“Your wife didn’t seem to think so.”
“Eh, that’s only because she’s been looking at this old mug for thirty years now—anything’s an improvement to her, even your sorry face.”
Samuel Schultz—aka Big Poppa—is old Hollywood money. He was the head of one of the most successful movie studios in California for decades—a power broker behind the scenes who is single handedly responsible for some of the biggest hits in film history.
Not that you’d know it — he doesn’t wear his fortune on his sleeve, which is one of the many reasons we get along. That, and he’s got a much more foul mouth than I do—something I didn’t know was possible.
“Is this one giving you crap again, Preacher?”
His wife Bernadette is even cooler than her husband, but she’s old school—even when I came here as a lost punk kid she used to greet me with a cold drink and offered me food.
“No more than usual.”
“Good.”
“Come in.”
I haven’t been here in a long time—too long. Sam is like Paulie in Goodfellas—he doesn’t do phones anymore. Says that he spent most of his working life on the phone, so now if I want to talk I have to come see him in person, so here I am.
We go into his private office and Bernadette leaves us alone. It really is like a mob movie in here, and I have an audience with Don Vito Corleone.
“So what’s eating you, kid?”
“A lot.”
“Well let’s hear it. You came all this way.”
I tell him about the opposition to my building that I’m getting from New Edge Holdings. The beautiful part of my relationship with Sam is that he knows nothing about the business I’m in, or the power brokers within it.
But he knows how to build empires. And, more importantly, he knows how to defend them.
His parents were Holocaust survivors who migrated to the United States in late 1945, after the war ended. Surviving at all costs is programmed into his DNA.
“The best defense is a strong offense. I’m sure you’ve heard this before?” I nod. “Put together a counter suit for defamation of character. You need to hit back to let them know that you’re not just going to cover up and take their punches unanswered.”
Sam’s also something of a boxing historian. That’s how I met him. After I left Arkham, I traveled around the country for years—anywhere I could find an odd job and a good dive bar. I was a mess back then, drinking too much and having no direction to my life. Years passed of me wandering around, and eventually I ended up in California.
After I was there for a while some of my dirt bag friends took me to an amateur boxing match—local guys. I bumped into him, literally, while I was coming out of the john and he was going in. I told him to watch where the fuck he was walking. And then, to my amazement, this old man stepped to me, right in my face, and told me that if I ever talked to him like that again he’d kick my fucking ass. And I believed him, even though I had decades, height, and weight on him.
He found me after the fight. I half expected him to take swing at me or curse me out, but instead he told me that he liked my energy, and that if I ever wanted to put it to some good use to look him up. The guys he was with handed me a business card, and a few days later I called him up. He took me under his wing and tried to get me clean—gave me a steady job as his personal assistant, which of course I fucked up by drinking too much and not showing up to work. Eventually I took off and continued my destructive lifestyle.
Then Dad died and everything changed. After we put that fucker in the ground and Pope inherited The Carter Organization I knew that I would eventually get involved. So I tucked tail and texted Sam. I apologized and said I needed him, and in true Sam fashion he told me to stop being a pussy and get my ass to Cali asap. Once I was there he really took me under his wing—showing me how to be an alpha and use my aggression in the boardroom instead of the street.
For the longest time, I had no idea what he saw in me or why he took pity when I was just another fuck up who he happened to run into one day.
That was before he told me about Nathan.
“How’s your brother?” he asks after giving me enough advice to use when I get back.
I give him my standard answer when I get that question in three, two, one. . . “Pope is Pope.”
He laughs. “I say the same thing when people ask about my brother. I always liked him.”
“I’m glad someone does,” I joke.
“Take it easy on him. Younger brothers have it way harder.”
I look at him sideways. “You know I love you, but what the hell are you talking about?”
“Think about it,” he tells me in his gruff but commanding voice. “First borns like you and me—we get the glory, our parents’ attention, we get to hit every milestone first. The younger ones have to work for it.”
He’s always right, I swear. “You have a point.”
“You’re welcome to stay for dinner, you know. Bern is cooking.”
Of course she is, and I bet it’s fucking delicious, but business is calling. “Can’t, Pop, I’ve gotta get back and conquer the world. Next time.”
“Oh come on,” he yells. “Flying 5 hours twice in a day is a lot, even for you. Stay for dinner. I’ll have our maid set up the guest room.” And by ‘guest room’ he means a space that’s bigger than most Manhattan apartments. “Leave in the morning.”
I want to say no. I have a lot to do. I have a hot ass woman to see. That last part in particular.
But Sam’s looking his age for the first time in a long time. It’s a morbid thought, but I don’t know how many more times I’ll get to have moments like this with him.
“How can I say no to you?”
“That’s what all the broads used to tell me — before I met Bernadette, of course.”
I crack up—the old man’s version of ‘that’s what she said.’
“So,” I ask, “what’s for dinner?”
Thirty-One—Preacher
The Present
Instead of a meeting in a boardroom, Pope and I have a meeting in court in two weeks. These bankers decided to skip the formalities of negotiation and just try to have the law stop us from building. My brother explained the whole thing to me.
“It’s a stall tactic, nothing more. They’re not trying to win.”
“Really?” I was so mad fumes were practically coming out of my ears. “’Cause this seems like they’re trying to fucking take us out.”
Pope’s the calmer of the two of us—he’s every bit the killer I am, he’s just a quiet killer. He put his hand on my shoulder to calm me down and maintained his cool the entire time we spoke. “Listen, it’s a stall tactic. When someone used to be ahead on points in a match with you, what did they always do?”
“That hardly ever happened.”
“Remember that ginger kid from the Upper East Side? The one who was ahead going into the last thirty seconds in sophomore year?”
“Oh yeah. I forgot about that soulless, freckled piece of shit. You know that fucker tried to stick his thumb up my ass to distract me so he could get position.”
“I’m sure you loved it,” he joked. “But focus—however he did it, that kid was ahead of you going into the end of the match. And what did he do?”
“Just rode my back. Tried to anyway, until I reversed and pinned his pale ass.”
“Exactly. It’s the same—minus the thumb in your ass—even though it has that same feel sometimes. Only with legal stalling, it costs thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars—not only in court fees but in lost production and construction costs. They’re using old school siege tactics.”
“Huh?” I asked.
“In medieval times, if you knew an army was coming to invade, you put up fortifications and hid inside a castle. You played defense, basically. And the only way for those invading armies to win was to starve everyone out—do nothing until their food ran out, even if it took weeks—then they’d go for the kill. That’s w
hat they’re trying to do to us. They’re hoping the cost of fighting them in court will be greater than we’re willing to deal with.”
“How do you know all this shit?” I ask.
“Oh, because unlike you, I not only graduated high school but I also have a college degree—a few of them.”
“Don’t be a dick—I got my GED eventually.”
Pope laughs. “You know what that stands for, right?” I shake my head. “Good Enough Degree.”
I thought it stood for this. I hold up both middle fingers, Stone Cold Steve Austin style. Pope laughs it off. I tell him to fuck off so much he’s just used to it by now. “Save that energy for our strategy. We know theirs, now we need to counter them.”
“You’re my counter, baby bro. Do your thing in court. Look all handsome and suave then talk that game you talk to get judges on their knees for you. I’ve seen you do it.”
“I wish I could get judges on their knees—my job would be much less complicated than it is. But it’s not that simple.”
“So, earn your high six figure salary and tell me what our strategy should be.”
“Don’t worry, Preach. I have some ideas.”
That was my early afternoon. But, right now, my early evening isn’t about injunctions and legal battles, it’s all about chocolate.
I texted Lyric yesterday to a.) make sure she was okay after her fiasco where she pretended she isn’t sensitive to alcohol and b.) to see if she wanted to go out on our second date. She said yes, of course, and here I am, a few days later, on Amsterdam Avenue in the Upper West Side. I’m hoping she’s never been here before.
Here’s a little factoid about Lyric you have to understand—the girl loves chocolate. She worships at its altar and makes sacrifices to its gods. When we were together years ago, she always had a piece of chocolate in her bag, or a cup of hot chocolate from the coffee place.
I see her Uber pull up, and the smile on her face is ear to ear.
“You didn’t?” she says.
“I thought you’d like this place. Actually, I know you’ll like this place. Tell me you’ve never been here before.”
“Nope. I’m a Jacques Torres virgin—unless seeing him on the Food Network counts. In that case, I’m a total whore.”
“I already knew that about you.”
She grins. “Low blow.”
Jacques Torres is a French celebrity pastry chef known for one thing and one thing only—his mastery of all things chocolate. He’s been on a million Food Network shows and has a few shops in Manhattan and Brooklyn. The guy’s website is MrChocolate.com for fucks sake. And now Lyric gets to have whatever she wants.
“Are you ready?”
“For chocolate? Are you ready to be intense and emotionally distant?”
Her sarcasm cracks me up, even if I refuse to show it. “I take that as a yes.”
“Just try and stop me.”
It’s small inside, but lucky I rented the place out for the hour. They don’t really do that, but, you know, I have my ways of getting things done no one else can do.
Now, I’m not as crazy for chocolate as Lyric is, but I have to admit this place is pretty cool. It has a warm feel, with a hot chocolate bar and two walls covered in custom made truffles, chocolate bark, and all sorts of things that would make up the most expensive Halloween ever. She looks like a kid in a candy shop—literally.
“Not bad, huh?”
“Not bad? This place is incredible. How have I never been here?” She looks up and down the walls at different sized boxes of chocolate pieces, truffles, and cookie packages. “This is how,” she says, showing the back of one of the boxes. “Do you see how much this one box costs? I’m used to getting my chocolate at 7-11.”
“Get anything you like.”
“Lucien, there’s no way I’m letting you pay this much for candy.”
“Let’s remember I offered to pay your rent and student debt—I don’t think some chocolate pieces are going to set me back too much.”
“Still,” she says. “That’s a lot for chocolate.”
“Stop talking about money and let me be your. . .” I can’t even say it.
“My date? You can say it, ‘date’—only one easy syllable.”
“I remember how much you love hot chocolate.”
“Mmm,” she says. “And what else do you remember?”
This is a test if there ever was one. I know everything that happened has been on her mind—how could it not be. I just fucking showed up again like it was nothing. I know I destroyed her when I left. I have no right bringing the past up at all. “A lot of things. That first night in the park.”
She laughs. “You mean the first time I got stupid drunk in front of you and you practically carried me home?”
“That’s when I met your sister for the first time.”
“Careful,” she says. “Jess is coming to stay with me for a few days to celebrate our birthdays. Oh, and she still hates you by the way, just in case you were wondering.”
“And how do you feel?” I ask. “Because as much as I liked your sister, I honestly don’t give a fuck what she thinks of me. You, on the other hand.”
“I don’t know, Lucien,” she admits. “I’m still deciding.”
We sit down at the bar and she orders a cup of hot chocolate and a chocolate chip cookie. I do the same. We talk for a while, enjoying our drinks and each other’s company.
“Speaking of siblings,” she begins. “How’s the other fake-named Carter brother doing?”
“Pope? He’s just Pope.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means he’s a slightly more mature version of what you remember—still smart as a whip, still beating back girls with a stick.” I pause. “Actually, there’s no stick. Just his bed and a line of nameless skanks lined up like they’re giving away the new iPhone for free.”
“Pope’s very good looking, I’ll give him that.”
I know she’s not my brother’s biggest fan. He didn’t tell her anything after I left. What she doesn’t know is that he was following my wishes. But for now, I’d rather have her hate him than me, even if I have to withhold the truth from her.
“He’s a handsome kid. I’d never say this to his face because I wouldn’t want to blow his already inflated ego up even bigger, but I don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s the best lawyer I know and he’s saved my ass more than once in court.”
“Aww, is this the great and powerful Preacher showing human emotion?”
“That depends,” I tell her. “Will showing human emotion get me a chocolate covered handjob later?”
“And we’re back.”
“Fine,” I joke. “No chocolate. Just a regular handjob is fine.”
“Is it now?”
“How’s the cookie?” I ask.
“Amazing. The mother of all cookies. This place is my new crack house—as soon as I can take out a loan to afford it.”
“Oh, that reminds me. Pick something out before we go. Anything you want off that wall.”
“I really can’t. That’s insane.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“I’m very happy with my giant cookie and the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had.”
“Alright,” I tell her. “My driver is outside, go wait for me while I pay.”
After I settle up and meet her back at the car. She looks at me suspiciously, but with a grin. “What?”
“What did you buy?” she asks me.
“Buy? You mean besides the food we just ate? I kind of had to, you know? It’s a crime to eat and run.”
“You didn’t buy me one of those expensive boxes of chocolate?”
“No,” I tell her. “Do you see one? Where would I hide it? Plus, I don’t even know if you like dark or milk.”
“Both. But I love dark, it’s my favorite.”
“Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind.”
She looks around—out the window, towards the glass that divi
des us and my driver, and then out finally to me. I don’t know why but I’m expecting her to slap me, or yell at me, or lecture me about how much I hurt her. I keep waiting for that burst of energy to come my way, but instead she just looks at me like she wants to say something.
“What is it?”
She waits a second before answering, looking around again like she’s working something out in her own head. “My place is free,” she tells me. “And I don’t want this to end. Do you want to come back to my place?”
“I have a better idea. How about you come back to mine?”
Thirty-Two—Lyric
The Present
His place is incredible. I shouldn’t be surprised, should I?
I don’t know why I can’t make the shift in my mind, but I keep trying to remind myself.
He’s not just the hot rebellious kid with the punk rock shirts and the fuck you attitude anymore, Lyric, now he’s the hot rebellious man with the thousand-dollar suits and the fuck you attitude.
The lesson?
Hot kid.
Hot man.
Hotness all around.
“I’d offer you a drink but I actually want you to be awake and have all your senses.”
The man wastes no time. I like that. “Oh yeah?” I ask coyly. “And why’s that?”
He takes a step close to me—the door barely closed behind us. He pushes it closed the rest of the way and then stands so close that I can smell that musk of his that drives me insane. “Because, Lyric, when I fuck you in a few minutes, I want you to be there, mind, body, and soul. I want you to remember what it’s like when I do what I’m about to do to you. I want it burned into your memory so that you’re ruined for all other men who aren’t me, and all other cocks that aren’t mine.”
Holy fuck.
I’m beyond wet. I’m ready to let him do absolutely anything to me.
He presses me against the wall, and puts his face so close to mine that our noses are touching. I can feel the sweet warmth of his breath, and smell that clean masculine scent that follows him everywhere he goes.
I’m excited and scared at the same time. My heart is racing.
Preacher: The East End Boys Page 17
