Red Hot Liar (9781617738654) (12 page)

“So how are we gonna do that? What's our plan?”

Bob smirked and waved his hand. “Plans are for the weak and vulnerable. What we've come up with is a
scheme
. Watch this.”

Bob picked up a small remote and clicked it, and a film began to roll on the conference room's back wall. Viceroy watched as a political advertisement for the support of undocumented workers filled the screen, showcasing none other than the CEO of Ruddman Energy himself.

“Undocumented workers are not your enemy,” Ruddman spoke into the camera. “They are the lifeblood of this great country, the backbone of our industry. They do the jobs that ordinary Americans do not want to do, and they provide reliable services and resources at every level of American life.” Big color photos of Mexican fruit pickers, bus-boys, child care providers, and elderly companions flashed by on the screen.

Ruddman smiled, then drove his message home strongly by saying in Spanish, “Here at Ruddman Energy we respect and support our undocumented workers. We will ensure their jobs remain safe.”

When the sixty-second spot went off, Viceroy turned his glare on Bob expectantly. “That bastard doesn't speak a word of
español
, but he's probably just pulled in a major hunk of the Latino vote with that one. How the hell am I supposed to fight that?”

Bob was ready. “By hiring a few undocumented workers on your staff and making your own video,” he said. “And,” he added quietly, “by showcasing your new houseguest. The cross-dresser. As distasteful as I find his lifestyle he can get you a shitload of votes that Ruddman could never touch.”

“Who you talking about? Peaches?” Viceroy balked with his lip curled down in disgust. “But I thought you told me to get rid of him and now you're telling me to shoot a commercial and go on the air with that skirt-wearing, perfume-stanking, makeup-sporting, sissified-drag-nasty-go-rilla muthafuckin' fa—”

“Transvestite!” Bob cut in. “Yes, we want you to go on the air in support of Peaches and show the world that just because you're a Republican who believes in small government and fiscal responsibility, it doesn't mean you're a heartless cad who would turn his own family member away just because he happens to have a different lifestyle.”

“Peaches ain't none of my goddamn family!” Viceroy exploded. “He's a gorilla freak from New York City! There ain't none of that funny stuff going on in my family tree!”

“It doesn't matter,” Bob said firmly. “Ruddman has bitten into the Hispanic vote and now we've got to take a major bite of the gay and lesbian vote and force ourselves to chew it. I've arranged some studio time for you to shoot the ad spot tomorrow morning. Your speech is being written up as we speak, and I'm sure it'll say something about how you respect and support all members of your Republican constituency, even if they are gay cross-dressers like your favorite nephew.”

“Nephew? I already told you, that fruitcake ain't no kin to me!”

“Well, if you want to win this election you'd better start acting like he's one of your kin. Your initial polling numbers are way down, Viceroy. Perhaps you should start treating him like he's your son.”

“
Shit
!” Viceroy whined with his face screwed up. “The next damn thing you'll be telling me is to let some fools come up in my house to shoot that damn reality show!”

“You're exactly right.” Bob nodded firmly. “That's precisely what I was planning to tell you. One reason your poll numbers are so low is because people don't know enough about you. A reality show might be just what the doctor ordered, especially if they can air it right away. It's time to stop hiding behind your walls. Go ahead and give America an up-close-and-personal look at what your life is
really
like, Viceroy. Let them see your frailties and your faults. Everybody loves to watch a good train wreck. Let's see how close you can get to the edge of the tracks without jumping off.”

R
odney Ruddman wasn't above a good-old-fashioned ass-fucking. Especially if he was the one supplying the stiff meat.

“Mr. Washington has arrived, sir,” his longtime secretary at Ruddman Energy poked her head in the door and informed him in a hushed tone.

Rodney glanced at his watch and nodded. The young man was exactly five minutes early and that was a good sign.

“Make him wait a half hour and then send him in,” he instructed his secretary, and then opened a folder on his desk that was labeled
Confidential
in big black letters.

A slick smile of satisfaction played along Rodney's lips as he thumbed through the photocopied documents inside. It had taken some arm-twisting and a nice chunk of change to get his hands on this folder, and now that he had it he was gonna use it to his full advantage.

Rodney shook his head as he read through the documents. That Viceroy was a bad mothafucka and as shrewd and crafty as they came. As much as he despised his ass, Ruddman had to admit if you were gonna dog-fuck your friend, then this was definitely the way to do it. His arch-enemy had earned his full respect for this particular ploy because only a cold-blooded bastard would lie, cheat, and swindle a homey the way Viceroy Dominion had done.

“It's been thirty minutes,” his secretary said softly as she opened his office door once again. “Shall I send him in?”

Rodney glanced down at the eight-by-eleven photo of Earl Washington, Viceroy's former business partner. He wondered if the son's balls were any tinier than the father's had been, or if the young man had been cut from a thornier tree. Either way, he was about to find out. “Send him in,” Ruddman said with a cold, calculating grin. “Yes, send young Mr. Washington right on in.”

 

Zeke Washington sat back in the soft leather chair with his mind in moolah heaven. A pretty white escort from Ruddman Energy had led him over to a private elevator and used a card key to access the skylight suite on the top floor. He'd given the secretary the box of his father's papers and told her that he had an appointment with Rodney Ruddman, and in return she'd given him an iPad that had been loaded with all the latest movies and had all the best games available on it as well.

She left him in the lounge area for a good minute, but waiting around didn't mean a damn thing to him. He was unemployed and the clocked ticked the same way for him every single day. He was busy playing
Call of Duty
and making loud action noises with his mouth as he slayed muthafuckas left and right when he glanced up and realized the secretary was standing over him, calling his name.

“Mr. Washington?” she said with a small smile. “Sorry to interrupt you but Mr. Ruddman is available to see you now.”

Zeke flashed her a big smile and tossed the iPad carelessly down on a chair. “Oh, yeah?” he joked. “That's cool, because I'm ready to see him now too.”

Following the secretary down a long hall, Zeke smoothed down his cornrows and hiked his baggy jeans up by the belt loops. His bop was full of confidence as his Timbs sank into the plush carpet that felt like soft cotton under his feet. The smell of big-time money was in the air as he added a little dip to his gait and a masculine swing to his arms.

At the end of the hall they entered an office that was nearly five times the size of the U-Store-It shed that Zeke rented for a hundred and twenty-five dollars a month and crashed on a cot in every night. The office hollered “pure money” loud and clear, and the desk was so damn big he had to look twice to find the little round dude who was sitting behind it.

“Zeke Washington,” Rodney Ruddman boomed, his voice filled with power and authority. His snake eyes swept over the young man as he studied him intently. He was from the streets. A handsome and fit young man with an athletic build. He was a two-bit criminal too, Ruddman knew. He had already pulled up the boy's rap sheet and it was longer than his dick.

Dressed in the trappings of cultural poverty, Zeke sported what Ruddman referred to as “corner clothes” and while his gear screamed BROKE AS SHIT, the look in his eyes said, HUNGRY AND AMBITIOUS.

“It's good to see you. You look just like your father.”

“Is that right?” the young man replied smoothly. “What? You used to run with my pops back in the day or something?”

“Yes, I knew your father well,” Ruddman lied. “Or at least well enough to be pissed off when he caught that raw deal. I called him up and offered to have my attorney help him out, you know. But unfortunately he died before we could put something together. Have a seat,” he said, nodding at a leather chair on the other side of his desk. “I've ordered up some lunch for us. Make yourself comfortable until it arrives.”

Bopping over to the chair, Zeke plopped down on the edge and then leaned back like he was low-riding in a sporty whip. His legs were cocked open wide in his baggy faded jeans, and he sat there trying to look hard as hell as he lounged across from one of the richest men in America.

“So, you're probably wondering why I asked you to come here,” Ruddman said.

“Um, yeah.” Zeke grinned. “I mean, I ain't exactly the type of cat who slums with the oil willies ere' day, so yeah. The thought crossed my mind.”

Ruddman sat back and nodded, pleased by what he saw. Earl Washington had been a quiet brainiac, but his kid was all ruthless street charm. He looked just like all the other young uneducated black men who were caught up in a cycle of poverty and hopelessness, and whatever potential greatness he might have tapped into had his father lived and Viceroy Dominion not fucked him out of a fortune, was way in the past.

Two waiters entered the office quietly. They pushed covered platters ahead of them on carts and busied themselves setting up lunch for the big boss and his guest.

“So, what are you doing with your life?” Ruddman probed as Zeke pounced on the food the moment the waiters were done. He took the top bun off both his cheeseburgers and stacked a fistful of French fries on top of the thick and juicy chopped steak patty. Ruddman watched in amusement as the young man slathered ketchup all over the mound, then smashed the buns back on top and choked the cheeseburgers down two at a time.

Yeah, he's hungry all right,
Ruddman smiled inside as he watched the young cat grub.
Now let's see if he's ambitious.

 

Barron stared down at the folder in his hand then flung that shit on his desk like it was a hissing snake. Somebody was trying to fuck the shit outta his father and it damn sure wasn't his mother. Barron's mouth wanted to fall open as he thought about what he'd just read but he knew better than to let a mofo see him sweat.

They were in the middle of a heated political campaign and not only had that bastard Ruddman dug up some skeleton bones on Viceroy that could put him in a legal bind due to his shady business dealings with his late partner, he had also called in Earl Washington's son to help him bury Dominion Oil in the dirt.

“It's hot off the press,” Digger Ducane said with a shiesty grin. “In fact, my sources tell me Earl's son is eating lunch in Ruddman's office right now.”

Barron shrugged and angled his chin at the folder on his desk as he played it cool. “So what, Unc? Is this shit supposed to scare us?”

Digger had torn his drawers raggedy with the Dominion family. He had once been a trusted member of the fold, but when Viceroy was in a coma he called himself pulling a slick move by jumping ship and going to work for Rodney Ruddman. Right now the look in Digger's eyes told Barron that his reaction wasn't the one his uncle had expected, but Digger played his hand just as cool.

“It ain't supposed to scare you, Barron, but it is supposed to make you think and plan. Ruddman got these papers from Zeke Washington. He's planning to turn them over to the commission as proof that the documents Viceroy filed with the state thirty years ago were forgeries.”

Barron was an attorney and he shrugged like he had ice-water in his veins. “These papers don't mean shit. They're not notarized or executed. I could sit down at my computer right now and type up something just like this myself.”

“But these papers are
signed
. Any handwriting expert could prove that's your father's signature.”

Barron nodded. “So what? They may be signed but they're not executed. The only version of this contract that counts is the one that's on file at the county office. People sign shit every day and then revise different drafts of the same document. That's how it's always been in this business, and I doubt if this is any different.”

“Oh, it's different,” Digger assured him with a smug grin on his shit-eating mug. “Have you ever heard of a gentleman by the name of Wally Su?”

Barron shook his head. “Nah. His name doesn't ring a bell.”

“Well, it should,” Digger said. “I'm sure your father could tell you a whole lot about old Wally Boy.”

“Oh yeah? And why is that?”

“Because Wally Su is his dear old friend. He's also the former county clerk who signed as a witness to the documents drawn up between Earl Washington and your father all those years ago. Wally's on his deathbed now, and he's been convinced that confession is good for the soul. He's prepared to testify that the documents he filed thirty years ago when he was a clerk were forged, and to air every piece of dirty laundry he has on the swindle that sent Washington to a poor man's grave and made your father filthy fuckin' rich.”

Barron stood there looking like a statue. From the outside he appeared to be etched from granite, but inside he was enraged and his blood swirled around in his veins like hot lava.

These muthafuckas were gonna
do
his daddy. Not only were they gonna hit him with a prosecution and a public shaming, they were gonna rip off his pants and yank his drawers down, and then bite off a great big chunk of his big black dick. If this Wally cat testified in front of the commission then the carefully built walls around the empire that Viceroy had built were gonna come tumbling the fuck down right on top of their heads.

Unless Barron was able to stop them, that is.

As furious as he had been with Viceroy's bullshit lately, he was still his father's son.

This was some serious shit, and there was only one man in the state of Texas who Barron knew could save Dominion Oil and get his father's ass out of this sling. One man in the country, in fact. Hell, in the whole fuckin' world.

“All right. I'll make sure my father sees this.”

“You're gonna let him know I was looking out for him right?”

“Yeah. I will.”

“You be sure to tell him I'm still his boy and I still have his back.”

“A'ight.”

Leaving his uncle in his office, Barron strode down the hall to the private conference room. He slammed the door shut, then locked it with both bolts. Pulling the curtains closed, he took out his cell phone and hit the speed-dialed number of the best damn closer on this side of the Atlantic.

He dialed his
other
uncle. The brolic nigga who moved the mighty mountains and held back the raging seas.

He called Suge.