Chapter 15 - The Reckoning at the Georgian Club
The Georgian Club sat on the top floor of the tallest glass tower on Peachtree Street
a private sanctum where Atlanta’s oldest money drank scotch
bought politicians
and decided the fate of real estate developments over crystal decanters.
At eleven-forty-five on a Tuesday night
the dining room was nearly empty
save for a corner table overlooking the glittering lights of Midtown.
Raymond Mason sat alone beneath a massive oil painting of an antebellum plantation.
A bottle of fifty-year-old Macallan sat on the silver tray beside his glass.
His phone was on the linen tablecloth
silent.
His fingers tapped rhythmically against the gold handle of his malacca cane.
He was checking his gold watch every forty seconds
his arrogance slowly curdling into raw
visceral anxiety.
The heavy brass doors of the private dining room swung open.
The maître d’ stepped backward
his hands raised in protest
his face pale with alarm.
“Sir
you cannot enter with that equipment—the club dress code strictly prohibits—”
The maître d’ stopped dead.
Frank walked through the foyer
his wet duster hanging open
revealing the security badge that granted him unrestricted access to every corporate level of the Mason Holdings corporation.
Behind him
the whisper-quiet electric motor of my customized titanium wheelchair purred against the thick Persian runner.
I rolled into the room
wearing a tailored black three-piece suit
my tie pinned with a single pearl that had belonged to my mother.
Beside me walked Megan Foster.
She did not wear an apron.
She wore a simple
elegant navy wool coat that Nancy had tailored for her in two hours.
Her hair was swept back into a neat chignon
her posture regal
her chin held high.
Raymond’s glass slipped from his fingers.
The scotch splashed across the pristine white linen
the crystal shattering against the silver edge of the centerpiece.
He scrambled to his feet
his cane slipping on the polished hardwood
his face turning the color of curdled milk.
“Dominic?” Raymond gasped
his voice cracking.
“What… what is the meaning of this?”
I stopped my chair six feet from his table.
Frank pulled out a chair for Megan.
She sat down with deliberate
unhurried grace
resting her hands on the table
her eyes boring into Raymond like twin laser sights.
“Tyler Vance sends his regards
Uncle,” I said
my voice echoing off the vaulted mahogany ceiling.
Raymond’s eyes darted frantically toward the double doors
looking for the private security detail he had paid twenty thousand dollars to guard the floor.
“They aren’t coming
Raymond,” Frank said from the doorway
his arms crossed over his chest.
“Your two off-duty sergeants were picked up in the parking deck by the Georgia Bureau of Investigation ten minutes ago.
It turns out carrying unregistered automatic weapons into a private club is considered a federal infraction.”
Raymond collapsed back into his chair
his chest heaving
his hands clutching the gold top of his cane like a drowning man grasping a splintered plank.
“You… you have nothing on me
Dominic,” Raymond stammered
trying to rebuild his shattered facade of Southern aristocracy.
“A break-in at your house?
A disgruntled ex-boyfriend?
You cannot tie that gutter trash to me!
I am a senior partner at Mason Capital!
I sit on the board of the Symphony!
I am a pillar of this community!”
Megan reached into the leather portfolio she had carried under her arm.
She laid three objects on the linen cloth between Raymond’s spilled drink and his silver butter knife.
The first was an audio micro-cassette
dated August 14
2006.
The second was a carbon copy of a cashier’s check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars
signed by Raymond Mason
payable to an accelerant supplier in East Point.
The third was an affidavit
signed forty minutes ago by Tyler Vance and witnessed by the deputy chief of the Atlanta Police Department.
Raymond stared at the items.
His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.
“Where… where did you find that cassette?” he whispered
his voice reduced to a dry rattle.
“Julian didn't burn everything
Raymond,” Megan said
her voice cold enough to freeze water.
“He left this tape with a bank manager in Savannah
with instructions to mail it to the state attorney general if he ever died under suspicious circumstances.
The bank manager held it for six years because Julian didn't have the money to pay the box rental.
Dominic paid the back rent an hour ago.”
Raymond looked from Megan to me
the final realization of his complete
irreversible ruin sinking into his soul.
“Arthur would have ruined us
Dominic!” Raymond pleaded
tears of pure self-pity welling in his red-rimmed eyes.
“Your father was going to divide the shipping line!
He was going to give half to that bastard child!
A boy born from a teenage mistake!
I built this empire with Arthur!
I bled for this family!”
“You didn't bleed for this family
Raymond,” I said
my voice dropping into a register of absolute
unforgiving finality.
“You fed on it like a parasite.
You murdered my father.
You stole twenty years of my life.
And you tried to butcher my grandson for a seat at this table.”
I turned my chair toward the panoramic window
looking out over the sea of Atlanta lights
the city that had feared the name Mason for three generations.
“The board has already met
Raymond,” I said without looking back.
“An emergency resolution was passed at eleven-fifteen.
You have been stripped of all executive authority.
Your shares have been frozen under the civil forfeiture provisions of the RICO statute.
And Detective Harris is waiting downstairs in the lobby with six uniformed officers.”
Raymond slumped forward
his forehead hitting the edge of the mahogany table
a broken
pathetic shell of a man whose twenty-year empire of lies had just turned to ash.
Megan stood up.
She walked over to my chair
rested her hand firmly on my shoulder
and looked down at Raymond with a quiet
devastating contempt.
“Julian’s son will sleep in his own bed tonight
Raymond,” she said.
“In the house you tried to burn down.
And every time you look through the iron bars of your cell in Jackson
you remember that a twenty-two-dollar-an-hour cleaner took your name
your money
and your life away from you.”
She turned to me
her eyes softening into something warm
deep
and unbreakable.
“Let’s go home
Dominic,” she whispered.
I looked up at her
reached up
and covered her fingers with mine.
May you like
“Yes,” I answered
my voice clearer than it had been in two decades.
