What You Sow

by Wallace Ford

  During those three weeks, we were apart only during his hours at Dorothy’s By the Sea. The rest of the time, day and night, we were together. We dined together, bathed together, slept together and found new ways to pleasure each other together, and those three weeks seemed like three hours. And then it was time for me to go back to Venice Beach.

  Ever since the night of the New Orleans Fiasco, when Gordon damned near killed himself—and Ray Beard—I had not spent more than seven days in New York City. As soon as Paul Taylor was able to assure my sole access to the ten million dollars that Gordon had put into a Bahamian bank account in my name, my sense of survival told me that I needed to be as far away as possible from Gordon’s evil ass for the rest of my life.

  My well-honed survival instincts told me not to be fooled by Gordon’s coma or seeming helplessness. Gordon was evil incarnate. Gordon was the devil. Gordon was hell come to life in a human form. I needed to be away from Gordon forever.

  From the moment I decided to stay in New York longer than my planned one week, I had this sneaking feeling that I was placing myself in jeopardy because I was within two miles of Gordon. And, his comatose state notwithstanding, Gordon was my mortal enemy as long as he was alive.

  But being with Sture was just so much fun. And I hadn’t had fun in years. The laughter, the loving, the liberation, were too much to leave behind. So I stayed for two extra weeks. And then it was time for me to go. Sture couldn’t just get up and leave Dorothy’s, but he planned to come to California in two weeks. So we spent our last night together in my suite in the Waldorf trying to find a way to make up for the two weeks of lovemaking that we would be missing. It was fun. And it was wonderful.

  At some point, we took a (short) break from the kissing and licking and sucking and loving and moaning and sweating and writhing and loving. The sheets were soaked and twisted all around our bodies, and our bodies were intertwined in such a fashion that it seemed like we would never part again. And that would have been just fine with me.

  “Kenitra?” All Sture had to do was whisper my name across the pillow and all I wanted was for him to be inside me again and again.

  “Yes, Snow Cone?” My hand had been resting on his stomach, but now it started on a slow, sure journey south of the equator.

  “Do you know how happy you have made me these past three weeks?” Sture managed to be a man and a boy at the same time. One more reason that I couldn’t admit even to myself that I was falling in love with him.

  “I don’t know about that, Sture. But I do know how hard I have made you in the past few weeks.”

  We both laughed and cuddled and snuggled and waited for the next wave of passion to overtake us. We both knew that it wouldn’t be long before we were happily drowning in ecstasy.

  “You know that I don’t want to leave.” I don’t even remember where those words came from. As I look back, I guess they came from my heart. Sture made me feel so free that for a few moments, I forgot to be careful. For a few moments, I started to believe that anything was possible for me, that anything was possible for us.

  “You don’t have to say that, Kenitra ... unless you mean it.”

  “Of course I mean it, you crazy Snow Cone! Why do you think I said it?” We laughed and giggled and tickled and kissed and hugged and groped like teenagers who had snuck away to a no-tell motel for the very first time. I knew that I had forgotten how wonderful happiness could be.

  And then my cell phone rang. I had set my phone to ring a special tune when it was New York Hospital calling about Gordon. The call tune was the dirgelike “Song of The Volga Boatmen.”

  I grudgingly disengaged a leg and an arm from the tangle of arms and legs that was Sture and me so that I could pick up the phone.

  It was the hospital. It was about Gordon. And to this day, it amazes me how the my universe could change just because of a forty-second phone call.

  CHAPTER 15

  Paul

  My Funny Valentine

  Things moved pretty fast right after the New Orleans Fiasco. My two priorities were to make sure that Morningstar survived Gordon’s treachery and that Kenitra could use the occasion of Gordon’s demise to get free of her personal demon once and for all.

  Working with Jerome and Diedre, it was a fairly direct project to get the Morningstar ship back on even keel. It was a matter of connecting the dots in terms of shoring up corporate and municipal business opportunities and making certain that the assets of the firm were not looted by some other predatory strategy.

  Of course, Jerome and Diedre were not exactly rookies in the world of finance and corporate intrigue, so the three of us worked together as a team in protecting Morningstar and ensuring that the opportunities for future success remained a reality. As a result, within less than three years, Morningstar was exceeding even the most sanguine projections that had accompanied the formation of the firm in the first place.

  Kenitra was a different story. It goes without saying that no one was really that close to her. Gordon treated her like a prized slave. He wrapped her in furs and diamonds and pain. And he kept her away from her friends, his friends and the world at large. To say that she was on a short leash would be the definition of understatement.

  Of course, she was seen in public every time Gordon had to make some kind of appearance. She was the quintessential trophy bride, except this trophy had barely visible scars and bruises and this trophy had an eternal air of sadness and loss about her.

  And I guess there was something about her misery that made me want to help. But helping Kenitra would mean going to war with Gordon. It was not physical fear that kept me from helping her, but the knowledge that it meant having Gordon as an enemy for life.

  So when Gordon went into a cocaine-induced coma in New Orleans, there arose a perfect opportunity to get Kenitra free from Gordon, who unwittingly had provided her with the keys to her freedom. By putting ten million dollars in her name in a Bahamian bank account, thinking that Kenitra would never dream of touching that money even if she knew about it, Gordon meant to sequester some funds for some unforeseen rainy day.

  But, once he went into a coma, it was a pretty easy matter to discover the funds and move them into an offshore account—in Vanuatu—that only Kenitra and I knew about and to which only she had access. And thanks to my good fortune in having a Dartmouth College classmate who was a real estate broker in California, I was able to arrange for Kenitra to purchase a condo in Venice Beach.

  Kenitra decided to keep the Park Avenue apartment, but she moved almost all of her belongings to California, virtually shuttering the scene of some of Gordon’s most abusive and horrific behavior. Even when she came to New York for periodic shopping sprees and to consult with Gordon’s doctors, she never set foot in the apartment. It was as if there were some kind of force field surrounding the place and she was simply incapable of going through the doors of what had to be one of the most expensive and rarely used pieds-à-terre in all of New York City.

  But there was one other task that arose out of the New Orleans Fiasco, and that concerned what to do about Gordon Perkins. Even though he had been in critical condition from the moment he fell face first onto the carpeted floor of the hotel suite in New Orleans, moving him by air ambulance to New York City a few days later did not endanger or worsen his condition. Acting at Kenitra’s request, I arranged for Gordon to be placed into the Special Intensive Care Unit at New York Hospital, one of the best medical facilities in the world.

  Kenitra visited Gordon once before leaving for California, and she asked me to accompany her. I think she wanted to make sure that the devil was truly caged, and I think seeing him intubated with a swarm of tubes and wires and monitors snaking over his body convinced her that he was truly powerless. The doctors told her that his chances of recovering from the coma were virtually nil. But she was not fully convinced.

  And I could understand why. Throughout the entire time that Kenitra and I stood by his hospital bed, his eyes never moved. They
never showed recognition. They never responded to light. They never responded to movement. They never closed.

  It was beyond bizarre. It was spooky. And for Kenitra, it was absolutely terrifying. There was no way to convince her that Gordon was not consciously plotting his next move right there on the hospital bed. And there was no way that I could be sure that she wasn’t right.

  But thoughts of Gordon were in the backrooms of my mind late that evening. I was packing for my three-day trip to Los Angeles with Jerome. While I was somewhat skeptical about going when he first made the suggestion, after thinking about it, I was actually looking forward to making that West Coast run with him. That’s when the phone rang.

  Gordon’s doctors were under instructions to call both Kenitra and me if there was any significant change in his condition.

  I picked up the phone and listened. There had been some kind of significant change in Gordon’s condition. I was needed at the hospital. Right away.

  CHAPTER 16

  Jerome

  Don’t Worry About Me

  After getting Paul to agree to make the trip to Los Angeles with me, I spent the rest of my workday trying to get enough done so that when I was getting ready to leave for the airport the next afternoon, I wouldn’t be running around like a bat out of hell. It was always more than a notion to get out of town, and this trip would be no different.

  I could almost tell when memories of Charmaine would start to come out of the darkening skies. But at the moment, I was relatively at peace. I had made arrangements for the housekeeper to stay with my sons while I was gone over the next few days—and they were more than happy to be going on playdates and sleepovers for the weekend. I was happy that they were happy.

  I was just about ready to call myself finished for the evening when Diedre came down the hall from her office at the other end of our suite of offices. She usually left a little earlier than me, but it was certainly no surprise to see her at work late in the evening.

  She had an expression on her face that I could not quite interpret. And for a fleeting moment, I thought that her visit had something to do with Paul going to Los Angeles with me on such short notice—or at all.

  “Jerome, do you have a couple of minutes?” Diedre continued walking into my office, correctly assuming that as partners, we had to be able to speak with each other about anything at any time.

  She sat down in the chair right next to my desk with a style that was both alluring and professional. Diedre had always been a good-looking woman, and years of corporate warfare and motherhood had done absolutely nothing to diminish her look of quality and demure appeal.

  She also was the consummate professional who was always focused on success. In that regard, she could be somewhat cold-blooded in her pursuit of what she wanted. And since we had come to know each other better in our Morningstar adventure, I had become ever-more grateful that we were on the same side.

  But she still had that look on her face. It would have been hard for me to believe that she wanted to sit and talk about Paul taking a trip with me. Paul, Diedre and I were friends and we were business associates. And we were scrupulous about keeping our personal and business lives separate.

  Sometimes, the crossing-over couldn’t be helped. Like during the entire New Orleans Fiasco. Or when Charmaine had died. Or when Paul and Diedre got married. But on a day-to-day basis, business was business and our personal lives were left usually at the door when we went to work.

  So, what was the look on her face all about? It was not Diedre’s habit to beat around the bush, and her hesitation in getting to the point was kind of surprising.

  “I had an interesting call today, Jerome. Actually, it was one of several interesting calls that I have been getting recently. They were all from Monique Jefferson.” Her voice was flat, almost monotone, but her eyes were searching my face for a reaction.

  At the mention of the name of Ray Beard’s wife, memories cascaded through my brain like one of those sudden flash floods in the desert when all hope is lost for anyone or anything unlucky enough to be in the wrong arroyo at the wrong time. Ray Beard had been the most trusted member of my firm along with my longtime assistant, Berta Colon. I even had the conceit to consider him a kind of protégé, and I was grooming him for further success until he eventually became my full partner.

  And then, when the Morningstar merger that Paul proposed and outlined started to gain momentum, in my view, Ray just got stupid.

  One moment, he was a brilliant, attractive avatar of success on the ascent. And then, when he felt slighted by not being a principal player in the merger negotiations, he became surly, vainglorious and just another problem in my life. And then he left my firm right in the middle of the Morningstar merger negotiations. And he left by means of a letter, which he had delivered to my home in Sag Harbor. It’s one piece of correspondence that I am sure I will never forget. I remember reading it not like it was yesterday, but more like it was a half hour ago.

  It was sent to my home by Express Mail, and it was on the most expensive paper I had ever seen and printed in a script that looked like it came straight from the palace at Versailles.

  Jerome:

  By the time you read this letter, the Wall Street Journal will have received a press release announcing my resignation from your firm, effective yesterday. I really would have preferred to tell you this in person, but time and circumstances simply did not permit me to do it that way. I did not, however, think that it would be right for you to hear this from anyone else. Not after all that we have been through.

  An opportunity has arisen, and just as you have taught me, and would have done yourself, I had to take that opportunity. The release to which I referred will announce the formation of R.R. Beard & Company, a venture capital and asset management firm. My partner for domestic work will be Merrill Lynch. Merrill is providing me with much of my start-up capital as well as the initial infrastructure resources. I will be the majority shareholder.

  You should also know that five members of your asset management group and three members of your firm’s financial advisory group will be joining me, along with five secretaries. I have attached a list of their names.

  I truly wish that things could have turned out differently. I have learned so much in working with you. The most important lesson that I have learned is that business is business and every opportunity must be seized at the right time. I think that is exactly what I am doing right now.

  I truly hope that we can maintain our friendship, although I know that you might not feel that is appropriate right now. But I am sure that you would have done the same thing ... indeed, your new venture with Gordon and Diedre is proof of just that. In your new partnership, I just don’t see a place or a future for me. As we have worked together, I always expected that my future would involve our continuing to work together. Obviously, you have chosen another alternative. And just as I have had to understand, I hope that you will understand, too.

  Just for the record, I did not seek out this opportunity. Merrill initially approached me, and initially I turned them down. And then I thought about what you would do, and I called them back. There was no way that I could tell you about any of this, and there was no way that I could turn down the opportunity when our negotiations were finalized.

  I could go on, but it is probably best that I close for now. My new office manager (you will recall my secretary Lucretia) will call Berta on Wednesday to work out an orderly transfer of papers, belongings, etc., of all the people who are leaving you and joining me.

  Please give my love to Charmaine and the boys.

  Ray

  P.S. The New York Times will be publishing an announcement that Monique and I will be getting married in June of next year. I want to extend the first invitation to the wedding to you and Charmaine. The two of you will always be like family to me.

  RRB

  One of the things that I will never forget is that when Charmaine read the letter, it was one of the few times that
I ever heard her curse. And I don’t mean a few “goddamns” and “bullshits.” She let loose with a stream of obscenities that would have made a Madagascar sailor blush. And I remember promising myself that I would never let Raymond Russell Beard III ever have the satisfaction of knowing that his betrayal had hurt me—a lot.

  As it turned out, Ray’s initial betrayal was just a head fake. He eventually partnered with Gordon Perkins in an effort to disembowel Morningstar in one cruel masterstroke. If Ray and Gordon had pulled off the theft of the New Orleans mayoral election and wound up with the mayor of a major U.S. city in their pocket, the two of them would have had a bargaining chip that they could have parlayed into a miniempire, first in the world of municipal finance and ultimately in the rarified air of corporate finance.

  And if it hadn’t been for a bit too much cocaine and a little bit of bad luck, they might have pulled it off. And if they had been successful in their gambit, Diedre, Paul and I—along with Morningstar—would have been left high and dry.

  I knew the basics of Ray’s condition in the aftermath of the fiasco. He and Gordon were both in a comatose state when the emergency medical staff found them in their hotel suite—facedown on the floor, wearing only their underwear, with vials of cocaine and empty champagne bottles strewn about the room. The fact that the room was locked from the inside was only one of the unsolved mysteries of the New Orleans Fiasco.

  It was my understanding that Ray had had a massive stroke that left him blind in one eye and partially paralyzed on his left side.

  He had spent most of the past year in a rehabilitation facility in New Jersey. Amazingly, because in my view the son of a bitch deserved no mercy, his Monique, a rising star of a TV news anchor in New York City by way of Memphis, had stayed by his side throughout his entire ordeal as they had been secretly married in a private ceremony right after he sent that fateful letter.