The Quotable Evans

  Mature Japanese maples lined the front entrance next to concrete balustrades and brick archways. To the side of the house was a red clay tennis court and a swimming pool with statuary and fountains. Behind the pool was a pool house larger than my childhood home. It was smaller but every bit as nice as the places I used to care for in Beverly Hills.

  Chris pulled his car into the garage and we walked inside. The home was open and spacious with marble floors and high vaulted ceilings.

  Past the kitchen and dining room, seated on leather couches in front of a fireplace and an easel, were Mila and Chris’s two partners. Both men looked to be in their mid-forties. One was very tall, easily six foot seven, tan with sandy hair, and wearing a golf shirt. The other was about my size; he wore a dress shirt and tie. He was muscular and dark-haired like me. They both stood as we entered. Only Mila remained seated.

  “Gentlemen,” Chris said, “this is Mr. James. Charles, these are my partners.”

  Both men enthusiastically greeted me, stretching out their hands as I reached them.

  “I’m Kelly Birch,” the tall man said. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “I’m Jeremy Cunningham,” said the other.

  I shook both of their hands. “Charles James. You can call me Charles.”

  Mila was sitting on the couch. She wore a leather skirt and a low-cut cream silk blouse. She waved with her fingers. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Likewise,” I said.

  “Let’s begin. Please, sit right here,” Chris said, gesturing to a plush, olive-green velvet armchair with button-tufted upholstery. The chair faced the easel. Everyone sat except for the tall man, Kelly, who walked to the easel.

  “We’re pleased that you were willing to entertain our proposal,” he said. “We are very excited about this opportunity and think that, once you understand our vision, you will be as well. We believe that, working with you, we can create a company producing more than three hundred million dollars a year in revenue. This is the company.” He lifted the sheet on the easel exposing a stylish logo:

  CHARLES JAMES

  WEALTH SEMINARS

  “What do you think?” Chris asked.

  “The logo font is the same used on the dollar,” Jeremy said. “A little subliminal nudge.”

  Even though Chris had talked about the seminars being mine, he hadn’t told me what he planned on calling them. “You’re naming the seminars after me?”

  “Of course,” Chris said. “You’re the star.”

  “That’s right,” Kelly said. “You’re the face of the machine. I believe Chris shared with you our level of commitment. We are willing to pay you a guaranteed base of a million dollars the first year backed with commissions. As well as thirty-percent stock in the company.”

  My heart was pounding, but I did my best to appear only marginally interested.

  The other man, Jeremy, opened a briefcase and brought out some paperwork. “We’ve had our lawyers draft a contract.” He handed it to me. It was thick, about twenty pages long. I cursorily thumbed through it.

  “I’ll have to run this by my attorney,” I said, even though I didn’t have one. “And my wife.”

  “Of course,” Chris said. “We’d expect that.”

  I looked back down at the contract and began reading it more carefully. On the fifth page I read through something that stopped me. “What’s this proprietary information clause?”

  “Your value to our venture is more than just your presentation skills,” Kelly said. “You also bring to the table industry expertise that you’ve garnered working alongside McKay Benson. We assume you know his plans for the year, his sales strategies, and how he operates his company profitably. The clause just says that you agree to share with our venture all knowledge you have in order to help us acquire as many of your former clients as we can.”

  I looked up at him. “By acquire you mean steal.”

  “You say that as if someone owns them,” Jeremy said.

  “It’s business,” Kelly said. “The very nature of this business is competition.”

  “Make no mistake,” Jeremy said. “We play hardball.”

  Chris turned to me. “We don’t mean to come across so Machiavellian. But in this world, McKay’s not your friend anymore, he’s your competition. If that’s something you can’t do, we should get this out on the table now. Because if you’re not all in, neither are we.”

  I looked at the four of them, back down at the million-dollar contract in my hands, then back at them.

  “No. I’m fine with it. Let’s do this.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The sirens of success have sharp teeth.

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  “Before you boys get in any deeper,” Mila said, “it’s almost two o’ clock. You should get some lunch.”

  “She’s right,” Chris said.

  Mila turned to me. “Do you like sushi?”

  “I love it.”

  She stood. “I’ll get us a table at Jinsei,” she said to Chris.

  We drove to downtown Birmingham in two cars, Kelly and Jeremy in a Land Rover and Chris, Mila, and I in Chris’s Bentley. Jinsei was a sushi bar with an authentic Japanese ambience—the kind of place where you take off your shoes and sit around a low table.

  Chris and his partners didn’t talk about their business proposal at lunch; rather, Kelly and Jeremy talked about other recent enterprises, which were myriad.

  “Kelly was a basketball star at Auburn,” Mila said.

  Kelly shook his head. “I thought I was going to go pro until the second game of the NCAA tournament, when I blew out my knee. Torn ACL.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I’m not. Best thing that ever happened to me. I’m loving life with these guys. And life as an athlete comes with an expiration date and no tomorrow. My potential here is unlimited. What we’re doing here is empire building.”

  Chris lifted a glass of warm sake. “To new empires.”

  We all toasted.

  After lunch we drove just a few miles to their office building, an independent three-story glass and brick structure situated in a lush business park of identical buildings. FOLGER MANAGEMENT GROUP was posted in twelve-inch-high letters across the front entry.

  Even though it was Saturday, there were still people at work. The reception area was opulent and the room glowed a soft gold from the alabaster sconces and recessed lighting. The floors were white marble with black marble accent diamonds. A long Persian rug ran the length of the reception area to a polished redwood reception desk with a marble counter. Behind the desk was the company name in brass letters on aqua-blue glass. A crystal chandelier hung above the desk.

  “Welcome to our humble abode,” Chris said.

  “Humble?” I replied.

  Mila touched my arm. “We’re a very affluent company.”

  Affluent. The word still reminded me of the time on the Greyhound bus when I first heard it from Monica.

  Chris turned to face me. “I’m sorry to interrupt our meeting, but we have a few fires to put out. Mila, if you wouldn’t mind giving Charles the nickel tour. We’ll meet up in the conference room in thirty.”

  “I’d love to,” she said, again touching my arm. “If you’ll come with me.”

  Chris hadn’t exaggerated the extent of their company’s holdings. One floor was dedicated almost completely to real estate. They owned office buildings all across the South and Midwest. Mila told me that they had more than a billion dollars in assets under management.

  Near their dining area there was a wall adorned with pictures of Chris and his partners with various celebrities: actors, musicians, and politicians.

  After the tour, Mila led me to the glass-walled conference room on the main floor. Chris, Kelly, and Jeremy were already seated around a high-polish maple conference table surrounded by fourteen high-back leather chairs.

  “Let’s talk business,” Chris said.

  For the nex
t four hours we strategized about how to build a billion-dollar business. The attention, wealth, and flattery were intoxicating, and the more excited I became about the venture, the more I found myself sharing some of McKay’s most coveted trade secrets.

  “You know who we really need,” I said, leaning back, my fingers laced behind my head. “McKay’s assistant, Amanda Glade. She knows more about the business than McKay does. She knows all the vendors, production schedules, event planners, media, everything. We used to joke that if she ever wanted the company, all she needed to do was give McKay a document to sign that gave her ownership, then book him a one-way ticket to Kyrgyzstan. He would never look at the document she’d give him, and he’d never find his way back without her. I don’t think he’d know what city he was in if she didn’t tell him.”

  Chris looked at me seriously. “Will she come?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I think she will at the right price.”

  “How much?” Chris asked.

  “How much can you give her?”

  The men looked at each other. Then Jeremy, who I had deduced was the numbers guy, said, “Two hundred K a year, plus a signing bonus.”

  Kelly nodded. “The signing bonus is key.”

  “How much for signing?” I asked.

  “Fifty thousand.”

  “That’s a big incentive,” I said.

  “Not if she can run the company,” Chris said. Still he looked more concerned than pleased. “You’re taking a big risk, you know. If she doesn’t come, she’ll tell McKay everything. That could seriously hinder our plans.”

  I nodded slowly. “I know.”

  We were all quiet for a moment. Then Chris said, “She’s really that important?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “All right. Do it.”

  I thought I was an expert at corporate seduction, but I was a neophyte compared to these men. They were financial sirens. Their natural confidence was stunning. I ended up signing the contract before talking to Monica or my lawyer, even before leaving the conference room.

  “Where shall I send your executed contracts?” Mila asked.

  “I’ll take them with me,” I said.

  “Let me get you something to hold them.”

  Chris patted me on the back. “Are you ready for the ride of your life, Outlaw James?”

  “We’ll know soon enough,” I replied.

  That night the five of us ate dinner at Shula’s Steak House, a sophisticated restaurant owned by NFL legend Don Shula. At Chris’s recommendation I ordered the lobster bisque and the filet mignon and a lobster tail. The food was exquisite. We celebrated my signing with a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

  Several times during the meal I caught Mila looking at me. She didn’t turn away. Even though I was full, Mila ordered for me the chocolate soufflé for dessert followed by cappuccinos and an expensive scotch. I was surprised at how much alcohol the men could drink. I was feeling tipsy.

  Finally, Chris called an end to the evening. “It’s been a very good day,” he said. “A great start to a promising relationship and venture.” He handed Mila his valet ticket. “I need to meet with the guys. Would you mind driving Charles to his hotel?”

  “My pleasure,” she said. “Your car?”

  “Yes,” Chris said. “I’ll have Kelly drop me off home. Just bring it back in the morning.”

  I staggered a little as we walked out to the front of the restaurant. We said good-byes as the valet pulled up in the Bentley. While he held the door for Mila, I climbed into the passenger side, falling back into the luxurious leather seat. My head was foggy.

  “Fasten your seat belt, please,” Mila said.

  “Sorry.”

  As we pulled away from the restaurant, she asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Like I drank too much.”

  She grinned. “You’re not used to these guys’ drinking. They drink like sailors.”

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” I said, then added, “Or a sailor.”

  She laughed. “So outside of drunk, how does it feel to be a twenty-five-year-old millionaire?”

  “I’d say I feel . . . validated.”

  “Validated,” she repeated. “I like that. You know, you remind me a lot of Chris.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Your ambition. I like ambitious men. Chris gets whatever he wants.” She hesitated for a moment, then looked at me. “Do you get what you want, Charles?”

  “I try.”

  “What do you want tonight?”

  I wasn’t sure if she meant what I thought she did. “Sleep,” I finally said.

  She smiled. “Good answer. Sleep is good.”

  Mila drove up beneath the hotel’s elaborate porte cochere, got out of the car, and gave her keys to the valet. “Please take Mr. James’s luggage up to the Presidential Suite.”

  The young valet was practically falling over her. “Yes, ma’am. Anything else?”

  “No,” she said, walking away from him. She took my arm and led me into the hotel lobby.

  “Did you say Presidential Suite?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  Everywhere Mila went people watched. Most were discreet, but not all. One heavy-set bald man just turned and stared at her, following her not only with his eyes but swiveling his head, then his entire body. The woman standing next to him hit him.

  “Does that follow you everywhere you go?” I asked.

  “Does what follow me?”

  “The attention.”

  She smiled but didn’t answer as she walked up to the check-in counter.

  “May I help you?” the clerk asked.

  “I have the Presidential Suite reserved for Mr. James under the Folger account.”

  He looked on his computer. “Yes,” he said. “Just for the night. How many room keys will you need?”

  “Just one; he’s alone.” Then she turned to me. “Unless you’d like me to spend the night.”

  I didn’t answer. I should have. I should have run.

  “It’s okay,” Mila said playfully, lightly leaning her body into mine. “You’re the star tonight. Whatever you want. It will be fun.”

  I must have looked like a deer in the headlights. Even worse, the alcohol was still making me a little cloudy. That’s not an excuse, just the truth. But I didn’t say no. Mila turned back to the concierge. “Make it two.”

  “There you are,” he said, handing her the keys. He looked at me with envy.

  Mila and I went up to my suite, which was beautifully decorated and roughly the size of most homes in Ogden. My luggage was already inside.

  “Let’s get you to bed,” she said, unbuttoning my shirt.

  “I can take it from here,” I said. I took off my clothes and climbed into bed. Mila undressed, then turned off the lights and climbed in after me.

  In less than twenty-four hours I had betrayed the two most important people in my life.

  Chapter Forty

  “Wisdom will save you also from the adulterous woman, from the wayward woman with her seductive words. . . . Surely her house leads down to death and her paths to the spirits of the dead.” Proverbs 2:16, 18

  —CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

  It was still dark the next morning when Mila rolled over, kissed me on the cheek, and got out of bed. She went into the bathroom, then came out dressed and putting on her earrings. “I’ve arranged a car to pick you up at eleven fifteen,” she said softly. “Have a good flight.” Then she walked out of the room.

  My world felt surreal. Had that really happened? I was flooded with guilt. Searing, burning, pressing guilt. I raked my fingers back through my hair. How would I tell Monica? I couldn’t tell Monica. Not with how things were. She’d leave me. My head pounded from my hangover. I called room service for coffee and a bag of ice, then lay back in bed. “There is no God but me.”

  As I lay there my phone rang. I looked over to see who it was. It was Monica. I just looked
at it until it stopped ringing. There was no way I could answer. It was no time to talk. I felt transparent. I was too apt to throw myself under the bus.

  I was still feeling nauseated as I checked out of the hotel and got in the car. As bad as my hangover was, it was nothing compared to the guilt. I had stepped off a very big cliff and I wanted back on sure ground. But it doesn’t work that way. Once you leap, the only choice you have is how you’re going to land.

  Sitting at my gate at the Birmingham airport, I called McKay’s assistant, Amanda. As usual she answered on the first ring. “Charles. Where are you? McKay’s been looking for you.”

  “I’m at the airport.”

  “Do you need someone to pick you up?”

  “The Birmingham airport.”

  Pause. “What are you doing there?”

  “It’s not important,” I said. “I need to talk to you. Are you alone?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. What’s going on?”

  I breathed out heavily. I suddenly felt even less sure of how she would respond. I needed to move cautiously. “What I need to ask you is very sensitive.”

  “If you want to have an affair, you’re married,” she said flippantly, trying to ease the tension.

  The reminder burned. “You know better,” I said.

  “You sound terrified. What is it?”

  “It’s risky,” I said. “Because once I say what I’m going to say, you’re no longer on safe ground. You’ll have to make one of the biggest decisions of your life.”

  She again paused. “Maybe I don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Let me ask you this. How important is money to you?”

  “That’s certainly direct,” she said. “I don’t know, how important is eating?”

  “So, are you making what you need?”