He's So Bad (3 page)

She kept repeating, “Daddy’s dead.”

At first I didn’t know what the entire production meant. My mother always had a flair for the dramatic, and she and my dad were always fighting about one thing or another. I remember her accusing him of cheating all the time. My dad would just look at her, shake his head, and say, “I’m not going to argue with you in front of my son.” I always felt as if he was the only person in the world who gave a damn about me, and that made me feel safe and protected.

My memories of that morning are still vivid. My mother’s sweet perfume was so strong that it made me loopy. Her thin body crushed me as I watched the principal, Ms. Shine, say to the nurse, whose name eludes me, “He fell off a ladder and broke his neck.” She shook her head, pitying me. I’m not sure if the pity was for my father’s death or for being the son of a woman who was making a spectacle out of herself.

We dressed in black and went to a funeral. I remember seeing my dad lying in a casket. I thought he was asleep and hoped at any second, he would open his eyes and wake up. At the cemetery, two men rolled the crane to lower the coffin into the ground, and that was when I finally fully comprehended the notion of death. I’ve never seen my mom happier than when receiving condolences.

After that, I spent a lot of nights at Vince’s house while my mother dolled herself up and went out to the local bar. Not even three months later, she was dating Burt, who she eventually married. He was an asshole who drank a lot and fucked around on her. Once, in a drunken state, he told me about how when grizzlies and lions take a mate that already has kids, they kill the little bastards. Then he messed up my hair, laughed, and said, “I’ll let you live.”

I told Vince what he said. Ann, Vince’s mother, was lurking in the hallway and overheard me. She made a lunch date with my mother, and after that, for an entire year, I spent more time at the Adams’ house than I did my own. Then my mother divorced Burt, and I stayed home more but spent the entire summer with the Adams at their family vacation house in Sag Harbor. Vince’s family was no Brady Bunch, but they weren’t half as fucked up as my mother and whichever husband she was married to for the moment. My mom already has five divorces under her belt.

I can’t rest, so I sit on the side of the bed. I’m disturbed by the thought that I may not know how to live a normal existence without Vince. I order coffee service and watch the afternoon news for a few hours. The woman with the motorcycle helmet keeps invading my thoughts. There’s something about the shape of her face, eyes, and lips.

By six thirty, the laundry service knocks on the door to return my shoes and suit. Both articles are fresh and ready for another wear. I put them on and head out. I’ll stay the night and drive back to Napa in the morning.

Valet brings my car, and I put Ralph Kennedy’s address into the GPS. San Francisco is an old city. The natives have been dogmatic about preserving the historical architecture, but the landscape has changed ever since the technological boom. Techies like new shit, and they’re the new kings of the city. Both factors make me grin from ear to ear. There’s some merit in being on the ground floor of giving the old San Francisco a facelift.

The night is breezy, and the air is tepid. I roll down the front windows. The closer I get to the ocean, the saltier the air smells. Ralph lives in the Sea Cliff neighborhood, but the mansions I pass don’t excite me. They’re mostly Victorian and Edwardian with sprinkles of Spanish colonial; the neighborhood smells of old money. I don’t have an aversion to old money though. Unlike new money, they have a lot of class and knowledge of how to keep their assets and make them grow.

I’m not surprised when the GPS instructs me to turn into the long driveway of the best-looking mansion on the street. It’s a Spanish Colonial. The bowl-shaped stone fountain stands out in the middle of a manicured lawn and trimmed shrubs.

A valet station is set up in front of a flagstone footpath. I leave my car with the attendant, and he directs me up a path and through an enclosed and intimate courtyard with red rose bushes woven through the gate. The red brick groundwork stops in front of a steep set of white limestone steps. I take them up to the front door. I’m impressed by a door made of white frosted glass and decorative black wrought iron twisted into the shape of vines and roses. The top part of the door is open, and I hear laughter and conversation. It sounds as though a lot of guests are present.

I hit the doorbell. The button lights up, but there isn’t a chime. I’ve seen this sort of silent doorbell before. A few seconds later, a guy dressed in a black suit with a white shirt appears.

“Welcome, sir,” he says. “May I have your name?”

I tell him my name. He nods once and opens the gate. I straighten my collar as I follow him inside. My gaze rolls around the open floor plan. It’s furnished just as I thought it would be—fancy furniture, expensive fixtures, and exotic figurines.

I’ve been smothering my nervousness since this afternoon, and now it’s gushing back in a raging tidal wave. The butler, who has made sure he remained three steps ahead of me, stops before reaching the entrance of a dining room where the other guests are seated at one long table.

“Mr. Robert Tango,” the butler announces.

After a quick count, I ascertain that there are about thirty people present. The chatter quiets, and all eyes are on me. They look interested to know my story. I’m used to moments like this. I muster up some bravado and crack a smile. I search for Ralph Kennedy among the faces. He makes it easier to find him when he stands.

“Robert, glad you could make it.” He gestures at an empty chair across from his. “Have a seat. Our special guest has arrived.”

I search the table for other empty seats. The one Ralph pointed me to is situated between two attractive women—one blond and one brunette. The way the women are looking at me makes me nervous. So far I’ve contained my animal instincts.

“We don’t bite,” the brunette says, batting her eyelashes.

I’m nervous as hell, but I walk over to sit between the two women. The scent of their perfume and the warmth of feminine energy overtake me.

The pretty brunette on my left, who said she doesn’t bite, extends a hand. “I’m Chantal.”

I analyze her smile. I’m not sure if she’s just being friendly or if she’s flirting. I shake her hand. “I’m Robert.”

“Robert wants to buy my company,” Ralph says. He’s been studying me from the moment I walked into the room.

I narrow an eye, wondering why he finds the need to announce my intentions to the table.

“Media is a long way from architecture,” a man sitting three seats left of Ralph says.

Interesting—this fucking stranger knows my background. I loosen my shoulders, sit up straight, and prepare for the worst. I just may have stepped into a trap.

“I would say so,” I say.

“Then why buy our company?” says the blonde to my right.

The first thing I wonder is who the fuck she is and why did she say “our” company. Only one owner is named on the prospectus—Ralph Kennedy. I stare at the woman, noticing how her cascading blond hair swallows her narrow face. She’s pretty like a mannequin in the window on 5
^th
Avenue, but her eyes are shrewd, and her thin lips are tense. I’d be a fool to pass her off as another pretty face and ignore what I sense, which is an intention to demolish me.

“I’m a businessman.” It’s the only answer I can muster. Her question is fucking valid. Other than drafting as a hobby, I don’t have a lick of real-world experience.

“That’s a rudimentary credential, Mr. Tango,” she says.

I’m tongue-tied as I study her stern expression. My first inclination is to turn on the charm and endear her to me, but I fight the urge. I’ve come to the conclusion that I left the bullshitting, flirtatious, and needy part of me back in my old office in New York.

“Well…” Ralph says. “Robert has the ultimate credential.”

I rip my eyes off her to look at him.

“I’m waiting to hear it,” she says.

So am I.

“He’s been recommended by Jack Lord.” He sets his elbows on the table and puts his chin on a steeple he’s made with his hands. “Highly recommended.”

I feel the blonde shrink beside me. Who the hell is she? Ralph’s last statement seems to have taken off the pressure. Waiters serve sweet clam-and-tangerine-glaze salads. The conversation turns into a lively discussion about where Ralph should spend his first month of vacation once he officially retires. Normally I’m good at mingling, but at the moment, I’m just too nervous.

However, I find the blonde’s self-important attitude interesting. Whenever another guest suggests a destination, the blonde shoots it down. At first I think she’s his very young wife. I can see him with a wife more than half his age.

Then a beautiful woman who appears to be in her fifties says, “My husband isn’t a fan of such a lovely beach.”

Ralph smiles at her appreciatively. “That’s true. An ocean should have lines, form, light, and darkness. It should be temperamental and uninviting.” He gestures pointedly.

“You’re too dramatic, Dad,” the blonde says.

Her bold attitude makes sense now. She’s a fucking princess who is somehow attached to Ralph’s business. I half want to say fuck it and find something else to do with my newfound time and influx of money. As all twenty or so guests continue to kiss Ralph’s ass by playing “Where’s Waldo” in the form of Ralph’s next vacation destination, I consider staying in Napa for a while to renovate my house and develop the land around it. I contemplate the sorts of crops I could plant that are drought resistant. I want to complete the construction on the Roman pool house.

“Where do you think I should go?” Ralph asks.

I’ve been staring at Ralph but seeing through him, so I know he’s talking to me. The table is quiet. I don’t feel like playing the “kiss Ralph’s ass” game.

“Anywhere the hell you want. It’s not a hard decision,” I say.

Ralph narrows his eyes as if he can tell that I’ve gotten impatient. “No, it isn’t.”

I shrug in agreement.

“You’ve come into a lot of money recently, yet you’ve chosen not to take a vacation,” Ralph says.

“I would’ve if the goose hadn’t laid the golden egg.”

He laughs a little. “And that goose would be me.”

I smirk. “The one and only.”

Ralph nods then shoots to his feet as he did earlier. “Robert and I have business to discuss. We’ll be back.”

“But, Dad, we’re in the middle of dinner,” the blonde says.

Ralph shoots her a look of warning, and I watch her sit back in her seat as if she’s just retreated. It’s good to see that the old man does have all the power. I wipe my mouth with a cloth napkin and make a vow to myself. If I get up and leave this table, then I’m not coming back. I stand.

“This way,” Ralph says.

The suspense in the air couldn’t be cut with a chainsaw. I follow Ralph down a dusky hallway with a floor made of black marble and texture-flecked rock walls. The floor and walls create an ambiance that’s new to me. Just for that, I take a second and nod once to pay respect to Ralph Kennedy’s mastery of creating to evoke feeling.

At the end of the hallway, we take three big block steps down into Ralph’s study. A gigantic leather recliner near a wood-burning fireplace sets off the whole room. The rest of the furniture is dark, bulky, and very manly. I can picture Ralph in here in the evenings, smoking a cigar while he drafts plans for the next hotel to hug the shores of France’s Blue Coast. The only projects that I’d seen Ralph Kennedy billed as the architect for were European hotel projects. He’d done three projects that I’d seen, and all were for Lord & Lord Development.

Ralph sits in his red recliner. The chair looks as if it were made especially for him. He points at a red leather sofa across from him and alongside the unlit fireplace. “Sit.”

I sit, but I don’t get too comfortable. “Listen, thank you for seriously considering me as a—”

“So why should I sell to you for any reason other than Jack Lord wants me to?” He sounds as if he’s asking me a question I should already know the answer to.

I grunt facetiously. “You can sell your fucking company to whomever the hell you want. That’s an interesting table of guests you have out there.”

“Indeed.”

“How many of them are pursuing your fine company?”

He smirks devilishly. “Five.”

“How many have as much money as I have?”

“Zero.”

I snort.

“Has Jack given you the financials?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Have you read them?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then you are aware of my dirty little secret?”

I nod. “You’re out of money.”

“You want my company, Robert, and I want your money.”

“Which is the full asking price, regardless of value?”

“That’s the only quality that sets you apart from the others.”

“Then you have a deal.”

He raises a finger. “I need one more thing from you.”

I throw up my hands. “What is it?”

“When I started Kennedy Creative, my company was nothing more than an empty building. I was a no-name fresh out of college with a shabby apprenticeship under my belt.” He gazes off thoughtfully. “You apprenticed for Barney Arsenault.”

“Yes, I did.”

“That’s a pretty coveted position. How the hell did you not end up in this business?”

That question smacks me like a two-by-four across the face. I’m seeing stars and birds float around my head, and the answer is too shameful to say out loud. I watch him tap the tips of his fingers on the armrest as he waits for my answer.

“I followed the money,” I say instead of saying I followed my best friend because I was too afraid to live without him.

He stops tapping his fingers and narrows one eye. “If only I had done it your way. I find money to be power. Don’t you?”

“It seems to be the way of the world. But of course, if we valued happiness just as much, it would be power too.”

He studies me intriguingly. “Right…” He shifts in his seat. “What do you love the most, Robert?”

The first thing that comes to mind is Vince. I screwed up that relationship with the second thing I love the most, which is pussy. I shift uncomfortably. “I don’t know.” Not only is my answer a lie, but it’s callous.