company in some capacity—mostly peon. But a career working for his grandfather wasn’t the golden opportunity Jud’s grad school buddies imagined. For as much as the house and business had changed, Victor hadn’t. He was still difficult and demanding. Nepotism didn’t feel like favoritism when Victor Banning was the one doling it out.
It was early spring now, a time of year when the morning marine layer seldom hung over the coast, so the sun glinted off the water and reflected from the glass of waterfront homes across the isle; it soaked through a wall of windows on the water side of the Banning home. The dining room grew warm, sunlight spreading like melted butter over the room and over Jud Banning, who was sound asleep at the dining table.
He sat up, suddenly awake. And just as on the last three mornings, the housekeeper stood over him holding a carafe of coffee. He glanced around the room, a thread of panic in his voice. “What time is it?”
“Early.” Time was either early or late in Maria’s eyes. Days, weeks, and months were noted only if they held religious significance—Ash Wednesday, Lent, the Assumption of Mary. You could ask her when the steaks would be done and she’d tell you how to butcher the cow. She had come to work from Mexico as cook, housekeeper, and nanny two days after Jud and Cale arrived, and thirteen years later she was still the only woman in an all-male household. She set the coffee and a mug down with a meaningful thud. “You fall asleep here every night, Jud. Papers everywhere.”
“I know. I know.”
“Mr. Victor is coming home today. You want him to see you like this?”
“He won’t. The board meeting is today.”
“Beds are for sleeping. Desks are for working. Tables are for eating.”
“I’ve never eaten a table,” he said, deadpan. She merely looked at him, so he changed the subject. “I won’t be here next week. I’m going to the island with Cale tomorrow.”
“That boy.” She shook her head and headed for the kitchen. “He never comes home.”
“He’s busy with school.”
“He’s busy with the girls,” Maria said and disappeared around the corner.
Jud could hear the sound of Barbara Walters’s voice on the Today show coming from the kitchen TV, a sign he wasn’t late. Under the charts and graphs, notes, and P&Ls piled on the table he found his watch; it read seven fifteen. He slipped it on and ran both hands through his shaggy hair. He didn’t cut it, just to annoy Victor. Unlike Cale, Jud kept his revolts on a more subtle scale.
Around him were weeks’ worth of paperwork, but stacked on a nearby chair were glossy black presentation folders with his proposal ready for board approval. Today was the first Friday of the month, and the board meeting would begin as always at precisely 10 A. M. From the moment he’d been able to negotiate with another supplier, he knew this was a winner of a deal. It would cut the proposed cost for new oil tankers by over two million dollars, a figure he expected would bowl them over.
So an hour later, he came down the stairs whistling as he tied the knot in his new tie, then shrugged into his suit coat and stopped by a mirror for a quick look. Tugging down on his cuffs, he said, “Old man, have I got a deal for you.”
A few minutes later Maria met him at the door. “Take Mr. Victor’s newspapers with you.” She dumped them on the box of folders he carried and opened the front door for him. “It’s Good Friday. You go to church.”
“Sure thing.” He hadn’t been in a church since his college roommate got married.
The static, machine-gun racket of an air compressor came from the garages, where there was room for seven cars, plus a full maintenance bay and workshop. Harlan had his head under the hood of Victor’s silver Bentley. Three sports cars were parked in the small bays on the left side. A ’59 Porsche 1600D roadster, a ’63 Corvette convertible, and a Jaguar XKE. All of them belonged to Cale. All of them were bright red. But his brother never drove any single one of them with the regularity of a favorite. No matter how many expensive red sports cars Cale bought, none would ever be a replacement for their dad’s MG.
The MG was parked in the fourth bay, gleaming like California sunshine because Harlan was a man who truly loved cars. Every Banning automobile ran to its capacity as a finely tuned machine, engine smooth, body always washed, and the chrome and tires polished.
Jud opened the driver’s door, dropped the folders on the floor, and threw his briefcase on the passenger seat. He opened the trunk and tossed the newspapers inside—the Los Angeles Times, the Examiner, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Register, the Daily Pilot, and the San Diego Tribune. He didn’t understand his grandfather. If you’d read one paper, hell, you’d read ’em all.
Harlan lifted his head out from underneath the Bentley hood and grabbed a rag from the back pocket of his gray work coveralls. He spotted Jud, frowned, and glanced at an old Banning Oil Company clock on the back wall, then switched off the noisy compressor. “You’re leaving early. Your grandfather’s plane isn’t coming in until nine thirty.”
“I need to be there early.”
But Harlan’s expression said what every Banning employee knew. No one did any board business before Victor arrived. Harlan stuffed the rag in his pocket and went back to work.
Jud let the engine warm up and backed out, waited for the electronic gates, tapping the steering wheel impatiently before he honked the horn twice and sped away.
The Santa Ana headquarters for BanCo occupied the top seven floors of the Grove Building, a glass, metal, and concrete structure that took its vanilla name from the old orange groves that had been plowed under to clear the building site. From Fifth and Main, towering glass buildings bled from one mirrored image into another, looking nothing like farmland. Sound carried up from the nearby freeways, the constant hum of cars along Interstate 5, and the air had an energized buzz, a swarming sound of human activity that hung above busy streets at lunchtime and after five.
On the fifteenth floor, no traffic noise came into the boardroom as Victor Banning sat in front of his unopened proposal folder and listened to Jud talk.
“I know Banning has never dealt with Marvetti Industries,” Jud said. “But I’ve met with them and found their tankers to be top of the line.”
Victor heard the word “Marvetti” and stood up. “This meeting is over.” A pointed pause of absolute silence existed for a nanosecond, then the board members dropped their folders and fled the room like rats from a sinking ship.
Jud stared at him, red-faced. “What the hell was that all about?”
“We’ll talk in my office.” Victor headed for his private office.
Silently, Jud followed him inside and shut the doors. “Okay. What’s going on?”
Victor took his time. He sat down at his desk, a large, impressive piece of rectangular furniture that put space between him and everyone else. “You tell me.”
“Tell you what? You cut the meeting off in the middle of my presentation.”
“To stop you before you made a complete fool of yourself.”
Immediately Jud’s hackles went up, his body language stiff and all too readable.
