by Jesse Jordan
“Any favorites in mind?” Freida asks, and I shake my head. “Well then, we’ll see. I’m feeling Thai, so I think Uncle Boons would be nice.”
“What would I do without you?” I ask as the limo pulls up in front of the estate. Freida chuckles, and gets out, holding the door for me. “Well?”
“Probably have to pay twice as much to three different people, none of whom would give half the damn I do about you,” she admits. “Come on, I’ll fill you in on Harvey’s plan while you get changed for your workout.”
The board room at Kelley-Stone Consolidated is modern, lots of steel and glass and all sorts of touches that reminds me that I let Harvey Stone run far too much of the day to day business of ‘our’ company. Then again, when you’ve got the time limit on your life that I do, there are some things you just learn to let go of.
“Richard, a surprise to see you,” Harvey says as I come in. Fifty three, with powerful shoulders and still a hint of build to his now spreading frame, Harvey Stone’s been a mover and shaker in New York for going on twenty five years, ever since taking over the family business from his father. He had the money and connections, I had the ideas and the reputation, and at nineteen, I needed a more mature face to open doors for me.
I should have picked better. “I’m interested to hear about this idea on our Panther technology being sold to the Pentagon,” I reply, taking a seat at the head of the table. Harvey bristles, but the fact is I have a higher position within the corporate hierarchy than he does. I just rarely attend. “Why are you trying to push this again? Isn’t getting British Airways and United on board enough for you?”
“Richard, that’s chump change compared to what the Pentagon can do for us!” Harvey rumbles. “There’s potential for over a thousand Panthers to be built, and we can do it without a huge amount of refitting! We do that, and we have the airliner version? The airlines will be creaming their jeans to get Panthers for their pilots, since they won’t have to waste a shitload of time retraining their flight crews!”
I stare at him, not believing what I’m hearing. “Harvey, you know as well as I do the Pentagon isn’t going to put all their bombers and cargo aircraft in our hands. There’s a reason they shop things around the aerospace industry.”
“That was before the Pentagon had to learn to do more with less!” Harvey fumes. “My God Rick, three quarters of the Air Force pilots are flying planes older than they are! Most of the bomber crews are flying shit that is old enough for Social Security! How long do you think the Air Force is going to be able to keep putting out those B-52s and B-1Bs before there’s major holes in our defense-”
“It doesn’t matter,” I reply, cutting him off. “Harvey, when we joined up, I told you in no uncertain terms that I was not going to let my inventions be used for making war. It’s bad enough that GE uses that first one for their damn fighter engines.”
“So instead you let profit slide through your fingers on a regular basis,” Harvey fumes. He looks around the board room, but the other officers know they can’t get involved. This involves the two head honchos of Kelley-Stone, and there isn’t much they can do about it. “Is there anything-”
“No,” I cut him off with finality. “K-S will not be pursuing any Pentagon contracts. The Panther technology is not available for military usage. Any military usage.”
The rest of the board meeting is boring, and I tune most of it out as I get struck by an idea I’ve been tinkering with, an idea in solar tech that, if I can get the damn thing to work, might just revolutionize the market. As the meeting breaks up, Harvey stays behind, until it’s just him, me, and in the corner Freida waiting in a chair. “Something you want to say, Harvey?”
“You can’t keep blocking me forever, Dick,” Harvey growls, using the version of my name that he knows I hate. “I will eventually get control of the company and be able to sell all the goddamn planes I want to the Pentagon and more.”
“Not as long as I own the majority of the firm,” I retort. “Harvey, don’t you think I realized soon after we partnered that you were a bloodthirsty weapons merchant with delusions of grandeur and power? Hell, I knew that as soon as I went into your new office and saw your collection of toy tanks and boats on the display case. So I took all my profits and instead of spending more money than I needed, I bought shares of K-S. And now I own over fifty percent.”
“Those are handmade scale models!” Harvey growls again. If he’s going to call me Dick, I’m going to hit back just as nasty. “But it doesn’t really matter. You can’t be in charge of the firm forever. Not with Trikala Syndrome.”
“How do you know about that?” I hiss, pissed off. “That’s confidential medical information!”
“And who owns your insurance company?” Harvey asks, gloating. “It didn’t take Sherlock fucking Holmes to put it all together once your charitable donations were put together with the charges on your insurance. Such a shame, that mandatory insurance. Guess you could say thanks, Obama.”
“You son of a bitch,” I growl back at him, holding off from punching him in the face by sheer force of will. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll stop you either way.”
“Go ahead… for the few years you’ve got left. You had that flare up five years ago, so you can’t have much time left. I can ride it out, give a few donations to the right members of the Senate Armed Services Committee, delay the programs a few years, and then when you’re gone and your shares liquidated… I’ll control K-S. Of course, I’ll start with a name change. Stone Consolidated sounds much better.”
Harvey leaves, and I wait until he’s gone before slamming my hand down on the table, glad it’s shatterproof and an inch thick or else I’d be paying for a new board room table. “Get the chopper ready,” I tell Freida, who’s already got her bag packed. “I want to be airborne in the next twenty minutes.”
“Already on it,” Freida replies. “What do you want to do?”
“I want you in the co-pilot’s seat on the flight back,” I tell her. It’s the reason I made sure Freida got her helicopter pilot’s license, to back me up. “I want to talk.”
I go to my ‘office’ in the K-S building to change out of my suit, leaving it with the executive assistant I keep here (easiest seventy five thousand a dollar a year job in the world, sit around and forward e-mails to Freida and scan documents). The instructions are simple, get the suit dry cleaned and hang it up for when I come back. That done, I change into my flight suit. I never fly in a suit, I’m not James Bond.
Up on the roof, I see that Freida’s also changed, her purple and pink personalized helmet under her arm. Across the forehead area in bold gold script are the letters HGF, standing for ‘His Girl Freida’ or ‘His Girl Friday,’ take your pick. “Ready, Rick?”
“Yeah,” I reply, getting into the pilot’s seat and running preflights from memory. Five minutes later we’re airborne and I turn west, staying low enough that I don’t have to worry about air traffic control out of Kennedy or La Guardia.
We’re about a half hour into the flight, most of the way to Scranton, when Freida speaks up. “You want to talk about it?”
“I need an heir,” I reply, flipping the switches on the autopilot. I bought the customized Augusta Westland 139 helicopter for two reasons. First, it’s got a hell of a long range for a helicopter, which makes flying from Minnesota to New York possible with the extra fuel tanks I had installed. Secondly, on the times I don’t want to fly, the passenger cabin still seats four people very comfortably. And if I need to go further, I’ve got the jet. “I have to keep K-S out of Harvey’s hands.”
“What about your will?” Freida asks. “Deeding control to someone?”
I shake my head, checking the heads up display as I monitor fuel consumption. Just to be sure, I decide to do a refueling stop in Michigan, it looks like I’m fighting a headwind. “The incorporation documents for K-S don’t allow it. My shares can only be fully passed down to a blood heir. Which creates a problem.”
“You nee
d a child,” Freida says, a touch of pain in her voice. “You know if I could….”
I look over at Freida, nodding. “I know.” It’s a painful subject for her, and I understand why. For all of her physical and mental perfection, and Freida’s a woman who can hold herself up there with any in the world, she’s infertile. “And if you could Freida, I’d say you’d be at the top of the list of women I’d want to bear my child.”
“Thank you,” she says, her voice thick before she clears her throat. “So what do you want to do? Surrogate?”
“Can’t trust them,” I reply immediately. “They figure out who I am, and they’d hold the baby hostage for more money, and I can’t deal with a long, drawn out custody fight.”
“So get married,” Freida says, like it’s as simple as getting a driver’s license. “I’m sure the list of women who’d say yes is probably as thick as the Mankato phone book.”
I think about it again, then shake my head. “No… I can’t trust them either. Freida, have you ever wondered why I’ve never let any of those women into my life yet I trust you totally?”
“The thought has crossed my mind occasionally,” Freida admits, and I can hear the chuckle in her voice. “Let me guess, I’m the mature influence you’ve lacked since you were a child?”
I laugh, leaning back in my pilot’s seat. “Something like that. No Freida, the reason’s simple: your motives are clear. You work for me, and yes, you’re friendly with me, but you don’t have ulterior motives for it. All those other women, they want something else. Fame, fortune, influence, a move up the society ladder, whatever. They all want something besides me. I give one of those gold diggers a baby, and my child’s going to end up either sold out or more fucked up than the Kardashians.”
“Rob is pretty fucked up,” Freida admits. “So what’s kicking around in that super genius brain of yours?”
“A mail order bride,” I reply, making Freida do a double take. “No, I’m serious. If I have to deal with a gold digger, then at least I want one who I know is up front about it.”
“An interesting point of view,” Freida says. “What’s going to stop her from ditching the money and taking your child as soon as you’re…”
“Dead?” I ask, making Freida shudder. “Two things. First, you. I’m going to change my will to give you some… broad powers over my estate. Not total, but broad. Second, and more importantly, I’ll get a bride from overseas. The marriage will get her the beginnings of a green card, while my child will ensure that sticks, as she’ll be the mother of an American citizen.”
Freida stays silent for a long time, and we’re nearly to Kalamazoo, where I plan to refuel, before she speaks up again. “Rick, I know you trust me with a lot, but your entire family future? How am I supposed to control a mail order bride?”
“We’ll set up the contracts, get a prenup,” I reply. “And Freida, you’re just as capable as any person that was in the board room today. More than some, in fact.”
Freida nods, saying nothing until we land. The ground crew hooks up the fuel lines while Freida and I go inside to use the facilities and stretch some. When she comes out, looking like she’s washed her face and maybe had a little time to collect herself, she finds me doing jumping jacks on the grass next to the helipad. “So… you want me to be your Alfred Pennyworth?”
“Miss Moneypennyworth,” I joke, making her shake her head in exasperation. “I know it won’t be easy, Freida. We’ll have to make the prenup very precise. But when we get back, I want you to reach out to some of the matchmaker services overseas. No Russians though, can’t trust their government. They find out one of their citizens has access to my technology, and they’d steal it.”
“What about China?” Freida asks. “Won’t they steal it too?”
“They’re stealing half of it already,” I joke. “Come on, let’s find me some options.”
Su Lin
My phone beeps and I see I have a message. Rolling over in bed, I hope it’s not the bar manager. There’s no way I want to pick up an extra shift, those are always the shifts where you have to come in early and do the heavy, ugly grunt work of unloading the delivery truck or something. Trying to keep a fake smile on my face around the drunk office workers who spend most of the time staring at my tits is one thing, doing it while my lower back and shoulders ache because I hauled crates of Tsingtao and more up two flights of stairs is worse.
Thankfully, the message isn’t from the manager. Instead, it’s from my second least favorite source, the matchmaker. You have an appointment today. Waldorf Astoria, reception desk. Ask for Mr. Kelley, 8PM.
There’s no more information, but I send a confirmation anyway. So far, working with a matchmaker has been disappointing to say the least. I’ve met three ‘suitors,’ each one worse than the last. Two of them I could tell were lying through their teeth about their financial security, and one of them seemed pissed off that I can speak excellent English. Maybe he just wanted a pretty face and someone he could talk shit to without her understanding him. The third… well, at least I’ll have some fun memories of watching a man get so freaked out by seeing me that he got up and nearly fled the restaurant like the hounds of hell were after him. Oh, and good food, the matchmaker has made sure that each of my ‘dates’ have occurred at decent restaurants.
I’m surprised when I get a text message back. Don’t fuck this one up.
I growl, upset. I get it, most of the girls don’t care about who they get, but I am not like most girls. This has irked my matchmaker, who told me last time that if I continue to be difficult, the number of applicants who meet my ‘high standards’ will begin to dwindle. Translation: pick one soon or get nothing.
I check my clock and see that it’s noon now. I’ve got a few hours before I have to start getting ready. I decide to start with some exercise before I shower and make sure I’m plucked, groomed and everything else I need to be for this date. I get out of bed and head to the roof of my building where I proceed through an hour of wushu forms, nothing as complicated as I used to do when I was taking thrice weekly classes but still plenty active, I don’t need to do double spinning kicks to work up a good sweat. When I’m done, I head downstairs, where Mother is waiting for me, Yip having already gone to the office. “Where have you been?”
“Practicing my wushu up on the roof,” I tell her. “I wanted to get some exercise in before I have to start getting ready for my date tonight.”
“Date?” Mother asks, her bad mood lifting slightly. “You have a date?”
“Yes, Mother,” I reply, showing her my phone. “Happy now?”
Mother must be happy, she doesn’t comment on my sarcastic tone. Instead she looks gleeful as she hands the phone back. “Oh my, the Waldorf Astoria! This suitor, they must be very well to do.”
“Or willing to put a big tab on their credit card,” I reply, thinking that’s the more likely situation. “Normally I’ve gotten a restaurant name, but just the front desk? Guy probably only has enough money to take me around the corner for some dim sum.”
“You must keep a positive attitude!” Mother scolds me, but not too harshly. “You never know, he could be a Prince of England.”
“I doubt the Prince of England is looking for a mail order bride,” I correct her. “William’s married, and Harry’s certainly not lacking in girlfriends.”
“You never know,” Mother says with that self satisfied air of the perpetually wise due to age. “Well, in any case, do your best! Make sure you bathe well, and take care of those eyebrows of yours, you know I’ve told you a thousand times-”
I tune her out, knowing that most of Mother’s critiques of my looks can boil down to ‘look more Chinese.’ Shrink that nose, darken those eyes, smooth out that forehead, stuff like that. Same shit I’ve been listening to for all my life. Instead, I just interject the proper ‘yes, Mother’s’ at the right points, and as soon as I can escape back to my room.
With some peace and quiet finally, I try and decide on what
clothing I want to wear to this date. On one hand, the matchmaker has said that many of the clients prefer to see Chinese women looking ‘Chinese,’ which means Mandarin collars and that sort of stereotypical dress with frog-style buttons that populate video games and those old Shaw Brothers movies. I have more than a few, the bar prefers I wear them for work, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have some flirty, sexy Western style dresses as well.
“To hell with it, if I’m going to meet someone, I want them to see I’m not some lotus flower,” I mutter to myself, picking out my favorite dress, a red dress that reminds me of the classic Marilyn Monroe dress that she infamously wore over a train grate in that one movie. The skirt’s a little tighter, and a little shorter, but the overall image is the same. Setting it aside, I bathe, making sure everything is shaved and trimmed properly. I also indulge in another one of my little rebellions against what ‘good’ Chinese girls do as I shave my pussy, something supposedly only naughty girls do here. Not that I care, it’s my own way of rebelling, nobody checks my panties without my permission.
After I’m finished I take a few hours to relax and read, re-reading one of my favorite English books, The Lord of the Flies. At six, I get ready, making sure my makeup highlights the green of my eyes since I think it’s my sexiest feature before I pull on my dress. I go with black heels tonight, four inches with an ankle strap that I think makes me look sexy and powerful at the same time.
Leaving my room, I see Mother looking at me with approval if a bit of confusion at my choices, but she still is being supportive. “I’ve called for a taxi to take you to the hotel,” she tells me, giving me a hug. “Enjoy yourself, and good luck.”
Good luck, which to my mother means ‘make a good connection.’ I keep a smile on my face as I head downstairs and take the taxi to the hotel, which I have to admit is impressive. Of course, the Waldorf name is famous world wide, and as I enter the lobby I take a moment to fantasize about being able to go to the real Waldorf in New York someday. Passing through the tall golden doors with doorman in full tails, I feel luxurious for a moment. Sure, I might be the unwanted daughter of a son of a bitch and a woman who wants to marry me off as soon as possible. I might work in a bar in the entertainment district of Beijing. That doesn’t mean I can’t belong in this world as well.