Fred always felt better about himself in a foreign country.
For starters, he was usually richer overseas, the benefit of holding American currency in an era in which oil prices continued to crater and the Greeks lurched ineptly from one economic disaster to the next. There was also China’s unprecedented rise of the last two decades—equipped with his Lion credentials, Fred did an excellent imitation of a moneyed mainland businessman on an acquisition spree, armed to spend recklessly abroad. Then, since he was good at selecting clothes, had an expensive haircut, and always meticulously researched the trendiest restaurants in a new city—the ones with the hardest-to-land reservations and hostesses who looked through you like water—Fred was almost always a far more splendid personage overseas than at home.
This was especially true in Bali, a destination that warped the rules of reality. Here, slurring Russians in singlets playing grab-ass were revered gentlemen, while pasty Germans bearing vague resemblances to composite sketches of pedophiles were feudal lords, come to visit for their customary fortnight. Labor was so inexpensive that the title of managing director on one’s business card indicated a staff of hundreds (Fred had 2.5, a team of junior analysts who constantly hinted they were searching for other jobs, and a disloyal assistant he technically shared with Griffin Keeles who considered it beneath her to book his travel).
He was staying at the Biasa in Seminyak, a luxury resort markedly nicer than what he ordinarily would have selected, especially as it fell outside the bounds of Lion’s stringent travel policies (he was thus absorbing the entire cost himself, yet another gross injustice perpetrated by that cheap fucker, Leland). When he’d made the booking Fred had naturally assumed Erika would be with him, and an extravagant hotel ranked high on her list of Important Details. The Biasa’s onerous cancellation policies meant that it made no financial sense to change the reservation; as such, he was determined to enjoy himself.
Upon arrival he’d been upgraded to a villa, a small free-standing structure with a private pool and outdoor bathtub, filled with dark wood furniture and lighting that even at maximum power cast a seductive atmosphere. Fred had never before stayed in such lavish or spacious accommodations, save for a few bachelor parties at the MGM Skylofts, and on those occasions they’d been stuffed at least two per bedroom.
The villa even came with a personal “butler,” a steward supposedly solely dedicated to the comfort of his charges. The manservant, a portly local named Bawa, greeted Fred effusively upon check-in and then disappeared. He reemerged once per day to obsequiously set up the complimentary afternoon repast, pouring the ginger tea with great care. On the second morning Fred inquired if Bawa might venture out and purchase some local souvenirs for him, inexpensive trinkets to bring home for colleagues, but Bawa replied with toadying servility that the concierge might be better equipped to assist in such matters. The concierge, in the same fawning manner, pointed him back to Bawa.
In the end Fred walked to town himself, where he found some inexpensive sarongs and painted masks. The three-block return journey felt agonizingly long due to the heat, and as he passed couples and families along the way, he was lonely. Aside from Jack, he didn’t personally know a single person attending the retreat. And even if he were to spot one of tech’s famous faces milling about—which so far he hadn’t—he couldn’t imagine actually instigating a conversation, like some ridiculous founder hounder.
Fred planned on striking out that evening, at the very least to buy some stranger—preferably a stunning yet impoverished local—a drink, but back in the room, he was struck by an intense misanthropy. He canceled his dinner reservations at a trendy Italian restaurant on the beach he’d had the concierge make months in advance and ate at the Biasa’s outdoor restaurant instead, staring gloomily at the ocean.
* * *
Just another five minutes, Fred thought. Then he’d call Jack.
He removed from his pocket the now-crumpled itinerary that had become soft with sweat and again verified that he had the correct time and place. For an hour so far that morning he’d been checking and rechecking the paper, circling the beach as he attempted to conceal his growing panic. Where the hell was everyone?
While in earlier years Fred had assumed a high barrier to entry to be a reliable indicator of the nature and quality of the corresponding assets being shielded, he had long since learned his lesson, both personally and professionally. Newly opened clubs with costly drinks and power-crazed bouncers turned out to be half empty and filled with other disappointed men once you’d bribed your way inside; snooty women who rejected you at first approach were just as vapid in bed the next morning and resembled ogres with their makeup off. Thus Fred had expected the Founders’ Retreat to be like other conferences he’d attended, only with better attendees—packed with boring keynotes, mediocre lunches, and useless networking; casual discussions on favored bolt-holes, should the unwashed masses revolt after automation had taken all their jobs. The events entirely located at some massive resort, its amenities largely ignored by the men in dark suits parading into conference rooms.
Instead, the instructions on the personalized agenda couriered to him at the hotel (the cover page stamped Confidential, Not to Be Forwarded or Photographed) had led Fred to this dirty beach, to which he’d arrived half an hour early, via the hotel’s complimentary shuttle. In contrast to the pristine scenery surrounding the Biasa, the water here was oiled and murky, and the rough sand was heavily strewn with misshapen plastic and latex objects. Behind him, tanned Indonesians hawked umbrellas and sun chairs of marginally clean appearance; the prices lent confusion as to whether they were being sold or merely rented. The only other parties present were holiday goers of a look and caliber Fred had identified as definitively Not Founders’ Retreat material. A group of retiree-aged Australians lay naked under towels with their torsos exposed, as masseurs lazily slid elbows down their backs; nearest to Fred was a group of well-endowed British girls in crop tops, who appeared to have just landed from a connecting flight.
“I said to Liam, where’s my facking suitcase?” one of the girls spat, as she dug dirt out from under her nails. Next to her, a thuggish friend puffed miserably on a cigarette.
Fred was hit with a fresh wave of despair. He felt alien and out of place, dressed in loose linen pants and a matching ecru shirt. The outfit—touted as ideal for the climate given its natural fibers and protection from the sun’s aggressive rays—had been purchased from the hotel gift shop the night before. Even though he’d studied the weather forecast and packed multiple suits, in his zealousness to avoid checking baggage he’d omitted anything that could be qualified—using the given Founders’ Retreat terminology—as High Resort Casual. In a ridiculous inversion, the getup cost more than he would have ever paid in the United States, but the boutique proprietor had whispered that Christy Turlington was part owner and did its purchasing, an outrageous and irresistible lie.
Finally, eighty minutes past the designated hour, Jack appeared. He made no apologies and instead unhurriedly led them to a small cruiser manned by staffers wearing white polo shirts with Killer in embroidered script on the chest. Fred had assumed it was the name of the boat, which was a glossy black and white, but it turned out to be the much larger vessel the tender eventually sailed up to, a sleek and elegant mega yacht trimmed in dark wood with a striking orange hull. As Jack and Fred walked the treaded shallow ramp, staff members waited along its sides, backs ramrod straight. When they reached the top, a porter pointed to Fred’s shoes. “Yes?” he asked. The man repeated his motion.
“Thank you,” Fred said. “They’re very comfortable.” They were also Gaziano & Girling, but he saw no point in sharing that.
“Actually, he’s telling you to take them off!” Jack shouted over the wind. “I completely forgot Reagan doesn’t allow shoes. I can’t remember why. Maybe the wood!”
“This is Reagan’s boat?”
“Yes! Only my second time on it. One day he just randomly asked to meet here. Apparently there are hidden rocket launchers. Isn’t his life crazy?”
Reagan was already on board, in conversation with two men Fred recognized from their Facebook executive bios. Both were younger than him, he recalled grimly. He was at the point where age was the first metric he checked of anyone successful, scrolling immediately to the college graduation year on LinkedIn (he’d long removed any indication of his own).
There was a current of excitement in the atmosphere, undercut with confusion. There didn’t appear to be any indication of an expected order of events, and given the lack of shoes and ambiguous dress code, many of the attendees looked to be in a state of slumped undress. It was as if everyone had shown up to an orgy that had been prearranged in advance, only to arrive and find the hosts missing. The boat was crowded, though Fred and Jack were thankfully on the lower deck, where there was still enough space to maneuver; on the level above there were at least another hundred people. A few dozen model types were peppered through the crowd; they moved with languor, not bothering to disguise their boredom.
Fred tried not to gape. He had become so accustomed to the situation in the Bay Area—where any woman in possession of the merest sliver of attractiveness strutted around like a harem master—that the sheer appearance of so much physical beauty stunned him. Say what you wanted about an Ivy League education or ferocious ambition; all of that receded in the face of these faces—unwrinkled, unblemished, and even when irregular still perfect. As Fred watched, a young brunette in dreadlocks linked arms with Mason Leung, the diminutive sixty-two-year-old Chinese-Malaysian head of TelBank, who in the last five years had released three hip-hop albums. Mason, Fred noted, had been allowed to keep his shoes—a pair of forest green loafers that looked to have hidden lifts.
He realized he had unwisely lost track of Jack and now found himself mired in the most loathsome of social situations: adrift, literally at sea, with everyone in eyeshot engaged in conversation. Even the porters were batched together. No way he was going to be that guy, the one who sidled up to a group, quietly lurking, nodding with vigor at the occasional stray factoid. He’d rather be solo, aloof in repose, a stance several of the less-popular model types had also adopted.
Luckily just a few minutes passed before Reagan appeared, Jack in tow. He led them to a small setup of a few lounge chairs around a table, a short walk made considerably longer by his pausing every few seconds to call out to various acquaintances and best friends. Reagan had definitely aged less than Jack, Fred saw, though some of it was because he’d always carried an extra thirty pounds on his frame. Fred noted with relief that Reagan was dressed similarly to himself in a linen long-sleeved shirt and pants, the clothes perfectly tailored to graze his rotund body. He no longer shaped his hair with handfuls of gel; now it was soft and parted neatly, a peppered black-and-white marriage of Mao and American WASP. Though for the straight patrician look the hair was too long. A bit from the front had escaped, forming a kiss curl across his forehead.
“Nice boat,” Fred said.
Reagan gave him a back slap, as if they’d always been the best of friends.
“Yeah,” Jack chimed in. “I was just telling Fred you’ve brought the term obnoxious Asian to a whole new stratosphere.’
“Stated by the guy whose parents own half the malls in Singapore and a good portion of the largest developments in Hong Kong. And what’s this I’m hearing about Project Carton?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” Reagan snorted. Then, to Fred: “There’s an egg being erected right now in China. Know anything about it?”
Fred shook his head.
“Well, there is one. A giant egg, in Hangzhou. A literal fucking egg, though I guess not so literal, because this one’s actually a building. An egg encircled by five smaller eggs, each intended to house a select number of the wealthy bourgeoisie I’m so callously being accused of being a member of right now. A whole carton of them, each decorated with gold and silver reflective windows, with so much crystal that they make Versailles look like a Chinese official’s cheap imitation. And each one is named after a specific gem.”
“Reagan, come on—” Jack groaned.
“There’s the ruby egg, the emerald egg, the sapphire egg, the jade egg, the pearl egg, and, of course, the diamond egg,” Reagan said, charging forward. “And inside each of their lobbies, behind bulletproof glass, is an actual jewel, a twenty-carat sapphire here, thirty-carat ruby there, the best that Graff could source. A carton of Fabergé smack-dab in the middle of China, with parking spots that start at $200,000 each. If you’ve been living in the United States, you really can’t imagine the ostentatiousness. Vegas would be the closest, but even that barely compares.” Reagan abruptly stopped and scrutinized his champagne. He seemed to be searching for something within the bubbles; he squinted an eye and then moved the glass under his nose and inhaled the scent. Fred could see that Jack hoped he had finished, but Reagan downed the drink with a quick tilt and then went on.
“Of course, given the current environment—scrutiny over income inequality, disturbing chatter about the government on social media, CEOs disappearing overnight—you’d think these eggs might be a problem, a convenient symbol for the serfs to glom on to when they rise up, right? That’s what one might think, unless a certain ranking politburo official’s grandson was enticed into buying a unit early, real early, on a floor so private no one else had moved in yet. The perfect place to stash a secret girlfriend who might be pregnant with triplet boys, eh? So now the project rumbles on—no permit delays, no nasty media coverage, no peep from the local mayor, who I hear normally is a real shakedown artist. And do you know who the genius is behind all this, albeit through several layers of shell corporations? The big fat goose that’s laying all these golden eggs, the birdie that’s secretly way richer than the rest of us?”
“Reagan.” This time Jack’s voice held a distinct warning.
“My man.” Reagan wrapped an arm across Jack’s shoulders. “The greatest. So humble. Anyway, yeah, this is a great boat. I’ve wanted one for a while. At least I can swim! You wouldn’t believe how many guys own these things who can’t even do that. You really think Paul Allen’s doing laps in the Atlantic?”
“As if you know Paul Allen,” Jack sulked.
“Well of course I do,” Reagan said good-naturedly. “Though I’m not sure he would say the same for me.” He turned to Fred. “Fred Huang. Really glad you could make it. You been to this thing before? And I assume Jack already told you a bit about our little project?”
“Yes,” Fred said, leaving it vague which question he was answering in the affirmative. “I know the general background.”
“And? What do you think? What about the name?”
“Opus?”
“Yeah. Too douchey?”
“I think it’s fine, for now.” He was suddenly impatient. “Can you confirm what the number is likely to land at? For whatever we—you—are managing? How much do the Thais want invested in North America?”
“The first year, just around ten billion,” Reagan said.
Jack whistled and nudged with his elbow, past annoyances already forgotten. Fred could feel Reagan’s eyes on him, beadily gauging.
“Of course, I’m sure Jack’s already told you the total they’re looking to eventually fund,” he continued. “Somewhere between fifty and seventy billion. They’re thinking at least half that concentrated in the US, and the rest in Israel, Europe, and of course Asia. But of the US piece, the vast majority will be in California. Silicon Valley, you guys are minting money. And all you want to do is spend it on bicycles and bunkers in the desert!”
“There’s a lot of empty hype,” Fred said modestly, as if he were an active participant in it all. “But of course there are also real opportunities. Fewer unicorns want to go public these days. Just look at Uber, Pinterest, Airbnb. Everyone wants to stay private, maintain control, but the capital requirements are significant. The amount of money you’re describing, if managed correctly, would quickly establish Opus as a major player.”
“Good, good.” Reagan pumped his fist. “The Thais will want to get in on at least one big name investment, a marquee they can wave around to the public. Preferably consumer facing, so people will have heard of it. They want to emphasize that they’re spending on innovation, building up the next Samsung instead of flying their lapdogs on Gulfstream G650s and getting tattoos near their dicks. Bonus points if the company has a founder who can visit and suck up, do some laps around the capital, Zuckerberg-style. You know, a Hugo Menendez sort.”
Hugo Menendez was the youthful but semi-balding CEO of Gadfly, a data-compression company rumored to be closing on a staggering new round of funding. “You know Hugo?” Fred asked.
“Oh yeah, I know a lot of those guys. They’re always hanging out in Hong Kong or Beijing, they have the fetish you know, heh. Jews and Asian girls, it’s an unstoppable force when you combine two groups obsessed with money.”
“Hugo’s Jewish? I didn’t know.”
Reagan frowned. “Well if he’s not, he should be. I think he’s here, actually.” He clasped his hands together around his mouth. “Hugo! Hugo!” When only the head steward turned, he dropped his arms. “Maybe he didn’t make it onto the boat. We had a late night. I’ve taken a few of them under my wing, socially. These young guys with new money, they really have no taste. One of them was telling me all about how awesome his stay at the Gansevoort was. I was like, Gansevoort? What are we, in high school? Your company’s worth fourteen billion and all it takes to impress is a chocolate tower in your room and some washed-out cougars in the lobby?”
“Not everyone has your standards,” Jack said. “We don’t all need to drive the fanciest car or visit the best club.”
“If you’re going to go out, you should make it worth your while. Especially at our age. For example, if I know I’m going to be awake past midnight, I need to have prepared in advance. Gone to sleep early the night before, eaten a big lunch with lots of protein. What, you don’t care about your time? You liked Sepia Lounge last week, didn’t you?” Jack grunted. “Ha. Didn’t I tell you about the girls? Strong pipeline. Although we have even better today.” He leaned forward. “Don’t look now, but right behind you are a few members of the main cast of Serial Killer High. The brunette can’t act for shit, but the blonde is actually pretty good. I’m sponsoring Ace Getty’s thirtieth birthday on the boat tomorrow night.”
“Where’s your girlfriend?” Jack asked Fred. “I thought you were bringing her. Is she still at the hotel?”
“You have a girlfriend?” Reagan bounced in his chair. “Show us a picture.”
Fred found a flattering shot of Erika, one in which she wore a simple black sundress and the outline of her breasts was visible. Reagan nodded with frank approval. “White is right! Good for you, evening out the ratios. Charlene must be pissed, huh? You still talk to her?”
“Not really.” He rarely thought about his ex these days, except for when he happened to be looking through old photos. “Anyway, it wasn’t working out with Erika. In terms of the trip, I mean. She ended up going back to San Francisco.”
“How long did you spend together in Bali?”
“Well, actually, I sent her back in Hong Kong.”
“Wow.” Jack widened his eyes. “Sherry would go apeshit if I did that. At the very least I’d have to make a pit stop at Verdura. How’d she take it?”
Fred shrugged. “It was fine.”
It had actually been the complete opposite, albeit somewhat delayed. Erika’s shock over the boldness of Fred’s pronouncement had rendered her into a semidocile state until she was in her seat on the plane back to San Francisco; then, at some point during the flight, she’d gone apocalyptic. Ten minutes after the 747 landed, Fred had received a nine-page email narrating in excruciating detail his numerous deficiencies: his cheapness when ordering at restaurants; his refusal to hire a weekly cleaner for the apartment; his pornography addiction, which he hadn’t realized she knew about (really, was three times a week—at maximum—an addiction? It wasn’t like he was actually paying for it). The email’s tenor and grammar implying that unless Erika was handled carefully and precisely, dire consequences should be expected. As Fred wished to maintain the status quo until he’d had more time to consider his commitment to the relationship—which he suspected would vary depending on the outcome of the retreat—he had called Erika right away, for an agonizingly long discussion in which every fifteen minutes he was accused of secretly wanting to get off the phone.
The night before, he’d still been managing the fallout, when, after she failed to reach him on his cell (it was off when he slept, to avoid unintended roaming charges), Erika had instead called the Biasa and been transferred to his room. It was late morning in California, she said, the only time she could speak without Nora overhearing, as it was when she escorted little Zoltan to swim class.
“I already took three weeks off work,” Erika hissed. “Because you told me that we would be going on this trip. What am I supposed to do now? And don’t you dare say I should just go back to Saks. Do you know how embarrassing that is, to have to explain that I am once again available for work? All because I am with a man who treats women like garbage?”
“No one’s saying you should go back to work. Haven’t you been telling me that you need a break?” Fred murmured gently. He had just fallen asleep when the handset on the desk began to ring; if he could get her off the phone within the next twenty minutes, he could still catch a full eight hours. “Why don’t you sleep in, catch up on reading, get a massage? You love the Rosewood spa. I can call there with my credit card.”
There was a brief silence as Erika considered this offer, before dismissing it as not worthy of giving up her higher ground. “That’s exactly what I told you I was going to do,” she huffed, “in Bali! Did I not pack my books? Did I not spend my own money to buy three Melissa Odabash caftans for the beach, which I didn’t even get double discount on? And now I cannot return them, because I cut off the tags.” Her nails clicked furiously against the phone. “I really am starting to believe you are deranged. The sort of man who enjoys playing with the heads of women. To invite me on a trip across the world, only to make up some silly excuse and send me back.”
“To be fair, it wasn’t entirely silly. It’s not like you were on your best behavior. Screaming at me, throwing things, getting wasted. By the way, the Dorchester tacked on an extra $400 charge for carpet cleaning when I checked out. You could have told me you threw up behind the curtains. Management doesn’t put up with the same shit in Asia that they do in America.”
“Like you’ve never been drunk! Like you’ve never had so many beers, and wine, and shots, and then who has to listen to you brag about how much smarter you are than your mom and dad? Or how much more you make than your sister? And how about when you threw up on your Dior sneakers outside of the Battery, the ones I had to track down in the Saks in Atlanta and beg them to ship me on employee discount instead of selling full price to a customer? Who was so thankful then? What a convenient little memory you have.”
“You’re right, you’re absolutely right,” Fred said hurriedly. “I’m very sorry.”
“Do you know how humiliating it is, what you did to me?” Erika exploded. “In all my years I’ve never heard of any man doing this to a woman! Even the worst Hungarian man does not go so low! And now you suggest that I relax, read a book, catch up on my news watching. You know who does that? A real big sociopath.” And then, on the strength of that word, she hung up. Though in truth it hadn’t really bothered Fred. Weren’t CEOs usually sociopaths? The best serial killers? It meant you were, like, a genius.
“How’s your dad?” Jack asked now. Fred had made a vague mention of Stanley’s health on the phone when they first spoke—it was one of Jack’s proof points of being a decent person, Fred supposed, that he remembered these things.
“Not too well, actually. It was confirmed to be pancreatic cancer.”
“Like Jobs,” Jack breathed.
“Yup. Just like Jobs.” Steve Jobs, who Fred figured to be the closest thing running to a patron saint of pancreatic cancer. At least no one ever tried to assure Fred that Stanley would “kick this thing,” since even a billionaire hadn’t been able to stop the relentless march of a dissolving pancreas.
Reagan made a sympathetic noise. He sat up. “You guys have anything else you want to discuss? Otherwise I should go take care of a few things with the boat.”
“Well.” Fred paused, as if spontaneously recalling extraneous details. “I think once I sign on to this, I’m going to give notice at Lion. I’ve been there too long, and the deal flow’s slowed. The amount of money you guys are talking, Opus is going to take up all my time anyway.” Encouraged by Jack’s nod, he continued. “And I was thinking we should rent an office. A fund this size, we’ve got to have our own space. Some basic staff too.” He’d have his own dedicated assistant, of course. If there were head count issues, in her free time she could double as the office manager.
“Makes sense,” Jack said. “You thinking Sand Hill?”
“Or downtown Palo Alto. No shortage of options.”
“Office sounds great,” Reagan said. “Associates, okay. The rest, no go. You’ve got to stay at Lion.”
Hot pricks of agitation crept up Fred’s spine. In any of its numerous iterations, the fantasy of Opus had never included Lion: Fred still in the same cramped quarters, furtively double-checking the expense reports filed by his ungovernable admin, Donna Caldbert, who he suspected occasionally omitted restaurant meals for reimbursement out of spite. He forced the words out calmly. “What’s your reasoning?”
“I thought Jack told you.” Reagan frowned, turning. “Didn’t you?”
“Well.” Jack hesitated. “To be honest, I wasn’t fully clear—”
“Forget it,” Reagan said. He was clearly exasperated. “Fred, a major factor in bringing you on is your employment with Lion. Surely you didn’t assume you’d be advising on investments by yourself?” He raised a groomed eyebrow. “It’s not as if a limited partner would ever stand for that in a traditional fund; it’s way too much money for one person.”
“Of course, but I assumed there would be direction from Asia, and—”
“The Thais want to partner with Lion on this,” Reagan said, cutting him off. “They need an experienced partner on the ground in California. They have the money but not the expertise, so they want a local name to co-manage the fund. There’s a lot of details still to be worked out, but their assumption is that Lion should go for it, because the Thais will put in most of the money. They’ll ask for some more control in exchange, naturally; they don’t want to be treated as just a dumb government piggy bank, which is how some of these deals have worked out in the past. But overall, it’d be a win-win for both parties.”
“I could leave Lion,” Fred said. “Take this to another shop.” Like Motley Capital, or Tata Packer, or Andreessen. Ten billion dollars would be welcome almost anywhere in the Valley. “And—” He wavered, and then decided to come clean, even if it meant second-order implications regarding his own desirability. “Lion’s not the most prestigious name. We’re considered maybe Tier Three, Tier Two at best.” Reagan and Jack had to know that, right? How could they not?
Reagan bobbed his head, as if he did. “But you’re already at Lion. And Lion’s an Asian company, which makes the cross-cultural communication way easier. The Thais, they’re extremely sensitive, they don’t want to deal with bombast and jokes about lady boys. Or kowtow to some prepubescent in Birkenstocks just because he wrote some sugar daddy app for politicians. They know Lion—the company has a huge factory in Korat. And Lion has long-standing relationships with Wilson Sonsini and Draper Carlyle. They’re both your outside legal representation, Draper primarily so, am I correct? The Thais want a partner connected with those firms. If they have US investments, they’re obviously going to need US representation.”
“I know senior partners at both offices,” Fred countered. “It would be no problem to arrange introductions.” He could probably squeeze a few dinners for the referral as well. Erika would love it if he brought her along—she was always hinting she wanted to socialize more with a “certain tier of friends.” At first Fred had taken her to mean white and been furious, before he realized she meant wealthy.
“Hey, we all know a senior partner or two. All those nerds who did the dual JD thing. But Lion does a lot of existing business with Draper, yeah? Leland’s always getting sued in the news, antitrust this and trade secrets that. Sounds like you guys steal as much of your R-and-D as possible. I heard that Draper bills Lion in the high eight digits every year. That kind of pull, sorry, I just don’t think you’re going to have on your own. Unless you’ve got photos of Draper blowing Carlyle, which then by all means, let’s draft your notice now.”
“But I still don’t understand why you need the introduction at all,” Fred said stubbornly. The thought of Lion—and thus Griffin and Leland—getting in on so much free money for such an inane reason was beyond maddening. “Wouldn’t any top-tier firm be happy to work with Opus? The billings would be substantial.”
Reagan yawned. “You’d think so. But after ’08, it’s become far more challenging. There’s more regulation now with overseas entities, especially when a government is involved, and law firms are leery. Of course they’d still take the business eventually, but it’d require time and energy. The Thais don’t want any difficulties.”
“Sure sounds like a lot of hoop jumping for legal counsel. Is this why you guys thought of me? Because of Lion? And the relationship with Draper?”
“Of course not.” Jack looked offended. “You have the perfect background.”
“Jack’s right,” Reagan chimed in. “You really do. Ten years at Lion, right? Managing director now? And you did the DataMinx deal, yeah, I know about that, don’t accuse me of asking you just because of Draper. Your background’s gold. Just hold on at Lion a little longer; is that really so much to ask? Get Leland on board, and then we’ll go from there. In the meantime, we can get you set up as a partner at Opus. What’s wrong with two paychecks? And I don’t know if Jack already informed you, but this is no sovereign fund deal. They’re compensating at the top of the bracket. Very generous. Once we’ve got the fund launched and have the Valley relationships locked down, you can go ahead and quit, tell Leland to go fuck himself, work full-time out of whatever office you like. Better have a few good-looking admins, though. Whenever I go to the Bay Area, the only places I see hot women are in lobbies and reception rooms.”
“It’s not going to be so easy with Leland; he’ll likely want to dictate his own terms—”
“Look.” Reagan sounded impatient now. “Is this something you really want to do? Because I was under the impression that you were in, and maybe I just got the wrong idea about your intentions, and either way it’s totally cool. But you have to let me know whether you’re on board, because if not we’ll need to move quickly with the next option. We have several avenues that would be acceptable to the Thais, so no hard feelings, promise.”
The whining scream of electronic equipment broke in, as an assistant on the open deck tested speakers. Presumably the kickoff for the Founders’ Retreat had finally arrived. Fred gave a silent curse. While he was tempted to immediately agree to Opus, at whatever the terms, he knew it was a risk to appear too eager. Now they wouldn’t have time to close the discussion; what if whatever magic existed on this boat evaporated by the next time he saw Reagan and Jack?
“Remember when I sent the blow-up doll?” Reagan called out above the din. “Good times.”
Jack sighed and leaned back, tilting his head toward the sky. Despite his agitation, Fred looked with him. The problem with Bali, he mused, was that it allowed too large a band of visitors to believe they were experiencing true luxury. In a setting where five-bedroom villas could be rented for $100 a night, even the middle class could feel like kings. But there was no confusing the spindly crafts that dotted the public beaches with Killer, this lustrous beast that announced its wealth like a gleaming jewel deposited in the middle of the ocean. Jack had let drop the tidbit that the Komodo Marina, where Killer would eventually dock, charged $18,000 per night; there it was kept far away from the gaping eyes of the public, shielded by other mega crafts.
The rich always stuck to their own, Fred thought. Even when they were inanimate.
* * *
The next morning Fred texted both Reagan and Jack, to no response. He felt he couldn’t message either again without further skewing the power balance and so next called Erika, where the phone rang without answer. The day had been left deliberately open on the Founders’ Retreat agenda, for the ad hoc discussions between industry players, which was where the real soft power of the event was supposed to reside; given his limited sphere of influence, he’d received no such meeting requests, and the one other attendee he’d recognized at the retreat—a business school classmate running an incubator fund—had punted his coffee invite to the undetermined future. To distract himself, Fred called the Biasa front desk and claimed the complimentary tour of local sights that had been offered upon check-in. He wasn’t scheduled to see Reagan and Jack again until the next day, at the closing dinner of the retreat. A lot could change in thirty-two hours.
The guide for the tour turned out to be Bawa, who arrived on time with an enormous cocktail on a bamboo tray. The drink was blended with ice and began on top as yellow, gradually shifting to azure blue. “I am training to be a bartender,” Bawa boasted. “This is my own creation! I call it Balinese Sky.” As Fred tipped the glass he could feel the butler’s eyes following him; he felt obligated to finish the entirety of the drink, which left a burning sensation as it descended.
Afterward, he followed Bawa to the hotel shuttle. Their first scheduled stop, the Monkey Village, was a popular tourist destination, and Bawa deposited Fred at the front with assurances that it would, in fact, be full of monkeys. “They are everywhere!” he called cheerily, passing Fred a small bunch of dark bananas as he himself declined to alight from the vehicle. Fred could find him in the van when he was finished, he said, and jabbed a thumb toward the parking lot, where a fleet of nearly identical black and silver vehicles stood idling.
True to Bawa’s promises, monkeys scampered in abundance about the entrance, with more materializing as Fred began to walk along the marked circular pathway. He quickly encountered what appeared to be a family, a group of five, and stopped. The monkeys inspected him in return, coolly evaluating the fruit in his hands. The largest came up to his knee. Suddenly one leapt directly toward him, viciously batting at the bananas; in shock that they didn’t fear him, Fred dropped the entire bunch, which quickly disappeared into the trees with the family.
Dejected by the experience, Fred purchased a small bag of crackers from a nearby vendor and began to toss them onto the ground. Only a few monkeys came for the offerings, with which they appeared familiar; one selected a shard and then daintily carried it intact to the trash, where it threw it into the can as a game. Fred bit into a cracker and found it tasty—salty and sweet, like kettle corn. The monkeys must live a pampered life, he decided.
Despite his efforts to relax, he remained in a state of high agitation. Opus was undeniably an opportunity, quite possibly his Big One—the sort Harvard was supposed to have supplied in excess but instead had shown him only brief glimpses of, denying actual consummation at every turn. All that he’d plotted and dreamed, however, had involved an exit from Lion. Now it appeared the two were interlinked, at least for the short term. He was bereft at the thought of once again being reduced to a mere cog, condemned to forever churn up an endless stream of profit to the Lelands of the world.
“Fucking Leland,” Fred muttered. “Monkeys!” he called. “Monkeys!” His voice was joltingly loud, an aftereffect of the Balinese Sky. He shoved a handful of crackers in his mouth.
A young American mother flanked by children peered at him, the woman glancing at the tote he carried, which bore the logo of the Biasa. He called again to the animals in a pied piper singsong, shaking the bag of crackers furiously while being studiously ignored. “Fucking monkeys,” he grumbled again, and wobbled. The mother threw him another look.
In anticipation of the day’s heat, Fred had chugged two bottles of chilled water in the van, and his bladder now roused and called with urgency. He wandered the entrance until he located a sign that looked to indicate a bathroom, only to find himself off the paved path, surrounded by trees and flora. Desperate, he unzipped his pants. As he began to relieve himself, a monkey appeared to his right, baring its teeth.
“Get away,” Fred hissed. He suddenly felt afraid; the monkey had an intelligent look to it, and its gaze was focused at the center of his crotch. Could some species of animals possess an instinct for when humans were at their most exposed, soft and vulnerable? He thought of Ebola and the many unknown diseases that seemed to germinate from jungles or caves, and how he had felt a light scratch on his hand earlier when the bananas were swiped. He locked eyes with the intruder, willing it not to come closer. “Angry!” he called. “Very angry! Do not approach!”
There was the sound of crackling leaves from behind, and for a moment he feared he was surrounded. He quickly zipped and in turning was confronted by a young boy, one of the three children from the family he had seen earlier.
“What are you doing with that monkey?”
Oh Jesus. “How long have you been here?” The last thing he needed was a citation for indecent exposure, especially on foreign soil. Didn’t the Indonesians still chop off hands?
“What are you doing?” The boy stepped toward him.
“Stop!” Whatever tableau the current situation presented, Fred was sure it would be considerably worsened by any narrowing of the proximity between him and the minor. “Don’t come any closer. There’s something, ah . . . very dangerous here.”
“Danger? You mean bad? What kind? Wow!” The child’s eyes gleamed.
“Dangerous as in not good. Bad for little boys. Super boring. Not interesting at all.”
“Then why are you there?”
It was a decent question. “I’m here because . . . because I’m very, very stressed.”
The boy looked at him with doubt. Fred shut his eyes. There was a loamy, salty smell rising in the atmosphere, which he inexplicably believed had just come from the monkey’s own piss. “Oh, forget it. I have problems, okay?” He breathed in and out. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Seven,” the boy answered. A silence followed, and Fred opened his eyes, hoping to find him gone. Instead, he had inched closer. “Do you know any games?” he asked.
Fred groaned. He had a renewed appreciation for his own niece and nephew, who, thanks to Linda, at least had a healthy fear of authority figures.
“I have a game,” Fred said finally. “It’s called Mr. Hypothetical.”
The boy frowned. “I don’t know that one.”
“Just listen. This is a verbal game, which means all words. There are two players in our scenario, I mean game. Player A and Player B. Got it?”
“Those aren’t real names.”
“Jesus. Fine. Player A is called . . . Lucifer, Mr. Lucifer, and Player B is called . . . Mr. Cool. And those are their full names,” he added hurriedly. “They live on a different planet where everyone is called Mister.
“Now Mr. Lucifer, he’s a very powerful and rich man. Because he’s been given all these advantages, you see, and he happened to be born during a time when the world they lived in was expanding, and any idiot who understood certain technology trends could become extremely rich. You follow?”
The boy looked fascinated. “Like Lord of the Rings.”
“Sure, whatever. Then, there’s Mr. Cool. While Mr. Lucifer is super lazy and wastes his time shopping for ugly art all day, Mr. Cool’s off working very hard. In fact, he’s been working hard his whole life. Not to mention, Mr. Cool is smarter and handsomer than Mr. Lucifer. Younger too. Compared to him, Mr. Lucifer is way old.”
“Why don’t you like old people? My pee-paw is old.”
“What did I say about listening? Old people are great, but in this world, they have an unfair advantage. Because by the time great dudes like Mr. Cool were born, people like Mr. Lucifer had already snatched up all the planet’s treasures. So Mr. Cool doesn’t have as much as Mr. Lucifer, but he would, if the world they lived in was fair. He’d have more.”
“What’s the game?” The boy shifted his feet impatiently. “What do they do?”
“You don’t want to hear more about Mr. Cool?” Fred was hurt he wasn’t more interested.
“No.”
“Ugh, fine. Okay, the game is this. There’s a certain princess in this world, a beautiful lady named . . . Princess Platinum. And only one man can save this princess. Princess Platinum, she wants Mr. Cool to save her. Why wouldn’t she? He’s stronger and younger and way better-looking. But the problem is, if Mr. Cool does save Princess Platinum, then he has to give her up to Mr. Lucifer. Even though Mr. Lucifer is so old and stupid that he wouldn’t know what to do with her. In fact, he’d probably ruin Princess Platinum and all her special powers!”
“I don’t like princesses.”
“Me neither,” Fred said, thinking of Charlene. “But this one is really excellent.”
“Why does Mr. Cool have to give up Princess Platinum?”
“Because those are the rules of the world they live in. But rules can be very unfair.”
“Does Mr. Cool have any special powers?”
“Well, he has a big brain and an earnest heart and was valedictorian of his high school class. So, that’s the game. What should Mr. Cool do?”
“The game is answering a question?”
Fred spread his arms. “My house. My game.”
The boy was quiet for a few seconds. “Mr. Cool should probably give Princess Platinum to Mr. Lucifer, then,” he said. “Since it’s the rules and all.”
“What? But didn’t we just cover that Mr. Lucifer is old and stupid? Why would you just give Princess Platinum up like that? You wouldn’t fight at all to keep her? Mr. Lucifer doesn’t deserve her!”
The boy considered this. “But we don’t know Mr. Lucifer doesn’t deserve the princess,” he said. “It’s just what you think. And if he really is so rich, then he probably did something to earn it. He can’t be that dumb. My dad always says that society unfairly judges those who make a lot of money, because they don’t understand the nature of risk.”
“Do you even know what that means?”
The boy shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets.
What kind of father said such things to a seven-year-old? Though the longer Fred considered it, the more it sounded like precisely the ramblings of some smug billionaire dick—a high-value attendee of the Founders’ Retreat, for example. He bent down, so that he and the boy were eye level. “What’s your dad’s name?”
The boy shook his head. “He says I’m not allowed to say to strangers. Because of too much networking.”
Ding ding ding. “Well, what’s your name? Your full name.”
“I can’t say either. Unless you have the special password, to pick me up from school.”
Fred cursed to himself. “Aren’t we friends?” he asked. “Didn’t I make up a great game, because you asked me to?”
The boy hesitated. “The game was weird.”
“Listen, I don’t know how some people choose to raise their spawn, but—”
The young mother appeared on the slope. “Lucas!” she shouted. “Lucas! Is that you?”
“That’s my nanny,” Lucas said. “Bye.”
The boy navigated through the trees with slow caution, not bothering to look back. Fred watched him go until he disappeared from sight. He remained crouched for some time before his silence was broken by a hiss. He stood and turned and saw that the monkey was still there, waiting.
Back in the car, Bawa took in Fred’s somber mood and announced an amendment to the normal route. Instead of the usual medicine man, he said, he would bring Fred somewhere very special. A famous water temple, to experience the region’s springwater.
When they arrived, Bawa instructed him to leave his valuables in the lockbox in the car and handed him a printed sarong. They walked together to the pools, where a dozen fountains poured at a steady, leisured pace. Fred was surprised to see people in the clear water, groups in brightly colored tees and swimsuits, wading about. “People can go in?” he asked. “Isn’t that dirty?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Why are there so many fountains?”
“Each of them is for a different blessing. You see, look.” Bawa brought out a laminated plastic card. “Guide for success. This fountain is for career, this for healing from body injury. This one is for love, this for money, this for academic excellence. You must touch the water, to be blessed.”
“Which one is career again?” Fred squinted to match the card’s icon to the fountain.
“Here, take with you. Waterproof, so don’t lose.” Bawa shoved him into the shallow water.
Fred waded forward until he located the fountain he wanted. The liquid, when he dropped under, was cool. To ensure a breadth of celestial coverage, he passed under each of the twelve and carefully wet his face and hair. He wanted to avoid accidentally drinking the water—it had to be recycled, and filthy—but when a group of teenagers knocked him forward, a few drops fell into his mouth.
He was surprised by the taste. Its purity.
* * *
From: Kate@XCorp.com
To: Fred@Lion-Capital.com
Subject: Where are you?
Fred,
I’ve tried to reach you multiple times this week, but you haven’t replied to, or answered, any of my messages or calls.
If you had, I would have told you that Dad is in Hong Kong right now. Yes, our father—who has pancreatic cancer and can barely walk—sat on a plane for fourteen hours and is now in Asia, away from all his doctors and against all sound medical advice. He thinks that he found a way to cure himself and so decided it was no problem for him to travel.
Don’t you have a layover on the way back from Bali? Could you meet with him and Mary and let me know what’s going on?
From: Fred@Lion-Capital.com
To: Kate@XCorp.com
Subject: Re: Where are you?
Hong Kong? Is he out of his mind?
My schedule is already crazy busy, I’m not sure I can find the time. Let’s definitely catch up though when I’m back!
From: Kate@XCorp.com
To: Fred@Lion-Capital.com
Subject: Re: Re: Where are you?
Fred,
Make the time. Are we seriously having this discussion? Dad’s condition is a lot worse than when you last saw him. The last time I visited him, he was out of breath just talking to me. When we had lunch, he almost collapsed in the parking lot. I know you’re used to me and Mom taking care of everything, but you’re the one in Asia right now. It’ll take an hour, tops.
From: Fred@Lion-Capital.com
To: Kate@XCorp.com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Where are you?
Right, you take care of everything. Except for when it comes to the trust, right? Then it’s me who has to do all the work, since you don’t seem to give a shit if everything Mom worked so hard for all goes to some random woman. You’re above it all; you don’t care about money. Though I’m sure you’ll still collect your share at the end.
If you’re so worried about Dad, why don’t you fly here yourself?
From: Kate@XCorp.com
To: Fred@Lion-Capital.com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Where are you?
Fred,
When I first read your email, I wrote a response and decided to sleep on it. Then I wrote another one and called you, but of course you didn’t pick up. This is my third attempt, and I’m going to finish it and then press Send no matter what.
First, I’m sorry for insinuating that you’re not doing your share with Dad. I was wrong. Please accept that this is a high-stress situation. All I ask is that if you do have the time, meet with him for an hour, or even a few minutes. Anything would help, just so we could check in. Dad has already skipped one chemotherapy appointment, and another one was supposed to be scheduled for tomorrow.
On the will—of course I’ve considered it. It’s the sort of thing nobody wants to admit they think about, but everyone does. Mom thinks that he might have made the trip to Hong Kong to close out his accounts there. Please let me know how I can help.
As for my finances, not that it’s any of your business, but at the moment I care very much about money. Knowing the amount of our potential inheritance would be a massive relief, as there’s currently a decent chance that I might be on the hook for spousal support, for a man who I very recently learned may not take his employment too seriously.
From: Kate@XCorp.com
To: Fred@Lion-Capital.com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Where are you?
Fred,
Why aren’t you responding? Can you please tell me if you met with Dad?
Also, I drank too much Pinot before I wrote that last email. Please don’t mention anything I said about spousal support to Mom. Please?
* * *
“I just pooped,” Stanley said. “Did I already tell you that?”
They were seated across from each other in the open food court of the Elements mall in Hong Kong, from which Fred could take a train directly to the airport afterward. A steady stream of foot traffic surrounded them; Mary was off somewhere, meeting a friend she said had connections for acquiring rare and coveted Chinese herbs. His father looked so old—ancient, really—although Fred couldn’t remember if he’d always appeared this way, just a little younger, or whether it was the disease that had brought it all to the surface. His face was gaunt, and the skin seemed to hang from his face and hands, as the formerly taut flesh receded.
“Are you pooping?” Stanley asked.
“Jesus. Yes, Dad, I’m pooping.”
“How often?”
Fred rummaged his memory and discerned the last time had been back in Bali, the morning after the alcohol-fueled debauchery of the closing night of the Founders’ Retreat. The event had been held at KoKo’s, the trendy fusion bar–cum–restaurant starting to meander past its prime. The food had been gross, the lighting garish, and Don Wilkes had given a super boring speech, but that was the end of what Fred was able to recall coherently or chronologically. The rest was a series of blurred scenes: shots with Jack and Reagan, as they cheered the future of Opus; his promises to extract Lion’s full cooperation, as he shouted, “Fuck Leland!” over and over. Jack disappearing sometime during the night; Reagan shoving a model slash actress slash Instagram influencer against him on the dance floor. The streaks of self-tanner on his new linen shirt, which he hadn’t discovered until the next morning.
“Often enough.”
“It’s very important that you go regularly. I think Kate goes at least once a day, which was my own pattern until very recently.”
“I highly doubt that. Kate eats like crap.”
“She has access to all that healthy organic food at her company. So many fruits and vegetables. All free! Whole Foods–quality too.”
Fred experienced the familiar twitch of jealousy that surfaced whenever his parents brought up Kate’s job. He made more money than her (and would have for a long time had it not been for X Corp’s ridiculous run-up in the equity markets) and possessed a far more glorious title (not to mention whatever lofty honorific he was going to employ on his Opus business cards), yet his parents never let up that X Corp had free food and dry cleaning. It annoyed him to no end that their approval came so cheap, just a few bags of chocolate-covered almonds and some dried apricots. Though from her last email, it appeared as if Kate was going through some major issues. He felt a brief thrill at the possibility of being the superior sibling; then he considered to whom Kate might actually turn should she have a financial emergency and be in need of funds.
“We didn’t meet to talk about poop, Dad. How is your health? Weren’t you supposed to start chemo again? How could you possibly think it was okay to travel so far?”
“Oh, my health is very good. I’m feeling much better. Mary was right; I needed to stop obeying the doctors’ plans without thinking. It’s my responsibility to push back, ask questions! Chinese medicine has been around for thousands of years. And I am Chinese! You think American doctors know how to best treat a Chinese person?”
“But you’re still doing what the doctors are telling you to, yes?”
“The doctors don’t tell me to do anything,” Stanley said haughtily. “They work for me. They give me choices.”
“You’re still doing chemotherapy. Confirm. This.”
Stanley leaned forward, as if about to impart a juicy secret. “Chemotherapy is deadly. It is feeding your body poison to kill another poison. Do you know many people actually die from the chemotherapy, and not the cancer? That’s what happened to Michael Chan’s wife.”
Fred attempted a different angle. “Did you talk to Uncle Phillip?”
“Oh yes, Uncle Phillip, he is so nice. He says he is a patient advocate.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Fred felt as if his skull were splitting in two. “Did he tell you that if you stop chemotherapy, you could die? You will die! That is the likely conclusion!”
“Mary has many friends with unique medical talents,” Stanley intoned. “She is going to save me. She says it is her life’s goal.”
Why did Stanley have to be in Hong Kong at this precise moment? Why was this his responsibility? Normally this would be the point in the conversation when they would change the topic and never address it again; there were certain benefits to historically being the least qualified person in the family at managing Stanley. But there was no time now for any other option. “So this is all Mary’s idea. You know she’s not a doctor. She’s a restaurant hostess with a shady background who appeared in our lives a mere nine years ago.”
“Mary is a wonderful person. She says I am like a god to her.” Stanley’s voice softened. “Can you imagine? A woman like that, who says her only goal is to make me happy. What could a selfish man like me have done in a past life to deserve her?” Fred watched in horror as a single tear rolled down his father’s cheek.
“Jesus. It’s all Mary, isn’t it? She’s gone and convinced you to pursue this utterly ridiculous, completely irresponsible course of action! If you’re so sure whatever she’s promising is going to work, why are you in Hong Kong to begin with? Why aren’t you at home, resting?” When Stanley glared at him in hostile silence, Fred pushed on. “Kate told me Mom thinks you made this trip to close out your accounts in Asia. Is that true? Why the rush to consolidate your money, if everything’s going to be fine? Has it ever occurred to you that Mary might have another motive in giving you less-than-ideal medical advice? What do you even know about her, really? Who knows what she was actually doing back in China? Hasn’t she been trying to move her mom over here? What’s the one thing standing in her way? How can you be so blind, not to understand the position you’re in?”
Fred hadn’t experienced Stanley’s fury in decades, but as soon as it reappeared, he knew he had been courting it all along. The air between them became thick with rancor, and he took a deep breath as if to absorb it all, willing himself to look forward. His father looked at him with what appeared to be pure hatred. “Shut your mouth,” he said. “Watch what you say. Shut your fucking mouth.”
* * *
Some memories were so hidden and rarely called upon that surfacing them was almost pleasurable. A bird, Fred’s first pet, which had been his parents’ shitty compromise for a dog in middle school. One day he returned home from school and discovered in the center of the living room an enormous white wire cage with a blue parakeet inside.
To preempt any disappointment, Linda had made a rare display of outward excitement. She brought Fred over to the cage, where she pointed at the water bottle, seed stick, and rope already installed inside. There was also a thick custom flannel cover, which she’d sewn herself, and Linda explained that when it was placed over the cage, the bird would assume night had arrived and go to sleep. The cover had featured a garish duck print, the material a by-product of the upcycling his mother was constantly engaged in around the house, repurposing torn wrapping paper into envelopes and hems of jeans into useful hanging straps for utensils.
For the first few weeks the bird had been exciting. It was fun to lift the cover and see the blue feathers ruffle and expand and shake; entertaining to arrange inside its cage various sticks and dowels and watch it travel back and forth. Perhaps to compensate for its silence at night, it was particularly vocal during the day—it circled Fred as he did homework and perched on Kate’s shoulder during her daily piano practice, chattering an individual beat to the melody.
They’d been living in Cupertino by then, in the house Linda hated. It was the only one Stanley had agreed to buy in the area, for the simple reason that it’d been priced cheaply due to its relative location—at mealtimes when they looked out the kitchen window, they could watch cars zooming by on the freeway. As children, Fred and Kate hadn’t been bothered by the noise, but it drove Linda crazy. She was convinced the constant din of traffic was driving her blood pressure to uncharted heights, and she continually pursued home improvement projects in an attempt to keep the clamor at bay. Her latest—a series of empty hallways across the entire south side of the house—was meant to trap sound.
Since the construction was ongoing, the contents of the living room had been placed in storage and the parakeet’s quarters moved to the den, where Stanley watched TV. The bird enjoyed the space, which it’d been previously barred from. Occasionally it would perch on Fred or Kate or, once in a while, Linda; only as a last resort would it go to Stanley, and usually as a rest stop—a hop on his thigh on a journey to the remote or a bowl of grapes.
There came a rainy weekend when they were all trapped indoors. Only Linda was out, on a grocery run, and Fred impatiently waited for her to return so he could go to a sleepover (Linda always preferred chauffeuring him and Kate to and from activities; it negated the chance of their friends’ parents seeing the Cupertino house, which was her greatest shame). To kill time he slouched next to Kate at the desk in the den and leafed through her Sweet Valley Highs (like many boys, Fred pretended to find the books dumb but was secretly excited by the idea of pretty blond twins, who unfortunately existed in an alternate universe without Asians). The parakeet had been set off by the jingle of a cereal commercial and was cheeping loudly. Fred idly wondered if something was wrong with the bird’s mental health. Was it going crazy? They called it bird brain for a reason, right? Over on the couch, he could hear his father as he rustled to get comfortable, rearranging pillows under his back.
“Shut up,” Stanley said. “Why can’t that bird be quiet!”
“Maybe it just wants love and attention,” Kate offered. The sort of dumb treatment his sister was always prescribing. “Here, Tweety! Fly here and I’ll give you a kiss!”
Stanley ignored the comment, as did the parakeet, though its chatter ceased. At the next commercial break, when it again started up, Stanley pointed a finger, and after a brief hesitation, the parakeet hopped on. Fred had read somewhere that for a bird to land on your palm you had to make the gesture inviting, slow, and gentle, but Stanley was none of these things. Maybe this one really was dumb.
Once perched, the bird continued to caw. Stanley pet it between its eyes and over its head, the way it usually liked. Unsated, it continued its noise.
“Quiet, please,” Stanley said. “Quiet!” He began to lightly stroke the bird’s throat, as he tapped its gray beak with his nail. “Quiet! Shut up! Quiet!” His mad voice had emerged. Stanley had been angry a lot lately, something to do with his investments and what he kept referring to as a “market correction” to a chilly faced Linda. Fred barely even noticed his furies anymore, unless directed at him; they had become part of the background din of normal life, the pitch of one of Kate’s hysterical crying jags occasionally breaking through.
Eventually it wasn’t any particular noise but rather the complete absence of it, that alerted them. The queer silence of their surroundings struck both Fred and Kate at the same moment. There was no interruption of an animal chime or the movement of ruffled feathers; the TV had been muted, which almost never happened. It wasn’t clear how long the hush had been there, though by the time it was realized, it was immediately apparent it had existed for too long.
Fred saw it first, since he instinctively knew where to look.
His father’s hand, where the parakeet lay in his outstretched palm, strangled.
In Hong Kong now, Stanley slumped in his chair, no longer able to sustain an extended rage. His finger was still pointed, but in his shriveled state it looked almost pathetic, a parody of the appendage. As Fred watched, it wavered, as if searching for an effective weapon, and clenched into a fist.
Without thinking, Fred pushed back his chair, involuntarily bracing himself. Stanley stared at him and then down at his own hand. When he finally opened it, slowly stretching out his palm, splaying wide his fingers, both he and Fred looked startled to find nothing but air.