The I.P.O. (25 page)

“Wow.  We need to catch up!  So, what, you live down here now?” Ryan asked.

“Me?”  J.R.’s mind was moving too slowly to lie effectively.  “Nah – I mean not yet.  I’m just watching a friend’s place for awhile, till the construction on my cozy little beachfront bungalow’s finished.”

Ryan looked up at the waitress, on her way back over with his credit card, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, having heard J.R. tell that same lie countless times.

“Hey, whaddya say I go buy us a bottle of something and I meet you over at your place – I mean your friend’s place – in a couple minutes?” Ryan offered, guessing that someone who looked like J.R. probably wouldn’t be able to resist the prospect of more alcohol.

“Yeah,” J.R. slurred right on cue.  “Let’s do it.  I’m up in 2C across the street.

“Oh, and why don’t we drink a little Beefeater tonight?  British island, British drink?”

And with that, J.R. stumbled out of the pub ahead of Ryan and wobbled across the street to his apartment, while Ryan ran two doors down to a small liquor store to buy his host a gift.  J.R. was already well beyond drunk.  Ryan wouldn’t have considered buying even a single serving of alcohol for a real friend.  But for J.R., Ryan left the store carrying two one-liter bottles of  94-proof Beefeater gin.

J.R.’s second-floor apartment was stifling, obviously not one of the units blessed with air-conditioning.  The space was sparsely furnished with a card table and two folding chairs next to a small galley kitchen, a futon in the main living area, and an unmade double bed in the tiny lone bedroom.  The walls were bare, painted a sterile white, and the white-tile bathroom looked like it may have never been cleaned.  Despite the open windows, a stale smell hung in the air, giving the not-too-far-off impression that the unit had been abandoned months ago.

After letting himself in, Ryan closed the door and headed straight for the kitchen, pouring J.R. a ten-ounce glass of straight gin and himself a glass of water.  “Still not 21,” he smirked to J.R. who was watching him intently from his seat at the card table.

Ryan took the other seat at the card table opposite J.R. and endured several minutes of his absurd confabulation over his past, present and future, studying his burned out appearance as his hollow words evaporated into the ether. 

He looked even worse in the fluorescent light of the apartment than he had at the bar, his greasy, stringy hair framing a ruddy complexion, underlain by delicate spiderwebs of red and blue veins.  His shifty eyes, blood red around the dull hazel of his irises, faded to a rusty yellow near his sagging lower lids.  He hadn’t shaved in several days, and his gray teeth were stained by some combination of coffee and tobacco.  Clearly chronically malnourished, his swollen ankles and protuberant belly only served to draw added attention to his otherwise rail-thin frame. 

Ryan found himself so entranced by J.R.’s appearance that he almost failed to notice that his glass was empty.  And his slurred speech had started to slow. 

“I just found out my grandfather was murdered!” Ryan blurted out, hoping he hadn’t overshot with his more-than-generous pour of gin.  Directness was all he had time for at this point.  “J.R., did you call in a prescription for insulin to a Seattle pharmacy the day he before he was killed?”

“What?  No!” J.R. said, exaggerating a shocked expression but coming off looking like a chocolate-faced four-year-old, denying he’d seen the missing cookies.

“Look,  I’m not accusing you of anything.  You were the best friend my dad ever had.”  If there was an ounce of humanity in J.R., that lie would have to add to his guilt, which was the only thing that made telling it bearable.  “But I know why your training license was put on probation. 

"I know you wouldn’t have done anything intentionally.”  Again, Ryan cringed at his own words.  “But I think Avillage might’ve been behind this.  Did they put you up to it?”

“They tricked me, Ryan,” J.R. said, his eyes now welling with tears – not of contrition or sorrow but of self-pity.  “They offered to pay off my student loans if I just called in one prescription.  I didn’t know what it was for!”

And you didn’t question why someone would be willing to pay off your loans for calling in one prescription?
  He was clearly lying.  “But you worked with them again, J.R.  You fed them my parents’ location the night of their accident.  Why?” Ryan demanded, as if he knew it as fact.  J.R.’s lids were drooping.  “J.R.!  Why?”

His eyes snapped back open.  “They told me if I didn’t help them out one more time, they’d rat me out to the police for what happened to your grandfather.”
              “J.R., who is ‘they?’  Who told you to call in the prescription? Who told you he’d call the police?  Who wanted my parents’ location?”

“I don’t know!  Somebody at Avillage!”

“Was it Aaron Bradford?  J.R.!  Listen!  I promise I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.  Just tell me.”

“I don’t know!” he blubbered with a woe-is-me moan, emotionally incontinent from his drunkenness.  “I swear.  I’d tell you if I knew.”

It was pointless.  He probably truly didn’t know, but there was no way Ryan could trust a single word that was coming out of his mouth either way.  One thing
was
clear though.  J.R. had clearly benefited directly from his actions – twice. 

“J.R., listen to me,” Ryan said placing his hand on J.R.’s trembling bony shoulder, still intent on getting a good measure of revenge.  “You look tired.  I’m gonna let you go to bed.  And don't worry.  I can see life has dealt you some bad breaks, but I’m going to make sure you’re taken care of.”  And with that, Ryan walked out of the apartment, not stopping to look back.

Before heading back to his hotel, he made one last stop back at the liquor store, just before close. 

As the owner jotted down his credit card information, Ryan placed a unique order.  “I want you to deliver a liter of gin everyday to Jared Ralston in apartment 2C across the street,” he said.  “If he asks for more, I want you to deliver more. As much as he wants.  Understood?”

The man behind the counter looked at him suspiciously.  “You’re gonna have to pay up front – a month at a time.  Plus delivery.”

“You can put a thousand dollars on the card now and a thousand more every thirty days.  Call me if it’s not enough.  I’ll pay more if I have to,” Ryan said flatly.

The confused owner just nodded his head silently as he slid Ryan’s card through the reader, still somewhat skeptical but not willing to risk blowing the biggest single deal he’d ever been offered.

There were fates worse than prison.  Fates worse than death.  And there were a few souls rotten enough to deserve them.

~~~

Ryan arrived back in Boston, three days early, to a stack of thick envelopes he guessed were probably job offers.  They were too substantial to be rejection letters.  And those usually came later in the interview season, after the employers were sure all their slots had been filled. 

He rifled quickly through the envelopes, considering which one to open first: Goldman Sachs?  McKinsey?  Maybe one of a handful of silicon valley firms?

But his attention was drawn to a shiny square envelope toward the bottom of the stack with his name hand-written in ornate calligraphy on it.  The letter contained no return address but had been postmarked in New York.  Probably an early invitation to a graduation party from one of his exorbitantly rich classmates, he thought.

He ran his finger underneath the flap of the envelope and pulled out another smaller envelope inside.  If he'd known anyone who was planning to get married, he would have sworn it was a wedding invitation.  The second envelope contained a small reply card, a frivolous bit of translucent tissue paper, and a hand-written invitation.

Dear Ryan,
it read. 
I would ask respectfully that you not formally accept any job offer prior to discussing your options with me.  I would be happy to arrange transportation and lodging for you here in New York at my expense.

The simple invitation on otherwise blank stationery was signed,
Sincerely,
James Prescott.

CHAPTER 15

“James Prescott.”

Ryan’s mind went blank.  The last thing he’d expected was that Prescott would answer the phone himself – on the first ring.

Prescott smiled at the silence; his ploy, one he’d used countless times on less-experienced business associates to gain an early psychological advantage, seemed to have worked.  Ryan had initiated the call, yet somehow he was the one back on his heels, as Prescott calmly spoke first.  “Thank you for calling, Ryan.  I presume you received my invitation?”

“Uh, yes.  Yes I did,” Ryan stammered, cursing himself for blowing his one and only chance to make an assertive first impression.

“I do hope you’ll accept.  As I mentioned in my note, I’d be happy to arrange transportation and lodging.  Unfortunately, the one thing I can’t offer is a lot of flexibility on dates.”

Ryan already felt like he was playing catch-up in the conversation.  As a legal adult, he had no obligation to Avillage, other than the appropriations from his income.  So while he was intrigued by the vague invitation, he had no interest in making this too easy on Prescott.  “What is this concerning?” he asked flatly.

Prescott paused for several seconds, as Ryan's mind raced to figure out why.  Was Prescott unprepared for the simple question?  Insulted by the tone?  Was it a politician’s pause to make sure he worded his answer correctly?  Was he still considering just how much to reveal?  Or, probably most likely, did he simply want Ryan to fret over why he was pausing?

“I thought you might be interested in joining your board of directors for our next meeting,” Prescott finally answered, speaking with a deliberate, measured cadence.  “We’ll be convening this coming Monday at 4:00 just after market close.”

Board of directors? 
“Is it standard for orphans to meet with their boards when they reach adulthood?” Ryan asked, quite sure the answer was no.

“I didn’t say
meeting
with your board.  I said
joining
it.” 

Ryan’s jaw dropped slightly.  That certainly wasn’t standard.

“We can talk more in person.  I can assure you, the trip will be worth your while.”

“Well, I’ve got a lot to get done over the coming week,” Ryan hedged.  But his mind was already made up.  “I guess if I could get some work done on the ride over there, I
might
be able to...  Do you think you could get me a limo with reliable Wi-Fi access?”

“How about I send one of our executive Escalades?  It’s essentially a mobile office – far superior to a limo.”

“And I have a stop I’ll need to make in Northern Pennsylvania on Sunday.”

“Not a problem,” Prescott said without hesitation.  “Our driver will be at your disposal.  And our guests are usually quite comfortable at the Ritz-Carlton Battery Park.  Will you be staying Sunday and Monday nights with us?”

“I’d plan to be there both nights, yes.  But I’d prefer to stay in Midtown.”

“Not a problem,” Prescott said, still unfazed.  “Any specific hotel we can book for you?”

“The Peninsula” flew off Ryan’s tongue.  “I’ve got a friend in the building.”

“The Peninsula it is then,” Prescott said, impressed by the teenager’s decisiveness and poise throughout most of the conversation.  “I’ve followed you very closely for over a decade.  I look forward to finally meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

~~~

“Higley!” an armed guard shouted from halfway down the long hall of locked cells.  “You got a visitor!”

Dillon popped his head up from a paperback book with a puzzled, mildly annoyed expression on his face. 
A visitor?
  Since he’d been sentenced to the Federal Penitentiary in Canaan, Pennsylvania six months earlier, he’d had visitors on precisely four occasions.  Each time his adoptive parents.  And each time he’d sent them away without seeing them.

Shouldn’t they have learned their lesson by now?

“Who is it?” Dillon asked disinterestedly, reclining on a folded pillow on his cot.

“Some kid named Ryan Ewing.  You wanna see him?”

A smile cracked Dillon’s countenance.  “Yeah.  I do.”

Dillon’s smile persisted all the way up to the visitation area, where he quickly spotted Ryan grinning right back at him, seated behind a plexiglass window, holding a corded phone.

Dillon picked up the phone on the other side.  “So how’s life on the outside?” he asked, still just as skinny and ghostly white, with the same mop of disheveled black hair atop his head.  He still looked young, but he didn’t look like a kid any more.  And not from some hardened-prison-inmate transformation.  He looked wiser.  Relaxed.  At peace.

“Aah, life’s about the same out here," Ryan said.  "How about you?”

“Not bad.  You’re gonna think I’ve completely lost it, but I think I might actually like it better in here.  My dad was pretty pissed off at me at first, but I think he’s glad I’m here now.  And he won’t admit it, but I know he loves how I got here.”

“You see him much?”

“A few hours a week usually, which is obviously a lot better than before.”

Dillon had vigorously fought the charges against him for two solid months, using the highly-publicized trial to get as much dirt about Avillage out into the press as he could.  Then, when he ran out of ammo, he’d made a shocking one-eighty and offered to change his plea to guilty in exchange for the prosecution’s allowing him to choose which maximum security federal facility he’d be sent to.

Prescott had successfully deflected all of the blame, most of it rightfully, onto his executive VP in order to protect the company.  And Bradford, who was wasting every lucid moment between seizures in mortal fear of the next one, was too preoccupied to try to defend himself.  In the end Avillage’s sterling reputation had come out of the fiasco only slightly tarnished.

“So, was it worth it?” Ryan asked.

“I don’t know; that’s a complicated question.  I’m glad I did it, if that’s what you mean.  That shitbag definitely deserved it.

“I would’ve loved to have stuck around and fought alongside you – brought the whole operation down.  But I figure, best case scenario, we were probably ten years away from that.  Too much legislation to overcome.  And too much money.  I probably couldn’t have slipped the insider trading charge anyway.”

“Oh yeah!  What in the world were you thinking with the insider trading?”

“I know, that probably wasn’t a good move,” Dillon conceded.  “But I needed some extra cash.  I was working on some stuff on the side.  We anti-establishment hackers are a pretty tight group, but we can’t all work for free.”

Ryan nodded.  “Alright.  One more thing.  You’ll never guess where I’m headed from here,” he said, bracing for Dillon’s reaction.  “I’m going to meet with the one, the only... James Prescott – in person.  He asked me to join my own board of directors.  Can you believe that?”

Dillon smirked, surprisingly unmoved, seemingly liberated from his rage by his inability to change anything from inside a maximum security prison.  “Hmm.  Never heard of anyone joining their own board,” he said.  ”Just be careful.  Make sure you go in knowing exactly what you are and aren’t willing to negotiate.”

“That’s it?” Ryan said with a smile.  “I thought you were either gonna hang up and walk away or try to beat your way through this glass with your phone. 

“Do you at least have any last-minute dirt I could use?”

“Nope.  Nothing.  Seriously.  I spent hours inside their system every week for years, and I couldn’t tell you a single thing about him.  Bradford’s tracks were well-hidden.  Prescott just doesn’t leave any.

“Look Ryan, you’re special,” Dillon said, blushing slightly.  “And you know it’s not my style to give compliments, so you’re never gonna hear that again.  But don’t forget it.  And don’t be intimidated.  You should never be intimidated.”

“Thanks, Dillon.  It was good to see you again.”

“Good to see you too.  And feel free to stop back by after you’ve toppled Avillage,” he smirked.  “Maybe I’ll change my plea.”

Ryan laughed.  “Sure.  And say hi to your dad for me.”

“I will,” Dillon said straight-faced.  “But just to let you know, I’m pretty sure he’d hate your conformist guts.”

~~~

Ryan could’ve easily paid for a couple nights at the Peninsula himself, but rolling up to it in the back of a mobile office on someone else’s dime, he felt like he’d arrived.  Dillon’s advice about never needing to feel intimidated was appropriate, but in a way, it was too late.  Something had changed in Ryan over the past year.  Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he was a senior in college; perhaps it was just a natural maturation process, but Ryan had grown to embrace his status as a leader on campus.  He was no longer self-conscious of his gifts or semi-apologetic that he knew things other people didn’t or couldn’t.

A few individuals were capable of changing the world, and he had begun to see no reason why he couldn’t be one of them. 

But some things still got to him.

As he entered the hotel lobby, his mouth did dry just slightly at the sight of Annamaria waiting in a casual black dress near the front lobby.  He wasn’t sure if his heartbeat had slowed down or sped up, but it was there – oddly conspicuous in his chest.  And it hadn’t been just moments earlier.  His hands, which had been resting comfortably at his sides, suddenly felt awkward and out of place, before he jammed them into his pockets just to get them out of the way.

He couldn’t help but return the smile she flashed at him, as she tilted her head coyly to the side and whisked an errant strand of shiny black hair away from her eye with her little finger.

“So, how have you been?” Ryan asked, giving her a much more formal hug than he would’ve liked.

“We can talk over dinner,” she said, still smiling.  She hadn’t wanted to talk about her trip over the phone.  “I got something I think you’ll like delivered to my suite.”

Annamaria’s corner suite was twice the size of Ryan’s “standard room,” and featured a well-appointed living room that was flooded with light from the north and west.  A small dining table was nestled up to the north-facing window on the far wall that looked out over rooftops of the adjacent buildings and on to Central Park a couple of blocks away.  The little table was dressed with a white tablecloth and set with two plates – no silverware – and two cans of Coke.  Occupying the rest of the surface area was the largest silver cloche Ryan had ever seen.

“Come on over!” Annamaria squealed, kicking her shoes off and bounding over to the table on her tiptoes, her silky black hair magically bouncing and cascading with each stride.  Ryan consciously slowed himself down, following in her subtly perfumed wake at a casual pace.

Just as he arrived at the tableside, she snatched the cloche up off the table to reveal a still-steaming 16-inch authentic New York pizza, its beautifully thin crust perfectly charred around the edges. 

His sputtering attempts at stoicism, which had been faltering for some time, officially died next to that little table.  He was almost dizzy, intoxicated by the swirling aromas of basil, mozzarella, and San Marzano tomatoes in the air. 

But it wasn’t just the pizza.  It was the fact that she’d remembered.  He’d mentioned that he hadn’t been able to get a good Margherita pizza in Boston only once – in passing, about two months ago.  And it had obviously stuck with her.

They sat together eating pizza and drinking Cokes like a couple of high-schoolers on a first date, albeit in an eighteen hundred dollar a night hotel suite, talking about anything and everything but Avillage.

But when the pizza had been reduced to a few slivers of crust and the conversation finally hit a lull, Ryan reluctantly asked Annamaria how her trip had gone.  He knew it would wind up killing the mood, but he had to know everything before he met with Prescott the following afternoon.

She didn’t know how to begin to answer.  She’d been physically back in New York for a week, but she still didn’t feel like her trip was over.  Emotionally, her journey had started well before she arrived in Panama.  She’d hoped it would have ended there.  But it hadn’t. 

She stood up, took a long look out the window, and then turned back toward Ryan, as beautiful as ever but not quite as radiant.  “It was even harder than I thought it would be,” she said.

She told him about the headmaster and the one bad decision he seemed to have made in six years of service – in a spot where there was no right decision.  She told him how the children seemed so happy, so well cared for, and, most importantly, loved.  How the headmaster had given her a sincere apology.  How he hadn’t argued when she’d told him he’d have to resign, only requesting that the kids continue to be loved and well taken care of.

“I went to Panama looking for two things.  Answers and revenge.  I found my answers.  But they weren’t the ones I was looking for.  And I never got my revenge.  There was no one there to exact it on. 

“I’d always just assumed the orphanage would be in even worse shape than when I left it.  And I saw myself swooping in as the protector of the poor neglected orphans, exposing layer upon layer of corruption and having the evil headmaster thrown in jail.”