His green khakis and plaid shirt are impeccable. Ralph crosses his legs. His brown shoes are a high grade of leather. “You come highly recommended by Jack Lord.”
I sit my foot on top of my knee in ploy to convince him that I’m just as confident as he is. “I’m grateful for it.”
He rubs his chin and watches me with narrowed eyes. “You should be, because when Jack Lord talks, I listen.”
He’s conveying an important message without saying a lot. I know Jack is their major client, and I get a sense that Ralph is hoping I fuck this up so that he can report to Jack that I’m clearly not the man to run his company. Ambivalence sets in. I drop my foot off my knee. I know what I want to say, but a young woman with short dark hair walks past the office carrying a motorcycle helmet. Our eyes meet, but she quickly looks away and picks up her pace. That felt like déjà vu, or maybe I’ve actually seen her before.
“Are you easily distracted?” Ralph asks.
Shit. My eyes shoot back to his face. It’s clear that my reputation has preceded me. Something about seeing that young woman dissolved my ambivalence, and I want the whole enchilada that Ralph is selling.
“No. I’m here because I want to buy your company,” I say.
“But why? You’re no one in my business.”
That sounded like a jab, but I don’t take it personally. “I have the cash.”
“All the prospective buyers have the cash, plus a lot more experience than you.”
I shrug cockily, but I’m putting on an act. “I can’t argue against either of those points. I’ve been reviewing and revising Jack’s blueprints for a while.” I shift in my seat to sit taller. “Remember the Howard Rogers building in Manhattan?”
Ralph shifts in his seat. He’s uncomfortable. His lips are moving, but no words come out. Kennedy Creative was hired to design the building, and the architect drafted a plan that would’ve never worked. Ralph nods in a way that says he’s taking ownership of the mistake. “That was one we missed.”
“One miss would’ve been all it had taken if that building had gone up as designed. The library wouldn’t have been able to support the weight of the sixteen floors above it.”
Ralph strokes his chin with his thumb. “Right…” He shoots to his feet. “Robert, what are you doing tonight?”
I’m caught off guard by his abrupt movement. I stand to meet him. In negotiations, one should never take the inferior position. “I have no plans.”
“How about you come over? My wife is having a gathering tonight.”
I fold my arms in front of me. “Are you planning on making it worth my while?”
He cracks a tiny smile—the first since we’ve shaken hands. “You smoke cigars?”
“If the occasion calls for it.”
“Then come. I’ll have a proposition for you.” He opens the door.
I stand still and extend my sense of hearing out the door. The hum of voices, clicking keyboards, pencils running across paper, and life in general flows into the office. It could all be mine—no partners, no Vince. This is the first time in my life that I’ve felt like an adult man—and it feels fucking incredible.
My lips pull into a slow-forming smile. “What’s the address?”
Ralph looks out the window and waves his fingers. Zoe jumps to her feet and prances over like a trained poodle. Her smile is so intense that her eyes narrow to slits.
“Mr. Tango needs details about dinner tonight,” Ralph says.
“Great,” Zoe says, still smiling. “Mr. Tango, can you please follow me?”
I nod as Ralph sits back down in his executive-size chair. Just for a second, I see him differently. Although his clothes are impeccable, he’s frail. Now that I’m in Zoe’s hands and he doesn’t have to perform for me, there’s a faraway look in his eyes.
I follow Zoe to her desk, and she hands me an invitation card. “This has the address, time, and dress code, but what you’re wearing now is fine.” She stares into my eyes as if she’s looking to discover some deep dark secret.
I smile lazily. “Thank you.”
We watch each other for a moment. She hasn’t relaxed her smile yet. Is she really that happy? I’m not envious and I’m not revolted either, but I surely can’t look at that pasted-on smile all day long. If I buy this company, then Zoe will be the first to be reassigned.
“Is that all?” I ask.
I didn’t think her smile could grow any wider, but it just did. “Yes!”
I snicker. “Thanks, Zoe.”
As soon as I turn to walk off, I catch sight of the woman who walked past Ralph’s office while carrying a motorcycle helmet. Her space is across the room, situated in a dark corner. She’s concentrating on whatever she’s doing at her desk.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Tango,” Zoe says.
I contemplate asking Zoe for the woman’s name but think better of it. I’m careful about the shit I do these days. I don’t want to be the same Robert Tango that Mavis and Maggie found so revolting. It’s not that I have a sexual attraction toward the motorcycle woman. Hell if I know what I find so alluring about her.
I show Zoe a thumbs-up and continue on my way.
Motorcycle woman doesn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to me, which is strange, because everyone else is paying the kind of attention one does to a possible new owner of the firm. Regardless, I head back to my car and drive downtown to the St. Regis hotel. I’d be a fool to drive an hour back to Napa only to return to the city during rush-hour traffic. Once I’m settled in a presidential suite, I take off my suit and call to have it pressed for this evening.
I stretch out on top of the bed and stare at the ceiling. I fight the urge to riffle through my contacts list and call up some company for tonight. For two nights, I’ve felt like shit and hadn’t been able to use sex to soothe me. I think about Zoe’s cute little ass, but the possibility of hearing her squeal doesn’t turn me on. Plus she’s married. Poor guy. Motorcycle woman had a nice ass too, but I don’t want to think about her in a sexual way. I don’t want to think about her at all.
I know four women I can call. Before, I would pick one and invite her over for dinner provided by room service. I would seduce her until we were fucking, and an hour before leaving for Ralph’s dinner party, I would tell her to leave and promise to call her tomorrow. That would be a lie. Most women needed the promise of something more in order to feel good about a fast fuck.
“Why the fuck do I need a body?” I whisper. Why can’t my fucking hand suffice?
I flip onto my side and stare out the large window at the view of the city. What the hell do I want out of life other than to purchase Kennedy Creative? Before my father died, I knew the answer. I was eleven years old and in sixth grade when the school principal called me out of class and into the nurse’s office. The nurse sat me on the examination table. I was scared as hell, wondering if I was going to get a shot or something, and if so, then what for? But she gave me a lollipop instead. The nurse kept patting me on the back and telling me that everything would be fine. When my mother arrived, as soon as she saw me, she started bawling and held me tightly.
She kept repeating, “Daddy’s dead.”
At first I didn’t know what the entire production meant. My mother always had a flair for the dramatic, and she and my dad were always fighting about one thing or another. I remember her accusing him of cheating all the time. My dad would just look at her, shake his head, and say, “I’m not going to argue with you in front of my son.” I always felt as if he was the only person in the world who gave a damn about me, and that made me feel safe and protected.
My memories of that morning are still vivid. My mother’s sweet perfume was so strong that it made me loopy. Her thin body crushed me as I watched the principal, Ms. Shine, say to the nurse, whose name eludes me, “He fell off a ladder and broke his neck.” She shook her head, pitying me. I’m not sure if the pity was for my father’s death or for being the son of a woman who was making a spectacle out of h
erself.
We dressed in black and went to a funeral. I remember seeing my dad lying in a casket. I thought he was asleep and hoped at any second, he would open his eyes and wake up. At the cemetery, two men rolled the crane to lower the coffin into the ground, and that was when I finally fully comprehended the notion of death. I’ve never seen my mom happier than when receiving condolences.
After that, I spent a lot of nights at Vince’s house while my mother dolled herself up and went out to the local bar. Not even three months later, she was dating Burt, who she eventually married. He was an asshole who drank a lot and fucked around on her. Once, in a drunken state, he told me about how when grizzlies and lions take a mate that already has kids, they kill the little bastards. Then he messed up my hair, laughed, and said, “I’ll let you live.”
I told Vince what he said. Ann, Vince’s mother, was lurking in the hallway and overheard me. She made a lunch date with my mother, and after that, for an entire year, I spent more time at the Adams’ house than I did my own. Then my mother divorced Burt, and I stayed home more but spent the entire summer with the Adams at their family vacation house in Sag Harbor. Vince’s family was no Brady Bunch, but they weren’t half as fucked up as my mother and whichever husband she was married to for the moment. My mom already has five divorces under her belt.
I can’t rest, so I sit on the side of the bed. I’m disturbed by the thought that I may not know how to live a normal existence without Vince. I order coffee service and watch the afternoon news for a few hours. The woman with the motorcycle helmet keeps invading my thoughts. There’s something about the shape of her face, eyes, and lips.
By six thirty, the laundry service knocks on the door to return my shoes and suit. Both articles are fresh and ready for another wear. I put them on and head out. I’ll stay the night and drive back to Napa in the morning.
Valet brings my car, and I put Ralph Kennedy’s address into the GPS. San Francisco is an old city. The natives have been dogmatic about preserving the historical architecture, but the landscape has changed ever since the technological boom. Techies like new shit, and they’re the new kings of the city. Both factors make me grin from ear to ear. There’s some merit in being on the ground floor of giving the old San Francisco a facelift.
The night is breezy, and the air is tepid. I roll down the front windows. The closer I get to the ocean, the saltier the air smells. Ralph lives in the Sea Cliff neighborhood, but the mansions I pass don’t excite me. They’re mostly Victorian and Edwardian with sprinkles of Spanish colonial; the neighborhood smells of old money. I don’t have an aversion to old money though. Unlike new money, they have a lot of class and knowledge of how to keep their assets and make them grow.
I’m not surprised when the GPS instructs me to turn into the long driveway of the best-looking mansion on the street. It’s a Spanish Colonial. The bowl-shaped stone fountain stands out in the middle of a manicured lawn and trimmed shrubs.
A valet station is set up in front of a flagstone footpath. I leave my car with the attendant, and he directs me up a path and through an enclosed and intimate courtyard with red rose bushes woven through the gate. The red brick groundwork stops in front of a steep set of white limestone steps. I take them up to the front door. I’m impressed by a door made of white frosted glass and decorative black wrought iron twisted into the shape of vines and roses. The top part of the door is open, and I hear laughter and conversation. It sounds as though a lot of guests are present.
I hit the doorbell. The button lights up, but there isn’t a chime. I’ve seen this sort of silent doorbell before. A few seconds later, a guy dressed in a black suit with a white shirt appears.
“Welcome, sir,” he says. “May I have your name?”
I tell him my name. He nods once and opens the gate. I straighten my collar as I follow him inside. My gaze rolls around the open floor plan. It’s furnished just as I thought it would be—fancy furniture, expensive fixtures, and exotic figurines.
I’ve been smothering my nervousness since this afternoon, and now it’s gushing back in a raging tidal wave. The butler, who has made sure he remained three steps ahead of me, stops before reaching the entrance of a dining room where the other guests are seated at one long table.
“Mr. Robert Tango,” the butler announces.
After a quick count, I ascertain that there are about thirty people present. The chatter quiets, and all eyes are on me. They look interested to know my story. I’m used to moments like this. I muster up some bravado and crack a smile. I search for Ralph Kennedy among the faces. He makes it easier to find him when he stands.
“Robert, glad you could make it.” He gestures at an empty chair across from his. “Have a seat. Our special guest has arrived.”
I search the table for other empty seats. The one Ralph pointed me to is situated between two attractive women—one blond and one brunette. The way the women are looking at me makes me nervous. So far I’ve contained my animal instincts.
“We don’t bite,” the brunette says, batting her eyelashes.
I’m nervous as hell, but I walk over to sit between the two women. The scent of their perfume and the warmth of feminine energy overtake me.
The pretty brunette on my left, who said she doesn’t bite, extends a hand. “I’m Chantal.”
I analyze her smile. I’m not sure if she’s just being friendly or if she’s flirting. I shake her hand. “I’m Robert.”
“Robert wants to buy my company,” Ralph says. He’s been studying me from the moment I walked into the room.
I narrow an eye, wondering why he finds the need to announce my intentions to the table.
“Media is a long way from architecture,” a man sitting three seats left of Ralph says.
Interesting—this fucking stranger knows my background. I loosen my shoulders, sit up straight, and prepare for the worst. I just may have stepped into a trap.
“I would say so,” I say.
“Then why buy our company?” says the blonde to my right.
The first thing I wonder is who the fuck she is and why did she say “our” company. Only one owner is named on the prospectus—Ralph Kennedy. I stare at the woman, noticing how her cascading blond hair swallows her narrow face. She’s pretty like a mannequin in the window on 5th Avenue, but her eyes are shrewd, and her thin lips are tense. I’d be a fool to pass her off as another pretty face and ignore what I sense, which is an intention to demolish me.
“I’m a businessman.” It’s the only answer I can muster. Her question is fucking valid. Other than drafting as a hobby, I don’t have a lick of real-world experience.
“That’s a rudimentary credential, Mr. Tango,” she says.
I’m tongue-tied as I study her stern expression. My first inclination is to turn on the charm and endear her to me, but I fight the urge. I’ve come to the conclusion that I left the bullshitting, flirtatious, and needy part of me back in my old office in New York.
“Well…” Ralph says. “Robert has the ultimate credential.”
I rip my eyes off her to look at him.
“I’m waiting to hear it,” she says.
So am I.
“He’s been recommended by Jack Lord.” He sets his elbows on the table and puts his chin on a steeple he’s made with his hands. “Highly recommended.”
I feel the blonde shrink beside me. Who the hell is she? Ralph’s last statement seems to have taken off the pressure. Waiters serve sweet clam-and-tangerine-glaze salads. The conversation turns into a lively discussion about where Ralph should spend his first month of vacation once he officially retires. Normally I’m good at mingling, but at the moment, I’m just too nervous.
However, I find the blonde’s self-important attitude interesting. Whenever another guest suggests a destination, the blonde shoots it down. At first I think she’s his very young wife. I can see him with a wife more than half his age.
Then a beautiful woman who appears to be in her fifties says, “My husband isn�
�t a fan of such a lovely beach.”
Ralph smiles at her appreciatively. “That’s true. An ocean should have lines, form, light, and darkness. It should be temperamental and uninviting.” He gestures pointedly.
“You’re too dramatic, Dad,” the blonde says.
Her bold attitude makes sense now. She’s a fucking princess who is somehow attached to Ralph’s business. I half want to say fuck it and find something else to do with my newfound time and influx of money. As all twenty or so guests continue to kiss Ralph’s ass by playing “Where’s Waldo” in the form of Ralph’s next vacation destination, I consider staying in Napa for a while to renovate my house and develop the land around it. I contemplate the sorts of crops I could plant that are drought resistant. I want to complete the construction on the Roman pool house.
“Where do you think I should go?” Ralph asks.
I’ve been staring at Ralph but seeing through him, so I know he’s talking to me. The table is quiet. I don’t feel like playing the “kiss Ralph’s ass” game.
“Anywhere the hell you want. It’s not a hard decision,” I say.
Ralph narrows his eyes as if he can tell that I’ve gotten impatient. “No, it isn’t.”
I shrug in agreement.
“You’ve come into a lot of money recently, yet you’ve chosen not to take a vacation,” Ralph says.
“I would’ve if the goose hadn’t laid the golden egg.”
He laughs a little. “And that goose would be me.”
I smirk. “The one and only.”
Ralph nods then shoots to his feet as he did earlier. “Robert and I have business to discuss. We’ll be back.”
“But, Dad, we’re in the middle of dinner,” the blonde says.
Ralph shoots her a look of warning, and I watch her sit back in her seat as if she’s just retreated. It’s good to see that the old man does have all the power. I wipe my mouth with a cloth napkin and make a vow to myself. If I get up and leave this table, then I’m not coming back. I stand.
He's So Bad Page 3
