Gifts and Consequences (9 page)

Everyone in the room was glad Oscar wouldn't be involved.  With his thick Irish brogue and fascination with Batman, Oscar was well-liked, but the service he provided was often unpleasant, no matter how well-deserved.  All of Jonathan's employees had personal experience with his contracts, and hated to see other people fail.

Jonathan and Marcus were both finished for the day, and walked toward the center of the gutted floor, where the elevator stood.  Just as the doors opened, Casey called, “Jonathan, phone.  Reception says some people are here to see you.”

“I’ll meet them downstairs,” he called back, stepping into the elevator.

“Are you sure that’s smart?” Marcus asked, following him.  “Why not find out who it is before you go down?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” answered Jonathan.  “Besides, if it’s someone looking for a fight you can always protect me, right?”  He chuckled softly, but Marcus didn’t find it amusing. 

Though Marcus looked like a heavyweight champ, he would never fight again.  He and Jonathan both knew that he would watch Jonathan get beaten to a pulp before he would hurt anyone.  Not that anyone would pick a fight when Marcus was around.

Despite his unwillingness to fight, Marcus stepped in front of Jonathan when the elevator doors opened.  Peering around Marcus’s bulk, Jonathan saw his old business partners standing at the mahogany reception desk. 

He smiled and pushed past Marcus.  “Paul Evans and Dave Hewson,” he exclaimed, embracing each in turn and slapping them loudly on the back.  “What are you two vultures doing in these parts?”

“Came to offer you a hundred thou for your building,” said Paul, barely suppressing a smile.  He was a plump man with blond, gelled hair.  “We hear you’re barely using one floor.”

“We’ll even cut your rent in half, since you’re only using half the floor.”  Dave Hewson matched his companion in girth and short stature, but had non-descript brown hair. 

“Make it a hundred mil and it’s yours,” Jonathan answered.

Growing more serious, Dave asked, “So you back in business?”

“No, just working on personal projects.  Trying to keep busy.  Oh, this is Marcus.  My assistant.  Marcus, Paul and Dave.”  They shook hands, Marcus towering over the shorter men.

“Assistant, huh?  That sounds like code for ‘There are people after me so I hired King Kong to watch my back’.”

“They can think what they like, but he’s gentle as a lamb,” contested Jonathan.  “And he’s one of the best I’ve seen at getting things done.”

“I’m curious what sorts of things,” Paul said with a wink.  He patted Marcus on the shoulder.  “Hey Jonathan, do you have some time?  A project came along that’s right up your alley.”

“You know I’m out of the business.  Nothing’s changed there.  But I wouldn’t mind catching up.  PF Chang’s is right down the street.”

Marcus asked, “You need me any more today, Jonathan?”

“No thanks, Marcus.  See you in the morning.”

After they were seated at the restaurant, Paul asked, “So what do you have going on up there?”

“Personal projects,” answered Jonathan.  “Nothing special.”

“It’s been almost three years,” said Paul.  “Are you ready to get back to work?”

“You know I won’t do that.”

Dave jumped in, “After you hear about this project you won’t be able to resist.  Do you remember America West Homes?”

“Sure,” answered Jonathan.  “Are they still the number three builder in the West?”

“No,” answered Dave running his hand through his brown hair.  “They’re second.”  He tipped his head back and jutted his chin out, a gesture he made whenever he knew something someone else didn’t.

Paul smiled and added, “But not for long.  They’ve been floundering for years.  They’ve borrowed themselves into an inescapable position.”

“And let me guess,” said Jonathan.  “You two are ready to pounce but you lack capital.”

They nodded and Paul said, “You know us too well.  They have over three and a half billion in equity.  We have a chance to purchase the company for one point two before they go into bankruptcy.”

“And that includes a write off of all debt,” said Dave, his eyes growing wide.  “But it’s got to be quick.  Earnest money within two days and close within three weeks.”

“Best of luck," said Jonathan.  "Just goes to show there’s money to be made in any market.”

“You can’t just let this go,” said Paul.  “It’s practically a guaranteed two hundred percent return within three years.”  He leaned forward and said, “That could move you from top 500 to top 100.” 

Paul and Dave had always focused on Forbes lists.  Neither of them had registered in the top 500 yet, but they knew very well where they stood in relation to each other and nearly every one of their associates.

Dave didn’t give up.  “We can’t do this one without you.  First of all we’re five hundred mil short.  Second, with the arrangements we’ve set up, neither of us can be anywhere near this transaction.  On paper, anyway.”

Jonathan chuckled.  “Every ‘i’ dotted and ‘t’ crossed in legal contracts, I’m sure.”  He shook his head and his eyes went out of focus.  A sick stomach reminded him of his years in real estate.  He stared back at the two.  “How much money do you need?  When will it be enough?”

Dave was taking a sip of Coke and laughed so sharply he spit half a mouthful onto the table cloth.  “How much money do we need?  That’s rich coming from you!  Especially after criticizing our ironclad contracts.”

Paul was equally shocked.  “Yeah, where do you get off?  Who do you think taught us how to squeeze every penny out of a deal, then demand a few million more or walk away?  As far as I know you haven’t entered a monastery and taken a vow of poverty since we saw you last?”

Jonathan was at a loss.  It had taken Susan’s illness to change him; it was unreasonable to expect his old partners to have changed

Leaning forward on the edge of his chair he said, “You two can do anything.”  He paused for emphasis.  “Why not make it worthwhile?  Use your influence and experience to put deals together to build a children’s hospital.  Start a scholarship fund for kids who have the ability and desire to make the world better but lack funds for education.  Whatever interests you personally.” 

Paul turned to Dave and said in a mocking voice, “You know?  He’s right.  I’m going to walk away right now and dedicated myself to personal projects.  World hunger and strife between nations will end within months!”

Dave chuckled and said, “Your advice is easy for someone who’s worth a billion.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Jonathan.  “But the more you have, the harder it is to walk away.”

“What I wouldn’t give to have your problems, Jonathan,” said Dave.

Jonathan sat back in his chair and collected himself.  Dave knew very little about Susan's condition and didn't mean anything by it, but it still hurt. 

“I’d be satisfied if we could get the America West deal to go through.  I’d retire and start ten scholarship funds!  Twenty!”

Jonathan sat up.  “Now you’re talking my language.  We may be able to do business after all.”

It was a muggy Sunday evening, even for July in Auburn Hills, Michigan.  Sylvester Prime parted the bushes and surveyed the landscape.  Two weeks of planning came down to the next five minutes. 

The guards were nowhere to be seen. 

Now or never
, he thought, and plunged through the underbrush.  He was out in the open and making a run for it. 

Fred’s diversion had been perfect; all the guards ran the other direction, giving Sylvester the chance to use the stolen code on the keypad at the gate.  Just in time, too.  They changed the codes every Monday morning. 

Sylvester was only a third of the way across the parking lot, using cars for cover when possible, but he was already out of breath.  He paused behind an old Lincoln and thought,
In my younger days I could’ve been home free by now
.

Through the windows of a Town Car he thought he saw a white shape trying to flank him.  He watched it silently and realized it was just a minivan passing behind two parked trucks.  He moved away from the facility again at his measured pace telling himself,
Damned white uniforms make everyone think they’re the good guys
.

The edge of the parking lot was only ten yards away, and beyond that: freedom.  This wasn’t Sylvester’s first escape attempt, but it was the closest he had been to liberty in over a year.

Five yards.  Five feet.  Freedom! 

He blended into the foliage, congratulating himself on flawless execution of the plan.  Just when he resumed his escape he heard sounds of pursuit.  Even worse, the noise came from ahead of him. 

Trapped
! 

He stood in a clearing the size of a small dayroom—ten feet from safety in any direction.  The footfalls and voices got closer.  He backed toward the clearing’s edge feeling exposed by the moonlight, but didn’t reach the trees before a boy and a girl stepped into the clearing. 

Sylvester froze.  His only hope of avoiding detection was to stand still.  The young pair held hands.  The dark-skinned girl giggled as the boy whispered in her ear. 

Sylvester held his breath at the edge of the clearing. 
Keep walking, love birds.  Nobody here but you.
 

They were halfway through the clearing, walking at an angle to him.  The humid air began to taste like liberty again.

The boy dropped his hand from the girl’s waist to her bottom and gave her a little pinch.  She squealed and turned to face him, bringing Sylvester directly into her view.  She screamed in earnest, jumping behind her would-be protector.  The boy spun and took a defensive stance with his hands out, ready to perform a karate chop.  His spiky hair bounced as a result.

“You’ll have to catch me first!” yelled Sylvester.  He turned and fled.  One slipper didn’t make it through the brush.  Low limbs and underbrush scratched his exposed ankles, but Sylvester pushed through. 

“Sylvester?  Is that you?”  It took less than ten seconds for the athletic kid to catch him and block his way.  He put his hands on the front of Sylvester’s shoulders and said, “C’mon Sylvester, let’s get you back home.”

“No!  Get your damned hands off me.”

The girl caught up.  It was Kirsten or Kristen, or something.  She was an annoying brunette who was always hugging him and trying to hold his hands.  Predictably she put her arm into his and said, “C’mon, honey.  The home is back this way.”

He tried to pull his arm free, but she had a kung fu grip.  “Get your hands off me, ya brazen hussy!  I’m not your honey and I’m not going back.”

The boy still held his shoulders.  “Sylvester, if you don’t walk back we’ll just go get the attendants and they’ll have to carry you back.  Again.”

“You leave me alone or I’ll tell them I saw you two playing doctor, or house or whatever grabass games you were doing.”

The girl gasped, but the boy was unfazed. 

“We’re both on break, Sylvester.  Besides, we’d get in a lot more trouble for letting you wander off in a thin robe and one slipper than taking a walk in the woods.”

Sylvester’s shoulders sagged and he tried another approach.  “All I want to do is visit Vera’s grave.  Once a year, is that too much to ask?  I swear I’ll never attempt escape again if you just let me go visit.”

“We can’t make those decisions, Sweetie,” said the girl as she slid her arm around his waist.  “Why don’t you come back with us and you can ask the head nurse tomorrow.”

“I’ve talked to the authorities.  They won’t listen.”  He turned and let the pair lead him back toward the care home.  He went on, “I fought in the Second World War, you know, and you people are worse than the Nazis.  You’d be speaking German if it weren’t for me! Or Japanese, or…” 

Kirsten-Kristen knelt in front of him and tried to replace his lost slipper.  As soon as she touched his leg he pulled away and shouted, “Get yer hands off me, Jezebel.  I can put my own shoe on.”

She stood, smiling like always, and let him slide his foot back into the slipshoe.  As his discoverers led him back into captivity, he cursed his rotten luck under his breath. 

Jonathan removed the week-old flowers from the vase on the table in Yvonne’s room.  Allen had been on the road for almost a month, and with Yvonne in a coma he couldn’t talk to her.  Jonathan stopped by every week to visit.  He couldn’t put a name to the reason, but it made him appreciate his wife’s condition a little more.  The long term prognosis was much worse for Susan, but at least she was still conscious.

The experimental treatment for Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease required six weeks of sedation for gene therapy.  Yvonne hadn’t seen the flowers for weeks, but Jonathan kept sending them every week.  Always daisies, always white. 

Jonathan couldn’t visit Yvonne without thinking about Susan’s decline and diagnosis.  Three and a half years ago, Susan’s sister, and only living relative died in Ghana on an aid mission.  Jonathan took time off for the funeral, but resumed travelling immediately after.  The real estate market across the country was booming and he had to take advantage of it.