Family Trust

by Kathy Wang

  Hugo Menendez was the youthful but semi-balding CEO of Gadfly, a data-compression company rumored to be closing on a staggering new round of funding. “You know Hugo?” Fred asked.

  “Oh yeah, I know a lot of those guys. They’re always hanging out in Hong Kong or Beijing, they have the fetish you know, heh. Jews and Asian girls, it’s an unstoppable force when you combine two groups obsessed with money.”

  “Hugo’s Jewish? I didn’t know.”

  Reagan frowned. “Well if he’s not, he should be. I think he’s here, actually.” He clasped his hands together around his mouth. “Hugo! Hugo!” When only the head steward turned, he dropped his arms. “Maybe he didn’t make it onto the boat. We had a late night. I’ve taken a few of them under my wing, socially. These young guys with new money, they really have no taste. One of them was telling me all about how awesome his stay at the Gansevoort was. I was like, Gansevoort? What are we, in high school? Your company’s worth fourteen billion and all it takes to impress is a chocolate tower in your room and some washed-out cougars in the lobby?”

  “Not everyone has your standards,” Jack said. “We don’t all need to drive the fanciest car or visit the best club.”

  “If you’re going to go out, you should make it worth your while. Especially at our age. For example, if I know I’m going to be awake past midnight, I need to have prepared in advance. Gone to sleep early the night before, eaten a big lunch with lots of protein. What, you don’t care about your time? You liked Sepia Lounge last week, didn’t you?” Jack grunted. “Ha. Didn’t I tell you about the girls? Strong pipeline. Although we have even better today.” He leaned forward. “Don’t look now, but right behind you are a few members of the main cast of Serial Killer High. The brunette can’t act for shit, but the blonde is actually pretty good. I’m sponsoring Ace Getty’s thirtieth birthday on the boat tomorrow night.”

  “Where’s your girlfriend?” Jack asked Fred. “I thought you were bringing her. Is she still at the hotel?”

  “You have a girlfriend?” Reagan bounced in his chair. “Show us a picture.”

  Fred found a flattering shot of Erika, one in which she wore a simple black sundress and the outline of her breasts was visible. Reagan nodded with frank approval. “White is right! Good for you, evening out the ratios. Charlene must be pissed, huh? You still talk to her?”

  “Not really.” He rarely thought about his ex these days, except for when he happened to be looking through old photos. “Anyway, it wasn’t working out with Erika. In terms of the trip, I mean. She ended up going back to San Francisco.”

  “How long did you spend together in Bali?”

  “Well, actually, I sent her back in Hong Kong.”

  “Wow.” Jack widened his eyes. “Sherry would go apeshit if I did that. At the very least I’d have to make a pit stop at Verdura. How’d she take it?”

  Fred shrugged. “It was fine.”

  It had actually been the complete opposite, albeit somewhat delayed. Erika’s shock over the boldness of Fred’s pronouncement had rendered her into a semidocile state until she was in her seat on the plane back to San Francisco; then, at some point during the flight, she’d gone apocalyptic. Ten minutes after the 747 landed, Fred had received a nine-page email narrating in excruciating detail his numerous deficiencies: his cheapness when ordering at restaurants; his refusal to hire a weekly cleaner for the apartment; his pornography addiction, which he hadn’t realized she knew about (really, was three times a week—at maximum—an addiction? It wasn’t like he was actually paying for it). The email’s tenor and grammar implying that unless Erika was handled carefully and precisely, dire consequences should be expected. As Fred wished to maintain the status quo until he’d had more time to consider his commitment to the relationship—which he suspected would vary depending on the outcome of the retreat—he had called Erika right away, for an agonizingly long discussion in which every fifteen minutes he was accused of secretly wanting to get off the phone.

  The night before, he’d still been managing the fallout, when, after she failed to reach him on his cell (it was off when he slept, to avoid unintended roaming charges), Erika had instead called the Biasa and been transferred to his room. It was late morning in California, she said, the only time she could speak without Nora overhearing, as it was when she escorted little Zoltan to swim class.

  “I already took three weeks off work,” Erika hissed. “Because you told me that we would be going on this trip. What am I supposed to do now? And don’t you dare say I should just go back to Saks. Do you know how embarrassing that is, to have to explain that I am once again available for work? All because I am with a man who treats women like garbage?”

  “No one’s saying you should go back to work. Haven’t you been telling me that you need a break?” Fred murmured gently. He had just fallen asleep when the handset on the desk began to ring; if he could get her off the phone within the next twenty minutes, he could still catch a full eight hours. “Why don’t you sleep in, catch up on reading, get a massage? You love the Rosewood spa. I can call there with my credit card.”

  There was a brief silence as Erika considered this offer, before dismissing it as not worthy of giving up her higher ground. “That’s exactly what I told you I was going to do,” she huffed, “in Bali! Did I not pack my books? Did I not spend my own money to buy three Melissa Odabash caftans for the beach, which I didn’t even get double discount on? And now I cannot return them, because I cut off the tags.” Her nails clicked furiously against the phone. “I really am starting to believe you are deranged. The sort of man who enjoys playing with the heads of women. To invite me on a trip across the world, only to make up some silly excuse and send me back.”

  “To be fair, it wasn’t entirely silly. It’s not like you were on your best behavior. Screaming at me, throwing things, getting wasted. By the way, the Dorchester tacked on an extra $400 charge for carpet cleaning when I checked out. You could have told me you threw up behind the curtains. Management doesn’t put up with the same shit in Asia that they do in America.”

  “Like you’ve never been drunk! Like you’ve never had so many beers, and wine, and shots, and then who has to listen to you brag about how much smarter you are than your mom and dad? Or how much more you make than your sister? And how about when you threw up on your Dior sneakers outside of the Battery, the ones I had to track down in the Saks in Atlanta and beg them to ship me on employee discount instead of selling full price to a customer? Who was so thankful then? What a convenient little memory you have.”

  “You’re right, you’re absolutely right,” Fred said hurriedly. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Do you know how humiliating it is, what you did to me?” Erika exploded. “In all my years I’ve never heard of any man doing this to a woman! Even the worst Hungarian man does not go so low! And now you suggest that I relax, read a book, catch up on my news watching. You know who does that? A real big sociopath.” And then, on the strength of that word, she hung up. Though in truth it hadn’t really bothered Fred. Weren’t CEOs usually sociopaths? The best serial killers? It meant you were, like, a genius.

  “How’s your dad?” Jack asked now. Fred had made a vague mention of Stanley’s health on the phone when they first spoke—it was one of Jack’s proof points of being a decent person, Fred supposed, that he remembered these things.

  “Not too well, actually. It was confirmed to be pancreatic cancer.”

  “Like Jobs,” Jack breathed.

  “Yup. Just like Jobs.” Steve Jobs, who Fred figured to be the closest thing running to a patron saint of pancreatic cancer. At least no one ever tried to assure Fred that Stanley would “kick this thing,” since even a billionaire hadn’t been able to stop the relentless march of a dissolving pancreas.

  Reagan made a sympathetic noise. He sat up. “You guys have anything else you want to discuss? Otherwise I should go take care of a few things with the boat.”

  “Well.” Fred paused, as if spontaneously
recalling extraneous details. “I think once I sign on to this, I’m going to give notice at Lion. I’ve been there too long, and the deal flow’s slowed. The amount of money you guys are talking, Opus is going to take up all my time anyway.” Encouraged by Jack’s nod, he continued. “And I was thinking we should rent an office. A fund this size, we’ve got to have our own space. Some basic staff too.” He’d have his own dedicated assistant, of course. If there were head count issues, in her free time she could double as the office manager.

  “Makes sense,” Jack said. “You thinking Sand Hill?”

  “Or downtown Palo Alto. No shortage of options.”

  “Office sounds great,” Reagan said. “Associates, okay. The rest, no go. You’ve got to stay at Lion.”

  Hot pricks of agitation crept up Fred’s spine. In any of its numerous iterations, the fantasy of Opus had never included Lion: Fred still in the same cramped quarters, furtively double-checking the expense reports filed by his ungovernable admin, Donna Caldbert, who he suspected occasionally omitted restaurant meals for reimbursement out of spite. He forced the words out calmly. “What’s your reasoning?”

  “I thought Jack told you.” Reagan frowned, turning. “Didn’t you?”

  “Well.” Jack hesitated. “To be honest, I wasn’t fully clear—”

  “Forget it,” Reagan said. He was clearly exasperated. “Fred, a major factor in bringing you on is your employment with Lion. Surely you didn’t assume you’d be advising on investments by yourself?” He raised a groomed eyebrow. “It’s not as if a limited partner would ever stand for that in a traditional fund; it’s way too much money for one person.”

  “Of course, but I assumed there would be direction from Asia, and—”

  “The Thais want to partner with Lion on this,” Reagan said, cutting him off. “They need an experienced partner on the ground in California. They have the money but not the expertise, so they want a local name to co-manage the fund. There’s a lot of details still to be worked out, but their assumption is that Lion should go for it, because the Thais will put in most of the money. They’ll ask for some more control in exchange, naturally; they don’t want to be treated as just a dumb government piggy bank, which is how some of these deals have worked out in the past. But overall, it’d be a win-win for both parties.”

  “I could leave Lion,” Fred said. “Take this to another shop.” Like Motley Capital, or Tata Packer, or Andreessen. Ten billion dollars would be welcome almost anywhere in the Valley. “And—” He wavered, and then decided to come clean, even if it meant second-order implications regarding his own desirability. “Lion’s not the most prestigious name. We’re considered maybe Tier Three, Tier Two at best.” Reagan and Jack had to know that, right? How could they not?

  Reagan bobbed his head, as if he did. “But you’re already at Lion. And Lion’s an Asian company, which makes the cross-cultural communication way easier. The Thais, they’re extremely sensitive, they don’t want to deal with bombast and jokes about lady boys. Or kowtow to some prepubescent in Birkenstocks just because he wrote some sugar daddy app for politicians. They know Lion—the company has a huge factory in Korat. And Lion has long-standing relationships with Wilson Sonsini and Draper Carlyle. They’re both your outside legal representation, Draper primarily so, am I correct? The Thais want a partner connected with those firms. If they have US investments, they’re obviously going to need US representation.”

  “I know senior partners at both offices,” Fred countered. “It would be no problem to arrange introductions.” He could probably squeeze a few dinners for the referral as well. Erika would love it if he brought her along—she was always hinting she wanted to socialize more with a “certain tier of friends.” At first Fred had taken her to mean white and been furious, before he realized she meant wealthy.

  “Hey, we all know a senior partner or two. All those nerds who did the dual JD thing. But Lion does a lot of existing business with Draper, yeah? Leland’s always getting sued in the news, antitrust this and trade secrets that. Sounds like you guys steal as much of your R-and-D as possible. I heard that Draper bills Lion in the high eight digits every year. That kind of pull, sorry, I just don’t think you’re going to have on your own. Unless you’ve got photos of Draper blowing Carlyle, which then by all means, let’s draft your notice now.”

  “But I still don’t understand why you need the introduction at all,” Fred said stubbornly. The thought of Lion—and thus Griffin and Leland—getting in on so much free money for such an inane reason was beyond maddening. “Wouldn’t any top-tier firm be happy to work with Opus? The billings would be substantial.”

  Reagan yawned. “You’d think so. But after ’08, it’s become far more challenging. There’s more regulation now with overseas entities, especially when a government is involved, and law firms are leery. Of course they’d still take the business eventually, but it’d require time and energy. The Thais don’t want any difficulties.”

  “Sure sounds like a lot of hoop jumping for legal counsel. Is this why you guys thought of me? Because of Lion? And the relationship with Draper?”

  “Of course not.” Jack looked offended. “You have the perfect background.”

  “Jack’s right,” Reagan chimed in. “You really do. Ten years at Lion, right? Managing director now? And you did the DataMinx deal, yeah, I know about that, don’t accuse me of asking you just because of Draper. Your background’s gold. Just hold on at Lion a little longer; is that really so much to ask? Get Leland on board, and then we’ll go from there. In the meantime, we can get you set up as a partner at Opus. What’s wrong with two paychecks? And I don’t know if Jack already informed you, but this is no sovereign fund deal. They’re compensating at the top of the bracket. Very generous. Once we’ve got the fund launched and have the Valley relationships locked down, you can go ahead and quit, tell Leland to go fuck himself, work full-time out of whatever office you like. Better have a few good-looking admins, though. Whenever I go to the Bay Area, the only places I see hot women are in lobbies and reception rooms.”

  “It’s not going to be so easy with Leland; he’ll likely want to dictate his own terms—”

  “Look.” Reagan sounded impatient now. “Is this something you really want to do? Because I was under the impression that you were in, and maybe I just got the wrong idea about your intentions, and either way it’s totally cool. But you have to let me know whether you’re on board, because if not we’ll need to move quickly with the next option. We have several avenues that would be acceptable to the Thais, so no hard feelings, promise.”

  The whining scream of electronic equipment broke in, as an assistant on the open deck tested speakers. Presumably the kickoff for the Founders’ Retreat had finally arrived. Fred gave a silent curse. While he was tempted to immediately agree to Opus, at whatever the terms, he knew it was a risk to appear too eager. Now they wouldn’t have time to close the discussion; what if whatever magic existed on this boat evaporated by the next time he saw Reagan and Jack?

  “Remember when I sent the blow-up doll?” Reagan called out above the din. “Good times.”

  Jack sighed and leaned back, tilting his head toward the sky. Despite his agitation, Fred looked with him. The problem with Bali, he mused, was that it allowed too large a band of visitors to believe they were experiencing true luxury. In a setting where five-bedroom villas could be rented for $100 a night, even the middle class could feel like kings. But there was no confusing the spindly crafts that dotted the public beaches with Killer, this lustrous beast that announced its wealth like a gleaming jewel deposited in the middle of the ocean. Jack had let drop the tidbit that the Komodo Marina, where Killer would eventually dock, charged $18,000 per night; there it was kept far away from the gaping eyes of the public, shielded by other mega crafts.

  The rich always stuck to their own, Fred thought. Even when they were inanimate.

  * * *

  The next morning Fred texted both Reagan and Jack, to no response
. He felt he couldn’t message either again without further skewing the power balance and so next called Erika, where the phone rang without answer. The day had been left deliberately open on the Founders’ Retreat agenda, for the ad hoc discussions between industry players, which was where the real soft power of the event was supposed to reside; given his limited sphere of influence, he’d received no such meeting requests, and the one other attendee he’d recognized at the retreat—a business school classmate running an incubator fund—had punted his coffee invite to the undetermined future. To distract himself, Fred called the Biasa front desk and claimed the complimentary tour of local sights that had been offered upon check-in. He wasn’t scheduled to see Reagan and Jack again until the next day, at the closing dinner of the retreat. A lot could change in thirty-two hours.

  The guide for the tour turned out to be Bawa, who arrived on time with an enormous cocktail on a bamboo tray. The drink was blended with ice and began on top as yellow, gradually shifting to azure blue. “I am training to be a bartender,” Bawa boasted. “This is my own creation! I call it Balinese Sky.” As Fred tipped the glass he could feel the butler’s eyes following him; he felt obligated to finish the entirety of the drink, which left a burning sensation as it descended.

  Afterward, he followed Bawa to the hotel shuttle. Their first scheduled stop, the Monkey Village, was a popular tourist destination, and Bawa deposited Fred at the front with assurances that it would, in fact, be full of monkeys. “They are everywhere!” he called cheerily, passing Fred a small bunch of dark bananas as he himself declined to alight from the vehicle. Fred could find him in the van when he was finished, he said, and jabbed a thumb toward the parking lot, where a fleet of nearly identical black and silver vehicles stood idling.