The assistant led him into the executive room where TP held court. He stood and held out his hand when Ronin approached.
“Ronin, I was glad you called. I’ve heard some interesting tidbits in the past few weeks that no one will confirm, but I know I’ll get the truth from you. Before we delve into that and the favor I need to ask you, care for a cocktail?”
“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
TP beckoned his personal assistant closer. “Bambi, be a dear and fix us a drink. Chivas and water.”
“Right away, Mr. Pettigrew.” She stepped to a well-stocked bar, mixed the drinks, and had them on the table almost before Ronin took a seat.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
TP shook his head and blew a big puff of cigar smoke in her face.
She didn’t even blink or cough before she tottered out of the room.
“Bambi?” Ronin repeated. “Is that her real name?”
“The guy at the strip club who lent her to me for a few weeks swears it is.”
Don’t ask.
“So what’s this I hear about you getting the f**k beat outta you in the cage?”
“Which time are you referring to?”
TP’s shaggy gray eyebrows rose. “Jesus, Black. It happened more than once? What? You getting soft or something?”
“Just old and stupid. I filled in for a fighter, and my brain forgot to remind my body that I’m thirty-eight, not twenty-eight.”
“Don’t you train every goddamn day so you’re ready to fight anytime, anyplace?”
“Yes. But like in the business world, theory and practice aren’t always copacetic.” Ronin shrugged. “Still hurts like a motherfucker to get knocked out. That aspect hasn’t changed. The recovery time is longer too as I’ve aged.”
“So the rumors aren’t true? You weren’t a last-minute add-on as a dare?”
“No. My only pro-level fighter backed out of a scheduled bout. It was a rare foray into official fight promotion for us, and rather than lose more money, I fought.” He grinned. “Ended up getting my ass handed to me—at least during the fight.”
“No one else would be grinning about that, Ronin.”
“Yet you are.”
“Yep.” TP grinned widely. “Like you, I hate bein’ predictable. Pays to keep people guessing.”
“And it always pays well for you.”
He grunted. “Not always. Let’s get the first business discussion out of the way. Why’d you want to know about that property on Baldwin?”
“The lone tenant is a friend of mine.” Ronin explained the incidents, ending with, “I hadn’t heard of those organizations moving into that neighborhood. Figured you’d know something about it.”
“I’d heard a blip or two over the past few months but nothing solid. I’ll be keeping a better eye on it now. I’ll also pass the info to Stanislovsky. I know that won’t sit well with him.”
“How is Max?”
“Headed for divorce court again. This marriage lasted barely three years. He set her up in business, some healthy frozen yogurt chain. She had some success with it, so she figures that entitles her to a bigger piece of all of his business.” TP sighed. “He could’ve saved himself two divorces and ten million bucks if he’d listened to my advice.”
“Which is what?”
“Keep your woman—or women—out of your business.”
Surely he’d misheard that.
“I see by the look on your face you think I’m sexist.” TP shrugged and puffed on his cigar. “Maybe I am. I’ve been married thirty years. Not once have I ever asked my wife’s opinion on a possible business deal. Not once have I given her the details on how I make the money she’s more than happy to spend.”
“So you don’t share anything with your wife?”
“Businesswise? Nope.”
Maybe that’s why rumors abounded that TP had multiple mistresses. Just like Ronin’s grandfather—but at least he didn’t have a wife literally overlooking his affairs.
“I never fooled myself into believing I was a handsome son of a bitch like you, Black. I’m fat. Obnoxious. Cocky. Crude. I don’t score with the ladies because they’re getting a night with Brad Pitt. I’m rich. That’s my appeal. I knew it when I married my wife. I know it whenever I hire a new assistant. I’m good with that.”
“Does that throwback attitude keep you from doing business with women?”
“No. I know women are highly capable of running their own businesses. I just don’t want them running mine. Men like us? We do what we have to do. We don’t piss and moan about it and wring our hands. We don’t hold a focus group to determine the best course of action. We just do it.”
Ronin wasn’t anything like TP . . . Was he?
“Can’t go back and change the past, Ronin. Only thing you can do is move forward.”
“I fail to see how asking me to do you a favor—given the types of favors I’ve done for you in the past—is allowing me to move forward.”
“So tell me no.”
“Jesus, TP, are you off your meds?”
TP grinned. “You paid your debt to me years ago, Ronin. It’s your sense of loyalty that keeps you doing the occasional favor for me. I’m not above taking advantage of that for no reason other than I trust you. And you can be guaran-damn-teed if I’ve asked for your help it’s because I’ve exhausted other options.”
There was a compliment in there somewhere. “What’s going on?”
He sighed. “My daughter Katie. She’s twenty-three, beautiful, sweet, and dumb as a post. I say that with pure fatherly love and no malevolence.”
“What’s she gotten herself into?”
“Three months ago, she called her mom, claiming her boyfriend was holding her against her will. Prior to that, we hadn’t seen the girl for damn near two months, so we had legitimate reason for concern. Katie has fallen for every dirtbag to come down the pike since she turned sixteen. When these guys figure out who she is, they swear it’s true love.” He snorted. “She even married one of these bastards. It lasted one month. That cost me a chunk of change. Every time she’s been in a situation, I’ve bailed her out.”
“Of jail?”
“Not so far, knock on wood.” He rapped on the table. “Like our other kids, when she turned eighteen, she started receiving monthly dividends from her trust fund. For the past five years, at the beginning of every month, the balance on the account is close to zero because she—or her douche bag boyfriend of the moment—has emptied the account. But during those three months, she hadn’t touched the money. Long story short, my PI found her, and my security team dragged her out of the roach-infested place she’d been held. The wife picked out a rehab place in California that specializes in rebuilding or re-creating self-esteem in poor little rich girls or some such new-age shit. After she completed the program, she returned to Denver, and she’s been driving me batshit crazy ever since.”