Sudden tears spill from Gwendy’s eyes, and she silently scolds herself for showing weakness. She lifts a trembling hand to her neck and rubs the already sore muscles. It feels like something inside of her is broken.
“If you were to kill me and the rest of the crew, you’d be stranded here. You’d die here, Winston.”
The ugly grin resurfaces on Winston’s overfed face. “Let’s just say I could hitch a ride back with my Chinese friends.”
“They would never allow …” She stops as the reality of his words hit home. “They … you … you son of a bitch, you bribed them.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily call it a bribe.” He chuckles into his fist. “Bribes are for pikers, dear. This was an investment in their future.”
“Why are you doing this? Is it money?” Keep him talking, keep him talking.
“Don’t be foolish. I have more money than I could spend in a thousand lifetimes.”
“Then why?” Almost pleading now. “Why do you want it so badly?”
“That’s quite a story.” He glances over at the closet where the LockMaster 3000 is busy doing its thing. “But since we have time, why not?” He props his feet up on the coffee table and crosses his arms behind his head, like he’s back home in his MetLife Stadium skybox watching the Giants and the Eagles square off on a Sunday afternoon. “In October of 2024 I was in St. Louis for my father’s funeral …”
40
THE NAME OF THE funeral home is Broadview & Sons, and once he signs off on the bill, Gareth Winston beats feet out of there. Winston hates funeral homes. Almost as much as he hated his father.
It was the oldest story in the book—nothing the devoted son accomplished was ever enough to please the overly critical father with the razor-sharp tongue, so at some point, the son simply stopped trying.
Lawrence Winston III, also known as dear old Dad, made his piddling fortune selling commercial real estate and collecting rent checks on almost five hundred two- and three-bedroom apartments in a string of downtown high-rises. In the late ‘80s, a reporter from The St. Louis Post-Dispatch referred to the senior Winston as “a parttime slumlord and full-time scumbag.” When Gareth banked his first billion at age 33, the first thing he did was Fed-Ex his father a photocopy of that newspaper article and a handwritten note on company stationary:
I still can’t hit a curveball or a two iron. I still don’t have an Ivy League diploma. I’m overweight. And I’m still not married to a beautiful Catholic virgin from across the river. But I’m filthy-ass rich and you’re not. Have a miserable fucking life.
Gareth
And then he never spoke to the man again.
Not even when his father called to make amends from his deathbed.
The hard truth of the matter is if it weren’t for his mother—whom Winston still adores and makes a point of calling every Sunday night, no matter where he is in the world; a tradition that first began after Winston left home for college—he wouldn’t have even come home for the funeral, much less footed the bill. But she begged him over the telephone, and if there is one person in this world Winston can’t refuse, it’s his mother. Corny but true.
After the obligatory reception, there’s a car waiting to take Winston back to his hotel suite, but he decides to walk instead. He needs the fresh air, plus he’d skipped breakfast this morning and is starving. Walking at a rapid pace, he cuts across McKinley Avenue, picks up South Euclid, and then takes a left onto Parkview. From there, he stops to buy three hot dogs and a bottle of Diet Pepsi from a street vendor and settles his considerable bulk on an empty bench overlooking the northeastern corner of Forest Park. From where he’s sitting he can spot the pale oval of the skating rink—still six weeks out from opening weekend—as well as the seventh fairway of the Highlands Golf Course, which he wouldn’t be caught dead playing. It’s strictly for small-timers.
He’s wiping a dribble of mustard off his shirt when a fluorescent green Chrysler swings up to the curb beside him. It looks to be roughly two miles long. Winston gives the car a once-over, but is unable to determine what year it rolled off the assembly line. All he knows is that it looks very old and in cherry condition, and he’s never seen another car like it. I wonder if it’s for sale, he thinks idly.
The driver’s side window glides down. A man with short blond hair and striking emerald eyes, the bottom half of his face hidden behind a red bandana, leans his head out of the car and says, “Hop in. Let’s go for a ride.”
Winston grins. He’s always liked a cheeky bastard, having been one himself all his life. “Nice ride, mister, but that’s not gonna happen.” He starts to ask the stranger why he’s wearing a mask—few people wear masks anymore, not since the arrival of the vaccines a couple years ago—but he never gets that far.
“I don’t have much time, Mr. Winston. Get in.”
Winston’s eyes narrow. “How do you know my name?” The answer to that is obvious; he’s seen it in the papers or on one of the business channels, where Gareth Winston is a fixture. “Who are you?”
“A friend. And I know lots of things about you, Mr. Winston.”
Because of the red bandana, Winston is unable to see the stranger’s mouth, but he’s nonetheless certain that the man is smiling. “I don’t know who the hell you think you’re talking to, but—”
“When you were twelve, you broke into your neighbor’s house while they were away on vacation. Frank and Betsy Rhineman. Nice people. It’s a shame their son died so young.”
“How do you know the—”
“You stripped out of the swim trunks you were wearing and slipped on a pair of Mrs. Rhineman’s panties—pale yellow with a black lace border, not too frilly—ate an ice cream sandwich you found in their freezer, and shot some billiards in the game room. Then, before you changed back into your trunks and scooted home for dinner, you returned upstairs and masturbated on the bedspread in the Rhineman’s guest bedroom.”
“You’re lying!” Winston bellows, startling a young mother walking by pushing a baby stroller. She quickly crosses the street to put some distance between them. “Stop it right now!” The billionaire’s face has gone beet-red and his eyes are bulging.
“You still have the yellow panties to this day. They’re tucked away in a safety deposit box at your bank in Newark. Along with a few other equally distasteful treasures.”
“Fake fucking news! None of what you’re saying is true!”
“Would you like to hear some more?”
Winston is quiet for a moment, his broad chest rising and falling in great heaves. Then he asks in a quiet voice, “What do you want?”
“To make you an offer. The most generous offer you’ve ever been presented with. Get in the car, Mr. Winston. Let’s chat.”
“Sounds too good to be true, and what sounds that way never is.” But he’s already getting up from the park bench, leaving behind his lunch trash and walking toward the car.