Funny Girl

CHAPTER THREE

Harry was thirty-three years old, but he was grinning like a schoolboy. He felt like such an idiot, but the joy was impossible to contain. Finally. His father was finally giving him a shot to do something by himself. Yes, it was a meaningless and unglamorous assignment, but Harry felt it was a test. If he could pull this off flawlessly, his father would see that he had value. He had competence. Growing up, Keith Conlan made rare appearances at home. Most of the time he was at the office or flying somewhere for some business related situation. When he was at home, he knew no other way of interacting with his two children, Grace and Harry, than providing them with tasks to complete, which would serve to reveal their particular capabilities. That was how he gauged the worth of his employees and it made logical sense to him to parlay that to his offspring. As a result, Harry had found himself running through a constant rat race as a child, hoping that at the end of the maze his father would be standing there with a smile of approval; but the system wasn't designed that way. If one test was passed, another with more difficulty presented itself. Despite all of this, he couldn't shake the need to have his father's approval. One psychologist his mother had sent him to, back in his Prep school days, had said that he simply wanted his father's attention, and if getting it by performing acts designed to invoke pride didn't work, he would go the negative route. That's where Harry had found himself throughout his teenage years: performing acts designed to get his father's attention. Crashing expensive cars. Getting expelled for smoking pot. Dating a Puerto Rican girl named Remy who lived in the Bronx. Although pissing his father off with that one was more of a fringe benefit; he had actually really liked Remy. It all got old after a while. Really old. He got tired. And his father had called him up one day, catching him at the tail end of an epic hangover. "Time for you to come to work, son."

It was like the sun had finally risen after the longest night on Earth.

Harry was fitted for the immaculately tailored Savile Row suits his father preferred; his hair had been styled, nails manicured, and he'd been given a fresh stack of crisp white business cards with his name on them:

Harold K. Conlan

Associate

Conlan Industries

Associate. Harry had gritted his teeth on that one, but it was appropriate. And temporary. He hadn't set foot in the twenty-story building for anything besides flirting with the admins or wishing his father a Merry Christmas when he'd been a kid. He had never worked a day in his life, truth be told. Of course he had to start as an associate.

Now, five years later, he was still an associate. He had a bigger office, he'd changed the source of his suits to Burberry, and he was competent at handling small mergers and accounts; but his father never brought him into the inner sanctum. He never put his arm around Harry and said, "Let's go discuss this over drinks." But Harry was certain that finally his chance had come around.

He ran his fingertips over the stack of papers sitting on his desk. They detailed the various properties that Conlan had an interest in purchasing. The properties would be purchased by Conlan and then sold to a company called Adiven, who would then level them all and create a mega strip mall. On the briefing call, the entire crux of the operation was purchasing the several properties for below market value, and then selling them to Adiven for a profit; that was how Conlan would make their cut. The properties in question had once been part of a lower-middle class neighborhood in Crayton, Ohio. Twenty-five years back, the Ford factory that had kept the town afloat had closed, and most people had moved away to find jobs. This left the town stricken for a longtime, and neighborhoods like this particular one had gone to shit. There were three houses that needed to be handled by Harry; of the three, only one still had a living owner. Typically, this was something that their lawyers could have handled by themselves, but Harry wanted to be in on every detail. He wanted to show his father that he knew this deal inside and out. For that reason, he would be flying out to Crayton tomorrow to meet with the owner of the house, make him a deal, get it done, and fingers crossed, have all strings tied up in a pretty little bow by the end of the week; his father would be proud. Harry was sure of it. This was his test.

He got up and stretched, shrugging his shoulders deeply. He could do this.

##

"Another espresso, Mr. Conlan?"

Harry glanced up from his laptop, offering a lopsided smile to Wynn, the flight attendant for the Conlan jet. She was in her mid-thirties, but looked quite a bit younger, with a slender figure and her auburn hair twisted up in a sophisticated chignon. He'd normally be spending the eighty-five minute flight talking her into something scandalous, but he was all business now.

"I'd love that. Thanks."

She stepped away with his used cup and saucer, and he looked back down at his screen. He was up to speed now. Today he would meet with the owner of 2247, Evelyn Frank. It shouldn't have been much of an issue at all – apparently the woman had inherited the property five years ago after her mother passed, but she didn't live in it. No one did. Conlan would be doing her a favor by taking it off her hands. From the pictures it was a real dump too; awful yellow siding that was falling apart, a yard that was a mecca for weeds and God knows what else, and a dilapidated chain link fence that ran the quarter of an acre perimeter. Harry glanced across the aisle of the jet to Edward Filbert, the real estate attorney who would be drawing up all the contracts to finalize the sale.

"Ed, I'm seeing another name on this record – a William Beckworth. What's that about?"

Edward turned his head, giving Harry a bored shrug of his shoulders. "He was on the deed for ten years or so while he was married to the deceased Nina Frank. She had him taken off after they divorced, and that was over ten years ago. It's not a concern."

Edward didn't like or dislike Harry; he felt ambivalent toward him. This was the sort of deal that Edward usually handled entirely by himself, and it felt like he was playing nanny here. Keith had given him explicit instructions to allow Harry to run the show, but really, what show was there to run? He almost felt a little bad for Harry, being saddled with such a dud for his first "solo" deal. But it wasn't his problem. He would do his job as he always did, and stay close enough to prevent Harry from miraculously turning the world's most boring acquisition into a disaster.

Harry nodded, accepting his coffee from Wynn. "Got it."

"Gentlemen, we are beginning our descent; please fasten your seat belts and secure any loose articles in preparation for landing." The pilots voice crackled over the intercom.

Harry took a sip of the dark, rich, brew, feeling his stomach flutter slightly. He was actually nervous. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. 

I couldn't wait until the weekend! But look forward 4 and 5...Saturday and Sunday!

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