Chapter 6
CHAPTER
RHETT TEMPLE DRIFTED IN AND out of lanes on the freeway in his customized Porsche convertible.
At this time of night there was little traffic.
It had been a hot day early on and then the rains had come hard and heavy, collapsing the temperatures.
As he wound along to his destination he could see the line of blackened clouds rumbling off to the east, resembling a fluid mountain range.
He felt a sudden overwhelming urge and pulled off at an exit, skidded to a stop, rolled a hundred-dollar bill, cut the powder, and did a line of coke straight off the dashboard.
He rubbed at his nose and snorted, sending the last few grains of the pure stock up his nostrils and rocketing into his bloodstream.
You had to pay extra these days to make sure your pills and powders weren’t laced with fentanyl or some other new synthetic, which could carry you away from this world in a nanosecond.
So he got his stuff from a man he trusted implicitly—an old frat brother of his—who did a fine side business in the drug trade, and also had a fridge-size pill press housed in a cheap storage unit.
The man also minted money as a concierge doc to rich hypochondriacs.
The wealthy wanted to live as long as possible for a simple reason—they were having way too much fun.
He drove on to his father’s sequestered compound in the hills. It was gated but he had the code—unless his father, Barton Temple, had changed it on him. Again.
He just likes to screw with me because he can. I’m only rich because of him. But when he croaks I’m finally my own boss. So here’s to croaking soon, Dad.
As he got out of the car Rhett hocked on the aged cobblestones that had been shipped over from Prague or Budapest to finish off what his father called a motor court, but which most people would merely term a driveway.
He took a moment to stare up at the colossus his father built because he’d been bored and had a spare $40 million in cash burning a hole in his portfolio.
Rhett didn’t know how large it actually was, but the place looked like it deserved its own zip code.
His downtown penthouse, which took up the entire top floor of his skyscraper, would have probably fit in the kitchen of this sucker.
During a break in the rain, he ran to the covered stone entrance, where he was greeted at the cathedral-size double oak doors by an authentic English butler named Herbert or Harold, or something like that.
The man had been brought over from the Savoy Hotel in London and looked wide-awake at two in the morning.
Rhett assumed the quarter million the gent was paid annually plus benefits, along with free five-star food provided by the live-in chef, and luxurious accommodations, justified losing some sleep.
The liveried British robot eschewed the elevator and led Rhett up a series of staircases wide enough to accommodate a semi, then knocked on a door at the end of a hall that was so long Rhett had nearly gotten all his steps in for the day.
The servant received authorization to enter from the deep voice inside and he opened the door, nodded at Rhett, and marched back to his upscale hidey-hole.
Rhett fixed his shirt cuffs, adjusted his jacket, smoothed down his hair, and entered the room feeling like a truant summoned to the principal’s office.
His father was sitting in a chair by the window wearing a luxurious white cotton robe with his monogrammed initials woven into it.
As Rhett approached, he caught the image of a young, blindfolded woman clad in a tight black minidress being led away through another door by a member of his father’s security team.
“Missus Number Three not home tonight?” observed Rhett.
Barton Temple had two inches on his six-one son and about a hundred pounds, none of it muscle. His curly silver hair implants seemed to quiver with amusement.
“Mindy took one of the jets somewhere. Cannes maybe. She used to be in the film business, you know.”
“Yeah, as a hair and makeup artist.”
“Which means she knows how to make herself look good, boy,” his father shot back. “Only reason I married her. She looks good on me.”
“You summoned me,” said Rhett. “And I’m here. So what’s up?”
“The funeral?”
“What?”
“How did the funeral go?”
“Who died?” said Rhett, dipping his head as the pulse of the coke pop wore off.
“Christ, boy, when are you going to get a simple message through that tree stump you call a brain? Walter Nash?”
“Walter is very much alive.”
“I meant his father’s funeral.”
“What about it?” Rhett asked.
“I told you to attend.”
“Hell, I thought you were joking.”
His father shook his head in frustration, turned to a fully stocked bar against one wall, and mixed himself a whisky soda without asking if his son wanted anything.
“Walter Nash is the best damned hire I ever made, and that includes you. He is the only thing standing between you and that sinking ship you call a company. Which, by the way, was a great business until I let you run it. Into the ground.”
“Come on, we’re doing fine.”
His father turned to face him. “I don’t call profits and revenue being down fifteen percent each fine, especially when your industry benchmarks are all the other way.
And on top of that your free cash flow is for shit.
But for the success and savviness of Nash’s acquisitions, you’d be down fifty on both, and your cash flow would be pennies instead of dollars.
Bottom line, the man is carrying your water, and a dozen other firms would do anything to poach him.
So you go to his father’s fucking funeral. ”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”
“You are sorry, but not in the way you mean, boy.”
Barton lit up a cigar pulled from an inlaid walnut humidor. Rhett saw that it was a limited edition Montecristo that cost over $500.
Barton Temple had been to over 120 countries.
He was intimately acquainted with kings and dictators, titans of industry, and the monied generational wealth from all four corners of the globe that shaped much of life for the other eight billion people on planet earth.
He’d dived off Mexican cliffs in his younger and fitter days, and shot bull elephants and lions on savannahs in Kenya while Rhett was still in diapers, or so Barton liked to brag.
He’d made shady fortunes in Africa and South and Latin America and parlayed that into even greater wealth in European corridors.
There had also been rumors of his doing deals with Middle East arms dealers when they were still a thing.
He’d bought up skyscrapers in New York and oil refineries in Texas and a ton of land and businesses in between.
He was a welcome visitor in the homes of other billionaires as well as in the power corridors of world capitals, because he greased palms with the best of them.
The carried-interest tax loophole in the U.S.
tax laws still survived principally because of his lobbying efforts, allowing the super wealthy to pay even less in tax than the staff they employed to change their kids’ diapers, or theirs, when they became too aged to do it themselves.
But he was one bloated SOB now. And he didn’t look so invincible to his son.
He can’t last much longer.
“Look, I’ll send him a nice card and flowers to the house and I’ll offer my personal condolences, blah-blah.”
“You are one heartless prick.” But then Barton smiled. “Just like I raised you.”
“You didn’t raise me, Mom did, in case you don’t remember. And it wasn’t as a heartless prick. For that, it’s all thanks to you.”
“I was there for all the important moments. Like when I handed you the keys to Sybaritic for no good reason other than you’re my flesh and blood. You weren’t boo-hooing about me missing your ball games and science fairs then.”
“Is that all you wanted to ask me? About the funeral? You ever heard of texting?”
When his father didn’t answer, Rhett glanced at the doorway through which the masked woman had disappeared.
“Oh, I get it. You wanted me to see you can still get the job done with the young ladies? Never doubted it, Dad. I mean, you did marry a twenty-nine-year-old just last year. What was tonight’s model? Sixteen?”
His father drained his drink. “We do need to go over a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Your expectations for AB,” said his father.
“AB?”
His father shook his head impatiently. “Keep up, boy. After Barton.”
Rhett decided candidness was the order of the day and said quietly, “I guess I always assumed as the eldest child the lion’s share would go to me along with the running of the companies. Beth has no interest in business.”
Barton studied him from under hooded eyes, his expression unreadable. “In addition to your younger sister, you also have two half sisters who are considerably older than you.”
“Right. But Angie has autism spectrum disorder and lives here with you. And DeeDee is a trust fund adult who lives in luxurious splendor in Paris, has never worked a day in her life, and wouldn’t know an LBO from a Ho Ho.”
“Autism spectrum disorder, my ass. Angie’s over fifty with the mind of a toddler.”
Rhett stared at his father, incredulous that he could speak about his special needs daughter with such callousness.
But then again, why the hell are you surprised? He’s the world’s biggest asshole. And you’re not far behind him.
“She’s also the nicest person in the entire family,” said Rhett emphatically. “But she’s not going to be running any of your businesses.”
Barton took a cigar puff. “It was her mother’s fault. I did nothing wrong. I mean, look at DeeDee. Girl’s got all her brains.”
“That’s debatable,” replied Rhett, who found it disgusting that his father never accepted responsibility for anything that went wrong. He only took credit for the successes.
His father eyed him over the cigar smoke. “FYI, Mindy has been making noises about wanting to hear the pitter-patter of little feet.”
“You’ll be past eighty before they’re in pre-K. And isn’t four kids enough?”
“Quality over quantity, boy. How many times have I told you that?”
His father rose and walked over to the bar to refresh his drink. “And when are you going to get married and have kids of your own? You can’t be chasing ass all your life.”
When Rhett didn’t answer, his father turned to him with hiked brows. “Jesus Christ, please do not tell me you really like men and not girls?”
“Look, leave me everything, nothing, or something in between. I don’t really care.”
His father smirked. “What? You’ll fend for yourself then?”
“I have, for a long time.”
“Then you need to knock off the coke. I did it for a few years. It’ll mess you up.”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“Then what’s the white crap on your cheek, boy? You can’t even lie worth a shit.”
Rhett rubbed at his face. “I’ll do the mea culpa with Nash. Are we good here?”
“Yeah, you better get on back to that penthouse you earned all by yourself,” Barton snapped, tacking on a snort of contempt.
As Rhett walked out, his father called after him, “And get yourself a damn wife and start making some babies, boy. You still won’t be an alpha but you can at least pretend you’re one.”
Rhett hated being called boy, which was why his father only called him that.
He stopped at a powder room and cleaned his face, then made a detour on his way out and popped his head into a bedroom on the second floor.
Angelina—Angie—Temple was sitting up in her bed and staring at the ceiling, which was littered with pasted-on stars. The whole room was a nod to her perpetual childhood, filled with dolls and stuffed animals, and old Disney movie posters. Her hair was cut in bangs and was nearly all gray now.
Her gaze dropped from the ceiling to him.
“Et?”
She had never managed to pronounce his name, so Et had stuck.
Doctors didn’t use the term low-functioning anymore, but Rhett knew that Angie would fall into that category.
Yet she was kind and gentle, except for the occasional outburst because of a loud sound or a bright light.
Sometimes nothing at all would set her off, but those times were now rare.
Rhett knew this was because she was on a litany of medications to moderate her hyperactivity, control her ritualized behavior and irritability, and reduce her anxiety. She seemed happy, he thought.
Lucky her.
“Hey, Angie.”
He pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed.
“Et?” she said again, her mouth wide with smiles. She leaned over but did not hug him. She did not like to touch or be touched. “Et, Et, Et, Et,” she said in a singsong voice.
Angie had been his big sister growing up; they had played for hours at a time.
She was the perfect companion to an energetic little boy because she never tired of having adventures, or doing goofy stuff that children did.
But as a little boy he had also witnessed in terror her uncontrollable tirades. As a man he just felt sorry for her.
Back then he had been closer to Angie than anyone else in his family. But then Rhett had grown up and Angie couldn’t.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
In answer she pointed to the ceiling. “Tars. Pretty.”
He looked up, too. “Yep, the stars sure are pretty. But they’ll be there when you wake up tomorrow, okay?
So, night-night-night.” This was a phrase indoctrinated into Angie’s mind by her therapists; it worked like clockwork to get her to go to sleep.
His father had insisted on something like that to control her.
Rhett had understood his desire to have a tool such as that, but part of him loved to see Angie rebuff the old man.
“Night-night, night-night, Et, Et, Et, Et.” She lay back and closed her eyes. She was asleep by the time he reached the door.
He looked back at her resting peacefully, and then Rhett went on his way wishing he were a little boy again, playing with his big sister.
But that wish was never going to come true, so he trudged back into the world that his father had fashioned for him.