Free The Red Hot Fix by T. E. Woods Page B

that owning his companies solely and outright is the only thing that allows him to breathe his own air. All this Stinson money. You can’t drive two miles in Seattle without seeing our name emblazoned on something. He even has to drive down Stinson Avenue to get to the arena. Can you blame him for wanting the world to know he’s not bought and paid for?”
    He crossed over to the window and watched the reflection of his mother, behind him on her throne, loom over the city across the bay. Her image rose and approached. She stood behind him and traced her long fingers across the back of his neck.
    “Let’s not get upset,” she cooed. “It’s just that it bothers me to have you worried about Reinhart’s approval of your business plans. Call it a mother’s concern.”
    He turned to her and felt a rush of affection. Pierce remembered another family story. The one where his seventeen-year-old mother prevailed against her titan father and domineering mother, who both demanded their only child abort when she became pregnant by a boy she refused to name. How the young girl stood firm against every threat of public humiliation or disinheritance by insisting the child she carried was a Stinson and as such deserved their respect and protection. He was alive today because of that implacable determination.
    “And you have your son’s concern, as well.” Pierce walked her back to her chair. “I saw the game last night. I know it was Reinhart who made the call pulling LionEl out. That couldn’t have sat well with you.”
    Ingrid patted her son’s hand. “It didn’t. But as you said, we’re merely employees.”

Chapter Thirteen
    Mort walked into the Crystal at five fifteen. Mauser tossed him two copies of the
New York Times
and Mort waited for his pint of Guinness. He laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter and told Mauser to keep the change. He crossed to a corner booth, set one paper across from him, and snapped his own open. Three minutes later Larry and his beer slid in.
    “Just get here?”
    “We’re both early.” Mort feigned concern. “Think we’re turning into drunks?”
    “I had to leave the office. I’m surrounded by narrow-minded academics so focused on the Nicene Creed or the latest social injustices in Peru they ignore the truly important events occurring right under their noses. I need kindred souls.” Larry leaned forward, more preschooler than world-renowned scholar. “You saw the game, I trust.”
    “I was there. Courtside. Robbie’s agent set it up.”
    Larry’s eyes went wide. “I could feel the electricity through the television. Tell me what it was like in the arena.”
    “Think game six meets Namath’s Super Bowl. Add in the first time the girl said yes and multiply by ten.”
    Larry fell back against the booth and sighed. “I’d trade my tenure for that opportunity. Where the hell is my own agent? Profiles in
The American Book Review
she gets me. Courtside tickets to the hottest game of the year? Not once.” Larry scooted closer. “You see the set-to between Coach and LionEl?”
    “From five feet away. LionEl was as close to throwing a punch as I’ve ever seen by a man who didn’t. I don’t think he gave a rat’s ass there were more than twenty thousand witnesses.”
    “Coach brought in the new kid.” Larry drummed the table in front of him. “What a performance. And the way the team responded. As beautiful as any Bolshoi production. Barry Gardener’s the future of the Wings.”
    “LionEl’s still the biggest name in the league. He’s not going to take kindly to riding pine. Especially in the playoffs.”
    “Morning pundits say it was Vogel himself who gave the order to pull him out.”
    Mort agreed. “Wilkerson was chewing LionEl a new one when he got a phone call.”
    “An age-old tale. Caesar and Brutus. New gunslinger in town. It’s a must-watch spectacle, that’s for certain.”
    “I’m sure that’s what Vogel and Wilkerson are hoping for.” Mort glanced up