by Trust Fund
“My father died a few hours ago.”
Ramsey blinked several times, even more slowly than normal. “I know. Teddy called to tell me. I’m sorry. I should have said so before.” Ramsey checked his watch once more. “But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”
“I’m coming back to Warfield full-time, Frank,” Bo said bluntly. He saw Ramsey’s jaw clench. It was the only visible sign of how vile the other man found this piece of information. “I will return as executive vice president and chief operating officer now that my father has died. You will assume your former duties as special assistant to Teddy.”
“Has Teddy approved your return to Warfield?”
“Teddy’s input is irrelevant.”
“It was my understanding that he and Paul were calling the shots for the family now,” Ramsey argued. “Including any and all decisions having to do with Warfield Capital.”
“I’m needed around here, especially with Jimmy Lee gone. The sharks on the Street will start circling this place because they’ll figure we’ll be weak without him. Warfield will need my contacts, and my judgment.”
“I’m here. I can take care of everything.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
“Hey, listen, I—”
“Shut up, Frank.” On the way to Warfield Bo had questioned his right to be involved in family affairs any longer—if what Paul had said about his adoption was true. But whether or not it was true, Jimmy Lee had squeezed his hand at the very end and pleaded, with the little strength he had remaining, that Bo take charge. Bo might not be a Hancock by birth, but he was one in every other way, and he was going to act like it. “During this transition period I must be very careful with my family’s investments. I have to make the important decisions, not an outsider,” Bo hesitated, interested to see Ramsey’s reaction to what he was about to say. “As it is, I’ll be fascinated to see what I find in Warfield’s portfolio when I drill down into it. Fascinated to see what you’ve done.”
Ramsey drew a slow circle on the tabletop with his fingertip. “Yes, well, I—”
“You haven’t been taking any undue risks with my family’s money, have you, Frank?”
“No more than usual.”
“You haven’t been putting an irresponsible amount of our money into some tiny Internet start-ups, have you?”
Ramsey glanced up. “What are you driving at, Bo? Who have you been talking to?”
“I understand that lots of people think these Internet startups will all be worth tens of billions someday, but I believe we ought to be more conservative and take a wait-and-see attitude on that industry. That’s all.”
“Teddy and I have been very conservative about our investments in that sector,” Ramsey assured Bo. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Just the same, I’ll take a hard look at the portfolio and judge for myself.”
“Suit yourself, but Teddy has been fully briefed on what I’ve done.” Ramsey pointed at Bo. “You don’t give Teddy enough credit. He’s very sharp.”
“Teddy is easy for you to manipulate, which is why you like him,” Bo answered. “Paul doesn’t much care for numbers, though he could handle the big-picture issues and figure out if we were being misled by one of our senior employees.”
Ramsey understood the inference clearly. “Hey, I won’t stand for that kind of—”
“But Paul’s only concern at this point has to be his campaign,” Bo said loudly, cutting Ramsey off again. “Paul is in a tight race to win the party’s nomination. A race that’s going to go down to the wire, but one I believe he’ll ultimately win. When he does, the road will only get tougher, because then he’ll have to focus on the general election. My point is, he doesn’t have time for Warfield, but I do. My focus can be completely on Warfield Capital. Of the three brothers, I am most qualified to do the job.”
“If you consider yourself a brother.”
Bo stared at Ramsey, thinking about how he could tear the skinny little bastard apart with one hand.
“Go back to Montana,” Ramsey said rudely. “You’re a liability to Paul here in New York. Teddy and I can take care of Warfield.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Forget what you could do to ruin Paul’s chances in the election.” Ramsey kept going, undeterred. “You need to stay away from here at all costs for another reason.”
“Other than the obvious selfish reasons, and because I always enjoy a good laugh, why do you say that?”
Ramsey leaned over the table. “Because the pressure of running Warfield Capital is immense. The fund has over two hundred billion dollars in assets now. At some point the pressure of running that much money would break you. Maybe on a day when the markets are gyrating like hell, maybe out of nowhere on a quiet day, but it would happen. It’s inevitable. You and I both know that.” He paused. “Just like it happened last time.”
“You’re full of—”
“Remember that morning I found you?” Ramsey pointed at the floor by the desk. “Right over there, curled up and shivering like a baby just out of the womb, arms wrapped around a bottle of scotch like a life preserver.”
“I was sick.”
“You certainly were.”
“I mean physically sick. The doctors thought I had pneumonia. I had been working too hard. Sixteen-hour days, seven days a week.”
“You’ll need something to help get you through the day,” Ramsey continued, “just like you did last time. And Manhattan is out there with a bar on every corner, open all the time, with lots of women inside. You’ll cave in to the pressure and the temptations to run to the bottle. What would your wife say if she found out that you were crawling around nightclubs at three in the morning again? What would Warfield’s investors say if they knew you were coming in here on half a bottle of Glenlivet after a night with some woman you’d never laid eyes on until fifteen minutes before last call?”
“I don’t need your—”
“What would your father say?” Ramsey interrupted, his voice rising. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this, Bo, but he made it clear to me several times over the past year that he didn’t want you back in here. I have a great deal of respect for your father. I want to honor his wishes.”
“Thanks so much for your heartfelt concern,” Bo snapped, aware that Ramsey was bludgeoning him with everything in the hope that he’d slink back to Montana. Aware that it wouldn’t do any good to tell Ramsey of Jimmy Lee’s dying words because he wouldn’t believe them. Bo would have fired Ramsey on the spot, but he’d found out that Ramsey had been smart enough to negotiate a five-year, no-cut contract with Jimmy Lee when he’d come to Warfield. A contract that included an equity interest in the fund, for which Ramsey hadn’t paid a dime. There were still three and a half years left on the contract. “I’m coming back to Warfield, Frank. There will be no further discussion on that point.”
“The newspapers will find out all about you this time,” Ramsey warned, continuing the assault. “All of those high-class friends of yours up in Connecticut will read about you closing bars down at dawn and going home with whores. The press will get hold of the story this time and our investors will pull their money out. You’ll blow Paul’s chance to get to the Oval Office, just like your father thought you would. I won’t be able to save you like I did before.”
“You didn’t save me, and I’ve never cheated on my wife.”
“I saved your ass many times,” Ramsey argued. “I dragged you to my apartment once a week and sobered you up with coffee and a cold shower. I answered calls from your wife and the investors while you were hunched over the toilet puking your guts up. I won’t do that again.”
“I’m clean.”
“Go back to Montana,” Ramsey urged. “Back to the strippers who think five bucks is a fair price for a lap dance and a screw. Back to a place where no one cares if you’re falling-down drunk on the ranch all day long.”
“I’m coming back to run Warfield Capital!” Bo shouted, slamming the table.
“I could take this to Warfield’s advisory board. I could tell them all about you, confirm to them that the rumors are true.”
“They won’t believe you, and in the final analysis they are powerless anyway,” Bo said defiantly. “They can rattle their sabers, but my family controls this firm. What I say goes. I run the family business now.”
“Teddy and Paul run it.”
“Wrong.”
“As long as Teddy and Paul are united, you don’t have a chance of taking control here.”
“Watch me.”
“You’ll get yours.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Wait and see.” Ramsey met Bo’s gaze across the table. “I’ll walk out of here and leave you in this thing alone. I’ll take the big institutional investors with me,” he threatened. “The ones who lend us all that money at dirt-cheap rates. The ones who allow you and your family to make so much money. They are loyal to me now. Warfield Capital will crash and burn without me, especially if I go to The Wall Street Journal and tell them how many shots of scotch you need to make an investment decision. You’d be all over the front page. Your family’s dirty laundry will be hung out for all to see. The rest of the press corps will jump onboard. It’ll be a feeding frenzy.”
“You won’t do that,” Bo said evenly.
“What makes you so damn sure?”
“Your equity stake.”
Ramsey looked up, surprised. “You know about that?”
“All about it. It’s less than one percent of profits,” Bo shot back, pleased at the look of shock on Ramsey’s face. “There are ways to make the value of a small stake like that evaporate over time if you aren’t on-site to protect it. Don’t doubt that for a second,” Bo warned.
“I have a no-cut contract as well,” Ramsey said defiantly.
“For the next three and a half years,” Bo acknowledged. “I have to concede that, for better or worse—mostly worse—we’re partners.” His voice turned steely. “You can stick around because legally I have no way of getting rid of you, but understand this and understand it very well. You will no longer be involved in major decisions at Warfield Capital. I’m running the show now.”
Ramsey tugged on his upper lip with his thumb and forefinger, blinking slowly. “I need to talk to Teddy and Paul.”
“You can talk to them all you want, but I’ll be in here first thing tomorrow morning,” Bo said firmly. “Between now and then, I want you to get all of your crap out of my office.”
The two men stared at each other silently for several moments. Finally, Ramsey nodded. “Fine. I’ll have my things moved back into my old office by the end of the day. But don’t think for a second that this thing is over.” His lips formed a tight smile. “It’s a good bet that by the end of the week this office will look just as it does now. Teddy and Paul aren’t going to let you return to Warfield.” Ramsey broke into a full grin. “In fact, I believe you’ll be back on a plane to Montana by tonight. You might be tied to your seat, but you’ll be on the plane.”
Bo clenched his right hand, then slowly let it relax. “Get out of my sight,” he snarled.
“I suppose I should say welcome back,” Ramsey said, pushing back the chair so it rolled against the wall as he stood up. “But I won’t.” He stalked toward the door.
“Frank!”
Ramsey whipped back around. “What?”
“If you ever lie about me again the way you did to my father about the redhead at the bar, I’ll take matters into my own hands.”
“I did that for the good of the family.”
Bo stood up slowly. “Do you understand what I’m saying? About taking matters into my own hands? Do you understand that?”
Ramsey smiled nervously. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Ramsey stepped back, bumping into the side of the doorway, startling himself.
“Now get out of here!” Bo shouted.
Ramsey turned and darted into the hallway.
Bo exhaled heavily. He needed a drink.
So he got one. And then another. At a hole-in-the-wall joint on Forty-eighth Street, a few blocks from Warfield Capital. At least the scotch was mixed with a splash of water, he thought grimly as he sat on the stool, elbows resting on the bar. It wasn’t pure poison. As if that were some great victory.
“I’ll need another one of these,” Bo called to a hefty man behind the bar. “As soon as possible.”
The bartender finished drying a shot glass as he sauntered over to where Bo sat. “That’ll be your third in less than a half hour.”
“I can see you didn’t miss many math classes.” Bo felt the alcohol coursing through his system. Jimmy Lee’s death and the confrontation with Ramsey had taken more of a toll on him than he’d thought. He tapped the glass. “Again.”
“It’s not even two o’clock yet,” the bartender protested.
“Thanks, Big Ben.”
The bartender smiled good-naturedly. “How about a glass of water first?”
Bo reached into his shirt pocket. “How about I give you this fifty-dollar bill and tell you I don’t need change?”
“Never let me be accused of getting in the way of progress,” the bartender answered quickly, mixing the drink and putting the glass down in front of Bo in a matter of seconds.
“That’s a good man.” The bartender reached for the fifty, but Bo snatched it away at the last second, satisfied that his reflexes hadn’t yet been affected by the alcohol. “Remember that your character is your destiny,” he said quietly, then stuffed the bill in the man’s hand and raised the glass. “Hair of the dog.” Just as Jimmy Lee had always professed, everything was for sale.
“Hello.”
Bo glanced to his left. The woman was tall, with dark hair and long legs. Pretty, though not pretty enough to have escaped the business world, she was dressed in a chalk-striped suit and a frilly-down-the-front, out-of-style blouse. “Hello, yourself.”
The woman picked up her wineglass and moved to the stool next to Bo’s. “You shouldn’t be drinking alone.”
“I’m not,” he said with a wry smile.
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Glenlivet keeps me company.” Bo pointed at the glass. “He’s the best kind of company there is. He never has to say a word to put me in a good mood.” He could feel the alcohol taking control. God, he loved the sensation. Words flowed smoothly from his mouth, pressures and inhibitions disappeared, and he was left with nothing but a warm, secure feeling. “Best of all, I don’t have to say anything to him.”
The woman smiled uncertainly. “I’m Sara.”
“Bo.” He ran his finger around the rim of the glass. He hated to admit it, but Ramsey was right. It would be so damn easy to fall into the trap, and this was the first day back. “What are you doing in New York, Sara?” It was obvious that she wasn’t from the city. From the accent, he was guessing the Midwest, probably Chicago.
“I’m here for a medical conference. I work at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota.”
She was from halfway across the country, which more than complied with the eight-by-fifty rule. He took a long swallow, cursing silently. Ramsey’s words again.
“Where are you from?” Sara asked.
“Around here.”
“The city?”
“Connecticut.”
“I see.” She finished her wine and nodded to the bartender, indicating that she wanted another. “I’m in this bar having a drink because I couldn’t listen to one more bore-me-to-tears presentation about scalpels and surgical staples. What’s your excuse?”
“I don’t have one,” Bo admitted.
“Then why don’t you take me to lunch and afterwards show me the sights? We could have fun. A lot more than we will alone.”
He shook his head. “I’m not big on the tourist thing.”
“I don’t
mean those sights.” She smiled provocatively and leaned closer to him.
Bo gazed at her for a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t.”
When he had made it through the door and into the raw mist outside, he stopped and leaned over, hands on his knees. “No more drinking,” he muttered to himself. “No more.” His expression turned grim as he headed toward Grand Central Station. He’d made that promise to himself so many times before.
Reggie Duncan, an African American radio talk show host, beamed as he stood behind the podium, waving to a sea of well-wishers stretching out before him on the Harlem street as far as he could see. His unlikely grassroots campaign for president had picked up considerable momentum in the past few weeks, not only among his traditional minority listener base but also among suburban whites. He spoke the truth with a direct nononsense style that was playing well with more and more Americans. They were warming to his relaxed manner, his ability to poke fun at everyone, including himself, and his willingness to answer all questions with a straightforward response that had nothing to do with what he thought his audience wanted to hear.
With just a few months until the convention, Duncan was far behind the two leading candidates, Paul Hancock and Ronald Baker, in terms of polls and funding. However, with the help of the Internet and a small but determined volunteer staff, money was beginning to pour in and people were suddenly paying attention to his message.
As Duncan deftly entertained the mass of humanity stretching before him with a story about the punishment he had endured as a child for believing that he could fool his omniscient mother—who stood beside him now on the raised platform, smiling proudly—one face in the crowd did not smile along with her. A couple of nights before, this man had murdered a Hazeltine Security employee who had been watching Bo Hancock in Montana. Working with two accomplices, he had drowned him in the Kootenai River. Then he had pulled his gun and killed his accomplices, burying them in the same grave with the Hazeltine employee. You could never have more than one witness to a murder and expect to maintain secrecy. He knew that very well.
As he watched Duncan speak, the man marveled at the candidate’s ability to connect with the crowd. And he marveled at Duncan’s ability to lure whites—there were many in the crowd—from other parts of Manhattan into this mostly black neighborhood. Almost overnight, Reggie Duncan had become a force.
