"Hey, boss," said Poindexter Perry.
"Dex," Declan said, as he stepped up onto the covered front porch.
The sound of a raised voice with a Boston accent erupted from behind Perry. "I told him to take it easy this time," Perry said in his deep baritone voice.
"Why don't you have a look around the place with Dex while I go and straighten this out? The back rooms could use a woman's touch," Declan said to Constance.
"How do you do, Ma'am?" Dex said, tipping the edge of his white painters cap.
"Fine, Dex. Thanks for asking. How are Sherri and the girls?" Declan heard her say with a smile in her voice as he stepped away towards the basement stairwell.
Inside, the house looked like it was two different properties. To the left of the basement stairwell, which marked the center of the house, the one story ranch's bedrooms, bathroom and floors had been completely remodeled with new carpet, paint, tile and fixtures. To the right of the steps, where the kitchen and living area were located, were bare wooden subfloors, exposed support beams and loose drywall, covered with a thick layer of settled construction dust. Like all of the properties DCM worked with, this one had been bought out of foreclosure and they were now in the process of remodeling it into commercial office space so that it could be leased out.
"Hey, listen to me," a loud voice said from in the basement. "Hear the words that are coming out of my mouth. I'm not replacing an entire electrical panel because of a little bit of rust. There's no water in here. Do you see any water?"
Declan shook his head and descended the basement stairs. The aged wood creaked underneath his weight and the two men standing in the unfinished room looked up as he reached the bottom. Standing in front of an open electrical panel in the musty smelling room was Brendan Regan, an overweight man with a clumsy cluster of blonde hair, a beer gut hanging over his belt and a lopsided expression that gave him the look of a fat kid in an ice cream shop faced with an impossible number of choices. Regan's six foot frame towered over the building inspector in front of him, a stout man in a blue denim shirt with receding gray hair and a bushy mustache.
"Hi, I'm Declan McIver. I'm the principal for DCM Properties," Declan said, extending his right hand toward the inspector.
"Howard Terry, Mr. McIver. Lynchburg City Planning and Zoning," the man said, as they shook hands. "Your subordinate here was just telling me you have no plans to replace the electric in this house, but I'm afraid the city is going to require an update before we can issue a certificate of occupancy."
"I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. We just started this project a few weeks ago. What are we dealing with?"
"Well, this desk jockey here says the whole thing has to come out because it's rusted," Regan said. "But the only rust I see is the quarter-sized spot there. Here, I'll scratch it off."
"Easy, Brendan," Declan said. "We're all professionals here."
"Professionals, my big ass; he's a hack."
"That's enough. Mr. Terry's with the city and if we're going to be successful in expanding our business to Lynchburg we need to listen to what he has to say. Why don't you wait upstairs while we finish up down here?"
"Fine, you want to kiss his ass, you kiss his ass," Regan said, as he pushed his way between Declan and the inspector and headed for the steps mumbling, “Stupid desk riding bureaucrat."
Declan watched the inspector as Regan climbed the steps, the man's eyes followed him with a disapproving glare.
Declan flashed a smile as the inspector looked back at him. "I've raised him since he was thirty," he said, with a short chuckle as he bent down to take a closer look at the electrical panel. Pulling a multi-tool out of his back pocket, he opened it and produced a Phillips head screwdriver. After loosening four screws, he pulled the face off the junction box at the bottom of the panel. Rust colored water slopped out of the bottom of the box and spilled onto the floor.
"There's your problem, Mr. Terry, ground water," Declan said, pulling out a fistful of hastily taped wiring. "We'll install a new watertight conduit and a NEMA-4 junction box. Think that'll get us a C.O.?"
Terry nodded. "Yeah, that'll do."
"Thank you, sir," Declan said, as he stood and shook hands with the inspector again. "Let me give you one of my cards. My cell number is on there if you run into anymore issues."
Terry took the card and withdrew one of his own from his pocket. "I'll be by for a final inspection when you're done remodeling," he said, handing his card over.
Declan nodded and followed the building inspector up the basement steps. As the man left the house and closed the front door behind him, Declan turned and looked into the kitchen. Constance sat uncomfortably on an upturned five gallon bucket, with Regan and Dex standing nearby, Regan grinning ear to ear as he attempted to position himself at just the right angle to get a view down her shirt. Declan grinned as she flashed Regan an annoyed look and pulled her jacket closed.
"You about ready, then?" Declan asked.
Constance jumped to her feet and said, “Yes, very much so."
"Dex, good work man," Declan said, as he opened the door for his wife. "I'll be round Monday to help you secure the back deck. Regan, try not to bring the entire city council down on us in the meantime, will you?"
Regan grumbled a response as Declan closed the door.
"You're fired," Constance mouthed inaudibly from outside the house.
Declan flashed a smile. "He works cheap," he said, as he put his arm around her and led her back to the car. "Let's get to the hotel and get checked in."
Chapter Five
By six o'clock a light rain had begun to fall. Arriving at the campus, Declan followed the directions of the orange-vested parking attendants and pulled into a spot just big enough for his wife's sports car. They'd chosen to drive her car rather than his truck for that exact reason. College campuses weren't known for spacious parking and the crowd expected for the night's event would exacerbate the problem.
Opening the door and exiting the vehicle, he looked south along Candler's Mountain Road. He could tell security was tight, just as he had expected it would be. White SUVs with flashing LED lights blocked entrances and men in navy blue security uniforms stood at the edges of every sidewalk, .40 caliber Glock sidearms visible on their hips. Opening the door for his wife, he waited as she stepped out of the car.
In the distance the indignant shouts of a group of protestors could be heard from a sidewalk just beyond the Campus limits, but in full view of the arriving guests. Some things haven't changed, thought Declan. Like many others who vocally supported America and Israel from their platforms as authors and speakers, Abaddon Kafni was a target of constant protests. Signs reading Free Palestine and Occupation Is A Crime were waved defiantly in the air as chants of “Stop Israeli aggression!” were shouted loudly at anyone who came within fifty yards of the group. The people taking part in the protest were likely the same ones who would protest the appearance of war veterans, members of a Republican administration and conservative personalities, all of whom frequently appeared at the university's many venues.
"Does Kafni always travel with this much security?" Constance asked, as they wormed their way between parked cars towards the path leading to the front entrance.
"No, I don't think so," Declan answered. "At least he never used to. There are a lot of other guests tonight in addition to Kafni; senators, congressmen, probably some ambassadors as well. No one wants to miss a photo-op."
"Always the pessimist," she said, rolling her big green eyes towards him and grabbing his hand.