Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller (6 page)

Black brushed metal trim framed the towering glass windows, each showcasing tightly-closed plantation shutters, creating a pronounced sense of privacy. This made the entrance appear quite vertical and served to draw the eyes up to the words “THE FEDERAL”, emblazoned in gold lettering in a substantive font like an old, impenetrable bank.

There were already a dozen cars in the lot, mostly cooks and staff, Blake figured, getting ready for the Saturday night diners who had no doubt made reservations weeks before.
Damn it!...Don’t call them cooks
, Blake admonished himself, remembering that, for some reason, they expect to be addressed as chef.
Makes about as much sense as calling the owners of a car repair shop Mechanic Fred and Mechanic Barney
, Blake thought.

Blake frowned as he pulled on a sport coat, making himself presentable. He looked down to make sure there was no mud, or worse, on his shoes.
Can’t have that now!
Comfortable with his appearance, he strolled to the entrance, opened the door, and walked through the black metal vestibule.

Frank Sinatra was already crooning, adding to the ambiance of the 60‘s era, upscale steakhouse that Nick strove to honor with The Federal. The hostess station stood empty fifteen feet directly in front of him. It was backed by a smoked-glass privacy screen, trimmed in rich mahogany. Behind the screen sat twenty tables on a sunken floor, each with four chairs. On both sides of the sunken floor were eight horseshoe-shaped booths, each upholstered in luxurious, black leather. The booths connected to one another in a long scalloped line with the open end of each booth welcoming two upholstered chairs, providing a comfortable setting for six. Dominating the divider between each booth section was a black iron bull, a nod to Nick’s Spanish heritage and his love of bull fighting. In classic Nick style, each bull was slightly different. Some were covered with lampshades, some served as candelabras, some just stared, fiercely. They had all been, of course, custom made.

“Excuse me. I’m here to see Nick Vegas,” Blake said to a young girl as she walked by the hostess station.

“Oh,” she said as she raised an eyebrow and took in his blazer, jeans and scruffy Skechers. “Is...he expecting you?”

Blake caught her disapproving evaluation. Of course, she had no idea who he was. She was, what...twenty-one? Twenty-two? Probably wasting time at UGA, moved here from some worm hole and now had a big chance to work for Nick Vegas. She had no idea that Blake had
owned
this town less than ten years ago. Could go anywhere and not have to pay for anything, including at The Federal, which is where he had met Nick in the first place. When Blake and the Georgia Bulldogs were undefeated, Nick invited him to the bar on Saturdays after the home games knowing full well the affluent hobnobbers would be drawn in. They were.

“Yes. He’s expecting me. Just tell him that Blake is here to see him.”

Blake looked to the left at the towering, fake palm tree that partially screened the hostess station from the serpent-shaped bar and thought how ironic it was to have a plastic tree in a restaurant that Nick spent two million dollars to construct. Nick brandished that figure back when Blake was part of the “in” crowd, when he was an attraction rather than the redneck hired hand he now was.
It should be me dining here, throwing down hundred dollar tips at the martini bar with Angelica on my arm
, Blake thought. Now, everything to do with the restaurant reminded Blake of what he had lost. What he aspired to reach but couldn’t. The notoriety of Nick’s fame, the wealth that Nick and his affluent customers exuded, being one of those “in the money” rather than being a servant, like Blake. He hated going there.

Just let it go.

As he meandered along the wall, Blake stared at the framed clippings that Nick displayed in each of his restaurants, headlines that wove a trail of success among anything Nick had touched. Nick no longer bothered with the hometown praise from the
Athens Banner Herald
that he was so proud of in the beginning. Even the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
was relegated to a montage of headlines recapping Nick’s accomplishments in the past decade. “Athens Chef Wins Coveted James Beard Award.” “Vegas Takes Winning Recipe to Miami, D.C. and Boston.” “Author and restaurateur Nick Vegas Signs On With The Cooking Network.” All that praise was displayed humbly in a small frame. The large illuminated frame, like a showcased Monet, was reserved for the cover of “Forbes”. It featured a smug picture of Nick in front of his expansive Buckhead home. At his feet sat the Spanish bulldog he brought with him from Spain when he moved to lay claim to his American dream. The caption read simply “America’s Wealthiest Restaurateurs.” That’s what Nick wanted; for everyone to see not that he was successful and wealthy, but
how
successful and wealthy he was.

“Set...hut hut!” Nick called to Blake as he strolled across the parquet floor, as if he was calling a play from the line of scrimmage. “How’s it going, Blake?”

Blake turned and saw Nick approaching, his whitened teeth beaming brightly and contrasting starkly with his perennial tan. He already had his right hand extended, both to shake Blake’s hand and, Blake figured, to put his gold Rolex on full display. Blake didn’t recognize the man walking with him. “Hey, Nick. It’s going all right.” Blake offered Nick a weak handshake.

“Blake, this is Wade Ferry. Wade’s been working with me since day one.”

Wade Ferry was a name that Blake had heard from Nick before. He was the “Ferry” in Ferry/Jenkins, the largest executive search firm in the United States until, several years back, Wade sold the company he had founded for about $220 million. Evidently he missed being part of the “action” so he had taken to angel investing in a few ventures, mainly software start-ups. Even so, Nick was by far his most successful investment. It was Wade who bankrolled the two million dollars to get The Federal going. It was Nick who got the recognition, the awards, and even the series on The Food Channel, but Wade had a stake in everything. All ten restaurants up the eastern seaboard, the TV series, Nick’s books, even the olive farm that Nick started in south Georgia to create authentic, Spanish-style olive oil. And Wade had lots of high-level business and government contacts from his years in executive and board level placements.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ferry,” Blake said, without meaning it.

Wade looked about Nick’s age: thirty-eight, forty, somewhere in there. Blake knew he was rich. He had heard the stories, but evidently Wade didn’t feel the need to showcase it the way Nick did. He was dressed smart casual; khakis, black leather shoes, and a golf sweater that said Augusta National.

“Shoot, it’s a real pleasure to meet you, Blake,” Wade said in a slow and very authentic Georgia drawl. The kind you didn’t hear too much around Atlanta anymore since hordes of transplants had descended on the city. “And you call me Wade. Heck, my family has had season tickets between the hedges for sixty years. I never missed one of your games. It was a real shame son, that injury of yours. A flat out crying shame.”

Blake started to say something, but Nick jumped in.

“I thought Blake was going to make it back from that. I really did,” Nick said, patting Blake on the shoulder. “But...he moved on to bigger and better things...didn’t you Blake?” Nick kept his hand firmly on Blake’s shoulder.

“A real shame,” Wade said shaking his head and sounding as if he actually meant it. Blake had heard this a thousand times from folks and never knew what to say. At least Wade didn’t say—

“Well, God works in mysterious ways, son. I’m sure he’s got a plan.”

Blake wanted to tell Wade what he thought of God’s plan so far but thought better of it. “Thanks. I reckon so.”

Had he been the one with all that success, Blake figured he might have just kicked back and enjoyed it. But not Nick. He just pressed the accelerator and chased even more glory now that the restaurants were on autopilot for him. That’s when he and Wade concocted the idea for 50-Forks that they were now pursuing at breakneck speed. Blake knew it must be big money, real big. Enough for Nick to have dangled a quarter million dollars in front of Blake to deliver what he wanted.

“Let’s talk over here, Blake.” Nick headed past the plastic palm and walked alongside the bar, its top curved in the shape of a question mark. Nick walked past the bar to a smoked glass table surrounded by three red velvet chairs and pulled out a chair for Blake. He took the seat. “I hope you don’t mind Wade sitting with us,” Nick began. “We’re preparing for an investor meeting and he was just here with me.”

“Fine by me,” Blake said, realizing there was nothing else he could say.

“You know, the kickoff dinners for 50-Forks are in six weeks,” Nick said as his smile vanished. “The Food Channel is all set to televise it here in Athens and I want everything perfect. Are you all set on your end?”

Blake glanced at Wade and then back to Nick. Nick leaned back in his chair with his legs crossed and arms wide open as if they were gracing the armrests. He couldn’t have appeared more confident, more in control. “Yeah, I’m in good shape,” Blake said. “I’ll deliver everything you asked for the week of the dinners.” Blake eyed Wade again.

“Excellent, but not just here in Athens,” Nick said, leaning forward. “You have to ship to all ten of my chefs.”

“Yeah, I know,” Blake answered. “I’ll get the shipping details from you the week before.”

Nick tilted his neck left, then right, cracking it both ways.

“How are the mountain sheds holding up? Everything working right, just like I laid it out for you?” Nick’s line of questioning continued.

“Yep, all three are fully loaded and working fine. Blended right into the mountainside like it has been for two years now. You’d probably walk right past them,” Blake replied, allowing the most imperceptible of smiles to skirt across his lips.

Wade couldn’t hide his enthusiasm. “Heck boys, just like making ’shine in the old days up in Dawsonville.”

Nick chuckled and relaxed just a bit. “Hmm. You gotta get up and see this spread,” Nick said to Wade. “How big’s the spread, Blake?”

“Twelve acres,” Blake answered.

“Twelve acres,” Nick continued. “But behind that close to a hundred thousand acres of nothing, just woods. And I mean absolutely nothing, not a trail anywhere and all federally protected land. You have any idea how much land a hundred thousand forested acres is?” Nick let the question linger for effect.

“I mean, a whole village could get lost up there and no one would find it,” he continued. “Cool, mountain air, dense, tangled forest up over 4,000 feet. Absolutely perfect.”

Wade listened awestruck as if Nick were describing another planet. “Yeah, we’ll have to get up there, Wade,” Nick continued. “We can stay at my place on Lake Burton, take Blake and his wife out to one of Clayton’s finest restaurants while we’re there. How’s Angelica doing, Blake?”

Blake didn’t care for the small talk. He just wanted to find out what Nick wanted, and get out. He could answer the tactical questions, but the personal ones just reminded him of how much of his life Angelica didn’t know about...couldn’t know about, and walking that fine line had taken its toll on him. He’d let off steam later though, not in front of Nick.

“She’s doing fine, thanks for asking.” Blake continued gingerly, not knowing how much Wade knew. “You know...if you come up, Angelica doesn’t know...I mean, she knows nothing about what we’re doing up on the mountain. She only knows that—”

“You’re delivering for me,” Nick interrupted. “I have you on the payroll delivering wine and produce, I know. Did you bring the chicken and beef from Black Rock? I have it on the menu next week.”

“Yeah,” Blake said. “Just need one of your guys to unload the coolers from the truck.”

“Sabrina,” Nick yelled across the room to the woman who had greeted Blake. “Have a couple of fellas in the kitchen grab the coolers out of Blake’s truck.” As Sabrina acknowledged Nick’s order, Wade’s cell phone vibrated. He excused himself and walked to the other side of the bar.

Nick lowered his voice. “So, you’re on the verge of your big pay day,” he said. “Close to a quarter million bucks for what you’ve done. You’ll be debt free and have money to play with, what you always wanted, right?”

Blake didn’t realize how pursed his lips had become, how tightly his jaws had clinched. He hated all this secrecy! He should have never...God, if he could go back and do everything over. Maybe Angelica had been right. But he was so damned hungry for money, to get out of the projects, to give Angelica more than she wanted or needed that he jumped at what he
thought
was easy money.

“Is that all you wanted from me—just an update?” Blake asked as he glanced at his watch.

The smile on Nick’s face dissolved. Nick leaned back, extended his arms toward Blake and interlocked his fingers to crack his knuckles. “I need to be absolutely positive that you’ll be ready next month.” Nick’s brown eyes stared at Blake without blinking. “I’ve promised this, among other things, to 500 members who joined 50-Forks and paid seventy-five grand each to do so. I won’t let them be disappointed.”

“I am, and it is,” Blake said, keeping his voice low as he raised his eyes from the table to meet Nick’s. “We’re ready to go, just like we agreed.”