Chapter 11 - The Power of Five Stools
Standing at the edge of the courthouse lawn was an old man in a threadbare flannel coat, leaning against a rusted International Harvester flatbed truck.
It was Stash.
Beside him stood Ed from the water board and Frank from the carpenters' union. Stash was holding up a certified cashier’s check from the Millville Federal Credit Union.
Garrett Vance frowned, turning sharply. “What is this? Who are you?”
“Stash Kowalski,” the old man barked, his voice echoing off the limestone facade. “Twenty-eight years at the paper mill. Chairman of the Millville Pension Fraternal Board. We hold sixteen commercial development certificates under the county revitalization act.”
Marissa’s face turned gray. “They can’t bid! This is an open public auction for primary buyers!”
“The Fraternal Board is a licensed municipal investment pool, young lady,” Deputy Harris stated calmly, adjusting his glasses. “Their bids are certified. Bid stands at three hundred and twenty-five thousand from Mr. Kowalski.”
Harris turned back to Vance. “Mr. Vance? Your bid is eclipsed. Do you wish to counter?”
Vance’s face darkened. He wasn't smiling anymore. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket, quickly tapping a calculator, his fingers aggressive. He leaned down to Marissa, his voice sharp and angry.
“You told me the maximum liquidity in this entire county wouldn't touch two-fifty,” he hissed.
“They’re bluffing!” Marissa stammered, panic lacing every syllable. “They don't have that money! It’s a trick!”
“The check is in my hand, Vance,” Deputy Harris said firmly. “Do you have three-thirty-five, or do I strike the gavel?”
Vance looked at the seventy men standing on the steps. He looked at the carpenters with their scarred hands, the retired mill workers, the county clerk who had known Dad since grade school. He knew that even if he bought the building, he would never get a single trade to pull a permit, never get a water line connected, and never pour a slab of concrete without three union protests blocking the street.
Vance slowly put his phone away. He shoved his leather glove back onto his hand.
“It’s a garbage parcel anyway,” Vance sneered. “Enjoy your moldy kitchen, boys.”
He turned and walked down the steps toward his Mercedes.
“Garrett!” Marissa shrieked, running after him through the slush. “Garrett, wait! We had an agreement! You promised me the management contract on the commercial spaces!”
Vance didn't even look back as he opened his car door. “Our agreement was contingent on an uncontested acquisition, Marissa. You’re a liability, and your family is insane. Lose my number.”
He slammed the door, the German engine purred to life, and the Mercedes pulled away, spraying dirty street water across the hem of Marissa’s cream shearling coat.
She stood in the middle of the slushy street, alone, staring after the red taillights.
Deputy Harris raised the wooden mallet.
“Three hundred and twenty-five thousand, going once.”
The wind stopped blowing.
“Going twice.”
Dad looked across the landing at me. For the first time in ten years, his head was held high.
May you like
“Sold,” Harris barked, bringing the gavel down against the granite railing with a sharp crack that echoed across the square. “To Benny Miller and the Millville Fraternal Trust.”
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