With nowhere left to run, he stormed away from his mother up a steep bank in the direction of Rabun Bald.

Chapter 5

Blake fumbled with the radio, trying to pick up a decent classic rock station as he drove south from Clayton through Tallulah Gorge. He stopped when the dial landed on 97.1 and the sound of “Hells Bells” filled the cab in his truck. Blake’s mood improved instantly, as it always did when he heard AC/DC.

Devil’s music my ass, Blake thought. Angus did an interview with “Hit Parader” magazine and said “he becomes possessed when he gets on stage,” and the religious purists had taken that literally. “See? He admits being possessed,” they claimed.

What a crock, Blake thought. That’s when church stopped making any sense to me when they said stupid shit like "you can’t listen to AC/DC or you can’t listen to Led Zeppelin because Robert Plant said he couldn’t remember penning the words to “Stairway to Heaven”, so he must have been possessed.” Hell, let ’em have How Great Thou Art, I’ll take Metallica!

Blake just shook his head, laughed and thumped the steering wheel. This is just what I need, good old rock and roll therapy, he thought. Got the next hour to myself with nothing but blue skies, puffy clouds chasing the cold front, and kick-ass tunes. He rolled down his window, cranked up the volume, and let his hand ride the wind as Blake did “the worm” all the way to Athens.

***

At 3:54 p.m. Blake pulled into the parking lot at The Federal, Athens’ most distinguished restaurant. The glass facade on the exterior contrasted sharply with the earthy brick construction of its surroundings. Athens was, after all, a college town and showcased little of the glassy glamour and glitz like those the architects pumped out hurriedly in Atlanta. That’s probably what attracted Nick Vegas to open his first restaurant in Athens, Blake thought. Say what you want about his ruthless tactics, he was a shrewd businessman. Had Nick opened The Federal in Atlanta, it would have been good, but just another good Atlanta restaurant, nothing special. Put the same place in Athens and you’ve got something folks in both Athens and Atlanta will talk about. And that attention is what Nick wanted more than anything.

Black brushed metal trim framed the towering glass windows, each showcasing tightly-closed plantation shutters, creating a pronounced sense of privacy. This made the entrance appear quite vertical and served to draw the eyes up to the words “THE FEDERAL”, emblazoned in gold lettering in a substantive font like an old, impenetrable bank.

There were already a dozen cars in the lot, mostly cooks and staff, Blake figured, getting ready for the Saturday night diners who had no doubt made reservations weeks before. Damn it!...Don’t call them cooks, Blake admonished himself, remembering that, for some reason, they expect to be addressed as chef. Makes about as much sense as calling the owners of a car repair shop Mechanic Fred and Mechanic Barney, Blake thought.

Blake frowned as he pulled on a sport coat, making himself presentable. He looked down to make sure there was no mud, or worse, on his shoes. Can’t have that now! Comfortable with his appearance, he strolled to the entrance, opened the door, and walked through the black metal vestibule.

Frank Sinatra was already crooning, adding to the ambiance of the 60‘s era, upscale steakhouse that Nick strove to honor with The Federal. The hostess station stood empty fifteen feet directly in front of him. It was backed by a smoked-glass privacy screen, trimmed in rich mahogany. Behind the screen sat twenty tables on a sunken floor, each with four chairs. On both sides of the sunken floor were eight horseshoe-shaped booths, each upholstered in luxurious, black leather. The booths connected to one another in a long scalloped line with the open end of each booth welcoming two upholstered chairs, providing a comfortable setting for six. Dominating the divider between each booth section was a black iron bull, a nod to Nick’s Spanish heritage and his love of bull fighting. In classic Nick style, each bull was slightly different. Some were covered with lampshades, some served as candelabras, some just stared, fiercely. They had all been, of course, custom made.

“Excuse me. I’m here to see Nick Vegas,” Blake said to a young girl as she walked by the hostess station.

“Oh,” she said as she raised an eyebrow and took in his blazer, jeans and scruffy Skechers. “Is...he expecting you?”

Blake caught her disapproving evaluation. Of course, she had no idea who he was. She was, what...twenty-one? Twenty-two? Probably wasting time at UGA, moved here from some worm hole and now had a big chance to work for Nick Vegas. She had no idea that Blake had owned this town less than ten years ago. Could go anywhere and not have to pay for anything, including at The Federal, which is where he had met Nick in the first place. When Blake and the Georgia Bulldogs were undefeated, Nick invited him to the bar on Saturdays after the home games knowing full well the affluent hobnobbers would be drawn in. They were.

“Yes. He’s expecting me. Just tell him that Blake is here to see him.”

Blake looked to the left at the towering, fake palm tree that partially screened the hostess station from the serpent-shaped bar and thought how ironic it was to have a plastic tree in a restaurant that Nick spent two million dollars to construct. Nick brandished that figure back when Blake was part of the “in” crowd, when he was an attraction rather than the redneck hired hand he now was. It should be me dining here, throwing down hundred dollar tips at the martini bar with Angelica on my arm, Blake thought. Now, everything to do with the restaurant reminded Blake of what he had lost. What he aspired to reach but couldn’t. The notoriety of Nick’s fame, the wealth that Nick and his affluent customers exuded, being one of those “in the money” rather than being a servant, like Blake. He hated going there.

Just let it go.

As he meandered along the wall, Blake stared at the framed clippings that Nick displayed in each of his restaurants, headlines that wove a trail of success among anything Nick had touched. Nick no longer bothered with the hometown praise from the Athens Banner Herald that he was so proud of in the beginning. Even the Atlanta Journal-Constitution was relegated to a montage of headlines recapping Nick’s accomplishments in the past decade. “Athens Chef Wins Coveted James Beard Award.” “Vegas Takes Winning Recipe to Miami, D.C. and Boston.” “Author and restaurateur Nick Vegas Signs On With The Cooking Network.” All that praise was displayed humbly in a small frame. The large illuminated frame, like a showcased Monet, was reserved for the cover of “Forbes”. It featured a smug picture of Nick in front of his expansive Buckhead home. At his feet sat the Spanish bulldog he brought with him from Spain when he moved to lay claim to his American dream. The caption read simply “America’s Wealthiest Restaurateurs.” That’s what Nick wanted; for everyone to see not that he was successful and wealthy, but how successful and wealthy he was.

“Set...hut hut!” Nick called to Blake as he strolled across the parquet floor, as if he was calling a play from the line of scrimmage. “How’s it going, Blake?”

Blake turned and saw Nick approaching, his whitened teeth beaming brightly and contrasting starkly with his perennial tan. He already had his right hand extended, both to shake Blake’s hand and, Blake figured, to put his gold Rolex on full display. Blake didn’t recognize the man walking with him. “Hey, Nick. It’s going all right.” Blake offered Nick a weak handshake.