Unexpected Daddies

by Lively, R. S.

  “Maybe you should open the door and ask him.”

  I wave the kid in and he steps through the door looking as meek as a mouse. He stands before Rupert and me like an awkward kid standing in front of his school principal.

  “Peter, right?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “Why is your beard all glittery, Peter?” I ask.

  “The caterers – uhhh – they blew some glitter on me,” he stammers. “For a joke. For fun.”

  I nod. “Uh-huh,” I say. “So, you don't normally glitter your beard?”

  He shakes his head. “I don't.”

  “So, what can I do for you, Peter?”

  He looks down at a file in his hand, looking reluctant to say whatever is on his mind. I take another draw off my cigar and aim my smoke at the ceiling fan as he struggles to find the words. The longer his silence continues though, the more annoyed I find myself getting.

  “Come on,” I say. “Spit it out, Peter.”

  His eyes grow wide and he looks startled – like I'd just pulled a gun on him or something. I sigh and shake my head when he finally starts to speak.

  “I was just going over the transactions for the last couple of weeks,” he says. “It was – your choice to invest in both Decker and Blumenthal, they...”

  His voice trails off and he looks down at the ground. He suddenly starts to look like a balloon that's losing air and is rapidly deflating.

  “Yes, what about them?” I ask.

  “They were just – irregular choices,” he says. “Two unknown defense contractors –”

  “And?” I say, snapping my fingers, my patience starting to dwindle with Peter and his glittery beard. “What is your point? Get to the point.”

  “It's just that – if the SEC regulators look into it, they might think you got tipped off, and –”

  I turn to Rupert for a moment and then turn back to the kid, my irritation starting to boil over.

  “What are you accusing me of, Peter?” I snap. “Insider trading? Are you suggesting that I broke the law?”

  “Yes – I mean, no,” he stammers. “I mean –”

  “What do you mean, Peter?” I ask, my voice rising.

  There are a lot of things people can accuse me of being, and not be wrong about it. But, I've never cheated when it comes to my business. I never cut corners. I never do anything illegal. I pride myself on my knowledge and my skill – and of course, my intuition. I run big risks. That's just who I am.

  As they say, go big or go home.

  But, one thing I don’t do, is engage in shady shit. I run a clean game here and it pisses me off beyond belief when anybody suggests otherwise. I have never accepted inside tips on stocks that are about to skyrocket – or fall straight into the shitter. I will never play a fixed game. Ever. Suggesting otherwise is not only offensive, but abhorrent to who I am.

  “Peter,” Rupert, the voice of reason steps in, “you're new here, so you don't quite understand the way Mr. Bishop works –”

  “It just seems strange,” Peter says, feeling a little more confident talking to Rupert, instead of me. “I mean, those are two very small, previously unknown contractors. We invest heavily in them and then all of the sudden, they're awarded multi-billion government contracts. The timing of it all –”

  I close the distance between Peter and myself in the blink of an eye. He looks up at me and swallows hard. My rage is bubbling over and I can feel the dark expression on my face. Rupert puts his hand on my shoulder, and tries to draw me back, but I shrug it off. I'm not having it.

  “Are you calling me a cheater?” I hiss. “Are you calling me a liar? A crook?”

  Peter quickly shakes his head. “That's not what I'm saying –”

  “Then what are you saying?” I snap. “Spit it out. Now.”

  He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water. “I just – the SEC – the –”

  “Speak!” I roar. “Open your mouth and speak!”

  He takes a deep breath and turns to Rupert, trying to gain some confidence by talking to him instead of me, I guess.

  “I just – I think it looks suspicious, that's all I'm saying,” he meekly states. “I just think we might want to do things a little more by the book, and –”

  My fists are balled at my sides and I can tell my blood pressure is through the roof. Rupert pulls me back and inserts himself between me and the new kid. He gives me a look I know all too well, having seen it more times than I can count. It's his way of saying “calm the fuck down already.”

  If only it was that simple. I got to where I am because I worked my ass off to get here. I don't take shortcuts, and the mere suggestion that I'm cheating the system infuriates me. It's a slap in the face and minimizes everything I've done. Everything I've accomplished.

  To me, it's the ultimate form of disrespect and I'm not having it.

  “Get out,” I say.

  Both Rupert and Peter turn to me, confused expressions on their faces.

  “I said get out,” I snapped, my eyes locked onto Peter. “Clean out your desk and get out of my building. You're fired.”

  His eyes widen, and his mouth falls open. “You're firing me? Are you serious?”

  “Nobody comes into my office and questions my integrity. You've got some serious balls on you, kid.”

  “Let's all just take a step back –” Rupert says.

  “I don't need to take a step back,” I say. “If this kid thinks we're running a dirty shop, then he needs to get the fuck out. I don't need that kind of bullshit in my office. I won't tolerate that bullshit in my office.”

  “Mr. Bishop –”

  I point my finger at him, my eyes narrowed, rage burning through me. Rupert plants himself between the two of us again, putting his hands on my chest to hold me back.

  “Get out of my office,” I say. “You're done.”

  “But, sir, I only –”

  Peter takes a few steps back and looks like he's on the verge of crying.

  “Who the fuck does this little asshole think he is?”

  Rupert looks at the kid over his shoulder. “You should probably go,” he says. “You're obviously done here.”

  The kid makes a small squeaking noise, turns, and flees my office. I watch Peter run to a desk, throw some things into his satchel, and run out the office doors like the devil himself is on his tail, a look of absolute panic on his face.

  It's then I notice everyone else in the office has stopped the festivities and is focusing on the melodrama playing out in my office instead. I realize belatedly that the doors are standing wide open, and my employees probably heard everything that just happened. I look over at Rupert and shrug.

  “No one comes in here and accuses me of being a crook. Nobody questions my integrity, Rupert,” I say. “Especially not some guys two years out of college.”

  Rupert laughs. “I sometimes forget you were raised in the Kitchen,” he says. “At least, until moments like these.”

  “Yeah, that tenacious little street kid lives on inside of me.”

  He shrugs. “Not always a bad thing. Gives you an edge, and keeps you sharp,” he says. “Not a bad thing for the business we're in. At least, not until you start threatening your employees.”

  I let out a long breath and roll my shoulders, willing myself to calm down. It's not easy to do once I get my blood up. But, he's right. I need to dial it back. I look through my window wall and see most of my employees still sneaking peeks at us, their faces pensive. The atmosphere out there has most definitely gone from festive to apprehensive.

  “I guess I should probably go out there and say something,” I say.

  A cheeky grin crosses Rupert's lips. “Yeah, you probably should.”

  Clearing my throat, I step out onto the floor. The room is silent, and I notice people cutting quick looks to each other. They’re probably wondering if they're next on the chopping block.

  “Sorry to rain all over your parade, guys,” I say. �
�What happened in there was unprofessional and not cool. I shouldn't have lost it like that. I just tend to lose my shit when somebody accuses me – accuses us – of being dirty. Of not playing fair. We all take great pains to run a clean shop here, am I right? I take enormous pride in the fact that we do it the right way here, and we’re still successful as hell.”

  There are nods and murmurs of agreement around the room, though everybody still seems a little on edge, not wanting to say something that will incur my wrath.

  “Our teamma – excuse me – former teammate, believes otherwise,” I continue. “Let me make this as clear as possible for everyone. We run a clean shop here. We don’t cut corners. We do shit the right way. We do not accept or trade inside information. We take big risks – but we do not cheat. You all work your asses off and do things the right way – by the book. I will not tolerate your reputations – or mine – being tarnished or minimized by accusations of wrongdoing. That's bullshit. I will not put up with it. We’re better than that. You all deserve better than that. And I will not let anybody suggest otherwise.”

  And just like that, the air in the room goes from tense and pensive to relaxed again. Knowing I'm on their side and fighting for them as well, seems to have placated my team. Everybody is nodding, and soon enough, the atmosphere is festive again. Somebody cues up the holiday music, and everybody goes back to their breakfasts, feeling confident that I have their backs. And I do.

  I take a pull of my cigar and blow the smoke toward the ceiling. Rupert looks at me and I notice he still hasn't lit his own cigar. I give him a smile.

  “See? We're all good now,” I say.

  He grins and shakes his head. “You can take the kid out of the Kitchen –”

  “But you can never take the Kitchen out of the kid.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “It's a double-edged sword.”

  “It's what keeps life interesting, my friend.”

  He nods. “Yeah. That it does,” he replies. “That it certainly does.”

  * * *

  I step into the apartment and close the door behind me. Walking down the short hall that leads to the living room, I hear the TV playing. The voice of the announces echoing down the hallway to me. Because, of course it is. It's hockey season, after all. But then, it's always some season.The world of sports never stops turning.

  I know there's no game tonight, so he must be watching a game recorded on his DVR. He already knows the scores and all – he reads the sports page religiously every morning. Which is why I find it so mind-boggling that he'll sit and watch a game he already knows the result of. He knows who won, who lost, who scored, and who didn't. And yet, he'll still watch the entire game.

  The man can never get enough of his sports. I like sports well enough, but for very different reasons. Even though I'm no longer running the book in the back of Pops' bar, I still look at games, and break down the matchups, analyze the data, and pick my winners. Once

  , I'll lay a little money down, just for fun. But, my enjoyment of sports is pretty much exclusive to business now.

  When it comes to sports though, Pops is practically addicted to them. For him, it's a passion, and its visceral. He loves the Mets, Rangers, and Knicks with a passion that borders on the unhealthy. But, it's harmless, and it's something he enjoys, so fuck it. Let him enjoy the things he loves and bring him some happiness. He deserves it.

  “Pops,” I say. “How they doin' today?”

  “Fuckin’ Rangers,” he grumbles. “Down a pair of goals in the third period. It's gonna be another lost season.”

  “It's still early yet. Season's not even halfway through,” I say. “I do remember telling you they were gonna have a rough year.”

  He grumbles and shakes his head. “Yeah, I'm gonna have to listen to you one of these years.”

  I drop down on the couch beside him and take in the last out of the recorded game. When the final horn sounds, he flips the TV off, and tosses the remote onto the couch cushion next to him.

  “Seriously, why are you such a Rangers die hard?” I ask. “All they ever do is break your heart.”

  He smirks. “I had an old lady once who said I was a glutton for punishment. A masochist or some crap like that,” he says. “She wasn't talkin' about the Rangers though.”

  “Yeah, given your love for the Rangers, I guess I can see how that applies.”

  He laughs. “Loyalty, my boy,” he quips. “It's all about loyalty. I grew up a Rangers fan and I'm gonna die a Rangers fan. It's just the circle of life.”

  “How ya feelin' today, old man?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Ain't dead yet. That has to count for somethin'.”

  “It counts for a lot.”

  “You know you should just put me in a home,” he says. “You shouldn't be wastin' your money on me like this.”

  “It’s my money to waste,” I say. “And if it was not for you, I wouldn't have the money to begin with.”

  Shortly after Bishop Financial started turning a profit, and I started making some good money, Pops had a stroke. I guess the timing was the only fortunate thing about it, because I was able to pay for top-notch care. And, other than having a shitty memory, moments where he's not entirely lucid, and being confined to a wheelchair now, he still the same old Pops I've always known and loved.

  After the stroke, I moved him out of that shitty apartment he'd long refused to leave and set him up in a nice luxury apartment in a seniors community. It's got a nice view, and a lot of good amenities he seems to enjoy. Of course, the best amenity for Pops is that the number of women to men in the community is two to one, which I know he enjoys. He's also got a live-in nurse to take care of him now.

  He's a proud man, and doesn't like to take handouts – even though, he's given more than a few in his time. Including to me. He deserves it. I think he should be comfortable. He's getting older and needs a little extra help. Help I'm more than happy to give.

  “Serious, kid,” he says. “You should be out livin' your life, not worryin’ about some old man.”

  I laugh. “I'm livin' my life, Pops,” I say with a smile. “Don’t worry.”

  “Don’t I know it?” he cajoles. “I saw you in that shitty magazine with that blonde. Wow. If only I were twenty years younger.”

  “Forty, Pops,” I tease. “If you were forty years younger.”

  “Screw you,” he snaps and laughs. “Fine, forty. Whatever.”

  Pops taught me to use my head and to appreciate a woman who does too.

  Unfortunately, I haven't found her just yet. Living the life I do, a lot of the women who throw themselves in my path are just looking to snag a rich man. It's just the nature of the beast I want more than that.

  Once upon a time, I thought I'd found that woman. A woman who changed how I perceived the world around me. Made me think and look at things differently. As cheesy as it is to say, she stimulated more than just my body – she inspired my brain as well. And to me, that was the one of the sexists thing about her.

  She was someone I could imagine myself settling down with. But – well – shit happens, and life gets in the way.

  “So, what brings you by today?” he asks. “Shouldn't you be out conquerin' the world or somethin'?”

  I shrug. “Conquering the world takes time and patience,” I say. “You also gotta be able to unplug and have some fun once in a while.”

  “That's true, kid,” he says. “So, why are you here messin' with me when you should be with some underwear model. That's what I'd consider fun.”

  I laugh. “Man cannot live on models alone, old man.”

  “Says you.”

  “He wouldn't know what to do with a gorgeous young model if she sat on his lap anymore,” Adriana says. “He might keel over and die of happiness right there.”

  Pops grouses. “At least I'd die happy.”

  I grin as Adriana, Pops' live-in nurse, walks into the room. She's tall, fit, has long, black hair and dark hazel eyes. Adriana has a mouth like a sail
or, takes absolutely zero shit from anybody, and isn't afraid to dole it out to Pops – obviously.

  Adriana is sarcastic and cutting, but beyond tender and caring with the old man. She gives him the best care around, and as cantankerous as he can be sometimes, I know she cares for him deeply. And although he won't admit it, I know he loves her too. It's for all those reasons and more, that I adore the woman.

  I wave around the apartment, frowning at all the Christmas decorations strung up around the place. There's a tall tree in the corner, festooned with ribbons, lights, and garish ornaments. Garland hangs around the windows, and other assorted decorations are everywhere.

  “Is this your doing, Adriana?” I ask.

  “What?” she shoots back. “It's the holidays. The place should be festive. Joyous. Happy.”

  “It looks like one of Santa's elves got a hold of this place,” Pops growls, then looked over at me. “I didn't have anything to do with this, kid. I woke up and it looked like this.”

  Pops doesn't have the same loathing of Christmas that I do, but he's a little crankier than normal around the holidays. And, he's never been one who's big on outlandish, garish displays, or things that are overly commercialized – like Christmas.

  “I had some time to kill,” Adriana says. “And I thought this place needed a little holiday cheer. It was depressing as hell in here.”

  “I need some holiday booze to deal with your holiday cheer,” Pops says.

  “You wish, old man,” she replies. “You know your doctor told you no more booze on your meds.”

  “I have to agree with her on that Pops,” I say. “You can't drink anymore. Not with all the pills you're taking.”

  “Some holiday cheer and spirit,” he grumbles. “A couple of regular Grinches right fuckin’ here.”

  Adriana and I share an eye roll and a laugh.

  “Time for therapy, old man,” Adriana says.

  Pops groans and rolls his eyes. I laugh as I get to my feet and turn around to face him.

  “C'mon, Pops,” I say. “Your chariot awaits.”

  “Chariot,” he huffs. “I feel like a damn infant, havin' you all pushin' me around in that thing.”