunted and told her he was not sure.
Marie planned and prepared everything. She catered lunch from a local restaurant and decorated the office with decorations and an artificial tree she pulled from the attic. Marie instructed the employees to bring a “gag” gift to exchange, nothing over ten dollars.
Carnies and Wildcats: Ulciscor Page 14