The Trust (6 page)

*   *   *

That afternoon I forgot the markets. I didn’t care about the Dow Jones. As far as I was concerned, the index could blow up with or without my help.

Same thing with SKC. I didn’t care about the drama du jour. I had no idea why Anders was squeezing me for information. And for the moment, I had no reason to believe anything was out of the ordinary. My shop is a fucking soap opera 24-7.

Palmer Kincaid pounded through my brain the rest of the day. Dead at sixty-six. I couldn’t believe he was gone. Frankly, there were a number of things I couldn’t believe.

Palmer was a skilled drinker. We had eaten at all the top restaurants, Le Cirque, Le Bernardin, whatever suited his fancy whenever JoJo and he boarded their private jet for New York City. I had seen him guzzle wine, vodka, every form of alcohol you can imagine. Even grappa, which tastes like turpentine if you ask me. He never got sloppy, not once. He was always in command, always in control.

Palmer was also a skilled sailor. He had won countless regattas through the years. He was more comfortable on
Bounder
than he was on land. So he said. I didn’t buy the flying-boom-to-the-head explanation. Not on
Bounder.
Not with his experience.

Nor did I buy the news from Chloe. “All the flights to Charleston are sold out,” she said. “JFK, LaGuardia, even White Plains.”

“There’s got to be something.”

“I’ll keep trying.”

Chloe was right.

*   *   *

On Tuesday, I boarded an early flight and arrived in downtown Charleston around noon. Palmer’s vigil was that night. And me being an O’Rourke, I refused to miss it.

“Real friends,” my dad used to say, “show up at your wake.”

If you ask me, the night before your own funeral seems a little late to find out. But I never challenged the big guy, then or now. I make the wakes.

The Charleston Place Hotel was what you expect from luxury accommodations down South: crisp, clean, the temperature cold enough to hang meat. I dumped my bags upstairs and headed outside to Meeting Street, where Charleston remained exactly how I’d left it. Heat that saps your energy. Palmettos everywhere and, because they offer no shade, not much help with the sun. The air smelled sweet, muggy with camellias and horse piss from the carriage rides. There was no hint of the fall, just a few days away.

I began walking toward Palmer’s place on South Battery, through the time capsule of buildings two and three hundred years old. And the old feeling returned, the sense that I had joined an ongoing epic with Southern heroes and Yankee barbarians, that I had entered a consecrated land where the families had been hallowing their homes, their way of life, and sometimes each other for generations. Given the circumstances, it was a coin toss whether I wanted to be back.

About ten minutes later, I pushed through a black wrought-iron gate into the Kincaids’ front garden. There was a crepe myrtle off to my right, its flowered branches blasting with lavender. Two columns of gerberas, potted in Charleston-green containers, lined the painted wooden stairs. And hanging baskets of pansies, laced with violas, sprayed the porch with violets, whites, and purples so dark they were black.

Nobody does gardens like Charleston.

I’m in good shape, and the hike from the hotel had been short. But I don’t care if you’re Charles Atlas himself. Sweat was already drenching my white oxford shirt. On the way over, I had draped my tan jacket across my shoulder. I pulled it back on, both to hide the dampness and to afford Palmer the proper respect.

Ferrell opened an arched mahogany door, nearly eight feet high. He was seventy-something, stiff and gray in an ageless kind of way, his manner genteel and distinguished. He had been working for Palmer as long as I could remember. Driver. Butler. Whatever. I didn’t know his exact title, only that he was Palmer’s go-to guy for everything.

Dark, puffy circles rimmed his eyes. But the lines were not from age. His bags came from tormented nights, from staring at the ceiling fan and remembering a friend. From thinking,
What a waste.

“Mr. Grove,” he said, “the family’s been waiting for you.”

Some things never change. Ferrell’s formal address made me uncomfortable. Under any other circumstances, I would have reminded him to call me Grove. Now wasn’t the time. I shook his hand, looked him in the eyes, and walked inside the double-wide foyer with fourteen-foot ceilings. “You were together a long time.”

“Mr. Palmer was a good man.”

Yesterday morning, Claire had asked me to drop by “Daddy’s house” the minute I arrived. “JoJo and I will be there.”

I expected to find the two of them, alone with their grief and members of the staff. But a modest crowd had already arrived. The who’s who of Charleston were gathering to extend their condolences long before the seven-thirty wake that evening.

Jim and Lita Devereaux were there. So was Gabby Calhoun, who hated her nickname but everybody called her Gabby anyway. I saw Bull Pinckney, Missy Heyward and her husband, whose name I couldn’t remember. It was probably Rutledge, but I always confused the guy with Bat Ravenel. The Pritchard sisters were there, identical twins. So were Prawler Condon, Sunny Harken, and Monsignor Manigault. All the faces and unique Charleston names—I knew these people from Cathedral or around town, but we no longer stayed in touch. It felt like I had stepped back ten years.

“Grove O’Rourke, is that you?” called a woman from across the room.

It was JoJo, svelte in trim black pants and a matching top. I would have said Armani, but Annie tells me I think everything is Armani and that most of our older friends wear St. John. JoJo was taller than I remembered. Maybe it was the heels. And her hair was lighter than the last time I saw her. Maybe it was the highlights, but again I’m getting into Annie’s territory. She looked fresh off a movie screen: flawless tan, perfect white teeth, and a figure that had grown more provocative on the cusp of forty. Only her moist brown eyes betrayed the reason we had all gathered.

JoJo squeezed Bull’s shoulder and walked toward me, stopping to instruct Ferrell where to put two dozen roses that had just arrived. “Give me five minutes,” she said, resting her hand on his, “and get Rose on the phone. I want to go over tomorrow’s menu with her one last time.”

I half hugged JoJo hello, formal and awkward the way O’Rourke men have been greeting women for generations. The fact was, I didn’t know JoJo all that well. I felt more comfortable hanging back and letting her take the lead. She had moved to Charleston from San Diego, and she became Palmer’s star broker about the time I graduated from Harvard Business School. As their relationship evolved, she phased out of his real estate interests and into the Palmetto Foundation. JoJo and Palmer had married five years ago, and the hug was me erring on the side of caution. We had spent only a handful of evenings together in New York City.

JoJo didn’t hold back. She threw her whole body into the embrace. Squeezed me hard. Her storied dachshund, Holly, appeared from nowhere and started to bark. I think from jealousy.

When we finally broke, she cupped my face with her hands and said, “I’m so glad you’re here. It means everything to me.”

The words surprised me. With her touch, tone, and teary eyes, Palmer’s wife conveyed intimacy way beyond the depth of our friendship. “You know I owe Palmer everything.”

“He often talked about getting you back to Charleston.”

JoJo straightened my jacket, stepped back, and looked me once over. “Don’t they feed you in New York City?”

I came up empty on the small talk and shrugged.

“You need to spend some quality time with a fork, Grove. After the funeral tomorrow, I’m feeding half the peninsula back here. And I won’t be happy until you pack on ten pounds.”

I know the happy-face act, how to pretend everything’s wonderful when you’re bowled over and ready to throw up your grits and a lion’s share of grief. Been there. Done that.

JoJo had gone into funeral entertainment mode. She was rallying with friends and staving off her pain. After the tears were shed, after everybody said, “I’m so sorry,” or asked, “How may I help?” after they finished their drinks and paid their respects—she would sit alone in Palmer’s big house with nobody but her dog and her despair. The heartache would eat her marrow like myeloma. Nobody ever cheats grief from getting its way.

“Miss JoJo,” interrupted Ferrell. “The caterers are on the phone for you.”

“Oh, right. Tell Rose,” she replied, winking at me, “we need three dozen more of those shrimp kebabs. And more of that red snapper she serves with cilantro sauce.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s find Claire,” JoJo said, tugging my hand, squeezing and touching her way through the gathering that was growing bigger by the minute.

Roses were arriving left and right. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to talk with Palmer’s widow. Or they wanted to catch up with me. A woman whom I hadn’t seen since high school said, “Let’s grab a drink after the wake.” JoJo was on a mission, though, and insisted we find her stepdaughter.

More of a “stepsister,” given their age difference.

“I need to talk to both of you,” she said, speaking to me, but somehow connecting with everyone in the room.

“Lead the way.”

We found Claire staring at the portrait of Palmer over the fireplace, a Warhol no less. She wore a black top and pleated charcoal skirt, the close shades her signature style. She turned, and it was like we had never left my wife and daughter’s funeral. No hint of aging. No advance of time. Her skin soft in the afternoon light. Claire still possessed that vulnerable look—buffed, elegant, the expression that asked, “Will you take care of me?”

“Hey, you.” I hugged her with my awkward O’Rourke hello.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

JoJo rubbed both our backs and said, “I spoke to Huitt this morning. He asked if we could all meet at his office on Thursday.”

“Why me?” The request for my presence seemed odd. Huitt Young was one of Palmer’s lawyers. I suspected he was the executor, because the two men had been friends since they attended Bishop England together.

“Huitt insisted,” JoJo confirmed.

“Do you know why?” I asked.

“Just be there,” she said. “Oh, there’s Gordie. Gotta go.”

“Gordie?” I asked, once JoJo was gone.

“One of dad’s roommates from college.” With that we stood there, alone with our memories of Palmer and each other.

CHAPTER EIGHT

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

Back home, everybody called him “Bong.” Not that he was a druggie. And not that he abstained. Through the years, Bong had tried everything at least once. There was nothing better than “black hash,” opium mixed with hashish, especially when made from the really good shit that’s impossible to find outside Myanmar.

Those days were behind him. He was a businessman. He had no time to get Marley’d. And the truth was, his nickname predated all the sucking, snorting, and shooting up. His parents called him Bong as a toddler because he loved doorbells and was always mimicking their sound.

“Bing bong.”

From inside his Chevy, a white nondescript rental, Bong stared at an art deco building across the street.
ANACOSTIA
was posted on the facade in bold, cursive, billboard-sized letters. And underneath, a signpost marked the streets. He was standing at the intersection of Martin Luther King Avenue and Good Hope Road.

“Good Hope” my ass,
he thought.

Bong knew a thing or two about poverty. He had endured the worst, seen it, touched it, smelled it, heard it, and yes, tasted it. As a teenager, he lived in a barrio perched on stilts over a river clogged with excrement. There was nothing worse than watching a dead neighbor float facedown and ride the intestine-brown water to wherever. Anacostia was better than the slums back home. But the place was a pit no matter what
The Washington Post
wrote:

“Historic district.”

“Home to a growing enclave of artists.”

“Safer because Marion Barry is no longer the mayor.”

Bullshit.

To Bong’s way of thinking, no self-respecting sewer rat would be caught dead in this shit hole of flaking paint and run-down buildings. Southeastern D.C. reminded him of home, of growing up in squalor and making do on what the blowflies ignored. The district also reminded him of prison. Only here, the iron bars kept people out instead of locking them in.

He drove east a block and turned south, the area more residential now. All the air conditioners were hanging out the second-floor windows, maybe for sleeping in the bedrooms, or maybe because thieves could rip window units from ground-floor sashes. Two more turns, three minutes to park, a short walk around the block, and he was staring at Sacred Heart.

The church made him proud. The grainy stucco exterior, a ruddy tan washed out by design, was in mint condition. No cracks anywhere. The light blue trim was pristine. There were no hints of the flaking paint that plagued the rest of Anacostia.

Nothing but the best for Father Mike.

For a moment Bong savored his handiwork. The sign out front, his sign, read
SACRED HEART, ROMAN CATHOLIC PARISH.
The seconds drifted by, a few cars too, until he remembered there was a job to do. No time for nostalgia. He was a businessman after all.

Sleeves rolled up, Bong was carrying a lunch bag in his right hand. He was hungry and craved potato chips, something salty to tide him over. There was no food inside the brown bag, though, and it sure as hell wasn’t time to eat. He’d stop at an Outback Steakhouse later, probably the one outside Richmond off I-95 heading south.

Bong bent over and placed his bag on the sidewalk. The aerosol can inside clinked on the redbrick sidewalk, the only hint of a more prosperous time in Anacostia. He pushed down his sleeves, covering up the tattoo of a frowning sun with eight spider legs. This mark wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted Father Mike to see.

With the spider-sun hidden behind pink oxford cotton, Bong bounded up the steps leading to Sacred Heart. Once inside the dark and cavernous room, he filled his lungs with the familiar air. What was it that made all Catholic churches smell the same? No matter the continent, it seemed like every church piped in the scent of old books and burning candles from the Vatican. Bong reminded himself to focus.