King Con (48 page)

“Wheel?”

He glanced up and saw his younger brother. Prescott’s narrow face and intense manner hovered restlessly at the edge of the table like a dragonfly over a pond, afraid to land.

“How ya doin’, Pres? Big deals, huh?”

Pres shot a look to the front door where his party was just pulling away in valet-delivered cars. “Yeah, right. Got a minute?”

Wheeler was surprised. Everybody knew time was the big loss leader in the department store of disappointment he was managing. Wheeler had minutes, he had hours, he had years. His time had become so cheap, it had almost no value except as chronology.

Wheeler motioned to a chair and Pres lowered himself into it. Pres glanced at his big brother and then the look was there again.

Just for a second, just for a flash. It was little Prescott’s childhood expression that said,
Wheel, can you show me how to catch a football? Can you help me learn to skateboard? Can you get her to go out with me?
Blue eyes looking at Wheeler Cassidy in worship and wonder, a look he’d once dearly treasured.

And then it was gone. Now Pres was looking down and frowning. A moment of business came next, so Pres could regain control. “I have your check,” he said. “If I’d known I was going to see you today, I would’ve brought it. There are capital gains taxes on the big sale the estate just made on the OTC Preferreds, so it’s a little less this month than usual. But we had to sell that shit off. The portfolio was overloaded on media stocks.” He looked up. “I know you’re always running short around the twentieth but the Fed upped the estimated quarterly so I had to hold some back on the account.”

“Right, that’s okay.”

“But if you get pushed, call me. I’ll shoot you an advance against your quarterly dividends.”

Wheeler lived on the estate money his father had left. It paid out over a hundred and eighty thousand a year after taxes. But Wheeler lived high and he had expensive tastes in women, gambling and cars. He often ran short, and even with his golf winnings, was sometimes mooching hundreds from friends by the end of the month.

As Wheeler looked at his brother he saw something else he wasn’t used to seeing: tension. It was in and around the eyes, with maybe a tinge of panic. Usually Pres was all business, the white rabbit of the legal profession hurrying out the door, clutching his oversized watch.
I’m late, I’m late for a very important date.
Business, of course, not pleasure. Prescott was “happily married” to Elizabeth, the Ice Goddess of charity and consciousness-raising. He had a twelve-year-old son, Hollis. Prescott was the eight-by ten family man in a gold frame.

“Are you okay?” Wheeler asked, because his brother still looked uncharacteristically troubled.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Of course.” Prescott smiled, but the smile was the one you give the dentist so he can check your incisors. “Listen, Wheel, I… I wanted to tell you
something … something I haven’t said in a long time … It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.”

“Get a job?” Wheeler said, trying to preempt what he suspected was his younger brother’s latest attempt to knock him back onto the road of responsibility.

‘ I wanted to say I… that I love you … Sometimes, with all the bullshit, that gets lost. I know things have been difficult since Dad died, but the memories I have of you, the important ones are …” He stopped, took a breath, then went on, “You’re the reason I made it. I just wanted you to know I haven’t forgotten.”

Wheeler was instantly choked. Tears rushed into his eyes like third-down reserves. He looked at his brother and wondered what to say. He loved him too, but he also hated him.
Why did Pres have to be such a damn world-beater? Why couldn’t he just be a good guy to go drinking with? Why did he have to always be first?

“Remember when you taught me to drive and we took Dad’s car and I went too fast on Angeles Crest and lost it?” Pres said unexpectedly.

“Jesus, you were nuts that night,” Wheeler contributed to the memory. He’d been sixteen. Pres had only been thirteen. Pres was driving and had slid their Dad’s new yellow Corvette into the guardrail on the mountain highway, busting the fiberglass front fender, exploding it like fine crystal. The next morning Wheeler had told his father that he had taken the car out alone and had done the damage, which was more or less true. It had been Wheeler’s idea. Prescott had always been scared of their father, so Wheeler had taken the hit. Wheeler was grounded for two months, which didn’t mean much because he snuck out the upstairs window every night after his father went to bed anyway.

“I just wanted you to know I remember all the great stuff you did for me when we were growing up, and I want you to know that I’ve always loved you and always
respected you. Even now when, when…” He didn’t finish it but sat there looking at Wheeler, his hands clasped formally on the table in front of him.” Well, I just wanted to tell you that.” He looked at his ten-thousand dollar watch. “Guess I better go. Got a full calendar this afternoon,” the white rabbit said, but he didn’t move. He didn’t leave the table or rush off. They looked at one another across the WCC silverware and crystal. Time slowed, became more valuable. Seconds ticked. Precious seconds, precious even in Wheeler’s discount store of failed expectations. They reached out to each other with their eyed and tried to find their childhood.

In the half-minute or so of silence, it was magically recovered. It was okay. They were brothers again. Sort of. And then Prescott said a very strange thing.

“Whatever happens, promise me you’ll do the right thing.”

Then Pres got up and walked out of the dining room without looking back.

Wheeler was unsettled by the incident.

It was almost as if his brother had been saying goodbye.

Copyright © 1997 by Stephen J. Cannell

Inside cover author photo copyright © 1995 by Roger Ressmeyer/Starlight Excerpt from
Riding the Snake
Copyright © 1998 by Stephen J. Cannell Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96–52531

ISBN: 0–380–72817–6

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