by R. R. Banks
Lucky me.
Still, she's family – the only blood family I really have left anymore. So, because of that, I do my best to keep relations with her amicable. I hope that one day she can drop the contempt and be a better person, but I'm not exactly holding my breath.
“Kid,” Kendrick says, his tone serious as the proverbial heart attack. “Tiffany Greene can never get her money grubbing mitts on KT. Ever.”
I look at him in surprise. In all the years I've known him, he's never had a bad word to say about Tiffany. Granted, he never said much about her at all, but the level of venom I hear in his voice is surprising all the same.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“If Tiffany assumes control,” he says. “She is going to break up KT and sell it off piece by piece. Mark my words, kid. She's not interested in running the empire. She's only interested in selling it. And that includes your precious Copperheads. And knowing her and what a vengeful little bitch she can be, I'm betting she'll jettison your team first.”
Hearing Kendrick speak the way he is – even more bluntly than usual – tightens a knot in my stomach. Knowing that Tiffany is only interested in dismantling KT – destroying everything my father built – just to turn a buck and satisfy some petty, made-up vendetta in her mind utterly sickens me.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask.
Kendrick shakes his head. “I'm afraid not. I've heard it through the grapevine that she's already got the wheels in motion,” he says. “She doesn't think you're going to be able to meet your burden and that KT is going to pass to her without much of a fight.”
“What wheels could she possibly have in motion?” I ask. “I've still got two years to meet my obligations.”
He shrugs. “I don't know all the specifics yet, obviously. But I do know that it takes time to dismantle a company as big as KT,” he says. “Got to have buyers lined up, ready to bid for this division or that division. Have to have all of your legal ducks in a row too. Tiffany wants to hit the ground running. And the day after you turn thirty – if you haven't met your obligations – she wants to parcel KT out, pocket the cash, and do whatever it is she does. That's her plan.”
I run a hand through my hair. “How do you know this?” I ask.
“When you've been around as long as I have, kid,” he says, “you make a lot of friends – friends who are willing to give you a heads up when it's needed.”
A knot forms in the pit of my stomach – a knot wrapped up in a ball of dark anger. I don't want to believe that Tiffany would do that – would dismantle my father's life's work. But I also know that Kendrick wouldn't be sounding the alarm if there wasn't some fire underneath all that smoke.
“Well then,” I say, “I suppose I have some things to sort out.”
He nods. “I'd say you do,” he replies. “But you need to know that you aren't in this alone. You don't have to put the weight of the world on your shoulders and your shoulders alone, Brady. You have help. All you need to do is reach out for it. Go and talk to Thomas. Seriously. I think he can help you.”
I pick up my hat, putting it on as I get to my feet. Kendrick comes around his desk and gives me a firm embrace.
“I love ya, kid,” he says. “I want what's best for you and your son. I truly do.”
“I know it,” I reply. “And I appreciate it more than you know.”
I leave his office, my head spinning a million miles a minute. Tiffany is making moves behind the scenes and I don't know that there's anything I can do to stop her.
Chapter Seven
Tiffany
“Nice to see you, Mr. Dempsey,” I say as he takes a seat at the table.
“You too, Tiffany.”
I bristle at the familiar use of my name – I don't consider us to be that close. But Rick Dempsey is a useful tool – one I need to achieve my goals – so I will endure him. For now, anyway.
We are sitting at Brevia's, a lovely little outdoor cafe that served a wonderful breakfast. Brevia's is one of the only redeeming things about this disgusting little cowtown. I grew up in Dallas and like it well enough – but, I much prefer the tropical climate of Miami.
San Antonio though – it just seems to have a foul odor that saturates the air. There's so many things about this city I can't stand. And I hate having to come here. But, I unfortunately have to from time to time for business. My hope is that a couple of years from now, when I take control of Keating Technologies and then sell it all off piece by piece, I won't ever have to set foot in this cesspool again. I should have enough from the sale of the company to live a luxurious life in South Beach.
If the sale goes well enough – as my advisors continue to assure me, it will – I might even be able to buy my own island in the Caribbean if I wanted to. I love having options. Options that don't include being tied down to this little dump of a city.
The waitress comes by and offers Mr. Dempsey a mimosa. He declines and orders a black coffee instead and it's all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes. Who doesn't drink mimosas with breakfast?
“So, I had a meeting with your brother the other day,” Dempsey says.
“Half,” I say. “Half-brother.”
“Right,” he says. “Anyway, he's not really happy with the –”
“Tell you what, Mr. Dempsey,” I say. “Let's not ruin what should be a splendid breakfast by talking business through it.”
“Come again?”
“I enjoy breakfast, Mr. Dempsey,” I say. “I don't like having it spoiled by unpleasant news. And judging by the tone of your voice – and the mention of my half-brother – this is going to be an unpleasant conversation. So, let's just enjoy a nice breakfast first, and get to the unpleasant business after. How does that sound?”
“Ummm – fine, I suppose.”
“Excellent,” I say. “I took the liberty of ordering breakfast for us – I hope you don't mind. But they have Eggs Benedict and strawberry crepes that are simply to die for.”
Mr. Dempsey chuckles. “I'm a simple man,” he says. “Pancakes and eggs would've been just fine for me.”
I bite back the scathing reply that popped into my head. He's not from Texas originally, but Mr. Dempsey is taking on the simplistic nature of the natives – and I find it appalling. Such unrefined tastes and uncultured attitudes. It's no wonder I don't belong in Texas – I simply don't fit in here. Most probably think it sounds arrogant to say, but I'm above them. Better than them. I don't think it's arrogance – it's just a statement of fact.
The waitress brings our food and sets it down before refilling my mimosa and disappearing without a word. I take a bite of the crepes and moan in delight.
“Delicious,” I say. “I only wish Brevia's had a location in Dallas. It's the only about this city I can stand.”
Mr. Dempsey chuckles. “Yeah, I can't say I'm too fond of San Antonio either.”
Well, at least we have that in common. When my father passed away and Mr. Dempsey was appointed to run the football team, I knew I had my in. I don't really know him – I only know people who know him – but I know his type. He's a man obsessed with power, personal prestige and wealth. Those are things I've been able to offer him – at least for now. And only so long as he does what I tell him to do.
The football team is the last puzzle piece in my master plan. But it's also the one that has the potential to bring in the biggest prize. But for me to maximize that prize, a few things are going to have to fall into place. And to ensure that they do, I need a man like Mr. Dempsey on the inside, working for me.
Eventually – and regrettably – our meal ends and the waitress appears to take our dishes away. When our table is clear, she comes back and refills our drinks again before disappearing again.
“That was divine,” I say. “How did you enjoy your meal, Mr. Dempsey.”
He nods. “Yeah, it was pretty good.”
Pretty good. What an uncultured heathen. No doubt, he would have been eating some fast food sausage sandwich ha
d I not invited him to join me for this sumptuous little feast. It pains me to know that such wonderful fare is wasted on such an unrefined palate.
“Well,” I say. “I suppose the inevitable can't be put off any longer.”
“I suppose not.”
I sigh. “So, you mentioned that you had a meeting with my half-brother?”
Dempsey nods and takes a sip of his coffee. “I did. This past Sunday, in fact.”
“And?”
Dempsey shrugs. “He's not happy.”
I stare at him a long moment, my eyes narrowing. I hate having to drag information out of the man, but he's a poor communicator.
“And what is he unhappy about, Mr. Dempsey?”
“You name it,” he chuckles. “The roster, free agent signings, drafting – but most of all, he's upset about the losing.”
“The losing?”
Dempsey nods. “He's a competitor, that boy,” he says. “Doesn't like losing at all. Called me on the carpet about it the other day.”
I take a sip of my mimosa, savoring the taste of it. “And what did you say?”
He shrugs. “Same thing I always tell him. He doesn't run the team. I do. And until he does, all football decisions go through me.”
“Yes, well,” I say. “My half-brother will never get a chance to make those – football – decisions. Not if everything plays out like I expect it will.”
Dempsey sips his coffee, looking at me over the rim of his cup. “Why is it you hate him so much?”
I look back at him evenly. “I don't know that's any of your business, Mr. Dempsey.”
“No, I suppose it's not,” he says. “But I'm curious. I mean, when you came to me with this plan, it sounded like a business deal of sorts. That much, I understand. But the more I talk to you, the more I see how personal it is to you.”
I take another sip of my drink and lean back in my seat. I suppose it costs me nothing to satisfy his curiosity. I just don't like people prying into my business – my personal business. But still, I know that I need to throw Dempsey a bone if I want to keep him on my side. I know that he's a fickle man and is willing to change allegiances if a better offer comes along – as a long list of coaches and front office personnel can attest to.
“It's not so much Brady I hate,” I say. “It's his last name. More specifically, what that name represents to me. Keating. It symbolizes everything I hate in this world.”
“I don't understand.”
“Of course, you don't,” I say. “But imagine growing up in a single parent home and learning at a young age, that your father wants nothing to do with you. Oh, he provides for you quite well. You want for nothing. But, when all you want is his love, and all you get is a check every month it leaves you a little empty inside. Compounding that, of course, is having your mother telling you that your father won't have anything to do with you because you a reminder of a terrible mistake – one that he does not care to continue dwelling on. That you are a chapter of his life best left in the past. Can you imagine how that feels, Mr. Dempsey?”
He is silent and casts his eyes down to the table, fidgeting with his napkin.
“I grew up knowing who my father is,” I continue. “And knowing he wants nothing to do with me. And now, knowing that he's dead and the only way I can make him suffer is to dismantle this little empire he's built – and get fabulously wealthy in the process – is what I hold onto. It's what keeps me going. Knowing that I'm going to take Brady's inheritance away from him – because he was the favored son and I was just an afterthought – is a thought that keeps me warm at night.”
Mr. Dempsey shifts in his seat, obviously a little uncomfortable with my confession. But, I believe you should never ask a question you don't really want the answer to. He wanted to know, and now he knows.
“A little too much personal, family drama for your tastes, Mr. Dempsey?”
He clears this throat and still won't meet my eyes. “I – I just didn't know, is all,” he says. “It must have been – difficult. I'm sorry.”
I shrug. “Nothing to be sorry about. You'd be surprised at what you can learn to live with. It is what it is, as they say,” I reply. “And now, I'll do what I have to do – or whatever the most apt saying might be.”
A moment of tense silence descends over the table and I can tell Mr. Dempsey is still uncomfortable. What I told him is the truth though. My mother told me the whole story about her fling with Dale Keating. About his promise to divorce his wife to be with her – a promise the bastard obviously broke. It shattered my mother's heart.
He paid well enough. His monthly checks were enough to put me through a very nice private school, giving me a wonderful education. They also paid for my college. I truly did want for nothing. Materially, anyway. When I was old enough, my mother brought me to San Antonio and we saw my father – from afar.
She explained to me that the money he gave us – the money that afforded us a comfortable lifestyle, was money meant to keep us away from him. He was paying her to keep me out of his life. She told me that he wanted nothing to do with me and said he thought I would be better off forgetting he even existed.
I remember the day we saw him. I was thirteen and we were in the crowd at some charity function he was giving a speech at. We were near the back of the room, mixed in with the crowd. My mother said it was important that he not see us and that even though I wanted to demand an explanation from him, I needed to not give into the emotion. She said it would only bring us trouble.
And my mother had already had enough trouble because of Dale Keating.
My mother was a good woman. A kind woman. A great mother. And it killed me that having never found real love again, she died alone. She deserved better than that. Much, much better. Better than Deal Keating could have ever given her.
He might be dead, but I am going to make sure he pays for it by making sure that Brady – the reason he chose to break his promise to my mother – suffers mightily.
Mr. Dempsey clears his throat. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he says. “But, how are you going to make sure you take control of Keating Technologies? And the Copperheads?”
“Brady will never live up to the terms of the estate,” I reply. “It's just not in him. Especially the marriage condition. He's no better than his father in that regard.”
“Just to play devil's advocate for a minute,” he says. “But what if he does?”
“In that incredibly unlikely scenario,” I say, trying to keep my patience, “I will deal with it. I have the ammunition needed to nuke any potential marriage situation.”
“Sounds like you've covered all your bases.”
“Indeed, I have,” I reply. “Which brings me to you and that – football team. I assume that things are going according to plan?”
He nods. “They are,” he replies. “We're off to a winless start. We've already seen a drop in attendance.”
“Good news,” I say. “But we still have a ways to go before we meet the trigger to get us out of the stadium lease.”
He chuckles. “As long as I keep drafting the way I have and signing lower-tier free agents, we'll trigger that clause long before the deadline,” he says. “People want to come out and support a winner. And seven wins over the last couple of seasons isn't going to get it done. People will find something else to do with their Sundays.”
“That's excellent work, Mr. Dempsey,” I say. “Excellent work indeed.”
“Assuming we can get attendance down to trigger the lease clause,” he says, “there's still the matter of getting twenty-four votes to approve your relocation bid.”
I didn't understand much about football – which is why I tolerate a cretin like Mr. Dempsey. He knows the league inside and out and has helped tutor me on those things I need to know. He's also helped establish some connections for me – connections I am using to further my goals.
“There are a few owners who still need massaging,” I say. “But I have been more or less assured that w
hen the time comes to vote, I will have the necessary support.”
“How can you know for sure?”
“You just have to speak their language,” I say. “The owners are driven by one thing – money. And there is much more money to be made in South Florida than there is in San Antonio. A franchise there would be worth so much more than a franchise here. We're talking hundreds of millions of dollars, potentially.”
Mr. Dempsey nods, clearly impressed. “Sounds like you've done your homework.”
“Believe me, I have,” I say. “The minute I'm able, I will be moving your football team to a more – civilized and cultured city.”
“And just so I'm one hundred percent clear,” Mr. Dempsey says, “once the move is complete, you will retain me as the CEO and General Manager of the team at the agreed upon salary.”
“You have my word, Mr. Dempsey,” I say. “If you can field a team bad enough to trigger the out clause with the stadium, and I get the approval to move to South Florida, so long as I own the team, you will be at the top of the food chain, making a very generous salary.”
“Excellent,” he says. “I appreciate your reassurance, Tiffany.”
I smile. “Of course,” I say. “We're in this together.”
He drains the last of his coffee, bringing our business to an end – thankfully. But there's something I've wanted to ask him for a little while now. A curiosity to me.
“Mind if I ask you a personal question, Mr. Dempsey?”
“Please.”
“Do you even like it? Football, I mean,” I ask. “Do you enjoy the game?”
He shrugs. “I used to love it. Used to live for it,” he says. “But this game chews you up and spits you out. I've been a part of organizations that treat their people like dogs. There's no appreciation, no pat on the back for a job well done. You're only working until you get fired – and when you work in the front office, you will be fired. It's a question of when, not if. And after playing good soldier in that meat grinder for so long, I think it's time I start looking out for me. Doing what's in my own best interests because the team – the league – certainly won't. Interestingly, it was you who made me see that.”
