Chapter 4 - The Foreclosure of Frank Gellar
"No! Wait! Please, Mr. Vance!" Frank Gellar shrieked, collapsing entirely onto his knees on the frozen, slush-covered asphalt.
He didn't care about the cold seeping through his polyester trousers; he crawled forward two feet, his hands outstretched in pathetic, desperate supplication toward the billionaire’s worn boots.
"You can’t do that! That note has an eighteen-month grace period! My house is cross-collateralized on the pump equipment! I’ll lose everything! My wife, my land—"
"Under Section 12 of the Mid-States Franchise Charter," Harold Cross recited from memory, his tone clinical, dry, and devoid of human feeling, "the primary creditor retains unilateral authority to demand immediate capital acceleration in the event of gross moral negligence, public endangerment, or willful degradation of the corporate brand. You stood on this apron, Gellar, and threatened to let an elderly motorist freeze to death on a state highway over nineteen dollars of regular unleaded."
"I didn't know who you were!" Frank sobbed, tears cutting clean tracks through the tobacco grime on his cheeks. "I swear to God, Mr. Vance, I thought you were just a bum! I thought you were a vagrant from the rail yards!"
"That," Arthur Vance said, stepping backward so that the hem of his coat cleared Gellar’s reaching fingers, "is precisely your crime, Frank. You believe that respect is a commodity reserved only for people who can write checks. You believe that poverty gives you the license to be a beast."
Arthur Vance looked down at the company jacket Jake had folded neatly over the concrete barrier.
"You told this boy that he was fired for showing basic human decency," Arthur continued softly. "You threatened to withhold his final wages for uniform laundering. You wanted to make him pay for thirty dollars of missing shop supplies."
Arthur turned to one of the security operatives standing beside the Escalade. "Operative Davis."
"Sir."
"Escort Mr. Gellar into his office. Supervise him while he packs his personal belongings into a cardboard box. Change the electronic deadbolts on the front entrance, seize the cash register drawers, and post the formal foreclosure notice on the plate glass. He has twelve minutes to clear this property."
"Yes, Mr. Vance."
The two six-foot-two operatives moved with terrifying, synchronized speed. They hauled the weeping, broken manager to his feet by his armpits, marching him toward the station office with the unhurried efficiency of guards leading a condemned man to a cell.
The apron went quiet, save for the whistling gale and the steady, low-frequency hum of the Cadillac engines.
Arthur Vance turned his gaze toward Jake Miller.
Jake was still standing by Pump Four, shivering violently in his thin gray sweatshirt, his arms tucked tight against his ribs, staring at the old man with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"Jake," Arthur said gently.
"Sir... I... I don't know what to say," Jake whispered, his teeth chattering so hard he could barely form the syllables.
"You don't have to say anything, son," Arthur replied. He unbuttoned his heavy charcoal overcoat, slipped it off his shoulders, and walked forward, draping the thick, warm wool around Jake’s shivering frame.
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The coat was heavy, smelling faintly of cedar, wool, and the crisp winter air, but the heat radiating from the fabric was instantaneous, sinking deep into Jake’s frozen chest.
"Get in the car, Jake," Arthur said, resting a heavy, warm hand on the boy’s shoulder. "Your mother is already being picked up by our medical transport team in DeKalb. We have an executive boardroom to clean in Chicago, and I need an assistant who knows how to measure the value of a dollar."
