Rogan's Robbie Page 2

  Unlike other major cities, Vegas doesn’t have a lot of skyscrapers. Most of the tall buildings are either casinos, some government, hospitals, luxury condos, and of course, the Strat. Double-digit business skyscrapers are a rarity, with most business buildings being six stories or less, depending on location. Can’t upstage the casinos!

  Dad’s Vegas headquarters are in North Las Vegas, located on Camino Al Norte near Cheyenne. It’s a little trek from where he and Mama live in Summerlin in Vegas, but the price had been right. Dad is, when all is said and done, a true Scot. He’s a Scot who is laser-focused on the purse strings. Frugal. Thrifty. Economical. Cheap. In fact, it’s only been in the last few years that we learned that we were wealthy. Not just a little rich or “well off,” but actually in the affluent category. We learned Dad had many holdings in a lot of profitable areas. That said, our parents raised us like everyday middle-class kids. Janina and I had worked hard for and earned scholarships, jobs, and careers. Absolutely nothing was given to us just for breathing.

  We stepped off the elevator and walked through the walnut double doors leading to Dad’s business offices. Rita, Dad’s receptionist of about a gazillion years, greeted us enthusiastically by name and waved us back to his office.

  A quick knock and Dad’s voice invited us in.

  Angus McDonald is a bear of a man. Yet, even in his mid-fifties, he commands respect with all who interact with him. He’s taller than me by just a hair, and although he now wore some of the stoutness often seen in men his age, he still cut a striking figure. His bright red hair is now muted with strands of silver, but his sparkling, intelligent eyes haven’t lost an iota of his omnipresent energy. He’d decided a little while ago to grow his beard long, and except for the fact that he keeps it neatly trimmed, it gives him a Viking-esque appearance.

  After giving both of us a generous hug, he looked at us approvingly and grinned as we sat down in the comfortable leather seats in front of his desk.

  “Me bairns.”

  Janina and I looked at each other, rolled our eyes, and laughed. Dad’s Scottish accent had muted over the years, and he rarely used the vernacular. However, he would occasionally dip into his history and resurrect the brogue, which he’d bounce between the odd Americanisms.

  “I’m glad ye could come,” Dad started, smiling. “I have a surprise for each of ye, but I need some information first.”

  He turned to me. “What are ye plans for the future, son?”

  Coincidentally, this was something I’d been thinking about a lot lately. Dad and I co-owned interests in several thriving restaurants in South Beach. I was ready to leave and focus on starting my own restaurant in Vegas. Because I’m a classically trained chef with a boatload of experience behind me, I wanted to work in my own kitchen with Mama. Mama grew up in her family’s restaurant kitchens in Catalan and Spain and was a prominent chef in her own right. As a young girl, she’d learned French technique from the best, ultimately completing her formal culinary education at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.

  While in Paris, she met a gregarious young Scotsman who was traveling to different countries to learn the restaurant and hospitality business. He swept her off her feet with his admittedly irresistible charm, and the rest, as they say, is history. Some thirty-odd years later, the offspring of that fateful meeting were sitting in front of their father, talking dreams.

  “I want to shed all of my interests in Florida, move back to Vegas, and open my own restaurant here,” I replied. “I want a restaurant that will appeal to people who like high-end but who don’t necessarily want to pay high-end prices. I want to compete with the Strip restaurants but have a more relaxed environment.”

  “With ye Mam?” He already knew that I wanted Mama as my Head Chef.

  “Yes,” I nodded. “I hope that Mama can work with me for a while before she decides to retire, which I don’t think she ever will.”

  Dad chuckled and turned to Janina.

  “What about ye, lass?”

  “I want to keep learning the hospitality business,” Janina replied with a shrug. “I want to experience everything about how a hotel works, how a casino works, and the management part of restaurants.”

  He nodded in approval. “I have something to show the both of ye,” Dad said. “Watch.”

  Room-darkening shades hissed down to cover the windows, and a video intro appeared on the large display monitor.

  “I want to show you what we have and what I can do to help you with your dreams.” He reverted to American English, sans brogue.

  A video began with soft, elevator-style music and a man’s soothing, well-modulated voice speaking about the life of Angus Iain Malcolm McDonald, founder and CEO of AIMM International Enterprises, Inc., one of the largest hospitality corporations in the world.

  Dad had custom-ordered this video only for Janina and me. It had information that would never be shared with shareholders or other outsiders. The video was, in a word, a tour of Dad’s life. A tour of all of the businesses that Dad had invested in or was running. It included interests in hotels and casinos not only in Vegas but included Dubai, Shanghai, Macao, and South Africa, among others. There were also shares in Mississippi riverboats, ski resorts, and vacation homes. He had interests in or outright ownership of restaurants and chains in major resort corridors. He was a silent partner in the newest NHL hockey team, the Houston Badlands. He was the primary owner of a major liquor distribution company that provided alcohol to businesses required to use distributors for their beverage essentials.

  With all of those interests, along with his involvement in real estate development projects, Angus McDonald controlled or had partial control of a conglomerate worth $50 billion. With a B. His personal net worth was $8.5 billion.

  I let out a long, low whistle when the video ended. Wow. Janina and I were gobsmacked, as Dad would say. This video showed us that Dad, and by extension, we, including Mama, were rich. Filthily so.

  Don’t get me wrong. We’d grown up with a lot of the “better things” in life. We had a lovely home located in the same gated tract community as our school friends. They were upper-middle class, but by no means super wealthy. Our cars were regular cars. My first car, which I had to earn myself, had been a used and somewhat recalcitrant Ford F-150, for instance. Nothing spectacular. We didn’t have Hollywood-type celebrities over at the house, ever, that I can recall. And Janina and I were expected to do our household chores just like everyone else. Despite their busy schedules, we never had a nanny, butler, or maid. A cleaning service came in twice a month to take care of the details that we missed, and that was about it.

  Okay. I admit that the closest things to celebrities we had in our house were foodies, chefs, regular cooks, and the occasional bartender, wine steward, or sommelier. Mama loved to share recipes, cooking methods, and stories with her “cheffy” friends and the workers on the Strip who’d stop by to both share and receive cooking tips. If Dad wasn’t on the road, he was in the kitchen with Mama and the crew. I had my own apron and chef’s hat in kindergarten, and I learned how to work in the kitchen from my personal step stool. Dad would don his chef’s apron and serve as Mama’s sous. Toddler Janina would sit at the counter in her highchair, her chubby fingers grabbing bits of food whenever she could.

  Essentially, we grew up “normal” just like our friends, without the trappings and pretense of extreme wealth. The only thing that was out of the ordinary was a very discreet security presence at all times. Dad always kept a low public profile despite his gregarious nature. He did little to attract attention to himself or his family. Our modest lifestyle was not unlike Warren Buffet’s, and we were better for it.

  Dad’s a man of standards, frugality, ethics, and character, and had no problems dumping anything that would tarnish his name. He and Mama had been together for over 30 years, and if he’d had any affairs, which I doubted, they were discreet. He was totally in love with her and always showed her, and us, how much he loved his wife.

  That said, I didn’t see what this discovery had to do with Janina and me. We’d both completed our education, and after my professional soccer career came to a crashing (literally) end, I’d paid my own tuition in culinary school. I also worked with Dad to invest my money in Florida restaurants and real estate projects. Janina worked in the hotels division of Dad’s company and proved to be a savvy businesswoman. We were just like the kids of any successful businessman as we learned the ropes.

  We’d received little help from Dad and were both pretty much self-made, self-sufficient adults. With the business guidance from Dad, I had a personal worth in the seven figures, and yet I still lived a pretty frugal life. The apple doesn’t fall too far, I guess.

  We weren’t the spoiled offspring that you’d usually see from wealthy parents. Even with all those zeroes that I never had access to, I felt no resentment toward my parents. I was happy and lived a comfortable, if busy, life. I gave thanks every day that my folks didn’t raise my sister and me to be spoiled, entitled, self-centered douches. Those I’d met didn’t know their assholes from a hole in the wall, and I never liked a single one of them.

  “The most important thing to me and yer Mam,” Dad continued, “was to make sure that you were decent people. That’s why you were raised as close to normal as we could get. I saw too many wealthy parents whose offspring were the Devil’s own spawn because they thought the world owed them something just for breathing. I didn’t want that for me own kids.”

  Dad rose from his chair and walked over to his bar. He poured two fingers of Laphroaig Lore Single Malt into some glasses and handed one to Janina and one to me. I inhaled the fragrance from my glass. Smoke. Citrus. Ocean. Peat. Delicious. I took a sip and settled comfortably into the cushy leather chair.

  “I have
a surprise for both of ye,” Dad smiled, blue eyes twinkling, “When you turn 30, you’ll each receive two hundred and fifty million dollars.”

  Janina and I both gasped, stunned at that inconceivable amount of money.

  “It’s a combination of cash, real estate holdings, bonds, and investments. In other words, it’s making money even now. But, before that,” Dad continued with an irrepressible grin, “I’m giving you each twenty-five million dollars. Today.”

  My breath stopped. My brain shut down. What?

  “You both have shown me that you are responsible adults,” Dad continued, now serious. “And I want to reward you for that. But don’t disappoint me. If you do,” he said, “I will reduce the amount you’re getting at thirty. Please continue to show me how responsible you are.”

  “Why are you doing this, Dad?” Janina inquired gently, her worried eyes meeting mine. “Is there something that we need to be concerned about?”

  Dad laughed heartily. “No, lass, not at all! Just the opposite, in fact.”

  He looked at both of us, smiling his sunny Scottish smile. “I’m doing this because I can. And it will hardly make a dent in me and yer Mam’s money. The only thing we ask is that you not be stupid with how you use it.

  “Rogan,” he continued, turning toward me, “You want to have your own restaurant in Vegas. We’ll discuss divesting your interests in Florida. That’s not a problem. I know that you want to narrow your focus here, and you have excellent reasons for doing so. If you don’t have a reliable accountant, I’ll introduce you to my financial firm. I trust them completely.”

  He turned to Janina. “When I’m old and ready to retire, I want you to have earned the CEO position on your own. If you’re successful,” he chuckled, “you’ll be richer than your brother by a lot.”

  Janina sent an amused glance my way. I didn’t care if she’d be richer. She would have earned every bit of it. My path was a different one.

  “And that's all,” Dad said. “I just wanted ye to know what I had planned for ye two,” he continued, slipping back into his Scottish brogue.

  “The only thing ye Mam and me ask is that ye have some wee bairns for us to love. Don’t wait until our laps are too old to bounce them on our knee!” Once again, Janina and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.

  A few hours of eye-bleeding paperwork later, Janina and I were still laughing in disbelief as we exited the building. She looked up at me, eyes sparkling.

  “So how does it feel to suddenly be a multi-millionaire?” she asked.

  “Same as before,” I replied. “But I do appreciate the freedom. I’ll be able to pour as much money as I need into my restaurant and then either make a profit or have a write-off. I prefer profit. Especially if I want to expand in the future.”

  We hugged each other before we went our separate ways, Janina to her Lexus LX, and I to my rental Chevy. Dad had given us a lot to chew on. Now that I had the go-ahead from him, I could begin to unwind everything connected to Florida and establish myself in my hometown. Once I bought a condo or whatever in Vegas, I could start looking for a spot to build my dream.

  Chapter 2

  Rogan

  Six months later

  I rolled over and dropped my feet over the side of the bed. I stood up and stretched before making my way to the bathroom. Nature called. Loudly.

  It was early Monday morning, and today, the ownership of Chez Dionysius would officially and legally transfer to me. After months of real estate agents, business plans, permits, inspections, licenses, contracts, ad nauseam, the nightmare ordeal known as purchasing a restaurant business in Las Vegas would be over. And the real work would begin.

  I did not care. I was happy everything had fallen into place. Truthfully, the process had gone so smoothly that it almost felt predestined. Weird.

  Dad and I worked together to free me of my interests in Florida since I had no plans to return for business purposes. Any visits to the Sunshine State would be for vacation and fun only. My interests had either been transferred to Dad or sold outright, which padded my pockets quite nicely. It freed me to pursue my business ventures in Las Vegas.

  I’d sold my South Beach condo for an obscene amount of money and returned to Vegas, ready to begin my actual grownup life. All I needed to do was to find a good, off-Strip restaurant location and go from there.

  I planned to be fully self-funded, and thanks to Dad and my own hard work, I had the resources to do so. Although I could have done it even before Dad’s overwhelming gift. I opted to use my own money and avoid any pain-in-the-ass investors so I could be independent and responsible for my own vision. I didn’t want to answer to anyone, and good or bad, my decisions were my own.

  I purchased my new condo from a man who was, ironically, moving to Florida, and it was fully furnished. Because it’d been on the market for a while, I was able to get it for less than the listing price. I came in with an all-cash offer which let us close in two weeks. All I had to do was to walk in with my suitcases.

  It’s a one-story condo with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a nicely appointed kitchen with, thankfully, a gas range, and a small outdoor patio area. The best part is that it’s located in a gated community inside Desert Shores, and its location just blocks from the restaurant is a bonus. On cool days, I could walk there.

  “You’re up early,” Hera what’s-her-name, my lay for the weekend, whined from the other side of the bed. This was the fourth time we’d gotten together in about two months, and her welcome had worn thin. She was pleasant enough, but I had a new focus. I didn’t have time for someone who was never going to be relationship material anyway.

  Hera lived in SoCal, and although she’d no doubt be protesting, she’d be leaving for home in a few. I’d met her at a “giving back” charity function where she’d been there as a plus one with an invited guest. We’d had an immediate attraction, and that night, she was in my bed. She was a pleasant distraction from lotion, my hand, and a warm shower.

  “Why do you have to get up now? I think we could have a quickie.”

  I sighed. No. I wasn’t feeling it and she needed to go.

  After I’d finally gotten her to leave for California–sans sex–I headed to the restaurant an hour later.

  Justin Crews of Crews & Crew Construction, the general contractor for my project, and Paul Garganelli, my project manager, were waiting for me in front of the restaurant. While we shook hands and greeted each other, an Outback drove up and parked close by. Two people, Claire and Augustin Delavigne, stepped out, faces shining.

  They were the third owners of Chez Dionysius, and after a decade of management, had decided to retire. Even though they were French nationals, they opted to stay in their adopted country and move to Utah. They had purchased a cabin located on a few acres in the center of the state, and they would be “living our best lives!” as Augustin declared. Their grown children weren’t in the restaurant business, so they decided that selling to a passionate new owner would be the best way to preserve their reputation.

  The financial statements had proven that Chez Dionysius had been profitable for the entire tenure of the Delavigne’s ownership, and I planned to continue that legacy.

  Chez Dionysius was a good luck charm, it seemed, to anyone who owned it. A landmark in the sprawling Desert Shores community, Chez Dionysius had always been popular, not only to the locals, but also to the random celebrity, sports figure, politician, or tourist who discovered it.

  For me, acquiring this restaurant was like winning the lottery or hitting MegaBucks. I’d always loved it, even from the time I was a child visiting with my parents. And now I was the new owner and ready to begin the renovation.

  The five of us walked into the restaurant. The staff was busy preparing for service because until I had all the plans finalized, nothing would change. The staff, the menu, and the hours would remain the same, and the Delavignes were grateful for that.

  Augustin called the team together in the main restaurant space near the small bar to introduce me as the new owner. I saw the worry in their eyes and several people exchanged concerned glances. Naturally, they were worried about their jobs.