Chapter 28

Tanner

“You know, there’s a Duane Reade like two buildings over.”

As I watch Jackson give the menu board a cursory look, I assume he’s going to ignore my comment.

“They don’t have coffee,” he growls. “It’s fucking disgusting there, anyway.”

No such luck, I guess.

We both take a step along with the conga line of a queue stretching around the small, overpriced coffee shop at the corner of Wall and Pearl.

“Have you ever even been there?” I ask.

“What does it matter?” Jackson shoots back at me. “They’re all fucking disgusting.”

“If you’d ever been there, you’d know they do have coffee, and that it’s not even that bad. Everything down here is at least a little fancier than it is in the rest of the city.”

Jackson’s eyes are focused on the barista, who’s helping a pair of tourists in front of us. His arms are folded tightly, and he looks like he’s increasingly ready to fucking explode.

“At your level,” Jackson begins after moving his angry face back over to me, “you should have much higher standards.”

“I often do, but this is one of the special times I don’t really give a fuck.”

The tourists amble away, and we step up to the register.

“That sure fucking took long enough,” Jackson snarls.

The young barista looks uncomfortable, but she also looks like she’s getting used getting yelled at by assholes in this neighborhood.

“May I help you?” she asks with a touch of acidity.

Yes, she’s getting used to it quick. She’s maybe 20 years old—surely just as ambitious and hopeful as we all once were. Unfortunately, working on this street in any capacity tends to rob people of that spark with lightning speed.

“Two lattes and take too fucking long.”

Jackson knows his order isn’t nearly specific enough, he didn’t even say a fucking size.

But it’s clear from his expression that he’s challenging the barista, even if it’s for no fucking reason whatsoever.

She just rolls her eyes, which is the right thing to do. Jackson pivots back in my direction, suddenly smiling.

“Let’s walk and talk after this,” he suggests.

“About what?” I ask.

Jackson holds up his finger, almost ominously.

“Just you wait,” he answers.

This shit is absolutely getting to be too much—especially after he already insisted on getting a fucking coffee.

“We could have done that at my fucking office,” I say.

The barista plops two large paper cups on the counter before Jackson can say some brilliant fucking response swimming in his head.

Jackson throws a random folded bill on the counter and picks up the cups.

“Keep the change,” he instructs before handing me my coffee.

He’s still smirking, and it’s kind of fucking nauseating.

“Can we just sit and talk instead of walk and talk?” I look to see if there are any empty spots while taking my coffee.

“No tables, no chairs.” Jackson’s completely fucking right, sadly. “Come on, let’s walk to Broadway, maybe go to church, you know…”

Jackson’s making some weird fucking joke about the historic cathedral on the west end of Wall Street at Broadway. I immediately walk out onto Wall, and start in that direction, making Jackson have to speed up a bit to catch up with me.

“Ready to talk?” I ask as we stroll into the middle of the blocked-off cobblestone street.

“That fucking barista,” Jackson complains.

“What about her?”

“Can you believe she didn’t ask about size or anything about how I wanted it? I still fucking smiled and laid out a tip, too—you saw it.”

“You think you’re noble for that?” I hear myself ask while looking straight ahead, past the Stock Exchange, all the way to the church on Broadway.

I sip my coffee. Jackson has until we get to Broadway to talk. Luckily, he starts right away.

“Who needs nobility when there are no consequences?”

“No consequences for what?” I ask.

“There’ll be consequences for her, anyway.” Jackson says, ignoring me. “The barista—she won’t go anywhere with that attitude.”

“Why should you be immune to consequences while she’s not?”

“Because I already earned my fucking way.” Jackson glances with ire at the statue of George Washington as we walk past Federal Hall. “That shit no longer applies, not at this point.”

As much as I want Jackson to get to his fucking point already, I can’t help but argue.

“What makes you think the barista won’t go anywhere? Down here, I don’t think attitude matters as much as you think.”

“This street would fucking break her, and you know it.” Jackson takes a self-satisfied sip from his latte. “The only way she’s going anywhere is if someone does it for her, and she’d still end up floundering.”

We’re getting close to Broadway, but I’m giving up on this conversation ending there.

“How do you know any of this about her?” I ask.

“Because I have eyes, do I not? Women don’t have what it takes, none of them. They can fucking try, but they don’t have the strength for true success.”

“Interesting take on it.” It’s not. “So what’s true success?”

“True success is what we could be capable of.” I can tell Jackson’s trying to look at me meaningfully as he speaks, but I keep my eyes on the church ahead of us. “You and me, Tanner—we have the strength, and it’s within our grasp. You know Monopoly?”

“You mean the game, or the federal crime?”

“I meant the game…but not all monopolies violate antitrust laws, you know. Gaming the system—playing the game—the end result still comes down to winning, Tanner. And you and I? We’re winners. Proceed to Go and collect $200.”

“Why the fuck are you bringing up a board game?” I ask.

“Because it represents what everyone aspires to—when it came out during the Depression, and also today. Nothing’s fucking changed.”

“I don’t think you’re right about, any of that, but could you please specify what you’re driving at before we get to the fucking Battery?”

“Don’t you see? I’m talking about us, as men with the capabilities, finally fucking grasping what everyone aspires to.”

Jackson’s starting to get to the point, but I don’t want to lead him on, so I just keep walking and taking small sips of my large coffee.

As I suspect, he keeps talking, anyway.

“I’m talking about our two brands, our two companies, finally coming together as the most powerful force in the fucking universe.”

“That sounds—intriguing,” I say, leaving it at that as we approach the very end of Broadway.

“It should, because I’m not exaggerating. It’s a choice between your company being in serious fucking trouble or having you step the fuck up to grasp what should rightfully be ours...should rightfully be yours, to be accurate.”

We stop walking where the street ends, right at Anthony DiModica’s famous statue of the Charging Bull getting ready to tear into the Financial District—and Kristen Vibal’s famous statue of the Fearless Girl staring down the bull, well, fearlessly.

We both stare at them for a few seconds before I respond.

“Go on, then,” is all I say.

“People might not like monopolies in general, even though everyone fucking aspires to success. But this marriage, and the new bridal line, are the missing puzzle pieces to the public—to everyone, being on board with us, with you, being as powerful as that bull—as powerful as you fucking deserve to be.”

As I deserve to be, he says. He really must not think much of me if he thinks I’m blind to him and where he’s trying to position himself.

The takeaway from Monopoly was never supposed to be winning.

The takeaway was always supposed to be the fucking board flip that happens when you realize that the player with the most money will always end up on top.

“You know that bull’s been stationary for decades, right?” I point at the bronze sculptures.

“It’s a statue, Tanner. It’s a metaphor for what we could be, the final decision makers for the market, for fucking society, for the choices our customers think they’re making about fashion, about sexuality…I hope I’m being fucking specific enough for you. I’m talking about a merger between the market’s largest competitors—a monopoly—everything that’s within our reach if we charge like that bull.”

“It looks like that girl is doing a great job of keeping that bull from going anywhere.”

Jackson laughs at my response.

“That girl can stand there all fucking day, all fucking year, staying where she is—but you know as well as I do she’s just going to get trampled eventually.”

I slip my phone out of my pocket and look at the screen.

“Looks good,” I say, tapping it. “Thanks for this, Jackson.”

“I hope you’re somehow talking about what I’m saying, because this proposal needs a response.” Jackson bids.

“Oh, I am. I’m talking about the recording I just made of every word that came out of your mouth since we were in the coffee shop.” I lower my phone, watching the realization slowly dawn on Jackson’s face. “My official response to the proposal is a polite no, thank you. That’s from me—but I also have a message from the Fearless Girl to deliver.”

With that, I flip my nearly full, large cup of coffee directly at Jackson’s fucking chest.

Jackson still has that same stunned, half-aware expression, as the tourists start snapping pictures and I walk away.