Love and Romance, etc.
A Free Newsletter for romance novel lovers
By Bonnie Williams
Episode 9
Rules of the Game
“Her mom’s on the City Council?”
Blake frowned at his cousin, Eaton, while he chalked the tip of his cue stick. “Yeah. Hell of a thing,” he said flatly.
“Geez, man. You don’t date for God knows how many months—and you manage to find the daughter of a City Council member? That takes balls.”
“Ball seven, center pocket,” Blake said, as he called it, nailed it clean, then stood and sent Eaton a challenging look. “I’m dating the daughter, not the mother.” Vinn played referee as he stood at the foot of the ancient billiard table. “Plus, I didn’t even know until that asshole Hicks showed up last night.” He bent down and pocketed two more balls before he mistakenly performed a jump shot with the cue ball.
“Foul!” Vinn called.
“Your call, cuz,” Blake said as he waved his hand for Eaton’s turn.
The old game room still smelled of stale cigars, though no one had smoked in this room for more than ten years. With the exception of the stereo equipment, playing Led Zeppelin at the moment, and a fridge just large enough to hold two six-packs of Coronas, the room still held all the original furniture—including the monster of a billiard table. The “Old Brunswick” his grandpa used to call it. Blake assumed that was the craftsman’s name, but if there was ever a plaque or a label to indicate that, it had been rubbed off long ago.
Dillion and John were playing darts on the opposite side of the room. As Blake looked up, Dillion managed to toss a dart right through the window—a closed window. “Christ, Dillion, can you be anymore off base? How about damaging Mom’s over-stuffed chairs while you’re at it.”
“Sorry, man. My game’s a little off today.”
The wall covered with dart holes indicated his brother’s game was off most of the time. Jerry had more luck hitting the target in his cat box then Dillion had with—everything. And Jerry had his handicap as an excuse.
“So what happen last night?” Eaton asked. “All I got was the Reader’s Digest version from Vinn-man here.”
Blake began telling about the “date,” minus the intensely arousing kiss, of course. “So, we’re in the park, it’s after hours, and up walks Hicks,” he said as he positioned his stick and took a shot. Seemingly pleased, he eyed the table for his next play. “He’s got that damn flashlight and aims it in Emma’s face. She gets up as if she’s Eleanor Roosevelt with her ratty jeans and sexed-up hair, looks him square in the eye,” Blake laughs before he can finish and says, “She says, ‘Don’t you know who my mother is? If you harass us one more second, I’m taking this up with the City Council. It’s budget season.’ And she pokes the scumbag in the chest, and says ‘I’m sure they’d be willing to cut a few selected officers out of the police force.’ Of course I’ve got my mouth hanging open like a dumbass wondering ‘Where the hell did this she-cat come from?’”
Blake stepped forward, called his next shot and took it. Damn, missed. “You’re up,” he said to Eaton. “I’ve never seen Hicks so shell-shocked.” Blake leaned on his cue stick as is it was a walking stick, still humored by the odd situation he’d found himself in. “Of course, he looked at me like I was some wuss-puss for letting a woman champion me, but what the hell. The look on his grungy mug was well worth it!”
Eaton missed his shot and Blake took the next inning. “Hicks being bested by a woman,” Eaton chuckled. “Sounds like one hell of a night.” He looked at Blake skeptically. “But I get the feeling you didn’t invite me over just so I can kick your ass at pool and chew the shit, did you?”
“No. I didn’t,” Blake said as his grin went flat and wondered where to start. He took a deep cleansing breath. “Yesterday, we got an unexpected visit from our friendly neighborhood Historical Society.” Blake sighed heavily as he called his next shot. “She left us with some disturbing information. I’d like you to take a look at it.”
“The house, Blake?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, man. I’m a prosecutor. I’m not real good with real estate,” Eaton said.
Blake nodded his head, remembering when he and Eaton where in college. Eaton was in law school, while Blake was at the police academy. Though they had different mothers, the two looked like they could have been brothers. “Would you just review them? Maybe take them to a colleague, or something? You must know an attorney that can work private property.”
“Fine. I’ll look at them. Can we at least finish this game?”
Thirty minutes later, the guys gathered around the dining room table, and Blake took the large envelope from the hutch drawer. He handed it to Eaton and waited.
As Eaton read through the information, Dillion and Vinn made turkey sandwiches for everyone. They all opted for Coke instead of beer with their dinner, all wanting to be sober for the verdict—and Jerry opted for tuna-flavored Friskies.
After hours—or was it minutes?—Eaton looked up, then stretched his arms before speaking.
John got bored and left for home. Probably because he figured there wouldn’t be anymore food coming his way.
“Well?” Blake asked. “What do you think?” He placed his elbow on the table, his fist at his chin.
Eaton cleared his throat. “All right. According to this information, Grandpa Kinsey registered the house with the National and Local Register of Historic Places in 1966.”
“Yeah. So what?” Vinn announced as he belched.
“So, according to this, whomever is the current homeowner, upon taking up residence, must agree to the terms of the local Historical Society.”
“But Dad inherited this place when Grandpa died,” Dillion said, with a mouth full of sandwich. “We’ve always lived here.”
“Well, when Uncle Joe—your dad—assumed ownership, he in affect agreed to conform to the restriction placed by the local Historical Society. They have the right to inspect the inner or outer conditions of the property for maintenance, and the homeowner must receive the society’s approval before any changes can be made to the property, or before a permit for these changes can be issued.”
“What happens if we don’t comply?” Blake asked, feeling his palms start to sweat as a sense of foreboding hit him square in the chest.
“The city can fine you, sue you, or they can get an injunction to stop you from making material changes that don’t reflect the original condition of the house.”
Shit. He was afraid of something like this. Damn you, Dad, Blake thought. Where the hell are you? Why did you leave us in this mess? Blake glanced at Vinn whose face had turned ghost white. Dillion sat motionless in mid-chew—eyes wide.
“We’re gonna need a boat-load of money,” Dillion said.
“We have got to find Dad,” Vinn insisted. “We’ve got a sweepstakes winning that’s as good as a deadman’s dick unless we find him.”
“What are you not telling us, Eaton?” Blake asked. He was starting to feel light headed. Too many Coronas, he thought.
“If the City Council really wanted to play hardball, they could declare eminent domain on the property. If that happens, man, you can kiss your home goodbye. There aren’t enough attorneys in Greenrich to fight back and win against the city.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Get this place up to snuff. At least on the outside for now.” Eaton looked down at the papers in front of him. “Is the façade in the front all original? The windows? Doors?”
“Not since Dillion ran Conroy’s Harley through the front door,” Vinn blurted. “Broke the door clean off its hinges.”
“Hey! At least I paid to get it replaced,” Dillion said in his own defense.
“Yes, but does it look exactly like the original?” Eaton added. “If it doesn’t, did you guys keep the broken one?”
“Ah, yeah, I think it’s still in the garage somewhere,” Blake said feeling defeated and worn out.
“Good—use as much of the original as you can salvage. Replace the damage with as close to the original as possible.”
Damn it all to hell. The city was looking to screw him no matter what. First his job—now this. “Why didn’t we know about this sooner? Wouldn’t someone have said something before?”
“They just had an election. New council, new set of rules.” Eaton shrugged. “Don’t any of you read your property tax bill? Deduct the property taxes? The historical status would be indicated on the bill,” Eaton said.
“No.” Blake rubbed at his eyes. “Conroy takes care of all that, and he won’t be back for several months.”
“Hey! Can any of you jackasses help me?” John yelled from the foyer. “Some nimrod just slashed all my tires!”
THE LONELY GUYS
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