“Oh, you are just poopy scooping me, right?” I said with mock disappointment. “I made the appointment, what—a month ago? I talked to a—oh, what was her name? Not you—”

“Monique?”

“That’s her!” I said. “Yeah! Monique! Doggone it! Would you mind trying again, mister—”

“Tanner. Just Tanner.”

“Mr. Tanner.” I leaned over his desk and twisted to get a glimpse of his monitor. “It’s Elwood . . . Singer—”

“Capital S,” he said. “Right. I got it.”

“Purple Elite Pool Systems,” I said. “We’re bidding on any and all water-based entertainment and health systems Mr. Bronson’s thinking about putting in his new downtown residential high-rise. We’re the best, you know. We did Eminem’s pool. And Bob Seger’s.”

“Tremendous,” Tanner said with all the conviction of an Irish Protestant at a Catholic mass.

Once again, he typed my name into the system, and we waited.

“Boy oh boy,” I said. “I’d have a talk with that darned—what’s her name?”

“Monique.” Then, shaking his head, Tanner said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Singer. I’m still not finding you at all on his schedule. I do apologize.”

“Gosh dang it!” I said. “Sorry. Don’t mean to cuss. I mean, I made the drive all the way from Keego Harbor this morning.” I issued a sigh of Shakespearean proportions. “Well, I mean—can you just call him? Let him know I’m here? He’ll know who I am. I can unpack my presentation in three minutes. Tops! And”—I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“there’s a fifty-dollar Godiva chocolate gift card in it for you, Mr. Tanner.”

“I prefer the chocolates from Bon Bon Bon,” Tanner said dismissively.

A large set of frosted glass doors behind the receptionist desk slid open, and Vic Bronson—real estate billionaire, part owner of a mediocre southern NHL team, legendary Lothario and America’s Cup racing enthusiast—emerged looking like, well, a billion land-baron dollars. On point were two tall, beefy private security guards, followed by a stocky, overly developed security cleanup man.

You can never have too much security when you’re a billionaire in a platinum bubble rolling through the muck, mire and menudo of everyday wage slaves.

“Mr. Bronson!” I said, quickly following his security detail. “A minute of your time, sir!”

Bronson and his team stopped and looked back at me. The last man standing advanced to meet me. The receptionist—panicked and in full cover-his-admirable-ass mode—stood. “Sir, I told Mr. Singer he didn’t have an appointment with you. Twice! Should I call security?”

“What is it you’d like, Mr. Singer?” Bronson said.

Last Man Standing put a hand on my chest to stop my advance.

“I just want to ask what your property interests are in Mexicantown,” I said.

“That is not what he told me, Mr. Bronson,” Tanner said. “He said he was a pool company representative.”