Page 11 of Shark’s Edge

“What?” I called from the far end of the room.

“Sir? Your twelve fifteen is here.” Her mousy voice sounded from the other side of the panel.

“Dammit!” I thought for a second. “Terryn, get in here.”

She opened the door slowly, looking like she was ready to duck and take cover in case I threw something. Which, for the record, I had never actually done. The woman was as overdramatic as Grant.

“Clear this out of here.” I made a sweeping gesture to the lunch spread on the table. “I need to take the meeting here.”

She looked down at the barely touched lunch. “Do you want me to wrap it for later? You’ll probably be here late; your schedule is pretty full today.”

I knew I should be touched—or some shit like that—that she was thinking of my well-being and planning for the entire day, not just appointment by appointment. I admired that about this assistant, but I wasn’t about to dole out compliments and risk her getting full of herself.

“No. It wasn’t good the first go-around. I can’t imagine it reheated.” I grimaced.

Grant stood. “Terryn, please wrap the plate for Mr. Shark. It’s a sandwich, for Christ’s sake. It won’t need to be reheated. He’s just being his usual pleasant self. If he doesn’t eat it, I will.”

She smiled up at him while he helped her consolidate the leftovers from both our lunches onto one tray and stack the empty plate beneath, and then he held the door open while she scurried out with the food. But not before she gave him another imploring smile and a quickly mouthed thank you.

“You’re such a pushover.”

“Next to you, everyone looks like a pushover. Ebenezer Scrooge would look like a doormat next to you, Bas.”

“Meh.” I shrugged. “Dude was a cuck. What can I say?”

The meeting with the soils engineer was dragging on for the longest thirty minutes of my life. The spreadsheet in front of me showed seismic fault evaluations, color-coded by date and lot number, for most of the downtown corridor where my new building would be constructed. But between the tedious nature of the material being discussed and the constant nagging reminders of what was going on with the media outside the front doors, focusing on any of it was challenging.

The project had been named Shark’s Edge years ago when I’d first announced my dream to the team I’d assembled to turn my lifelong vision into reality. The marketing gurus I had paid ungodly amounts of money felt like the name reflected both my corporation’s mission statement and my personality’s strong attributes all while mirroring the architectural design elements of the edifice itself.

“Is any of this going to delay the forward momentum? I’m committed to staying on schedule.” I looked pointedly at Jonathan Brookside, the man sitting across from me, expecting a straightforward answer.

“Well, that’s hard to say.” Brookside shifted in his seat.

“Booooonnnnkkkk,” I blared obnoxiously, imitating the quarter-ending horn at a basketball game. Grant scowled in my peripheral view. “Wrong answer, my man.”

Taking a fortifying breath, Jonathan launched into an explanation of why he was, indeed, giving the right answer. By the time he was finished, I was both annoyed that he’d challenged me and impressed because the man really knew what he was talking about.

“It’s a complicated process, Mr. Shark.” He set down his pen and spun it from the center. “As we outlined in our initial proposal, many factors are at play here. They come together to form our final report for the architect and structural engineer. Both entities need our report for sign-offs with the city’s inspectors. We sent you images when we did the on-site boring to obtain soil samples several weeks ago.” He looked up to make sure I was still listening. “Did you get that email?”

“Yes, I did, and I appreciate you keeping me in the loop. This project is of the utmost importance to me. Despite what the circus out front may imply.” I settled back in my chair and waited for him to continue.

Brookside nodded once and continued. “The lab is wrapping up their testing of those samples. I’d like to schedule another meeting next week to present our final package. Your team will be able to see the three-dimensional geometry of the underlying earth materials, the lab results from the soil samples, the seismic fault evaluations and predictions, similar to what you have in front of you here.” He tapped his neatly manicured finger on the spreadsheet in front of me. The man dealt with dirt all day but apparently didn’t touch much of it himself.

“Lastly, we will recommend foundation and sewage disposal options for your project based on the compiled data. The only issue we’ve had up to this point is obtaining public records for the property itself and the surrounding lots. This information is vital in forming a complete picture.”

Keeping his eyes fixed on me, he asked bluntly, “Have you pissed someone off at City Hall?”

Grant chuffed from the seat beside me. “You’d probably be better off asking who he hasn’t pissed off. Anywhere. Ever.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. I realize you don’t know me from Adam. I also get the distinct impression you aren’t the sort of man who takes advice easily. But I’m going to give you some anyway.” He held up his hand to stop me from spouting off before I could say a word.

“I’ve built a lot of buildings in this city, Mr. Shark. Start playing nice with the suits up there. They can make this project a real headache for you if they want to. And figuring out what the holdup is can be nearly impossible. If someone owes you a favor, hold on to it. You’ll probably have to call it in.”

He efficiently shuffled his papers together and stood to leave. We shook hands and agreed he would set up a follow-up meeting with Terryn on his way out. When he cleared the door and closed it securely, Grant heaved into the sofa, much as he had earlier.

“I knew we were going to run into trouble at the city.”

“Anything worth having is worth fighting for, my friend.”