There’s a rapid clicking through the phone, Ed’s fingers flying across the keyboard. “As I recall, it was somewhere around a couple thousand. A little more, maybe, but not much. If you give me a second, I can pull up the numbers.”

“What’s the chance of you guys increasing it?”

The clicking stops. “By how much?”

“By another half million, maybe more.” I wince. So much for buttering him up.

Ed blows out a long, slow breath. Silence on the line.

A couple of years ago, Ed would have signed off on the loan without question. Lasky runs tens of millions of dollars annually through his bank, and for what’s coming up on a decade. A consistent flow every year like clockwork—only now most of it goes to my investors. As my banker, Ed knows they’re the ones with the money, not me.

“Come on, Ed. You know I’m good for it.”

“I know you’re a fantastic chef and a hardworking businessman, yes, and that you’ve been an ideal client for the past seven-plus years. But I also know you’ve taken on investors and are probably already overextended as it is. And you read the papers. The market is volatile, and every banker I know is treading water, praying the economy doesn’t tank like the Titanic. I’ve been ordered to sit tight until further notice.”

“Sit tight on what—me?”

“Not you. Lasky Steak.”

“That’s the same damn thing!”

Ed doesn’t respond, mostly because he can’t dispute it. I am Lasky Steak and Lasky Steak is me.

I swallow, trying not to throw up. “So no more loans.”

“None. Like, zero. Not unless something’s changed since the last time we talked and you can put up some serious collateral. And so we’re clear, it’s not only you. Nobody is handing out free money right now, Cam. We’re all in a waiting pattern.”

I swerve into the office lot, a long strip of asphalt that runs alongside the squat redbrick building where Lasky Steak, Ltd. is pressed between a furniture distributor and a chocolate shop. I sling the truck into a spot by the door, grab my cell from the cupholder and flip the audio onto my phone’s speaker.

“Okay, then. What about my IRA?” I slide out of the truck and race up the alleyway with my phone and keys. I don’t expect to find anybody inside. This place is mostly for me, more living room and test kitchen than office space, an escape I picked up for a steal soon after Beatrix was born, because I couldn’t get a lick of work done at home. I fumble with the keys in the lock, but it’s cranky and refuses to cooperate.

“What about it?” Ed says.