Love and Ammunition - Book 1 - It's a dog eat dog world

Chapter 11 : Welcome to the 21st century, Mr. Deen.

Chapter 11

There is a tall, lanky man no older than forty in the living room of Bobby's estate.

This man is none other than Mr. Jones, Bobby's long-time finance manager and lawyer.

"George Deen if you would please be so kind and put down the newspaper—"

George slams the newspaper down on his lap. He's sitting in a brown leather Lay-Z-boy in his nightgown.

"I don't know how you got in here, Jones, but I didn't call you, so get out."

Mr. Jones crosses his arms.

"I'd love to leave. And truthfully, if it were me, I would rather not have to talk to you face to face after that damn trial that nearly ruined my client's reputation—

"HE MURDERED MY SON!" George tosses the newspaper and jumps to his feet, bumping chests with Mr. Jones.

Jones raises both hands, feeling Georges angered, coffee-licked breath on the side of his neck.

Jones swallows hard.

"Easy, George—I meant not to insult you."

"I-I apologize," George says, rubbing his knuckles.

"No matter. . . It came out a lot harsher than I intended. However, what I was trying to say was that man Bobby Vellet left his whole estate to you. And while I do not know why, I do not question the judgment of that man. Even though once news media catches wind of this exchange, it will undoubtedly question the authenticity of that trial—"

Mr. Jones raises a hand to cut himself off, offering a smile of peace.

"In any case that's none of my business, now is it?"

"Damn right, it isn't," George snuffs, grinding his teeth and easing his quick-tempered fists.

Mr. Jones smirks and extends a hand.

"Now, I'm here for paperwork, and I can't leave until you've been over it. We have a lot to discuss and expect it to take the whole day,"

George Deen scratches his chin and surveys the room. He points to the open kitchen. It still smells like fresh coffee.

***

The meeting between George and Mr. Jones was professional in its entirety, considering George had to refrain, on more than one occasion, from leaning over the table and beating this man to death. After all, Mr. Jones was the one who convinced the judge & jury that his son Eric, pulled the trigger on Bobby's wife before turning it on himself. And to take it a step further, George will never forget when Mr. Jones stood in front of the jury to declare Bobby the actual victim of this crime. Not only had his best friend slept with his beloved wife, but his best friend also murdered his wife then committed suicide. A true tragedy.

In any case, to George, the intent of this meeting became clear once Mr. Jones started opening his suitcase. First, he had to confirm George's signature, then the fun began, as Mr. Jones pulled up every piece of Bobby's assets. It was here, George knew the ulterior motive behind Mr. Deen inheriting the assets of Bobby. He was to become the front man to help liquidate all possible assets connected to criminal activity. It's an easy way to sell the property of a known criminal when the owner has no knowledge of running a said business venture. And, it's a lot easier than explaining underneath one of the many Casinos is a chamber full of over a hundred corpses slowly disintegrated in rusted, old, acidic barrels.

Fifteen minutes after two is when Mr. Jones calls it time. He stands up from the table and neatly packs away the numerous pages, files, and pink slips into a folder. He places them in his suitcase.

"By tomorrow, I'll have numbers and sales reps all over the globe ready to call you. What's your cell number?" Mr. Jones asks as he slams his suitcase shut, closing the lock.

"I, uh. . . Don't have one," Mr. Deen admits, scratching his chin.

"You don't have one?" Mr. Jones—a tone of confusion leaves his lips.

"Well, by tomorrow, you'll be in contact with me, over eight hundred and forty million dollars' worth of capital being put up for sale. And this is only the first batch. So, I do suggest you get a phone if you want any of his ninety-some odd properties to sell smoothly."

Mr. Deen gives a laugh, "I'll remember that,"

"Please do. And Mr. Deen,"

"Please—call me George,"

"George. Please keep Michael out of the liquor cabinet. He already drinks like a fish. I don't need to get a call from the hospital about him attempting to poison his teacher—or burning down a convenience store again. Thanks,"

Mr. Deen tilts his head. "Okay, yeah, I'll definitely limit him to the alcohol."

"Thanks, I'll be on my way,"

"Hey, before you leave, did Michael really do such a thing?"

Mr. Jones laughs, "You know that school he built? You can only guess why Bobby built it. To get that fucking train wreck a high school diploma."

Mr. Deen lets out an uncertain smirk. He places his hands on his hips, and watches as Mr. Jones opens the door, waves him goodbye, and descends the steps.

George shuts the door and walks back to the kitchen counter, stopping at the fridge door. And I'm supposed to tell a recently turned seventeen-year-old boy with the worst, hardest mobster of a father what to do? What am I to you?

He opens an ice-cold beer and sits back down.

I'm a fucking billionaire now. How the fuck.