Jake smiled sadly.
“Apparently a lot.”
Henry studied him.
Something changed in his expression.
The weakness remained.
The worn clothing remained.
But his eyes became sharper.
More awake.
He reached inside his navy coat.
Michael watched suspiciously.
Henry removed a sleek black smartphone.
Jake blinked.
It looked strangely modern in the old man's trembling hand.
Henry unlocked it.
Called someone.
The other person answered almost immediately.
Henry said:
“He gave me his dinner.”
Silence.
He listened.
Then:
“Bring my attorneys.”
Michael's expression changed.
Henry ended the call.
Nobody spoke.
Jake stared at him.
“Your attorneys?”
Henry placed the phone beside his plate.
“Yes.”
Michael recovered first.
“Sir, if this is some kind of threat—”
“It isn't.”
“Then what exactly is happening?”
Henry picked up his fork again.
“I'd like to finish my dinner.”
Michael stared.
Outside, headlights appeared through the rain-covered windows.
One black SUV.
Then another.
Then a third.
They stopped beneath the hotel's entrance canopy.
Jake looked outside.
Men and women in dark coats emerged.
Not bodyguards.
Not celebrities.
Professional-looking people carrying leather cases.
Henry continued eating.
Michael looked from the vehicles to the old man.
For the first time that evening, uncertainty appeared on his face.
“Who are you?”
Henry chewed slowly.
Swallowed.
Then wiped his mouth with the napkin Jake had brought him.
“My name is Henry Brooks.”
Michael frowned.
The name meant something.
He couldn't remember why.
A woman seated nearby suddenly turned toward her husband.
“Brooks?”
Her husband whispered:
“No way.”
Michael heard.
Then the restaurant's assistant director hurried through the lobby.
He looked terrified.
“Mr. Grant.”
Michael turned.
The assistant director leaned close and whispered something into his ear.
Jake watched the color disappear from Michael's face.
Michael slowly looked back at Henry.
“No.”
Henry continued eating.
Michael whispered:
“Henry Brooks?”
The old man looked up.
“Yes.”
Michael's voice barely worked.
“Brooks Hospitality?”
Jake frowned.
Henry gave no answer.
The main entrance opened.
A tall woman in a dark coat entered with three attorneys behind her.
She walked directly toward Table Seventeen.
“Mr. Brooks.”
Henry nodded.
“Rachel.”
She looked at Jake.
Then Michael.
“We came as quickly as possible.”
Henry pointed toward the empty chair.
“Sit.”
Rachel sat.
Henry took another bite.
Then asked:
“Do we still own this building?”
Michael looked as though someone had struck him.
Rachel answered calmly:
“Yes, sir.”
Jake stopped breathing.
Henry looked around the restaurant.
The walnut walls.
The marble.
The chandeliers.
The guests.
Then his eyes returned to Jake.
“Good.”
He placed his fork down.
“Because I think we have a problem.”
Jake didn't know what was happening.
Michael did.
Henry Brooks had founded Brooks Hospitality forty-three years earlier.
The Beaumont Grand was not merely managed by the company.
The property itself belonged to a holding company Henry controlled.
For decades, his name had appeared in business magazines.
Then, six years earlier, Henry disappeared from public life.
He resigned as chairman.
Stopped giving interviews.
Stopped attending openings.
Stopped appearing at board meetings.
Some people believed he had dementia.
Others believed he was dying.
A few claimed he had moved overseas.
Michael had never met him.
He had only seen photographs.
Old photographs.
Henry had looked different then.
Healthy.
Clean-shaven.
Expensive suits.
Confident.
The man at Table Seventeen looked like somebody sleeping in bus stations.
Michael stared.
“Mr. Brooks, I didn't recognize you.”
Henry answered:
“I noticed.”
Michael swallowed.
“If I had known—”
Henry's eyes hardened.
There it was.
The sentence that changed everything.
“If you had known.”
Michael realized his mistake too late.
Henry leaned back.
“That boy didn't know.”
He pointed toward Jake.
“He thought I had nothing.”
Silence.
“And he fed me anyway.”
Michael looked down.
Henry continued.
“You thought I had nothing.”
He paused.
“And you wanted me removed.”
Michael tried to speak.
“Sir, that's not—”
Henry lifted one hand.
“No.”
The restaurant became completely silent.
“You're going to tell me exactly what it was.”
Michael looked around.
Dozens of guests were watching.
Henry said:
“Not for them.”
He pointed toward himself.
“For me.”
Michael breathed slowly.
“I believed you were trespassing.”
“Was I disturbing anyone?”
“No.”
“Threatening anyone?”
“No.”
“Demanding free food?”
“No.”
“Then what was the problem?”
Michael hesitated.
Henry waited.
Finally Michael said:
“You looked like you didn't belong here.”
Henry nodded.
“That's the answer.”
Jake watched him.
There was no triumph in Henry's expression.
Only sadness.
Rachel opened a folder.
“Mr. Brooks, should we contact the board?”
Henry shook his head.
“Not yet.”
Then he looked at Jake.
“What happens to you now?”
Jake blinked.
“What?”
“You were fired.”
“I'll find another job.”
“You sound confident.”
“I'm trying to.”
“Rent?”
Jake didn't answer.
Henry understood.
“Family?”
Jake hesitated.
“My sister.”
“How old?”
“Sixteen.”
“You support her?”
“Mostly.”