step off the private jet. A car meets me
on the tarmac and shuttles me to my new office. It’s near the Charleston
International Airport, in North Charleston, so the ride is brief. We selected
that location to be near the airport and for the land. It’ll be easier for us
to have all of our vehicles in one location. Right now, we are bidding for a
large chunk of acreage about two miles from here. If our bid is accepted, we’re
going to add a large charter jet to accompany our smaller craft. Right now we
only use corporate jets. With Charleston’s proximity to Atlanta and Charlotte,
we’re in a prime location to secure a variety of business that is untapped thus
far.
It’s
almost three-thirty when I get to the office. My secretary, Shayla Drummond,
greets me as I enter.
“Welcome,
Mr. Hart.”
“Shayla.
Nice to see you.”
The
office was set up during my previous visits. Currently, we are running on a
staff of four employees. The rest will be hired as new business starts coming
in. Jack, Kolson’s right-hand man, has been sending his team out after Kolson
has vetted prospective clients. We’re looking at bringing on the Atlanta
Falcons, Carolina Panthers, Atlanta Braves, and some smaller businesses. There
are some Charleston companies I’ll start researching, but my main goal is to
get this office operating as a fully functional business entity.
“Shayla,
when does the new receptionist start?”
“Monday,
sir.”
“Good.
Can you bring me up to speed on everything?”
She
follows me into my office. Shayla is in her late forties, married, and has two
kids in college. She’s been an executive assistant for over fifteen years and
knows the ropes. I hired her because she won’t mind working long hours and
wants the money. I’ll compensate her well for it, too. Looking around my
office, I see that she has set everything up to my specifications. The last
time we spoke I gave her explicit instructions for where I wanted everything
placed. I’m particular about these things, so I’m pleased with the results.
“Coffee,
water, anything to drink, sir?”
“Coffee,
please, and dispense with the sir. Let’s drop the formalities. Call me Kestrel
since we’re going to be working together every day.”
She
peruses me for a moment, then gives me a brief nod.
“Cream,
sir?”
“Black.”
She
hands me the coffee and I take a sip. It’s disgusting.
“Don’t
be offended, but this is shit coffee.”
Her
eyes widen a bit.
Standing,
I ask, “Where’s the brew station?” My intentions are to make a better cup of
java than this crap she handed me.
“Brew
station?”
“You
know, the coffee station.”
“Um,
we don’t have one.”
“Then
how did you make this?”
“It’s
instant, sir.”
“Kestrel.”
“Kestrel.
Sir.”
I
scratch my forehead and extend my arm toward the chair. “Please sit.”
Shayla
takes a seat.
“So,
we don’t have a coffee pot, huh?” I ask as I lean on my desk. I don’t stay
there but a second because the bruises on my ass sting. My hand automatically
reaches behind me to rub them but I stop when I see Shayla curiously watching me.
“No,
sir.”
“Kestrel.”
“Kestrel,
sir.”
“Shayla,
do you have an issue calling me Kestrel?”
“No,
sir.”
“Then
why do you keep saying, ‘sir’?”
A
huge grin spreads across her plump face and in her lovely Southern accent she
says, “Why, it’s the way I was raised, sir. It’s a southern thing.”
“So,
it’s not something you’re saying because you’re uncomfortable?”
“Why,
no, sir!” she says so emphatically, I fear I may have insulted the poor woman.
“Shayla,
are you more comfortable saying sir than you are saying Kestrel?”
“Well,
I’m comfortable with both, sir.”
“All
right then. Now, we’re going to have to do something about that shit coffee
though.”
And
Shayla lets out a belly laugh.
After
we review the most important items on the agenda, she tells me where I can find
a