The Other Side of Greed Page 2

  On another table, we have other necessary items. Sometimes it’s women’s sanitary products or warm items for the winter. As it’s summer here, those aren’t needed as much, but we have sleeping bags and tents, and a few items of clothing. It depends on what our funds can buy.

  “We’ve got two more pots of pasta left,” Fredrich informs me.

  I eye the line which is about one hundred deep. “It should be enough.”

  He nods. Gargantuan, with hair as wild as Hagrid’s, he’s a tattooed sweetie pie and the best IT person I could have ever asked for. He joined the company and was one of my first employees, along with Simona, my second mother.

  Redhill has quickly become one of Chicago’s fastest growing nonprofit organizations. My brainchild, that’s what the media refers to it as when they want to butter me up in an attempt to interview me or to get me on their shows. I don’t have time for such things, and I don’t trust organizations, per se, but I’m aware that I need publicity to help spread the word. Though I am secretly pleased that we’ve done amazingly well without going out and courting attention.

  Over the next hour, we manage to feed everyone. They tend not to hang around for too long. Some eat quickly, hovering around the serving table, and sometimes they come back for a second helping, which we always give them. Others take the food away. They return back to the streets. Some stay overnight at the homeless shelter, but at least we know they’ve had a hot meal.

  They come here every week to the makeshift area we’ve set up. It’s a stone’s throw from the factory, in the wide-open square at the back. This also makes it easier for us to keep a list of the food items in our store room.

  Everything is laid out and cleared away with military precision. There’s a small core team of about ten helpers, and everyone brings something. Tables, food, cleaning supplies and disposable food service gloves which we use to serve the food.

  Doing this grounds me. It makes me feel humble and grateful for all that I have.

  “I hate to think what would happen if we ever had to move,” grumbles Simona when we start to pack things away at the end.

  “We’re never going to move.” I heft a box of unopened crackers and start to head towards our rickety old van.

  We have a good group of shop and business owners here. Some businesses have folded over time, but we’ve held strong. The area was on its way down a few years ago—which was how I was able to buy the factory building outright, and then grants and funding helped me to set up the business. The buildings around here might look like eyesores from the outside, but inside they are solid. They might not have state-of-the-art interiors, but they are fully functional.

  The area has slowly been changing. Over the years, we’ve had our fair share of letters from big-ass property development companies wanting us to move. They’ve offered tempting compensation packages but they haven’t managed to persuade us.

  I have plans to expand—either by taking over another building close by if and when an existing business owner leaves, or we’ll go ahead and build a new factory.

  “One day we might get an offer that is too good to ignore,” says Fredrich as he lines the empty pots and containers into his pickup truck. With his six-foot-two frame, he has enough ink on his arms to print a book. He’s also the muscle of the company. I would be stuck without him especially because he’s the one who returns these items to the restaurants which were kind enough to donate food for tonight.

  I wave my hand, dismissing his comment.

  “But what would you do?” he asks.

  With my hands on my hips, I square off with him. “We’re not moving.” This part of the city is becoming more gentrified. It’s up and coming, and Redhill is positioned perfectly in the center of it all. “I’m going nowhere. We’re going nowhere. We’re staying put.”

  “And what about the ‘eminent domain’ issue you were worried about?” he asks.

  “Don’t worry about that.” I try to keep abreast of these things and am aware that the government can take private property and convert it for public use under certain circumstances as long as they offer us what they claim is fair compensation. Yeah, right. Fair compensation is anything but that.

  And, as far as I'm concerned, we're already doing things that benefit the public, though they don’t see it quite like that.

  We also have donors who are rich and famous, like Elias Cardoza, and Callum Sandersby, the Hollywood movie star his sister is dating. High-profile donors will rally to my cause if and when I need them. The eminent domain issue is a worry, but I try not to dwell on these things. Besides, with the business growing so fast, I have numerous other things to think about.

  “Have a little faith, Fredrich.” Simona brings over a box of napkins.

  “Kyra!” I turn at the sound of something calling me. One of the staffers raises his arm at me. A woman, someone I don’t recognize, stands next to him. “Do you have a moment?” he hollers and sends the woman over.

  I wipe my hands on my jeans in anticipation. The people who come here don’t usually ask for anything. They take their food, thank us, and leave.

  “Are you the woman who makes those blankets?” Her voice is louder and clearer than I am prepared for.

  “Yes.” I nod. “What can I do for you?”

  She looks bruised and battered, not physically, but in her stance. There’s a defeated look in her eyes. Her hunched body and tiny frame give me that tell-tale signal.

  “Do you …” she straightens herself up, growing an inch or two taller before my eyes. “Do you have any work? I need to work. I’ll even take less than minimum wage.”

  “I would never expect you to work for less than that.” Minimum wage is a joke as it is. She doesn’t look as if she’s living on the streets. She looks cleaner, her clothes aren’t as dirty or rumpled as they would be. Her hair looks brushed and yet she seems in a bad way. Desperation slips unmasked out of her eyes, even though the tilt of her chin tries so hard to prove otherwise.

  “We’re hiring all the time. What can you do?”

  “I can do anything. I’m a good learner. I can help in the factory. Or in the office. I’ll work anywhere you’ll have me. I’ll even clean if you want me to. I’m good with my hands and I can sew. With a little practice, I’ll be able to make those clothes and things you make.”

  She’s done her research. People on the streets or surviving in shelters during the night don’t have laptops and phones with which to find out such things. Many come to me with no idea of what we make, even though when we show them the products, many have heard of them. We have given out countless jackets and blankets.

  “Why don’t you come by tomorrow, and we can talk then?” I don’t recall seeing her in the line for people wanting food, and I wonder why she’s come to me now. “Did you … would you like some food to take back?” Wherever ‘back’ might be. The woman shakes her head. “I ate before I came.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Yvette.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Yvette. Take this.” I hand her my business card, just so that she’ll have my details, but there are also the numbers of the local shelters and soup kitchens on the back of it.

  She nods, and thanks me before slipping away into the night. Unless something goes badly awry tomorrow, I decide that I will take her on. I hope I don’t come to regret it.

  Chapter Three

  KYRA

  * * *

  I quirk an eyebrow at the screen. How is it that my inbox gets so full overnight? I leave the office late most days, making sure we’re still on target and have enough inventory. That is my main focus, but making sure I’ve dealt with my emails is one of the last things I do before I leave.

  I love what I do. It’s all good, but overwhelming, especially as the company has grown, and I’ve taken more staff on. I would take on a PA but I don’t want to waste money on things like that. Every penny needs to be spent on making other people’s lives better. I can live with being overwh
elmed and overworked. This isn’t a job to me. It’s my passion.

  Inviting the woman from last night for an interview is a slight deviation from the norm for me. We tend not to take people who approach us directly, rather, we prefer to see people who have been vetted and recommended to us from one of the social services departments. Yet she sought me out.

  That tells me she’s desperate, but also, perhaps, that she’s smart. That she’s proactive. That there’s more to her than meets the eye.

  A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.

  “Come in,” I holler.

  The door opens and the woman from last night from the homeless food session appears. “Hi.” She shuffles in, looking hesitant. “You said for me to come over.”

  “Hey, Yvette, isn’t it?” I rise up.

  “Is this a good time? I can come back later if you want.” She looks nervous.

  “This is perfect timing.”

  “Uh … I was just leaving.” Fredrich picks up his paper coffee cup and leaves. Simona is on the factory floor, doing the daily rounds and checking the products being made. With the small office now empty, I hold out my hand and Yvette shakes it, her thin, bony hand so fragile in mine. In the cold light of day, she looks frailer than I remember.

  “Take a seat.” I motion for her to sit down. “Would you like a drink? Something hot? Or cold?”

  She shakes her head.

  “So, you would like to work here?”

  She nods. I’m going to have to coax it out of her. So many of the people we employ have had difficult lives. Some have known hardship their entire life, and for others their lives fell apart after a major event. Getting laid off, discovering a partner was unfaithful, having a child or a partner die, has hit like a juggernaut, making them spiral and crash. Some turn to alcohol, some to drugs, some gamble, but all of them fall apart.

  I don’t know this woman’s story, but I can see she that she is desperate.

  “I have two children.” She stops and swallows. Her chest rises and dips, as if it takes a great deal of effort to try to keep it together. I force myself to remain quiet and listen. “I need to be able to take care of my children.”

  I nod. “Your husband …?”

  She blinks more than is normal, at that. “He’s not here. He won’t be able to … he can’t …”

  “He can’t what?” My voice is low, almost like a coaxing whisper.

  “He can’t touch us now.” She lifts her head. I see scars that I didn’t notice before. I thought they were lines, but there is a scar above her eyebrow, and one below her lip. I try not to stare, knowing that she might feel self-conscious, but already I have a picture of this woman’s life and struggle.

  It’s not advisable to hire people that I know nothing about, and this is a risk, because some vulnerable people can be paranoid, psychotic and a risk to others, as well as to themselves. Still, I cannot bring myself to turn her away.

  “Do you have experience? Have you worked anywhere before?”

  “I used to work in an office, but it was a long time ago. A long time …” Her voice trails away.

  She scratches her neck, and I notice more scars. She goes on to tell me that she lives in a women’s shelter, but now that her husband poses no danger, she has been given a small room in an apartment to help people like her.

  “Why does your husband pose no danger?” It’s a question I have to ask, even though it is obvious that any talk about her husband makes her uneasy.

  “He’d dead. Got beaten to death in prison.”

  Her reply stuns me, even after all the interviews I have conducted, I should be better prepared, but I’m not. Every one of these people have a story to tell, and each story is hard to comprehend. “I’m … I’m so sorry.” Though I suspect that she’s not. I ask her about the duties she used to perform, and the answers she gives me tell me that she is way more qualified than I first thought. That she is not who I thought she was. This woman, who was qualified to work in an office, now wants to work.

  By the end of our talk, I am suitably impressed enough to take her on. She says she can’t start today, but that she will be here first thing tomorrow morning. This will give me time to process her paperwork.

  Simona comes in just as Yvette leaves, and I introduce them both.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” Simona looks worried. “She didn’t come from the agency.”

  “She’s legit. She’s okay. She needs help.” I understand her concerns. I’ve broken my rule of not hiring directly, but my instinct tells me that Yvette is a desperate woman in need of help. I like to think we can give her that help.

  My mom was one of these women—not quite as desperate, there was no husband in prison, or dying. Just a cheating husband who walked out one day after his lover turned up on our doorstep in tears, and very visibly pregnant. My mom was a single mom who raised two daughters. She worked three jobs just to keep a roof over our heads and she could have benefited from something like this. That’s why I do it, why I’m driven to the point of being obsessed. Why I devote all my time and energy to Redhill, much to Simona’s annoyance.

  She thinks I should be spending time going out, having fun and meeting Mr. Right. At the age of twenty-eight, I’m not looking for Mr. Right because he doesn’t exist. My last boyfriend was a testament to that.

  I have people to help. My younger sister, Penny, is in college and that’s one thing taken care of.

  Between keeping her in college and running Redhill, there is no time for anything else.

  Chapter Four

  BRANDON

  * * *

  Billionaire undercover. That’s how I’ll do it. A Trojan horse into Kyra Lewis’ company. I’ll convince her, gently nudge her towards a decision, do what it takes to get her to see that relocating would be in her best interests.

  The idea is brilliant. So much so that I couldn’t even hold my attention at the art gallery yesterday. Luckily, Jessica was too busy showing art collectors around, and I was left to stare at paintings that a three-year-old chimpanzee would have created if he’d been given a bucket of paint.

  At least the champagne was flowing.

  When Emma walks in, I steeple my fingers together and stare at her, deep in contemplation.

  “What now?” She puts down the pile of daily newspapers.

  “Brad Hartley,” I state.

  She frowns. “Who’s he?”

  “My new alter ego.”

  Emma raises an eyebrow and I pick up one of the papers, pretending to glance at the headlines so that I can give Emma time to absorb this news. “What?” she cries.

  “You must have seen those reality TV shows?” I prompt. She stares back with a blank expression.

  “I’m going undercover like that, working for Kyra Lewis.”

  A tangle of lines forms on her otherwise smooth forehead. “But not to help her.”

  I smile, because she understands. “Of course not.”

  “I should leave,” she mumbles, her wrinkles deepening.

  “Hear me out.” If anyone will find holes in my idea, it will be Emma.

  “You’re obviously not going on a TV show.” Her dry response and the disapproval wedged into her lips tells me not only that she knows what I plan to do, but that she doesn’t approve.

  “Never.” I guard my privacy and am hardly ever seen in the press. “This is how I’ll get Kyra Lewis and her people, and all the other Greenways business owners to leave. I think it’s perfect.”

  She scoffs. “Only you would think of that.”

  “Persuading her to move is the easier option. This way I avoid the circus of a public hearing with all its hoops and legal tape to jump through.”

  “But it’s wrong,” she replies, her voice flat with weariness. Enamored she is not.

  “Do you have any idea how much money this deal will bring in? We’ll make millions. A heck of a lot more than Kyra Lewis and her outfit.”

  “She’s doing good work. She employs vulnerabl
e people from homeless shelters, victims of domestic abuse. She gives them a chance to rebuild their lives. The work that woman does has meaning.” And though she doesn’t say it, her death stare indicates that mine doesn’t.

  I press my lips together. I didn’t expect her to clap, but I expected her to be impressed. I’m going out on a limb here. Stepping out of my usual business-like domain. This is different for me. I’m thinking outside the box, but she doesn’t see any of that.

  “You putting that report together for me has turned you into her biggest fan.”

  “I can’t help but admire her,” Emma states. “Did you read any of it?”

  I cock my head and grimace. “I flicked through it.”

  She shakes her head. “How do you propose to go about this, given that you don’t fully understand her or her business?” she asks.

  “I don’t need to understand her. I just need to infiltrate her workplace. I’ll pretend I need a job. I’ll work for free, naturally, and then I’ll win her over with my charm.”

  Emma rolls her eyes. “It’s a crazy idea.”

  “But it will work.”

  “She’s smart. She won’t fall for your lines as easily as you think.”

  “I’ll tell her I have ideas. There will be holes I’ll have to fill. Things I haven’t thought of. I’ll make it up as I go.”

  “People aren’t stupid, Brandon. Even the ones you call ‘peasants.’” Her voice is almost a sneer. Sometimes I wonder if Emma hates me and is simply tolerating this job because the perks and salary are good. I’ve only used that term a few times. While I don’t consider someone like Kyra Lewis to be a peasant, everything I’ve read about her tells me she’s not Jessica Montrose, although I knew that already.

  Who the hell starts a business for the betterment of society instead of for the sole reason of making money? I will never understand people like her, but I don’t need to understand Lewis in order to get her to do the thing that need to be done; the things that will benefit me.