Chương 136: Book 4 - Chapter 16 A

The transition from the gray, heavy atmosphere of Berlin and the calculated elegance of rainy Paris to the 80-degree warmth of Tulsa felt like surfacing for air. As the 767 banked over the Arkansas River, I could see the glow of the downtown skyline. The Mid-Continent Tower stood as beautiful as ever, but my eyes were on the Mayo Hotel. I didn't call ahead. I wanted one moment that wasn't scheduled by a secretary or secured by a motorcade. I left the security team in the basement garage.

I was carrying a mountain of shopping bags up the elevator. Presents from KaDeWe in Berlin, Galeries Lafayette in Paris and my Seattle presents as well. Max trotted beside me on his leash, his tail twitching with curiosity at the familiar scent of the hotel carpets. When the elevator doors slid open on the fifteenth floor, the sudden wall of noise was almost overwhelming.

The communal living space was a sprawling, high-ceilinged expanse of polished wood and plush rugs, now filled with the chaotic energy of a family that had grown significantly since the summer. At the far end of the room, near the oversized windows, the whole clan was gathered for a late Sunday afternoon snack. My sister Mattie, who had just turned twelve, was currently trying to teach one of Aunt Joan's younger kids how to do a handstand on a leather ottoman.

"Is that a leopard?" a tiny voice shrieked. The room went silent as all eyes turned toward the elevator. Max sat back on his haunches, looking remarkably bored by the attention. I stood there, hidden behind a stack of designer bags and boxes of German chocolates.

"It is a Savannah cat," I said, my voice cracking slightly on the last word.

"And he is very sensitive about his lineage."

"John!" Mattie cried, abandoning her gymnastics to sprint across the floor. She practically tackled me, sending a bag of French silk scarves sliding across the hardwood. My parents stood up from the sofa, looking stunned. My Dad was holding a newspaper—probably still reading about the ARCO Chemical IPO—while Mom just looked at me with that mix of relief and worry that only she could manage.

"You're home," Mom whispered, reaching me and pulling me into a hug that smelled like home.

"We didn't think you'd be back until Thanksgiving."

"I needed a break and this is home," I said, hugging her back.

"I needed more Thanksgiving time with my family." Aunt Joan emerged from the kitchen area, two toddlers in tow, looking like she had finally organized her madness into the Mayo. Behind her, my Grandparents stepped out from their private space. Grandpa looked crisp in a cardigan, his eyes twinkling as he saw me. He'd been back from the New Ambassador in LA for a few weeks, and he looked like a man who was thoroughly enjoying his victory lap.

"The conquering hero returns," Grandpa said, walking over to give me a hug. He leaned in close, his voice a low rumble.

"I saw the estimate on WBN, John. More than seven billion expected for the chemical plants. You're making me look like an amateur."

"I'm just warming up the market for you," I replied.

"You'll do amazing in January." I started distributing the loot. I gave Mattie her SR-71 model and flight jacket, which she donned immediately and a delicate gold charm bracelet from Paris. Aunt Joan got enough French perfume to scent the entire floor, and for the younger cousins, I had a box of clockwork toys I'd found in a small shop near the Brandenburg Gate.

"Where is Matt?" my Dad asked, opening up his new German camera to load film, following the directions while also trying to thumb through the Photography Guide Book I got him in Seattle.

"He's usually two steps behind you."

"He's at San Diego. Things are too busy lately and the office needs to be manned," I said, sitting down on a large armchair as Max jumped up into my lap.

"He's worth his weight in gold. It's been a very long couple of months."

"You look different, John," Mom said, sitting on the edge of the ottoman, wrapping her new scarf around her and pinning it with the driftwood sculpture. She reached out and touched my jaw.

"You've grown two inches since July. And you look... tired."

"I've seen a lot of history lately, Mom," I said, leaning my head back against the leather. For the first time in months, I didn't feel like the 'little mogul' or the boy who was about to bankrupt the oil industry. I was just a kid on the fifteenth floor, surrounded by the people who didn't care about my LTV Ratios or my Thorium Reactors.

"Tell us about the cat," Mattie demanded, reaching out a hesitant hand to scratch Max behind the ears.

"And tell us why you were in Berlin. We saw the news about the wall. Were you really there?" I looked around the room at the innocent future I was trying to protect.

"I was," I said.

"And I think it's the first wall we're going to see come down." Dinner had been a noisy, warm and odd experience. The conversation flowed around me about subjects that had nothing to do with my daily life. When the kids gathered in the Media room, with Aunt Joan riding herd, I slipped off to my bedroom to unpack. Max was happy to be away from the noise and had found his happy perch atop my old Mac. There was a knock and Dad walked in, carrying two glasses of iced tea.

He moved with that easy, deliberate grace he'd always had—the strength of a cowboy tempered by the patience of a man who had taught himself everything he knew. He set the teas down on the nightstand and pulled the desk chair over, reversing it to sit with his arms crossed over the backrest.

"Warm today," Dad said quietly, his blue eyes calm and assessing.

"Won't last, next week will be cold." This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"It's good to be back, I hope it stays warm a little longer," I said, my voice still doing that treacherous adolescent slide between registers. Dad didn't jump into business. He never did. He just sat there for a moment, his fantastic memory likely cataloging the ways I'd changed since July. He'd always been proud of his own trophies—the innumerable certifications on his office walls—but I knew he looked at me and saw something far more complex than a training manual.

"You were quiet at dinner, Johnny," he said, calling me by the name he hadn't used in years.

"Your Mom thinks you're just worn out from the travel, but I saw your eyes when Grandpa was talking about the IPO. You weren't thinking about the money."

"I was thinking about the time, Dad," I admitted, leaning back.

"The clock doesn't stop just because we're having turkey. The ARCO debt is $210 million a month in interest alone. Every hour we sat at that table cost me about $290, 000." Dad didn't flinch at the number. He'd won over Mom's parents by proving he could make money as well as any 'California bumpkin,' and he'd managed the co-op's construction budgets for years.

"I remember when I was teaching myself to read," Dad said, his voice a low rumble.

"I'd stay up till two in the morning with those 'Listen and Learn' records, terrified that if I didn't master the next lesson, I'd be stuck on that farm forever. I felt like the world was moving past me and I was standing still." He looked at me, his gaze direct and piercing.

"You have the opposite problem. You're moving so fast you're afraid the world can't keep up. But John, even a line crew has to stop when the wind hits sixty miles per hour. If they don't, they get blown off the tower."

"I can't stop, Dad. Not before January 1st, or even after. The future is innocent," I told him.

"I realized that in Berlin. It's a little kid that doesn't understand why the angry adult of the present is hurting it, or why the grumpy old man of the past is so mean. I'm trying to save that kid. I can't stop." Dad nodded slowly, the same way he'd nodded when I first played the piano for him and proved I was... different. He didn't rush, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. In his eyes I wasn't a mogul, I was just his son.

"I hear you, Johnny. And I believe you'll save him," Dad said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register.

"But here's the thing about kids: they grow up. The future isn't going to stay a toddler forever. It's going to turn into a man, just like you're doing right now." He leaned forward, his gaze pinning me to my seat.

"My worry isn't about the kid you're saving. My worry is about the man you're becoming while you do it. If you spend every waking second fighting the 'angry adults' of the world, you're going to wake up on January 2nd and realize you've turned into one of them just to win the fight. You'll have saved the future, but you'll have lost the boy who cared enough to do it." He stood up and put a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder.

"Don't let the mission kill the man, John. Give yourself these few days in Tulsa. Let the future be a kid on its own for a minute, so you can be one, too."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Go get some sleep," he said, heading for the door.

"And John? Your cat is awesome and I saw the coat you got Mattie. She hasn't taken it off yet. You're a good big brother. Don't let the 'little mogul' talk on the news make you forget that." As the door clicked shut, I looked at Max. The cat blinked at me, unimpressed by the billions of dollars at stake. I took a long sip of the tea, the condensation cold against my hand, and for the first time since Berlin, the weight in my chest felt just a little bit lighter.

On Wednesday, November 15th, the Tulsa heat had finally broken, yesterday's 79 was this morning's 43. While the family was busy upstairs, I slipped down to the fourteenth floor. Grandpa's old offices were still mostly intact, though the desks were clear and the silence was heavy. I chose the corner office—the one with the best view of the Mid-Continent Tower—and turned on the television. I didn't want the noise of the fifteenth floor distracting me. I needed to see the numbers. WBN was in full 'Market Watch' mode.

The ticker at the bottom of the screen was moving at a frantic pace, and the lead anchor looked like he'd been drinking espresso by the gallon.

"In a stunning show of market confidence," the anchor shouted over the B-roll of chemical refineries, "the ARCO Chemical carve-out IPO has shattered expectations. Originally priced at twenty-two dollars a share, the stock opened at twenty-eight and has stayed there. This puts the total cash raised for the parent company at an unprecedented seven-point-two billion dollars." I leaned back in the leather chair, watching the green numbers flash. That was the sound of the fuse getting longer.

The phone on the desk—the MicroTAC that I usually made Matt carry—let out a sharp ring. I picked it up before it could ring twice.

"You watching the screen, John?" Martin's voice was jubilant, crackling with the electric energy of a man who had just won a war.

"I'm watching, Martin. $7. 2 billion. That's a bit higher than your estimate in San Diego."

"Higher? John, it's a landslide! Goldman is calling it the 'Deal of the Decade.' They're already asking me what else you've got in the pipeline. They think you're a genius for 'unlocking the value' of the specialty oxygenate division right before the end of the year."

"And the debt?" I asked, keeping my voice level.

"I've already initiated the wire," Martin said, and I could hear the rustle of papers on his end in New York.

"As of three o'clock this afternoon, $7 billion is being applied directly to your principal. Your total debt on the ARCO purchase is down to $13 billion. Based on your 12. 6% rate, your monthly interest just dropped from $210 million to roughly $136. 5 million." I closed my eyes for a second, doing the math in my head. With the $2. 015 billion remaining in the cushion fund, the math was undeniable.

"That buys me fourteen more months, Martin," I said, the tension in my shoulders finally beginning to ease.

"I'm safe through all of 1990 and into early '91."

"You're safe through a nuclear winter, John," Martin laughed.

"But don't get too comfortable. I've got the Koch brothers in my waiting room right now. They saw the IPO success and now they're terrified they're going to miss out on the refineries. They're practically throwing their checkbooks at me."

"Let them throw," I said.

"But here's an idea. Make the contract state that ARCO still gets to use the refineries. Make them think that we still need to use them, we just don't want to own them. Nothing requiring us to do so, just the option dangling there for us to exercise. I want them hungry for our business and no one wondering why we don't need refineries."

"Hungry? John, they're starving. I'll call you when the contracts for the refineries are ready for review. Enjoy your Dr Pepper, John. You earned it today." I hung up the phone and looked out at the rain-slicked streets of Tulsa. I had just cleared seven billion dollars of debt while my family was upstairs wondering if it was too early for pumpkin pie. Now sitting around the dinner table would only cost me $180, 000 an hour.

I sat there in the quiet of the old office for a long time, the only light coming from the flickering blue glow of the television. The first wall had come down in Berlin, and now, the first wall of my debt had been smashed. I smiled at my can and took a sip of my Dr Pepper. It was time to go back upstairs and be a thirteen-year-old again.