A gleaming black stretch limo that awaited us at the Palm Beach airport sped us through town, down a highway, and across a bridge to Jupiter Island, which, from the size and grandeur of the homes, would more aptly have been named Olympus Island, as this appeared to be where the Gods of Commerce came to recuperate from the sweat and toil of shoveling the big buckos into their vaults.
We pulled into a gated driveway and drove a hundred yards to a massive, sparkling pink monstrosity perched some twenty yards from the ocean. Half of El Salvador were trimming shrubs and hedges, and tending flower beds, and one had the sense of entering another world, of a southern plantation with Massa inside slamming down mint juleps while the “boys” kept the old ranchero looking all rich and sparkly.
Sometimes I think I am a Republican, and other times I think I’m a Democrat. At that moment, I was battling fits of Marxist passions. I actually had this weird impulse to leap out of the limo and scream, “Juan, Paco, Jose, grab those machetes and shears… Viva la Revolucion!”
But before I could act on that urge, a very large man opened the front door and walked out to greet us. His pitch-dark suit marked him as hired help, and the mysterious bulge under his left armpit as a particular kind of hired help. Wasn’t this odd?
The guy grinned at Cy, and it was obvious he knew him, because he said, “Mornin’, Senator. Good to see ya again.” His eyes roved over the rest of us, and I guess we looked harmless enough, because he then said, “Mr. Morris is out back. You’re three minutes late, so please hurry along.” He was really courteous.
So we stepped it up a little, as we were led through the entry, and the living room, and through a pair of very tall French doors, a journey that lasted nearly two hours as the frigging living room was slightly larger than Europe. I counted twenty different couches clustered in various clumps. Mr. Morris either liked to throw really big parties, or had this really weird thing for couches.
I ordinarily try to avoid judging a book by the cover, but jam it up my ass and twist it around a few times and I succumb to the temptation. I mean, private jets and stretch limos and beachside mansions do tend to rub salt in the wound of lower-middle-class poverty. And just as I was telling myself, Grow up Drummond, don’t be so petty, I spotted the frigging Queen Mary parked along the dock out back-about 150 feet long, three sparkling decks of pure, shimmering, up-your-ass wealth.
Having seen the richboy’s face plastered on any number of magazine covers, I recognized the figure seated in a lounge chair by the pool, staring off at the ocean, chatting on a cell phone, sipping coffee, finger tracing down a spreadsheet on his lap-multi-tasking gone berserk.
He punched off the phone and approached. The papers listed Jason Morris’s age at thirty-nine years, and he looked every bit of eighteen: muscular, bronzed, sandy-haired, with pale blue eyes and a glistening smile, not to mention a checkbook that would have the ladies leaping out of their undies in about ten seconds. He did not look at all like a business mogul, more like a Ralph Lauren model, down to the square jaw and bony face, Bermuda shorts, faded polo shirt, and beach sandals. We looked like idiots in our business suits.
He threw out his very famous hand and said, “Cy, thanks for coming on such notice. I hope this isn’t an inconvenience?”
Cy’s equally famous hand shot out. “Inconvenience? Jason, I love that damned jet of yours. And that Jenny… she rent by the hour?”
It struck me that Mr. Berger and Mr. Morris shared a passion for the ladies, and I briefly wondered if the question was serious. But Jason chuckled. “You are an unreformed devil, Cy. Jenny makes her own arrangements. As for that jet, ostentatious as it might be, my board of directors insists it’s needed to make the right impression. Am I going to argue?” Now everybody was laughing, though in my view the joke wasn’t really funny. It struck me that when you’re really rich, you can never be sure whether you’re truly charming, sexy, or funny. I’ll bet the rich lose a lot of sleep over that. Right. Then Mr. Morris turned to Mr. Bosworth and asked, “How you doing, Barry?”
“Just fine, Jason.”
“Fine my ass.” Jason regarded Cy and said, “Look at those bags under his eyes. Jesus, Cy, give the poor guy that partnership before you kill him.”
“It’s under advisement,” Cy assured him. “Barry’s in very good standing.”
“He damn well better be. Seriously, Cy… Barry’s made me a lot of money. I expect you guys to recognize and reward it.”
Well, Mr. Bosworth beamed like a poodle that just got its ass sniffed by a well-hung Great Dane; Cy awarded a supple nod to the firm’s rainmaker; and Ms. Westin stared at her shoes, no doubt contemplating the possibility that an end run to an instant partnership was standing a mere two feet away.
I stared at that big damn boat and wondered how hard it would be to sink.
But Morris interrupted my destructive musings, saying, “And I’m afraid I haven’t met you two yet.”
“I’m Sally Westin,” chirped my associate. She added, “The firm just switched me to this case. I’m very, very pleased about it. I really admire you and all you’ve accomplished.”
She hadn’t actually dropped to her knees or anything, but geez.
Cy said, “And this is Sean Drummond, on loan from the Army. He joined us only two days ago.”
“The Army?… Oh, like Lisa Morrow?”
“Same program.” Cy paused, and then said, “Incidentally, poor Lisa is, well, this is bad news, Jason… Lisa was murdered.”
Morris stepped back. “Murdered?”
“A robbery gone bad. Right, Sean?”
“That’s what the police think,” I replied.
Morris was shaking his head. He said to me, “What a terrifically sad world we live in. Is there anything I can do?”
“Sure. Can you dig holes?”
He stared at me. I slapped him on the arm and chuckled. Then he chuckled. Then he stopped chuckling, realizing, belatedly, that he’d just failed the authentic sympathy test.
He said, quite quickly, “Look… I didn’t know Lisa well, but she seemed… well, like a lovely person. And very smart and competent.”
“She was all that, and then some.”
So, I’d been caught being rude. Introductory chitchats are only fun when everybody plays by the rules, and I had broken the taboo, so we all trooped over and sat in lounge chairs. We lawyers skillfully flopped our briefcases on our laps and arranged ourselves in a circle, like bloodsucking leeches surrounding our meal. A truly stunning Hispanic maid appeared out of nowhere, took our drink orders, and silently sashayed into a cabana expansive enough for a family of ten.
Morris allowed us enough time to get composed, and then said, “Concerning the case, any opening thoughts?”
Never one to lose the moment, Barry said, “I don’t anticipate problems. The protests are based on an implied accusation of insider influence and the considerable gap between your bids.”
“I agree,” said Sally, slapping a point of her own on the board. “I really see no great problems.”
Jason nodded at this display of blunt confidence. “And how do you intend to handle it?”
“Concerning the first charge,” Barry replied, “we’ll discuss that with your legal department and come up with a strategy. On the second, for starters, we recommend that you reaffirm that the bid price is genuine.”
“It is genuine,” Morris responded.
Cy asked, “You’re sure, Jason?”
“Cy, I could’ve bid a fifth lower and still made a fat profit. Those old telecoms are so damned inefficient it’s a scandal they’re still in business.”
Cy gave me a sideways glance and asked Jason, “No chance your people fudged it and it might bump up in a few years?”
“That’s nonsense.” He chopped an arm through the air. “Look, if it would move this thing along, tell them I’ll even accept a penalty clause if there’s any upward slippage.”