Deep South (Naive Mistakes #4)
Page 6
Conall’s mother didn’t even move. It was as if she was too doped up to even know we were sitting at a restaurant, and that the discordant clanging of forks and knives had gotten suddenly louder.
Then, as if nothing had been said at all, we continued our dinner and spoke about...the weather.
You gotta love the Brits.
That was back in early October.
Edmond Williams had given me the creeps that night when I’d first met him. And I can’t even tell you why. I can’t tell you it was the way he chewed, the way he looked around the room, the way he sat, the way he ordered wine—because it was none of these things. And because I couldn’t spot it, I’d told myself that I’d been imagining things.
Conall had gone silent for a day or two afterwards. The heat between us had died suddenly, just for a few days, and then he’d taken me in the middle of the night in a fit of need three nights later. The sex had been desperate, hungry, yearning. I’d held him afterwards and asked him to talk to me, to open up to me about a man that I knew nothing about except that he’d failed to give Conall the love he’d needed when Conall had been younger.
Conall had said, “I’m sorry, Leo. I just...can’t. We’ll see them again at the wedding, maybe once or twice before that, and ignore them for the rest of the time. Just like when I was growing up...” He’d clenched his jaw as he’d said it.
I was lying behind him, running my fingers through his sweaty black hair. I kissed his cheek, held him. Months before he’d told me about the most horrible thing a person could suffer, seeing his little sister murdered in front of his eyes at Hyde Park. It had brought us closer to each other. It had shed light into a dark cavern that was Conall’s history.
He’d once told me about how he’d backpacked Europe with Alex and how he’d loved her once, and how losing her (when he’d thought she’d been dead) had destroyed him. Telling me that had led to our first sexual experience together. (Oh, those Marriott tables are still my fave piece of furniture ever!)
But this, his father, the silence I’d experienced with Conall for days after we’d seen him, seemed even more difficult for him to deal with than all those other horrible things.
And yet, I still hadn’t listened to my heart...
I’d decided not to prod that night.
But I’d decided that I would get this information out of Conall one day. I had to. Because Conall has always been a bit of a time-bomb when under stress. And I was tired of picking up the pieces whenever he exploded.
-3-
The call came on Thursday, as I said. Only, it was Edmond’s chief butler that had made the call. He (Edmond) wanted—nay, insisted—we meet him and his wife for lunch this coming Saturday.
Conall pushed it to Sunday.
“I will see him out of respect because he’s my father, but I won’t have him ruin your Saturday morning with the girls, or our night with the guys,” Conall told me after the phone call.
Thursday and Friday were not good days. Conall had retreated into that shell of his, the one I’d seen him in only twice before: When he’d been chasing his sister’s killers (who happened to be linked to my own kidnappers.) And when we’d met his father back in October.
I was nervous. And I’ll tell you why: Remember that brawl at the Red Light Diner? Well, that thing brought repercussions. Major repercussions. And it was here, this particular week, that I got a small inkling into how powerful the Williams family is in England.
I’d had no idea before that.
And I had a feeling this was the only reason Edmond wanted to see us.
This is what had happened from Monday to Wednesday:
-4-
The National Lampooner had picked up on the Saturday Night Brawl story and had a field day of it.
Monday, the same day Kayla and I had been taken to the cop station because of Bettina’s charge, and three days before Conall’s father (actually, his butler) would call us to insist on a “family get-together.” Ahem.
Conall’s picture had been front and center on the Lampooner’s gaudy newspaper; black background, Conall’s eyes wide open and his jaw drooping unromantically. (He actually looked a little sexy to me, but Conall always looks sexy to me, even with drool falling from his mouth sometimes in the mornings.)
Then, Tuesday, a bonus for them: My picture with Kayla next to me, neither of us looking that great either (what is it with the lighting they use on these gossip magazines!?) It was a story of how the Williams heir’s “girlfriend” was soon to be expelled from the University of England for...wait for it...assault!
Wednesday: One more picture, not front and center but in the top left corner, of Conall and Brad singing at a bar, arm in arm, beers in hand. Headline: How the Rich Groom Their Heirs.
Conall had made his own millions. His “mansion” had been purchased by himself. As he and I had become closer, I’d discovered through Trey (who is like a brother to Conall) that Conall was in actual fact worth billions. Family money. Old Money.
I’d never asked about that money or where it came from because I’d never been interested.
But, suddenly, my interest piqued because of the papers’ interest in him.
And perhaps also because of what Mike Stalward had told me and Kayla about the Langfords and their own influence in and around West Sussex—even the world, according to him.
Thursday night, lying in bed, I started digging.
“Why didn’t you go to UE, Conall?”
Conall fidgeted a little, sighed. “I liked Oxford.” He said nothing more.
“From what I heard, all the Williams men have gone to UE. You weren’t pressured?”
He stared at the ceiling. “I was more than pressured. My father and I had a major fallout because of it. But it wasn’t our first—nor would it be our last.”
I turned to face him, resting my head on my palm. “What’s the deal with the Williams family, babe? Somehow...I get the feeling that...it’s a lot more important than you make it out to be.”
“It’s Old Money, Leo. It goes back generations. Francis, my brother, was actually in line to receive it all and to take over the family business because I’ve never liked the idea of Old Money and had told my father that same thing many times over the years. I’d been a disgrace to him because he’d always known that I have the skill to take the business and grow it further, but that I was obstinately against doing it. Then, when Francis got mired into drugs and cocaine, it was settled: He was cut off from any option of ever running it. And now my father has no one in the family left to bequeath it to. It’s a sore point between me and him—that and many other points. As to the newspapers, well, the Williams family is one of the fifty richest families in Britain. There’s a big gap between, say, the number ten richest family and number forty-nine. We’re not nearly as loaded as those guys at the top. I mean, we’re not part of that one percent which controls fifty percent of the earth’s wealth. But, we’re rich enough for the gossips to have a field day every now and then with us. And yet not rich enough for...” He waved his hand around. “What’s that American girl married to that rapper? Kathy, Kali—”
“Kim Kardashian.”
“Yes, her. We’re not rich enough to grace the covers of these magazines as often as she and her family do. Fame or money—that’s the only requirement for being Press Bait in Britain.”
“And in the US, babe. It ain’t any different there. Look, Mike...told us something...about the Langfords.” I waited. “That they have...a lot of...influence?” I didn’t quite know how to put this.
“They do. They’re Top Ten on the richest British families list. And Reginald is Dragon’s Lair as well.”
My skin went cold for no explicable reason. “Can you, uhm, tell me about that? I thought Mike was being a little paranoid.”
He turned to face me, moved some hair from my eyes. “He probably was. It’s true that many of the world’s major players belong to that group—and other groups. Whether they are major players because
they’re part of these groups is another question. It seems likely. But all members are also very wealthy, so maybe it’s that which puts them in important positions. What can’t be denied is their connections. And, conspiracies aside, they are all deeply connected to each other—and not only by friendship. Many share board membership in different companies, or have mutual investments in properties. Reginald Langford is indeed a powerfully connected man. Does he use those connections for bad? Is that even possible? Well...” He shrugged. “...that’s a point for discussion.”
“Do you believe he does? Or, do you believe The Dragon’s Lair’s members use those connections for...nefarious purposes?”
His eyes flicked away from mine. “I do.”
-5-
“I want nothing to do with my father’s crowd,” Conall said. “I don’t want their friendships, their camaraderie, their supposed loyalty.
“Old Money goes back generations, babe. The money my father has given me is going into a business idea of my own. Kayla told you about Brad learning a bit about computers?”
I nodded.
“I want to start the business with Brad. He’s honest, a good man. It’ll make money, of course, but it will also provide jobs and improve the economy by doing so. It’ll never make as much money as my father makes with his investments, but nobody needs that much wealth!
“The way the world’s banking runs, as soon as you have a certain fortune, you can live off of it, produce nothing, and contribute to inflation; thereby bringing the world to its knees while only a few fat cats reap the cream off the top of it all.”
“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me a bit.”
Conall smiled brightly. His eyes shifted from my own eyes to my breasts. “Do you want to know? It is indeed very boring. I could think of a lot more interesting things to do with you right now...” He grazed a finger over my left nipple, and it instantly hardened.
“Yes, I want to know. But explain it to me simply. And”—I grabbed his fingers hard!—“don’t distract me!”
He licked his lips.
“Explained simply: Money once used to represent something—silver, specifically. You could actually go to the bank and exchange your dollar for a piece of silver. Then bankers came along, loaned pieces of paper out, charged interest on them, and soon there was more paper-money than silver in the banks, and so someone got the bright idea to just have money represent nothing—and the world of modern banking was born. You can no longer go into a bank and get silver for your money. It’s all just paper—printed by a private company. Only, it gets worse, because now money isn’t even worth the paper it’s printed on! Because it’s all just digits on a screen.
“So, using that system, so long as someone is willing to print money without end, people can get rich off investments without actually producing anything. The more paper-money there is in the world, the less valuable it is. So, the people at the bottom get poorer, because their paper-money is worth less and less each day. And the fat cats at the top get richer and richer, because their investments keep ‘growing’ and they keep getting more and more ‘money’—digits on a screen—every day.
“It’s a flawed system. It really doesn’t work. But rich men keep it going, because they can.
“My father’s business, these days, makes most of its fortune exactly like that: Investments, interest, money trading. Forget the money obtained generations ago, the initial capital—that was the initial wealth, probably gotten from stones in Africa or something. Who knows. His actual business now is investing, currency trading, playing one currency against the other. Just numbers on a screen. His game is having that money grow and grow and grow and represent absolutely nothing! You see, as with most ‘Old Money’ families, my father unfortunately also has the idea that we were given this money by some grace of God or because we are by some means superior to others or some balderdash like that. It’s ludicrous, but they really think like that, these guys.
“If I got hold of his business, I’d dissolve it completely. I’d turn it into something that actually produced something: Goods—the ‘silver’ of today. It wouldn’t change the world, but it wouldn’t continue its financial destruction.”
I kissed his forehead. “So why don’t you do just that? Take over the business when he passes it onto you and then, well, do what you want to do with it.”
He smiled, ran a hand through my hair. “I thought you wanted me to stop putting my life in danger.”
“Huh?”
“The best I can do is take the liquid money my father gives me and invest that in a business that actually creates something—jobs, products, goods, services. Hey, maybe I’ll invest in a fashion business for you! You could start your own line.”
That made me warm.
“As much as I’d like to dissolve his business, Leo, I can’t. There are fingers in pies in my father’s business that I wouldn’t touch with a pole. People who care for nothing more than their next buck. Many of them invest in his business, he invests in theirs. It’s a convoluted mess of people scratching each other’s backs, doing ‘favors’ for each other, and all making more dough together. And they are ruthless, let me tell you—and well connected. If I took his business down, I’d upset a lot of these men, men that go above Trey’s head, and mine. It would be dangerous. Let them live in their own world and play their own games—it’s not a world for me.
“I mean, it was these very people who got JFK assassinated. And it was because of this very subject. No, I don’t want to mess with them, or even get involved with them.”
“Aha! Now I know where Mike gets his ideas!” I pointed a finger at him!
Conall shrugged coolly. “It’s true.”
I rolled my eyes.
He remained cool. “Whatever. I don’t care if you believe me or not.”
I could see he didn’t! “Fine—tell me your conspiracy theory!”
“It’s no conspiracy. It’s quite factual: JFK wanted to do away with the private printing of money. He wanted to put the ability to print money solely under the power of the government, like Lincoln had envisioned it (and, note that Lincoln was also assassinated!) Kennedy wanted to print a new currency that could be loaned without interest—and he got that currency printed as well. I don’t care if Oswald pulled the trigger or not. It was JFK’s desire to get rid of the Fed—and his distaste for the war in Vietnam, of course—which got him killed. He was a good man. Good men don’t belong in government. That’s why there are so many bankers in it.”
“I didn’t know you were so passionate about it.”
“Yeah, now imagine how my father and I get along...”
“Like a house on fire?”
“A raging fire, with lots of charred and burned bodies.”
“Hmmmm.”
“No, I won’t touch his business. I don’t want to be involved in that crowd. Too many ‘friends’ and ‘favors’ necessary.”
I ran my hand through Conall’s dark hair, kissed his lips.
He was wearing only slacks, his feet poking out from underneath them.
“Have you had any other ideas for businesses you’re gonna start? Other than giving me the capital to start my own famous and superb Leora Caivano clothing line, of course.”
“You can count on me for that capital. It’s a done deal, but that’s only in the future. You just need to either finish college, or skip it—whatever you want to do. I’ll support you.” Oh, my, that made me very warm... “I have things I could get off the ground now. I’m going to take that database I wrote—the one that correlated all those drug-lords with each other and hypothesized connections between them?”
“M-hmmm.” I licked his belly button.
“Well, you can stick any sort of data in there. The magic was the hypothesizing feature—working out connections, correlating data, coming up with unlikely cross-references that only a computer could envision. It was my own creation, my own algorithm.”
“Sounds complex.” I licked further down.
I eased myself up and kissed his neck. My hand slid under his slacks and found him. As soon as his soft warmth radiated onto my palm, the area between my legs moistened.
I squeezed him, felt him growing.
“Keep talking,” I said.
“We’ll deliver—Oh, God—it both as a service as well as a—Oh, my—platform on its own. Brad—mmmmmm—will be—” He stopped talking, started turning to get me on my back.
I pushed him down, shook my head. “Keep talking.” My hand wrapped around his length, and I pulled up.
“Oh, God, I can’t.” Cahhn’t. Now that made me horny...
I tightened my legs.
“Try,” I whispered in his ear.
“Brad...Brad...Brad will man it up—”
“Man up, m-hmm.”
He hardened even more. His head pushed back into the pillow, his eyes closing.
“Keep talking, baby.”
“Oh, Leora, bloody hell! Talking about programming is so bloody boring when you’re—”
I squeezed.
“—Oh, fuck.”
I moved my lips around his neck, started kissing his Adam’s apple. He loosened his slacks and my hand brought his shaft out into the open. I went momentarily dizzy as I looked at it. I played with it, lifted it so his skin covered the head and then stretched it down again.
“You’re so sexy,” I said to him in between kisses to his chest, my hand below ever moving. “Do you know why?”
He said nothing, just groaned.
“Because you steal from the rich and give to the poor.”
He did a sort of an erotic laugh-groan thing, then closed his eyes.
“I’m not giving—Oh, yes!—to the poor.”
“Kind of.” I licked his nipple, bit it. His chest hardened and lines appeared all over it.