The Other Side of Greed Page 9

  This is crazy. It shouldn’t be allowed because it makes no financial sense. My plan for what I will do with this area is solid, and it will make money. Hers is a straitjacket of insanity.

  “It depends on what people want, what their passion is.”

  “Most people go through life not knowing what they want, and they certainly have no clue about passion.”

  “And some do.”

  “But you’re talking about the down-and-outs of society. Do you really think they would magically know about their passion, and what they want out of life?”

  At my lowest, it was food I had to forage for. For both of us. I forget to watch what I’m saying because I am so pissed off. That’s the difference between people like her and people like me. Kyra wastes money by investing in losers. I don’t.

  Her soft and friendly post-Cardoza demeanor hardens in an instant. “Down-and-outs? Is that what you think of them?” She looks more pissed than I’ve ever seen her; hands on hips even though she doesn’t have the height or body to make a strong stance.

  She’s trying, though. I have to give her that.

  “I want to empower people to take control of their lives and to fend for themselves,” she snaps.

  “These people are happy for handouts.”

  “Is that what you think?” The rage inside her combusts and she looks more pissed than I’ve ever seen her. She looks as if she’d like to take a swing at me with a baseball bat. “These people want a better start for themselves and their families. Like many of us do. I don’t understand how you can’t see that.”

  “Because it makes no sense.”

  “You have no empathy, no compassion,” she rages. Her eyes fire up like angry flames in a furnace.

  I’m a businessman and I know better. It’s not what I say to her, of course. I try to level with her. “You have to be careful because if people don’t know the basics of running a business, of knowing their profit and loss, of keeping costs down, and especially if they haven’t had to pour their hard-earned money into something, they won’t care as much as you do.”

  Her brows push together. She’s not taking the bait. “We’re done for now.” She dismisses me with a nod of her chin, quickly.

  I grab my chair and walk it back to my desk. “This is … this is a great piece of land you have here. It has potential,” I concede. “All I’m saying is that not everyone is as smart and as determined as you.”

  “Don’t try to flatter me.”

  “I wasn’t trying to.” I bite down on my teeth because she pushes my buttons, and unlike Emma, I can’t give her a dismissive nod or tell her to leave because I am not in charge. This is her domain.

  Chapter Sixteen

  KYRA

  * * *

  “That man annoys the hell out of me. I can’t stand him. He’s a ... He’s a ... UGH.” I stamp my foot like a child having a tantrum. I’ve come to check on Fredrich. It’s also because I need to vent my fury, because I’ve just finished telling him about my conversation with Brad earlier today.

  “Whoa.” Fredrich leans back on the couch, his arm still in a sling, resting on his thigh. “He really gets to you.”

  “I was trying to be nice. I thought I’d let him in on our vision and future plans to see what he thought of it.”

  Fredrich blows out a loud breath, but he doesn’t say anything, and that irritates me even more.

  “Don’t you agree?” I press him for an answer. “He doesn’t see our vision. He thinks that letting vulnerable people open their own businesses is a waste of time and money. This surprises me because I would have expected him to be more understanding given that he helped people when he was on his travels. There’s a disconnect between what he says and what he does.”

  “Have you been watching him closely the entire time?” Fredrich runs his good hand through his hair. I don’t like the way he hesitates, as if he’s trying to find an excuse for Brad’s behavior, for his point of view, for who he is. “You can be quite scary at times.”

  “Me? You think I’d make Brad Hartley scared?” This is ridiculous.

  “Maybe he hasn’t seen first-hand what a difference Redhill has made because he hasn’t seen how people have benefitted. We know, because we’ve seen our employees’ lives transform. He hasn’t had that vantage point. If he doesn’t know what people are capable of, then you can’t blame him for being ignorant.”

  Fredrich has a point. Part of the reason I do what I do is because transforming people’s lives brings me such a sense of accomplishment. It gives me immense joy to know that someone who lived in fear of her husband, and could barely look me in the eye when talking to me, is now one of our model employees and a team leader. I’ve seen this many times over.

  “But he was convinced that we’d be wasting our time and money setting up small business units.”

  “You told him about that?”

  “I told him about that. Simona told me to be nice, so I was being nice, or so I thought, by sharing our future vision.”

  “He’s only been with us for a few days, Kyra. Give the guy a chance. Have his references checked out?”

  “I only got one. His resume looked good.”

  “Maybe it’s something else then.” Fredrich looks at me oddly.

  “What?”

  “I sense a love-hate thing going on between you both.”

  “Oh, for the love of all things sparkly. Not you too.”

  He roars with laughter. “Who else has noticed?”

  “Please stop.” I place my palms together, prayer-like, and point them at him. “Please.”

  “Simona?” he guesses.

  “Who else?” The woman has come to see it as a personal crusade, trying to get me paired up.

  “You have been more uptight than usual,” Fredrich comments.

  We are not going to have this conversation. “He’s bossy. Don’t you find him to be bossier than our usual hires?” I say this having observed Brad for a few days. He has an air about him that is not submissive, but more dominant.

  Fredrich considers this. “You have to remember that he was in a different industry before, working with start-ups in San Jose. This is probably his first time working for a nonprofit.”

  “He does have a way about him. Like he wants to be in charge,” I challenge. I can’t explain it in words. “Maybe it’s a man thing.”

  “A. Man. Thing?” Fredrich rests his plastered arm on his lap. “Which reminds me, I’ll be fine and back to work in time for Elias’s fight event. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ve been taking care of everything.”

  Elias’s fight. I haven’t thought about it at all. We have an event organized for the night of Elias’s next fight against Trent Garrison, the guy Elias first won the title from, and then subsequently lost the rematch to.

  It was Fredrich’s idea to have some sort of bigger food night on the night of the fight. We’re having a big screen put up, and more food, and security. It’s our way of making the fight accessible to people who ordinarily might not get a chance to see it, but it’s also a way of doing our bit to support Elias after all the support he has given us. All of it has been genuine and under the radar rather than for the benefit of the TV cameras.

  This is why I need people like Fredrich in my team. Even when he’s not fully able-bodied, he’s still pulling his weight.

  I get up to leave. “This is why I want you rested and well, so that you can run with this when you get back.”

  “We’ll still need all hands on deck.”

  “Everyone at the factory is pitching in that night.”

  “And our newest recruit?” Fredrich asks. “Will he be there?”

  I roll my eyes. “I haven’t told him yet. I suppose I should.”

  “Yeah, damn right you should. It’s a big event for us.” Fredrich gets up and sees me to the door. “I’m definitely getting the love-hate vibe.”

  “You’re delusional.” There’s definitely a hate vibe effect going on. Brad Hartley ha
s opinions and a way about him that borders on presumptive.

  Chapter Seventeen

  BRANDON

  * * *

  What the fuck am I doing here? This is the question I ask myself as I walk up the stairs a few days later. Going undercover, putting up with this ploy when I could so easily strongarm my way in and get my hands on the land. I could serve my interests better that way. I have the

  means and the contacts, and the ear of certain city officials.

  But as I peruse my cell phone to check for the local news, I’m reminded why I’m going in stealth mode. I find myself staring at a photo of Kyra and the rest of the crew. The write-up is glowing. Kyra is portrayed as an angel. The savior of this city. The Mother Teresa who empowers these people to rise up and fend for themselves.

  This is why I’m undercover. Because when it comes down to me—a businessman and the face of capitalism, someone who wants to make more money—versus her, I’ll be labeled as the greedy capitalist pig. I will lose to the good people of this city who will hate me and what I stand for. Getting into a fight with Kyra, in a blaze of publicity, means I will lose.

  I have absolutely no problem with greed, or making lots of money, but going into an open fight with someone like her would damage my reputation in the eyes of the many who live in the city.

  It sucks that many people have morals.

  After mumbling a ‘Good morning’ to both women, I stroll over to my desk. Simona tells me she has some things for me to do. Paperwork, light work, she reassures me with a friendly smile, and then she makes small talk, asking me how my evening was, and how I’m settling in.

  Kyra sits at her desk, her eyes on her screen, looking extremely focused. Or maybe she’s trying damn hard to block me out. I can’t even recall if she acknowledged my morning greeting.

  For the rest of the day, I don’t hear a peep out of her, and she’s in and out of the room, checking on things on the factory floor. I’ve watched her from a distance, and she has good rapport with her staff. She knows them all by name, from what I’ve seen. I barely know people outside of Neville, Emma and my management team.

  “She’ll be okay,” Simona says, after she catches me eyeing Kyra leaving the room. “You’re like bulls in a ring, you two, locking heads over everything.”

  “I was offering my opinion.”

  Simona tilts her head. “She has a vision, and she’s passionate about what we do here. You didn’t need to rip it to shreds.”

  I’m flabbergasted at this. “I didn’t rip it to shreds.” I didn’t come across that strongly, did I? I recall trying to rein in my response, because no matter which way you look at it, her idea and her vision are nothing short of crazy.

  “You did.”

  I rub my neck. “I didn’t mean to.” So, that’s why she’s mad at me. That’s why I’m getting the silent treatment.

  It’s food night again and, unfortunately, Fredrich is still away. It’s going to be a hard night with more lifting and carrying and back-breaking work. I wish Fredrich would hurry up and get well and return.

  Simona leaves at the end of the day and informs me that she will be back later to help set up. Kyra is nowhere to be seen and when I ask, Simona tells me she’s gone to a meeting and she’ll come back later.

  There’s no point me going home, or to my office, and then returning later. I sit around, checking business emails on my cell phone and dealing with any urgent concerns relating to Hawks Enterprises.

  A short while later, Kyra walks in. “Can you help unload the food from the van?”

  “You already got it? Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come with you.”

  “I managed.”

  Clearly, she has, and she also wants to keep her distance from me. I get up and help her. She’s distant the entire night, even when we set up the tables and get everything out.

  The food line is longer than last time and even though Kyra seems to be at home in this filthy environment, I shudder to think what Jessica or Neville would say if they could see me now.

  I watch her as she moves around quickly from table to table, making sure everything is running smoothly.

  At seven o’clock on the dot, we start serving. I look at the bedraggled faces of the people expectantly waiting for food, but I see something I wasn’t expecting, something I didn’t take notice of the last time. They’re happy, grateful when we hand over boxes filled with food. They pass along the line, murmuring their thanks, saying ‘God Bless’, smiling.

  It’s alien to me, that they have anything to smile about. The rest of the evening passes in a blur. I rush from the van to the tables, refilling empty serving containers, and getting things out of the store room as and when needed.

  I’m about to walk out of the storeroom with a box of plastic cups when Yvette’s two kids stare at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Mommy said to get some napkins,” the girl answers. The boy looks at me silently.

  Jesus. Why is their mother allowing them to help out at something like this? “Take this.” I shove the box at them. It’s light and they can manage. “I’ll get the napkins.”

  I’m going to have a word with Kyra about this. Kids shouldn’t be allowed to help. Isn’t it late for them? Don’t they have homework or things to do?

  I go back outside and hand the napkins over to Yvette. I think better of saying what I had intended, and walk back to see if anything else needs refilling, and when everything seems fine for now, I take a moment and step back, and watch.

  I was too young to know if something like this existed when I was a child, but we would have benefitted from this. I wouldn’t have had to rummage through trashcans whenever we went hungry. I shake my head, hating that this thought has bubbled up from nowhere.

  As the queue of people dwindles to nothing, and the area starts to empty, the cleanup begins. Like everyone else, I get on with it, not needing to be told.

  “I can help you take stuff back to the restaurants,” I offer when Kyra walks by carrying a large pot.

  “Think you can handle it?”

  “I can handle it.”

  We load up and get into the van. The silence swells like a huge balloon as she drives.

  “How long are you going to be mad at me for?” I’m assuming that this is due to me ‘ripping her idea to shreds,’ yesterday, which is what Simona said I did.

  She glances at me. “Sorry, what?”

  “You haven’t said a word to me all day. I’m sorry if my blunt assessment of your plans for Redhill offended you.”

  “I am mad at you, but your opinion is your opinion. It doesn’t affect me. I couldn’t care less what you think because I’m still going to do what I had planned.”

  “As in create those units for people who—”

  “Yes. Exactly that,” she cuts in.

  I look out of the window. This isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Sitting here with Kyra, knowing her future vision, and knowing that I’m going to trample all over it. I feel a pang of an emotion I am not familiar with. Regret, or shame, I’m not sure which. It just feels odd. I’m not supposed to care about the effects of my actions, and yet I find myself thinking about what I’m doing. Getting to know her and Simona, and the rest of these people, and what they do, is having an odd effect on me.

  “We have different opinions,” she says. “I’ve met many people who have your views, and equally, I’ve met many who share my views. We’re just different people, you and I.”

  She’s right about that. We are so different.

  “The kids. Yvette's kids,” I say, finding the silence uncomfortable.

  “What about them?”

  “They were helping out. Why is that even allowed?”

  “Because they want to help out. Do you have a problem with that?” she asks.

  I do. I have a big problem with that. It's bad enough remembering things, without having those kids in my face. “Don't they have things to do?”

  “Like what? After schoo
l activities? Do you think their mom can afford childcare and have someone keep an eye on them while she comes here?”

  I hadn't thought of that, and it's not my fault. I don't know how these people live.

  I can feel the fury burning inside Kyra. Even though I'm not even looking at her face, I'm become a sensitive barometer of her moods.

  “Sorry I asked,” I say, my tone sulkier than I intended.

  We return everything to the restaurants and then head back to the factory. The doors are still open and I follow her as she heads into the storeroom. A few employees are clearing up and they soon leave.

  It’s just me and Kyra.

  I am so tired, and I have no idea how this tiny slip of a woman does this and then continues with the day-to-day work as well. I lean against the wall, waiting for her to give the storeroom her final seal of approval. I’m almost tempted to ask her how she does this.

  “All done,” she says, heading out. She waits for me so that she can lock up.

  “How come you do this on top pf the core business that Redhill is known for, sewing the jackets and blankets?”

  “This? You mean the food nights?” She locks up the factory.

  “It's extra stuff that you have to do. It's almost like a part-time job on the side.”

  “You obviously don't approve but my mom worked hard all her life, to keep a roof over our heads.”

  “Our?”

  “My sister and me.”

  “You have a sister?” This is something new and personal I'm learning about her.

  “Penny. She's at college.” We stand awkwardly by the door, neither of us moving. She's opening up to me, and even more surprising, I want to know about her. “And this? The food night? Why?”

  “My mom used to take us to make sure we helped out when we could, at soup kitchens and at events like these. It's giving back, that's all it is.”

  “You don't owe anyone anything.”

  “I don't see it as owing anyone,” she replies, testily. “When my mom died, nine years ago, from pneumonia, I didn't stop doing this.”