“Sorry to interrupt,” he said in a high, nasally voice. “You wouldn’t be Craig Batson, would you?”
“I, uh, yes. I’m Craig Batson.”
“Excellent. I thought you might be.” The man extended his palm toward the door. “Well, shall we go?”
“Excuse me,” Sanders said. “Who are you?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “They didn’t tell you?”
“No,” Sanders said gruffly.
“Really. Quite curious. Let me introduce myself, then. Bernard Sutton, your financial counselor.” Bernard extended his hand, and Craig took it.
“We didn’t ask for—”
“Understandable,” Bernard said. “Winners of nine-figure cash prizes are typically lost at sea at this point, blissfully unaware of what’s about to happen. My job is to help you make sense of it all, and especially—” Bernard scanned the room. “As you can see, it’s rather a challenge dealing with one’s relatives, let alone the strangers who will inevitably come calling with their hands out.” He smiled.
“So,” Craig said slowly, “you help big winners know how to—”
“Safeguard their newfound wealth. Make the right investments, yes, but also to ensure the future is to their liking.” Bernard lowered his voice. “It’s obvious that you’re in a different class than most of our… neighbors here. I sense a philanthropic impulse in you.”
Sanders frowned.
“Actually,” Craig said, “I’ve been in such a daze I haven’t given it much thought. But you’re right. I don’t just want to live in luxury. There are things I want to do to help people.”
Bernard’s smile was dazzling. “Well, then, we need to get things set up before you claim your prize.”
“Just a minute,” Sanders said. “We don’t know a thing about you. Who do you represent? How did you know who Craig was? And what—”
“Why, I represent Mr. Batson, my good fellow. Who did you think? You know the stories,” Bernard said to Craig. “The top winners are overwhelmed with distant relatives and old friends they haven’t seen in years. Statistics show that without sound advice, big winners end up isolated, feeling rejected, even bitter. Setting up a sound plan before the first check arrives minimizes the chances of that happening.”
Sanders squeezed Craig’s shoulder and shook his head.
“Don’t forget,” Bernard said, “you’re the one in charge here, Mr. Batson. You make the decisions.”
Craig ignored Sanders’s glower and said, “I think I’d like to hear what you have to say, Mr.—”
“Sutton, but please call me Bernard.” He shouldered Sanders aside and said, “I’ve reserved a nearby consultation room for us.”
As Bernard opened the door for Craig, Sanders yelled, “Wait!”
TOM BRUSHED angrily at a gnat on his ear. “No way,” he growled. The final news story had said a Hamilton man had won more than 200 million dollars in last night’s Mega Millions drawing. Tom googled the lottery board and tapped the link for winning numbers, which told him there was a winner but not who. He dressed and walked the quarter mile to the Kwikie Mart.
“Do they tell you if a ticket you sold won?” Tom asked the woman at the register. “Do you know who it is?”
The woman, a midfifties motherly type wearing a full inch of pancake powder, scratched the side of her face. “We get notice eventually, but we don’t know who won unless they come in to thank us or to brag. Those are always good days. Once I got a hundred-dollar bill for selling the winning ticket.”
Tom left. He stopped dead in his tracks halfway home and checked his wallet. I’ve got enough. He turned around and headed to the bus station by the post office.
“ANY QUESTIONS?”
Craig looked up from the agreement Bernard had laid before him. I sure wish Tom were here. But after we fought last night— Bernard politely cleared his throat. Craig said, “I’m not sure.”
Bernard smiled easily. “Why don’t we work through it from the top?”
Craig coughed into his fist and said, “I guess I should start by telling you I’m an artist—but not full time yet. Right now I teach art at Hamilton High.”
“You’re from Hamilton?”
“Do you know someone there?”
“My mother has family in Hamilton.”
Craig sat up. “Really? Who?”
“You know, I’m not sure. Distant relations. I’d have to ask Mother for names.”
Craig’s smile faded.
“But back to your questions.” Bernard tapped the sheet of paper.
“Okay. This is kind of embarrassing, but I’m not sure I even understand the title.”
“A Letter of Intent is a standard way of enumerating each party’s expectations.” Bernard pointed to a line of small caps below the title. “Nonbinding means this is only a working document. It gives me the power to represent you, but all details are subject to review and further negotiation as each party sees need to add and subtract to areas of concern and anticipated issues pursuant to—”
Craig stopped listening. If only Tom— Holy shit. I didn’t even tell him I was going anywhere. He’s probably worried sick about me.
“—setting forth each party’s expectations as they work out the details of a deal. You see?”
“What? Oh. I think so.” But his eyes, when he found all the scratchers on the floor…. He’s never, ever looked at me that way. I’ve never felt more like a failure. How can I possibly call him till I can prove I’ve done something for him? For us?
Bernard handed Craig a Waterman fountain pen with a black-and-emerald marbled barrel. “Excellent. Sign here and initial here….”
“Wow,” Craig said as he took the pen.
Bernard tightened his jaw behind his smile. “An Excelsior. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Craig uncapped the pen. “It has a gold nib.”
“You can have one just like it if you want. Better.”
“Really….”
“Oh, Mr. Batson, there’s so much in store for you. You’re on the cusp of a new world, a new life. Sign this, and I’ll be your guide, helping you—”
Craig stopped listening again. I have to take action, prove I’m not worthless. He looked away from Bernard and stared at the pen. I don’t know anything about money. And this man—Bernard—he seems so confident. Maybe he can help me. Besides, who else do I have right now? I can’t call Tom, and Mr. Sanders, he’s—
Craig straightened in his chair. Maybe this will make things right between us. He signed. Bernard released the sigh he’d been holding back.
“Wonderful. Now let’s claim your prize.”
IV.
Wednesday afternoon
TOM EXITED the bus at the Forsyth station in downtown Atlanta. A ticket agent told him the lottery office was fifteen to twenty blocks away. If I take a cab, I’ll have less than twenty left. I better walk. He crossed the street, then stopped to google the office hours. It’s open until 4:00 p.m., and it’s after two now. I’ve got to move. Tom took off at a brisk pace.
“I’LL NEED to see a photo ID, Mr. Batson.”
“Oh. Of course.” Craig gave the window clerk his driver’s license.
“This looks fine,” the woman said and handed it back. She flipped through papers in a standing file on her desk, then opened a drawer. “Let’s see,” she said, scanning the form she selected.
Craig tried to gauge Sanders’s temperature with a sideways glance. He jerked involuntarily when Bernard whispered in his ear.
“Does he always look constipated?”
“What?”
“Your Mr. Sanders. Not to insult, but—”
“No. I mean, he’s my principal. He has to keep three hundred high school kids in line, not to mention their teachers. But he does seem more irritated than usual.”
“Perhaps because I asked him to wait while we discussed our agreement?”
“Maybe.”
Two women began calling each other names.
“You see wha
t a little money does to people?” Bernard said.
“I’m sorry,” the clerk said. “I need your ID again. We photocopy it for prizes over a million.”
The women stopped cold. One of the men with them said, “Did she say, ‘over a million’?”
A chill came over Craig.
“Madam,” Bernard called through the clerk’s window, “do you have a more private space where we might conduct our business?”
“I wonder how much he won?” whispered a young boy.
“I think I saw him on the news.”
“You’re right!” said a man. “He won the jackpot.”
The clerk returned to the window as a crowd gathered around Craig. “Yes, of course.” She opened the door to the inner office and led Craig and Bernard to a small room.
“THERE,” SAID Bernard, “not so hard, was it?”
“I’m not sure I understand it all,” Craig said.
Bernard stopped at the clerk’s window. “Now, Mr. Batson, there’s going to be a bit of chaos on the other side of this door. Best to look straight ahead and speak to no one. I’ll clear the way for you.”
“What about Mr. Sanders?”
“Surely he can find his way home.”
“But—”
Bernard turned to Craig. “Mr. Batson, your Mr. Sanders is but the first example of a supposed friend with his hand out. Surely you realize this.”
It’s true, isn’t it? At the end of the school year, he hinted I might be let go, but on the way here, he acted like my best friend.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s already mentioned that you’re the type who takes care of his friends.”
Craig widened his eyes. Bernard smiled.
“I thought so. But don’t worry, Mr. Batson. You’re not forsaking him; you’re taking charge of your affairs. Philanthropy is an art, you see, and like all art, it requires skill. That’s why you’ve asked me to help you. Together we’ll craft a plan to make it possible for you to do the greatest good for the most people.”
“I guess….”
“You won’t regret trusting me, Mr. Batson. Together we’ll ensure your financial future.”
“But how will we—”
“You needn’t worry about us. I’ve arranged for a car.”
“A car?”
Bernard smiled. “I’ll explain everything once we’re safely on our way.”
“To where?”
“Remember,” Bernard said, “walk quickly and speak to no one.” He led Craig through the door.
TOM CHECKED the time and his map. Three blocks. I’ll make it. He neared a grassy area with benches under shade trees and hesitated. The full heat of the afternoon returned as sparse clouds cleared the sun. Maybe just a minute. He sat under the thickest bit of shade he could find.
I know I hurt him. But we’ve had bigger fights, haven’t we? He punched up the phone app and hovered over Craig’s name, then hit the Home button. No. It’s got to be face-to-face.
Tom closed his eyes, then snapped them open. But why hasn’t he called me? Tom stood and hurried on.
“THAT WAS crazy,” Craig said as he and Bernard glided toward Buckhead, one of Atlanta’s poshest suburbs.
“Unfortunately, that will be the norm for a while,” Bernard said. “And the only reason will be to impress upon you how dire their situation or worthy their cause is.”
Craig fell back in his seat. “I never thought it would be like this.” He absently ran his fingers over buttery soft leather, then looked down, surprised at the texture.
“I did,” Bernard said. “That’s why you’ve made the right decision to trust me to guide you through the labyrinth.”
“So where are we going now?”
“Care for a Perrier?” Bernard said. He opened the limousine’s minifridge and held out a chilled bottle. Craig shook his head. Bernard opened the drink and sipped. “Shopping, of course.”
“Shopping?”
“You’ll meet your new bankers in the morning to set up investments and off-shore accounts. You obviously need more than a T-shirt and cutoff jeans.”
Craig blushed. “I guess so.”
Bernard rapped on the glass behind the driver. It slid down. “Frank, which hotel did I select for Mr. Batson?”
“The Ritz-Carlton in Buckhead, sir. One of the penthouse suites. We’re about five minutes away.”
“Thank you, Frank.” Bernard ignored Frank’s frown in the rearview mirror as the glass slid up.
“The penthouse?” Craig said.
“You’ll love Buckhead’s luxury suites,” Bernard said. “Recently renovated, quite exquisite.”
“I thought you said we were going shopping.”
“We are. But you no longer have to go shopping; shops come to you now. I’ve arranged for a private showing with a top clothier.” Craig moved toward the fridge. “Let me,” Bernard said, opening a Perrier for Craig.
“How am I paying for all this? The woman at the lottery office said my first check won’t come for ten days.”
“Not to worry. Reimbursement is included in the forthcoming agreement.”
“Forthcoming? I thought what I just signed—”
“Ah,” Bernard said. “Here we are.”
They coasted to a stop at a cobblestone porch before an ornate entrance. Frank lowered the glass and said, “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton, sir.”
TOM REACHED the lottery office at ten till four, but an argument with the window clerk left him with no information, not even an acknowledgment that Craig had been there. As he turned to leave, a wiry young man with a ball cap snugged over too much frizzy brown hair approached him.
“You know Craig Batson?”
“What?” Tom said.
“I kinda heard you mention him. Wasn’t trying to listen in or anything. But if you do know him, you’re one of the luckiest guys in the state of Georgia.”
“Was he here today?”
“Sure was. Had one of those fancy lawyer types with him. Breezed him in and out like the crown prince. Wouldn’t let anyone get near him, especially the guy who brought him. Bet he’s pissed.”
Tom winced at the man’s tobacco-stained smile. “Who brought him?”
“How the hell should I know? Scrawny little man who got red in the face when Batson ignored him.”
That had to be Mr. Sanders. So that’s how Craig got here.
“I’m Ronnie Weaver,” the young man said, “one of the best auto mechanics in Atlanta, and as honest as they come. Everybody knows I shoot straight from the hip. I fix your car right the first time.”
Tom wasn’t listening. So Craig was here. But if he’s already come and gone, then why hasn’t he called? Is he that upset with me? I’ve got to find him and apologize.
Tom jumped when Ronnie touched his arm. “You listening? If you’re Batson’s friend, then maybe you could do me a favor. Not for free, of course. Any car you need fixed, I’m your man.”
“What?”
“It’s my mother, you see. She’s been sick for so long, and—”
Tom left without a word. Outside, he stopped to call Craig.
Ronnie followed him. “What the hell, man? I was talking to you, and you just walk off? Now, like I was saying—”
“Get away from me.”
“Hang on, now, there’s no reason to be rude. I’m just—”
“I said, leave me alone. I can’t help you, and neither can Craig.”
“Well, fuck you, you uppity bastard. People win big money, and suddenly they’re too good for you. Batson blew off the man who brought him, you know. So what the hell makes you think he’s gonna talk to you?”
Tom walked rapidly down the street, trying to keep Ronnie’s question out of his mind.
CRAIG’S PHONE rang as he put his foot out of the car. Bernard fought a look of horror as Craig fumbled for it.
“Tom? Oh God, Tom, I’m so sorry. I’ve been so— What? No, I’m fine. Hey, slow down and— Good Lord, just shut up and listen. I’m t
rying to tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise, and— Where? We’re at the Ritz-Car—”
Bernard snatched the phone away. Craig was thunderstruck.
“Mr. Batson is quite occupied at the moment. I’ll have him call back at his earliest availability.” Bernard cut the call.
Craig exploded. “That was my partner. I’ve been trying all day to work up the courage to call him so he wouldn’t worry. And that’s exactly what he’s been doing.”
“Mr. Batson—”
“Give me my phone.” Craig held out his hand. “Now.”
Frank leaned on the horn and yelled, “Oh my God!” He put the car in reverse and jerked backward. Craig and Bernard fell against the seat. The car door swung toward Craig’s foot, but he kicked it away. While Craig wasn’t looking, Bernard tossed the phone through the window to Frank, who swiped it to the floorboard.
“What the hell was that?” Bernard said sternly.
“A freeloader, sir,” Frank said. “He was rushing the car.”
“That’s no reason to overreact. You knocked Mr. Batson to the floor, and the door almost slammed his foot.”
“Where’s my goddamn phone?” Craig yelled as he pushed upright.
“I’m sure it’s here,” Bernard said. He searched with Craig, bumping him a couple of times.
“Not again!” Frank yelled. He reached for the gear shifter, but Bernard yelled, “Don’t!” He turned toward Craig, who had one hand under the seat between his legs. “Mr. Batson, please,” Bernard said. “Your phone must be here, but look, a crowd is gathering. Let’s get you to your room. I’ll stay and find your phone or buy you a new one on the spot. Please.” Bernard held his breath.
“First tell me why you took it,” Craig said.
“I had no idea who might have found your phone number. As I’ve already demonstrated several times, my prime responsibility is to protect you from—”
“I told you Tom is my partner. I don’t need protection from him.”
Bernard looked hurt. “But how could I have known? You sounded so distressed when you answered. I assumed the worst because that’s what you asked me to do.” Craig hesitated. “Mishaps like this are quite understandable,” Bernard continued, “considering how quickly everything has happened. And it’s only going to—”
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