Chapter 4
Jax
I stared out of the window of the limo, watching the world go by as we drove through the streets of San Jose.
“How are your mother and your father?” asked Cara.
“They're good, Aunt Cara. Dad just got over that cancer scare—luckily the tumor turned out to be benign—and Mom, well she's the same. Soldiering on, you know. She's taken up power walking and mountain biking to try to stay fit. And there are plenty of great trails for walking and biking in upstate New York, as you know.”
Cara nodded, clasping her liver-spotted hands together.
“And when did you last go out there to visit them?”
“Around six months ago,” I said, looking away as I felt a flush of guilt heat up my cheeks.
“Six months! You should see them more often than that, Ernest. It's not as if you're a poor, struggling software engineer who just started a fledgling company out here anymore! No, from everything I've read you're doing very, very well, especially since Quickchat has just exploded across the country—and the world—like it has. It's not as if you're hurting for cash, my boy. And while your parents may seem like they're not that old, they won't be around forever. And you'll miss them when they're gone. My, my, I can't believe my niece is sixty-six years old now.”
The niece she was talking about was, of course, my mother.
“I know, I know,” I said, still feeling guilty. “You're right, I can easily afford to go out there and visit them, it's not a question of money at all, it's about time. I'm so busy with the company, Pete and I—”
“When are you going to ditch that boy? Pay him off and cut the deadweight off. He's holding you back,” she said sharply.
Her bluntness took me by surprise.
“Whoa, wait a second Aunt Cara, hold up, hold up, I can't—and I won't—ditch Pete. He's been my best friend since I was twelve years old, and he did a heck of a lot of work on Quickchat. Without him, there wouldn't be anything called Quickchat. And he's helping me out with some essential upgrades to the program, and—”
“He has the wrong attitude. He's too laid-back, too easy-going. He can't make a hard decision when a hard decision has to be made. He can't be ruthless. He doesn't have it in him. And I promise you, Ernest, when your company goes public, things are going to change. Things are really going to change. Trust me, I know all about it. I know, I know, before you say it, my company went public in the late '80s, back when you were only a little baby, and things are different now. But trust me when I say that I've been there and done that. Remember, Ernest, that I've had large shares in other companies that have undergone the same transformation in much more recent times. I'm up to date with it all, and I've seen it all, and been through it all. You need my advice, and I hope you appreciate the fact that I'm even willing to give you advice. You are my darling niece's child, but that doesn't mean I owe you a dime or a nickel or a spare minute of my time. Remember that. I'm doing this for you out of my own generosity, not because I owe you anything—and I dare say, I hope that you appreciate what I'm doing for you.”
“I do Aunt Cara, I really do, please, trust me on that. I just . . . Can we just leave the Pete issue alone for a while and talk about something else?”
She stared at me, her blue eyes cold, magnified to a huge size by the thick coke-bottle lenses of her glasses.
“Very well, we'll ignore the Pete issue for now, but sweeping problems under the rug never makes them go away, Ernest. In fact, it allows them to fester, and grow even more poisonous and rotten. And if that rot is allowed to reach the core of the company, it could spread like a plague and corrupt everything. Mark my words, you're on the cusp of true greatness here, you really are, there's no denying that. But if you go in the wrong direction, you'll slip, and you'll fall all the way into obscurity. I've seen it happen, many times.”
I nodded.
“I'll think about the Pete issue, all right?”
“You'd better.”
We pulled up to the huge wrought iron gates of her mansion and waited as they swung silently open. The limo then drove up the winding driveway and parked outside the palatial veranda at the entrance to the massive mansion in which she lived. The driver, with his smart uniform and white gloves, rushed out and hurried over to open the door on my aunt's side, and helped her out. I, meanwhile, was left to get out on my own.
We walked up to the huge doors, which swung open as if by magic as we reached them. I saw a wide-range retina scanner mounted discreetly on the wall next to the doors; it appeared that despite her advanced age, my aunt was on top of current tech trends, at least regarding security.
I walked into the marble-floored lobby, replete with tasteful modern art sculptures, paintings, and well-kept plants.
“This way, Ernest,” she said, veering off to the right.
We entered a huge, brightly lit room with floor-to-ceiling windows all around, giving a fantastic view out over the town. There was a grand piano, pearly white, and more art. On a brand-new designer sofa, a young man, dressed impeccably in what looked like an Armani suit, was sitting reading the latest copy of Forbes magazine.
He saw us walking in and smiled warmly at my aunt, but for me he had a different look—one of cool judgment, as if carefully sizing me up.
He was a good-looking man, I had to admit that. Stylishly cut blond hair was slicked back over his scalp and buzzed short at the sides, and he had a goatee of meticulously trimmed stubble. Deep-set green eyes sat beneath straight, thick eyebrows, and between these was a long, handsome nose.
“Mrs. Smoot, it's good to see you,” he said, his voice smooth and his attitude that of a slick charmer. “You look like you've just had a wonderful afternoon out.”
She beamed a warm smile at him.
“Thank you, Chad,” she said. “And I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. My great-nephew here wasn't as punctual as he could have been. We can go and discuss business in my study shortly. I suppose I'd better introduce you two though. Chad, this is my great-nephew Ernest J. Cooper IV. Ernest, this is a new business partner of mine, Chad Burton.”
Chad walked over to me, an unmistakable gait of arrogance and overconfidence in his stride, smiling smugly all the while. I extended a hand to him, which he gripped, and then tried to crush in his hand. I returned the favor, and he almost yelped. I could see surprise and shock flash across his face as he felt the raw strength of my grip.
We each held the grip for a few moments before letting go, testing each other out.
“You've got decent grip strength there, Ernest,” he said to me, smiling strangely. “Not too bad.”
“I do Brazilian Jiu Jitsu,” I said. “You need good grip strength for effective grappling.”
“Oh, I know,” he said casually. “I'm a black belt in BJJ. I was the Californian champion for a year, actually.”
“Really?” I said, unable to hide the skepticism in my voice. “It's kind of . . . weird that I haven't heard of you.”
He chuckled and almost looked as if I had called him out.
“Well, it was a few years ago,” he mumbled. “And anyway, I now do a new sport that takes a lot more balls. I just couldn't get the kicks, the rush I needed from BJJ. It was getting too easy to defeat my opponents, and I have to have a challenge.”
“Oh really, huh. You could just, like, beat anyone who stepped into the ring with you, could you?”
“Yeah, I could, actually.”
I nodded. He could see that I didn't believe him, but he shrugged this off with a smirk and a cool sneer.
“So, what is that you do now that takes 'so much more balls' than BJJ?”
“Free climbing. You know, rock climbing up vertical cliffs. No safety ropes, nothing. Just you, a bag of chalk, and a cliff to conquer. Now that—that you need grip strength for. When the fingertips of one hand gripping a quarter-inch lip of rock are all that stand between you and certain death a mile below, you have to have pure faith in your grip strength.”
“I bet.”
“Could you two quit jabbering?” asked my aunt, annoyed. “You're wasting my time.”
“Of course, Mrs. Smoot,” said Chad, putting on an attitude of fake politeness, sneering at me all the while. “Come, let's go have that meeting.”
“If you'll excuse me, Ernest,” she said, “Chad and I have a few things to discuss—in private. There's a butler who can take care of whatever you need while you wait. We'll be about half an hour. There are plenty of means to amuse yourself in my household, but I'd suggest picking a book on effective finance and management strategies from my library and immersing yourself in it while I'm busy. You have a lot to learn, young man, a lot, before your company goes public. So, don't waste any more of your time or mine. Go on! Busy yourself!”
She then turned to Chad and beckoned him over.
“Come on, Mr. Burton,” she said. “We have business to discuss.”
“Yes, we do, Mrs. Smoot, yes, we do,” he said, walking away and locking me with a mocking stare every step of the way. He was going to be trouble, I knew it. I could feel it in my bones . . . he was going to be trouble.