Chapter 47
47
Thursday 6 October
Landed in Omaha smoothly.
I was picked up at the airport by Charleston Wesley Jr.’s chauffeur, who drove . . . a Tesla Model S with the sticker “Say No to Fossil Fuels” emblazoned on it. So far, so good. As the housekeeper led me through the house to the living room, I noticed how homey and lived-in the house was: the leather couches were the kind you would be able to nap on; there was a large stone fireplace, over which were mounted several hunting trophies (mostly deer, one antelope, a buffalo); multicolored hand-knitted blankets and bean bags completed the décor along with several portraits of some dead (possibly related) people, a large Turner seascape, and a small mural of a soldier holding—oh dear—the head of a scalped Native American.
Ah. I knew there had to be a catch somewhere.
And there was the man himself. Slight, slope-shouldered, and white-haired, he was an Elmer Fuddish figure dressed in a thin white polo shirt and beige Dockers, sallow in complexion and altogether unimpressive in visage and bearing. He could have been cast as a hobbit. How was this man one of the Top 100 Richest Men in America?
Then he shook my hand with a perfectly calibrated handshake and I saw how shrewd his light blue eyes were. I stood up a little straighter.
He had noticed my gaze on the mural and apologized for it. “It
belonged to my father, and even if the subject matter is rather abhorrent, I leave it there to remind myself that even the best of men have areas in their lives where they can make better choices. That’s my motto in life and business, anyway. We’re not bound by our past, you know.”
I warmed to Charleston immediately. “I understand.”
“I really appreciate you taking time out to fly here to allay my doubts about the closing. I have a lot of faith in your firm, because of what Usman told me. And I do prefer to do business in person.”
“Of course,” I said. He’d flown me business and put me in a suite in the local Hilton, so I was mollified.
“By the way”—he made a face—“your colleague Langford-Bauer is already here, along with Usman.”
I fought the urge to groan audibly by doing a Kegel. “We won’t take much of your time,” I assured him.
“Oh, you can, my dear, but your colleague is a little bit of a—how shall I put it—a bit of a—”
Turd hillock?
I said in my head. Out loud, “Challenge?”
“Yes,” Charleston said.
“That’s why he’s the best, in London,” I said, loyally. Firm first, personal animus second.
—
Over a sumptuous high tea spread of scones and other pastries, and delicious tea from a super isolated mountain plantation in China, we spent a pleasant, but intense, afternoon briefing Charleston and Usman on the situation. Langford-Bauer did his best to annoy me by constantly insinuating, in his subtle British way, that I was not as competent as him, but I kept it professional and classy, like Gong Li. Charleston seemed appeased by the explanation, considered the risks minimal, and agreed to go ahead with the closing. So long as VizWare said yes, it would be a win for me and the firm.
When we were done, he showed us around his ranch, where he kept a flock of champion fighting cocks (try saying that really fast) that he had bred out of some Mexican, Javanese, and Filipino stock. It was all quite fun, if only because Linda had an uncle who was a somewhat renowned breeder of gamecock in the Philippines, and I had visited a clandestine cockfight in a tobacco field in Cuba and had been shown how they were “outfitted” before the fight. The bloodlust, I told Charleston, reminded me of people queueing for Kanye’s kicks.
“What?” Charleston said, coming to a stop and staring at me. “There are people who line up—to be kicked by something called Con Yay?”
I was struggling not to burst into laughter or pee. This was the point when Langford-Bauer said, in his supercilious voice, “She means ‘shoes.’ Kanye West has a range of sneakers, and they are very fashionable, these”—a wrinkle of his aristocratic nose—“
kicks
.”
I wished, wished, wished that Suresh was with me right then.
I did find the time to complain about Langford-Bauer to Linda later that night over WhatsApp chat, once we’d gone back to our hotel after a full day of sightseeing in Omaha with Charleston Wesley.
“Tristan?” she said, surprised. “Tristan Langford-Bauer is your Singapore desk rep?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Oh,” she said, giggling. “I know Tristan. He’s a friend of a friend from London.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” Her voice was conspiratorial. “The next time he pisses you off, just say: ‘Chicken of the Sea.’ He’ll know what it means.”
“Tell me!” I said, practically foaming at the mouth. “Is he allergic to fish? Is that how I bring him down?”
“No, dummy, how amateur, and quite worrisome that you went straight to the option of murdering your nemesis, you psychopath.
Besides, ever heard of EpiPens? Chicken of the
C
, the letter
C
,
C
for . . . oh well. I’ve said too much,” she said cheerfully, meaning she’d said exactly how much she wanted me to know.
I was dying of curiosity. “
C
for what?”
“Bye.” The line went dead.
I typed some notes in My Cloud. Chicken of the
C
.
C
for “cocaine”? Or some kind of animal, even if that combination made less sense? Was Langford-Bauer involved in his own #PigGate? Hmmm.
The line rang again. I picked it up without screening for caller ID. “Linda, tell me—”
“Andy. Andy.”
I tensed—only one person ever called me that, and it was my sister. “Melissa? What’s up?”
Her voice was eerily calm. “I’m so, so sorry to tell you this over the phone, but . . . but Ma had a heart attack.”
I gasped. “What? When?” I managed to ask.
“A few hours ago. You should come back as soon as you can.”