Everything you could need or want was at the Flying Y. Everything.
Ace Scanlin managed the massage parlor concession and RV park. He hired managers who did all the work. When they complained, they disappeared. Sammy asked him about what ever happen to so and so and Ace got vague and said they quit.
Sammy decided he liked not knowing things like that. That's what he paid Ace for.
The RV park had no stay limits and there were very few rules. People didn't like noise after ten. That was the biggest complaint.
Garbage pick-up was intermittent and security was a joke. Ace hired a guy to wear a uniform and ride around on a golf cart picking up trash and calling him about things he saw that didn't seem right. Damned if he didn't disappear too.
It was his father's triumph. He'd lobbied the legislature and highway commission for years to get that freeway alignment and interchange location. He got a hefty condemnation cash settlement and excellent physical and visual access to his property - site of the Flying Y truck stop.
Sammy kept a picture of the ribbon cutting on his desk. In the photo, he and his sister stand in front of Alva and the Governor at the door of the cafe. It was the same year Alva died and the truth about his debt came clear.
Sammy adjusted his hair and walked into the commission chambers to vote on his project.
No one ever said real estate was a get-rich-quick scheme.