Chapter 3 - He refused the hotel
Thomas came to the hospital wearing a different coat.
Still worn.
Army green.
He had shaved.
I almost wished he had not.
The effort made me understand that someone had told him a billionaire wanted to meet him.
He stood by the door.
“You wanted me?”
“Yes.”
He looked uncomfortable.
I pointed to the chair.
He sat.
“Thank you.”
He shrugged.
“Anybody would’ve done it.”
“No.”
That came out harder than intended.
He looked at me.
I continued:
“Anybody did not.”
Silence.
Then:
“You don’t owe me.”
“Why did you come?”
“A woman in a suit said you wouldn’t stop asking.”
“Evelyn.”
“She scares me.”
“Good judgment.”
Thomas smiled.
First one.
I asked:
“Where are you staying?”
He immediately stiffened.
“No.”
“I asked a question.”
“And I know where rich-person questions go.”
“Where?”
“Hotel. Apartment. Job. Television segment. Everybody gets to feel better.”
“That happened before?”
“Not to me.”
He looked toward the window.
“To guys I know.”
“Would a hotel hurt?”
“Depends what it costs me later.”
I understood.
Help can create invisible contracts.
“Nothing.”
“Then no.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a spot.”
“A tent?”
“Sanctioned site.”
“It’s January.”
“They have heaters in the common tent.”
“Thomas.”
He leaned forward.
“Mr. Whitmore, I’m glad you’re alive. I mean that. But if I take a hotel because I picked you up off a sidewalk, then every conversation after that has money sitting between us.”
I stared.
He added:
“I already know you have more than me.”
That was obvious enough to be funny.
I laughed.
Chest hurt.
Worth it.
“Arthur.”
“What?”
“Call me Arthur.”
“Fine.”
He stood.
“Then call me Thomas and stop trying to fix me before you know what’s broken.”
That sentence stayed.
Evelyn entered five minutes after he left.
“Well?”
“He’s rude.”
“So you like him.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Did he ask for anything?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I offered a hotel.”
She closed her eyes.
“He refused.”
“Good.”
“Stop being pleased.”
“I’m pleased because every fact that contradicts opportunistic influence helps later.”
“Later what?”
She opened her folder.
“Your sons filed a petition this morning requesting temporary appointment of a business fiduciary over your voting interests on the basis that you suffered a major cardiac event.”
I stared.
“While I’m conscious?”
“They are not alleging dementia. They are arguing emergency continuity.”
“What emergency?”
“Whitmore Meridian’s pending debt refinancing.”
“Daniel can handle the company.”
“He wants your Class B voting consent.”
There.
The real reason.
I still controlled 37 percent of the company’s high-vote shares through my revocable trust.
Daniel ran the business.
May you like
He did not control it.
Yet.
