Within seconds, half the courtyard was applauding the dirty old biker. Same people who'd been laughing at him 15 minutes before. Travis didn't acknowledge it. He found the sound almost as distasteful as the laughing had been, because it was the same instinct, the herd turning to face the new winner.
He raised a hand, and the clapping died. "Don't," Travis said. "You laughed when you thought he was right. Now you're clapping because you think I'm right."
"You're not better than him. You're just better at reading the room." He let that land. "Real respect isn't a thing you give the powerful."
"Any coward can do that. Real respect is a thing you give a stranger before you know whether he can do anything for you. That's the whole game. That's the only thing that's ever mattered."
The courtyard went silent again, and this time it was a chastened silence. The silence of 60 wealthy people who had just been told something true about themselves that they did not enjoy hearing. Then from the edge of the crowd, a voice spoke up, young, nervous, but steady. "Mr. Reed."
Travis turned. It was the security guard, the kid, Marcus, 24, the one who'd shifted on his feet and looked like he wanted to say something and hadn't dared. "Yes, son." Marcus swallowed hard.
He was clearly terrified to be speaking at all with everyone watching, with his manager standing right there. "I just... I want to say for the record, when you first pulled in, before any of this, I was the one who pointed you toward the guest lot, and I offered to watch your bike." He glanced at Pruitt, then back.
"I didn't know who you were, either. I just... My dad rode. He passed last year, and I saw your bike and I just thought... I thought that's somebody's somebody."
"You know, everybody's somebody to someone." He went red. "That's all. Sorry. I'll go back to my post."
Travis looked at the kid for a long moment. "What's your name?" "Marcus, sir. Marcus Bell."
"Marcus." Travis nodded slowly. "You offered to watch my bike." "Yes, sir."
"Before you knew I owned the place." "I didn't know, sir. I had no idea." "That's the point, son."
Travis turned to the attorney. "Daniel." "Mr. Reed." "What's a club general manager make? Salary, full package, the whole thing?"
Daniel didn't miss a beat. He'd worked for the man long enough to see where this was going. "Depends on the property. For one of this size, somewhere north of two hundred." "Good."
Travis looked at Gerald Pruitt, whose face had gone slack with dawning horror. "Gerald, you're done. Effective right now. Collect your things and turn in your badge to Daniel on the way out."