by Jo Barrett
“How much?” Dylan pressed.
“Your brother was playing the sports book at some fringe casino in Las Vegas. He’s not answering my calls,” Tim said, shrugging his thin shoulders.
“How much!”
“Half a million.”
Dylan cracked a smile for the first time in a week. Some things never change, he thought. Wyatt will be Wyatt.
“Half a million bucks,” Dylan said. “Is that all?”
This did the trick.
For a split second, Tim Johnson raised his eyebrows and looked ruffled, which pleased Dylan to no end. He’d finally flapped Mr. Unflappable.
“There’s nothing more I can do,” Tim Johnson said, slapping the file shut.
Dylan stood abruptly from his chair.
“Thank you, Tim. You’ve done more than enough.” Dylan strode to the door, swung it open, and walked out.
Nine
Kat had done this a thousand times before, but it never got any easier. She held the toddler tightly in her arms. He squirmed and tried to slip from her grasp as little boys tend to do, wiggling his little body like a worm and then making it go slack. Wiggle, then slack. Wiggle, then slack. She gripped him tighter to keep him from moving.
“No more hurt! No more boo-boo!” he squealed as the doctor tried to surreptitiously slide a needle into the top of his flailing hand.
“Shhhhh, sweet little one. It’s okay,” Kat murmured, caressing the child’s feather-soft hair.
Kathleen cracked open her favorite children’s book, Tales of the Unicorn Land, and began to read aloud:
What is the Unicorn Land?
It is a beautiful large
Forest with large trees
And bushes.
It has a huge pond called
The Smiling Pond.
And now let me introduce
Some of the creatures
That live in the
Unicorn Land.
Uli the Unicorn who lives in
A pocket of fog.
Then there is
Benny Bear
Tammy Turtle
And Wilberforce, the cross-eyed Snake.
And don’t forget
Chico, the Flying Squirrel…
As Kat read in her calm voice, the boy stared up at her, his eyes searching her face. A single tear tumbled down his plump cheek.
“No more hurt,” he murmured. The anesthesiologist pricked his skin, missed the vein, and had to try again.
The boy let out a painful yelp and kicked his plump little legs, hitting Kathleen in her kneecap.
She flinched, but kept her grip tight.
“Shhhh, we’re going to fix you right up, Diego,” she cooed. Her heart surged for this boy. His name was Diego Ramirez. And his hair was soft and dark, the color of cocoa beans. Kathleen caressed his hair until the boy stopped kicking, the anesthesia took effect, and he fell into a deep, unconscious sleep.
“It’s time,” the doctor announced. He lifted the boy’s hospital gown and applied heart monitor patches across his small chest.
Kathleen whispered, “Be well, sweet child,” as Diego was wheeled toward the operating room.
Dr. Levin, the chief surgeon, had informed Kathleen that Diego’s brain tumor could be removed by a complex surgery involving a team of neurosurgeons and the help of a sophisticated MRT machine.
The King Foundation was paying for the operation because Diego’s Spanish parents didn’t have health insurance. Eighty thousand dollars.
It’s worth every penny, Kathleen thought.
She washed her hands in the hospital room sink, and proceeded to walk briskly down the cool hallway, her flat shoes clicking against the freshly mopped floor. This wing of the hospital—this new pediatric wing with its soft powder blue walls—had been built with the money from Kathleen’s annual foundation dinners.
Some women reveled in designer handbags, shoes, and jewelry. Well-heeled women enjoyed their purebred dogs, race-horses, and yachts.
This hospital was like Kathleen’s Birkin bag.
She’d monitored every aspect of the construction—from the types of screws used in the door latches to the mattresses used in the beds—extra thick, for comfort. Instead of the usual sterile gray hospital walls, Kathleen had spent months painting sunny murals of white puffy clouds and sheep and ponies frolicking through fields of wildflowers.
Under Kathleen’s constant supervision, the Pediatric Cancer Center looked less like a hospital and more like a place children could enjoy. There were books and toys and colorful mobiles hanging from the ceilings. In the waiting rooms, there were comfortable couches and chairs for parents, coffee machines, and fresh morning pastries brought in from a bakery down the street.
Stepping inside the chapel door, Kathleen paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The hospital chapel was nondenominational. There were no crucifixes, no Hebrew Stars of David, no stained glass depicting scenes from the Bible. Just a warm, cozy, candlelit chapel to which anyone with any religious background could come for comfort.
Kathleen spotted Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez kneeling on the floor. She steeled herself for what would come next. The parents of near-dead children often appeared like the walking dead themselves.
Kathleen surveyed the parents through the flickering candlelight; she noticed that Mrs. Ramirez was choking back sobs, her shoulders hopping up and down uncontrollably.
At the sound of the door, Diego’s father pivoted around.
“Es él muerto?” in a hesitant voice, asking Kathleen if his son was dead.
“No, Señor Ramirez. Es un muchacho muy valiente,” Kathleen replied. He is a very brave boy.
“Muchas gracias, señora,” he said, bowing his head toward Kathleen. “Muchas gracias.”
Mrs. Ramirez swiveled around, revealing a face streaked with tears.
Kathleen knelt down next to her on the floor. She made the sign of the cross as she’d been taught in Catholic school. Then she reached out and grabbed Mrs. Ramirez’s trembling hand.
It was the hand of a woman who was nearly lifeless herself from grief. A hand that didn’t squeeze back when Kathleen squeezed, but instead felt cold, brittle, weak.
Kathleen squeezed her eyes shut, and said her own prayer. First for Diego.
And next for herself.
But not for herself, exactly. For the King family lineage.
Please, Lord. Don’t let it be true, Kathleen prayed.
When she finished, she stood quietly and slipped out the chapel door.
Ten
I need a cheeseburger, Dylan thought.
And not just your average, run-of-the-mill, fast-food grease burger. He was jonesing for a Becks Prime with lots of ketchup, pickles, and crispy fries. And an ice-cold milkshake.
That’s the ticket.
Dylan swung his brother’s gleaming million-dollar car—which now even he recognized as absurd seeing as how he and Wyatt were flat broke—into the drive-through window.
As usual, he got the stare from the guy at the takeout window. The are-you-fucking-kidding-me stare.
Dylan reached for his wallet and realized he hadn’t gone to the ATM.
Damn. He was clean out of cash.
He reached over and popped open the glove box.
“How much is it gonna be?” he called out to the window guy, who was still gawking at the car.
“Seven-fifty.”
Dylan located six dollars in meter money, and a few more quarters underneath the seat.
“Hold the milkshake,” Dylan said.
The window guy handed Dylan a yellow bag and a frosty milkshake. “Don’t sweat it, buddy. I can see you need the charity.”
“Funny,” Dylan said, letting a smile break across his lips for the first time since he’d heard the news about his father.
The smell made Dylan’s mouth water, so he whipped into a nearby parking space, plunged his hand into the tantalizing greasy bag, and shoved a handful of salty fries in his mouth.
He slurped hi
s shake and dug into his perfect cheeseburger. A pickle slipped out and fell onto the overpriced leather, leaving a small round stain. Dylan grinned and flicked the pickle out the window.
As much as he wanted to see Kat right now, he needed to eat his burger in peace, and think.
Think about what, genius?
Dylan considered how much he’d spent from his savings account and from the 401(k) he’d set up in his old job at Enron. At least he’d paid off his law school loans before the firm went belly-up and he lost all the money he’d worked so hard to earn in Enron company stock. He’d been in his cubicle at the energy brokerage department when Kenneth Lay’s shit hit the fan. Dylan had wanted to kill the fucker, but apparently he hadn’t needed to.
He thrust his hand inside the bag and munched another handful of fries.
The Grant family had been in jams before. Wasn’t easy when times were tough. Especially in the eighties when the Texas oil business had ground to a screeching halt. Dylan had been a boy, but he remembered his mother and grandmother selling all the furniture, the house, the pickup trucks, and even their Sunday dresses.
“Times like these reveal the strength within us,” his grandma told him.
Dylan took a deep juicy bite into his cheeseburger and repeated this mantra. “Times like these reveal the strength within us.”
He needed a plan. It was that simple.
Until then, Dylan would have to cut down on expenses.
I’ll start with the condo.
His twentieth-floor pad at the Royal Arms was costing him a cool five grand a month. Not to mention that Kathleen had been living off him since her grandfather had died. Cullen Davis King would probably roll in his grave if he knew that his only granddaughter had given away her trust fund to build the Pediatric Cancer Center. But Dylan knew this was Kat’s “calling.” She’d explained to him that her purpose in life—the reason she’d been spared among her entire clan—had come to her like a dream in the night. Her obsession with curing sick children couldn’t be sated with anything less than a full commitment. And Dylan wasn’t one to argue with a life calling.
Kat will be crushed to find out about the condo. But we’ll both have to make do, Dylan thought.
Next would come the car. A year ago, Wyatt had entered into some slick side deal with Gary the Snake—sole owner of Gary Crumpacker’s Luxury Automobiles off Interstate 10.
The deal went something like this. Wyatt gives Gary the Snake a bunch of cash up front to drive a “pussy magnet.” Gary the Snake—a.k.a. Con Artist Extraordinaire—keeps title to the car and gets monthly cash payments from Wyatt and hookups to some of the girls Wyatt hangs out with. Wyatt showers Gary with trips to Vegas, hookers, and filet mignons the size of footballs. Gary the Snake still keeps title to the car.
Dylan finished his cheeseburger, licked the tip of his thumb, and crushed the bag underneath the seat. He’d deliver the car back to Gary Crumpacker with a nice new odor.
Just as Dylan turned the key and heard the familiar purr of the engine, a yellow Hummer slammed into the parking space beside him.
C. Todd Hartwell slid his window down. He was wearing a visor, Oakley sunglasses, and balancing a Red Bull in his hand. “Hey Grant! I called you about that shallow well deal I was putting together. You too good to call me back, hoss?”
Dylan bristled. He knew the oil promoter was always prowling around Kat, trying to get her to sleep with him. He’d even gone so far as to write Kat his version of a love sonnet on a yellow Post-It note that had been delivered to the apartment by one of the Abduls. The note read:
Hey Kathleen! Here’s some mail I found down in the mail room. Judging from the address, I think you dropped it by accident.
P.S. Those jeans you were wearing today were super hot. You remind me of Farrah Fawcett in Cannonball Run.
Kickin’ it old school,
XOXOXO
C. Todd Hartwell
Dylan and Kathleen had enjoyed some screaming laughter over that one, but later, after he’d had time to reflect, Dylan didn’t think the letter was quite so funny.
Dylan heard a car door slam and watched C. Todd Hartwell stride toward him. The oilman walked like a guy who owned the fucking world. His sun visor like a crown on his head. The can of Red Bull in his hand like a scepter.
C. Todd Hartwell was always just one step away from the law. Oil promoters were guys who found the deals and then “sold them” to pools of investors. Typically they were overblown marketing chumps. The type of guys who would make even the most complicated drilling deals with the worst odds sound like a sure thing.
Like most oil promoters, C. Todd Hartwell was a master pretender. He liked to raise money from investors for deals that he personally had no stake in. Then he’d disappear for weeks at a time to avoid subpoenas from frustrated investors wanting to sue.
One day he’d be on top of the world, claiming that he’d hit the Big One. The Big Money Gusher. Other days he’d be dirt poor and drowning himself in Wild Turkey.
The oilman claimed he was fourth generation Texan, but Dylan knew it had to be somewhere around second generation, at best.
“Sweet car.” Hartwell whistled through his teeth, crossing his arms over his broad chest and taking in the full extent of the Bugatti’s gleaming black and chrome exterior.
Dylan opened his door and stepped out, but he left the engine idling.
C. Todd punched him hard in the biceps. “What’s Up Man!”
Dylan had no choice but to punch C. Todd as hard as he could in C. Todd’s upper biceps.
C. Todd winced dramatically and rubbed the top of his muscle. “Sweet Jesus, Grant! You didn’t have to put the stinger on it!”
He clapped Dylan on the shoulder and grinned. Dylan noticed the big diamond Rolex draped loosely over C. Todd’s wrist.
I wonder who he stole it from? Dylan thought.
“Let me tell you about the deal of the century,” the oilman started in. He leaned close to Dylan’s face, as if he’d watched a sales video entitled Making Eye Contact with Your Mark.
Dylan could smell a faint odor—whiskey?—on C. Todd’s breath.
Hartwell lowered his voice as if he were letting Dylan in on a secret. “I’m talking big money here, man. Big. Money.”
“Did you brush your teeth today?” Dylan asked.
Hartwell jerked back. “Why? Am I stinking it up?” The oilman proceeded to perform the stink test. He cupped his hand over his mouth theatrically, and smelled his own breath.
“I’m fresh as a schoolgirl’s tits,” he announced. And then he raised his arms and smelled under each of his armpits for dramatic effect.
“You’ve been drinking,” Dylan said.
“Aw, hell, Grant. Just a little swing juice is all. I’m hitting the links in fifteen minutes. Why don’t you come along for eighteen holes?”
Just what I need. To spend the afternoon golfing with you, Dylan thought.
Dylan dug the toe of his boot into the pavement. “I don’t have time for golf today.”
“Suit yourself.” C. Todd shrugged. “But I thought you’d be interested in a little rumor…”
Dylan’s ears perked up. C. Todd Hartwell might be a master pretender when it came to selling sham oil and gas deals to over-eager investors, but he had a bloodhound’s nose for rumors. And in the oil business, a rumor was almost as good as a sure bet.
The best tactic for Dylan at this point was to act completely bored. He chuckled and clapped C. Todd Hartwell on the shoulder. Jumping back inside the Bugatti’s fine cherry leather driver’s seat, Dylan shifted the car into gear and rolled down his window.
“Have a good round,” he said, saluting C. Todd and slamming the Bugatti into reverse.
The oilman took the bait. He rushed over to Dylan’s window and leaned in. “Wanna hear something crazy? I’m dating this superfine chick over at Titan Energy, and she’s got access to all the 3-D seismic data.”
Dylan breathed through his nose.
Tita
n Energy. Bo Harlan’s company.
“So?” Dylan snorted. He was doing his best to seem nonchalant.
“Bo Harlan just found the biggest field ever in North East Texas.”
“How big?”
“Fifty million coming out of the ground.”
“Nice,” Dylan mused.
“So what do you say, Grant? You in or you out?”
Dylan suppressed a smile.
He didn’t want to be seen in public with C. Todd Hartwell. But the oilman did live in his building.
“How about nine A.M. on Friday?” Dylan said. “The coffee room downstairs.”
“Done deal,” C. Todd said. He stepped away from the Bugatti and gave the car one last long whistle through his teeth.
Dylan shifted the car into drive. He glanced in his rearview just in time to watch C. Todd crush the can of Red Bull in his palm and lob it unsuccessfully toward a trash can, where it bounced off the rim and fell to the pavement.
C. Todd glanced over toward the Bugatti to see if Dylan had indeed witnessed the failed slam dunk. It was now up to Dylan to do what any other red-blooded American male would do. He circled around the Becks Prime parking lot and shouted out the window, “Nice job, Jordan!”
Eleven
Kat was nursing an iced green tea latte and picking gingerly at her grilled chicken Caesar salad—hold the Caesar dressing, please. She was doing one of her weekly ladies-who-lunch shindigs where she summoned the energy to make nice with a Gucci.
Across the table sat not just any Gucci, but the most powerful and famous Gucci in town. The notorious Shelby Lynn Pierce.
Shelby Lynn was likewise picking at her spinach salad, pushing aside the blue cheese crumbles with her fork as if they were poisonous.
“I can’t believe they dump a whole tub of cheese on this,” Shelby Lynn drawled. “Remind me never to eat here again.”
Nice diamonds, Kat thought.
Shelby Lynn was rolling the ten-carat fancy, vivid, yellow diamond ring around her wedding finger. The stone was so big and perfect it almost looked like a fake. Shelby’s nose, hair, and breasts were fakes, but you could be sure her diamonds were as pure as the driven snow.
