He nods. “Yeah, it was pretty good.”
Pretty good. What an uncultured heathen. No doubt, he would have been eating some fast food sausage sandwich had I not invited him to join me for this sumptuous little feast. It pains me to know that such wonderful fare is wasted on such an unrefined palate.
“Well,” I say. “I suppose the inevitable can't be put off any longer.”
“I suppose not.”
I sigh. “So, you mentioned that you had a meeting with my half-brother?”
Dempsey nods and takes a sip of his coffee. “I did. This past Sunday, in fact.”
“And?”
Dempsey shrugs. “He's not happy.”
I stare at him a long moment, my eyes narrowing. I hate having to drag information out of the man, but he's a poor communicator.
“And what is he unhappy about, Mr. Dempsey?”
“You name it,” he chuckles. “The roster, free agent signings, drafting – but most of all, he's upset about the losing.”
“The losing?”
Dempsey nods. “He's a competitor, that boy,” he says. “Doesn't like losing at all. Called me on the carpet about it the other day.”
I take a sip of my mimosa, savoring the taste of it. “And what did you say?”
He shrugs. “Same thing I always tell him. He doesn't run the team. I do. And until he does, all football decisions go through me.”
“Yes, well,” I say. “My half-brother will never get a chance to make those – football – decisions. Not if everything plays out like I expect it will.”
Dempsey sips his coffee, looking at me over the rim of his cup. “Why is it you hate him so much?”
I look back at him evenly. “I don't know that's any of your business, Mr. Dempsey.”
“No, I suppose it's not,” he says. “But I'm curious. I mean, when you came to me with this plan, it sounded like a business deal of sorts. That much, I understand. But the more I talk to you, the more I see how personal it is to you.”
I take another sip of my drink and lean back in my seat. I suppose it costs me nothing to satisfy his curiosity. I just don't like people prying into my business – my personal business. But still, I know that I need to throw Dempsey a bone if I want to keep him on my side. I know that he's a fickle man and is willing to change allegiances if a better offer comes along – as a long list of coaches and front office personnel can attest to.
“It's not so much Brady I hate,” I say. “It's his last name. More specifically, what that name represents to me. Keating. It symbolizes everything I hate in this world.”
“I don't understand.”
“Of course, you don't,” I say. “But imagine growing up in a single parent home and learning at a young age, that your father wants nothing to do with you. Oh, he provides for you quite well. You want for nothing. But, when all you want is his love, and all you get is a check every month it leaves you a little empty inside. Compounding that, of course, is having your mother telling you that your father won't have anything to do with you because you’re a reminder of a terrible mistake – one that he does not care to continue dwelling on. That you are a chapter of his life best left in the past. Can you imagine how that feels, Mr. Dempsey?”
He is silent and casts his eyes down to the table, fidgeting with his napkin.
“I grew up knowing who my father is,” I continue. “And knowing he wants nothing to do with me. And now, knowing that he's dead and the only way I can make him suffer is to dismantle this little empire he's built – and get fabulously wealthy in the process – is what I hold onto. It's what keeps me going. Knowing that I'm going to take Brady's inheritance away from him – because he was the favored son and I was just an afterthought – is a thought that keeps me warm at night.”
Mr. Dempsey shifts in his seat, obviously a little uncomfortable with my confession. But, I believe you should never ask a question you don't really want the answer to. He wanted to know, and now he knows.
“A little too much personal, family drama for your tastes, Mr. Dempsey?”
He clears this throat and still won't meet my eyes. “I – I just didn't know, is all,” he says. “It must have been – difficult. I'm sorry.”
I shrug. “Nothing to be sorry about. You'd be surprised at what you can learn to live with. It is what it is, as they say,” I reply. “And now, I'll do what I have to do – or whatever the most apt saying might be.”
A moment of tense silence descends over the table and I can tell Mr. Dempsey is still uncomfortable. What I told him is the truth though. My mother told me the whole story about her fling with Dale Keating. About his promise to divorce his wife to be with her – a promise the bastard obviously broke. It shattered my mother's heart.
He paid well enough. His monthly checks were enough to put me through a very nice private school, giving me a wonderful education. They also paid for my college. I truly did want for nothing. Materially, anyway. When I was old enough, my mother brought me to San Antonio and we saw my father – from afar.
She explained to me that the money he gave us – the money that afforded us a comfortable lifestyle, was money meant to keep us away from him. He was paying her to keep me out of his life. She told me that he wanted nothing to do with me and said he thought I would be better off forgetting he even existed.
I remember the day we saw him. I was thirteen and we were in the crowd at some charity function he was giving a speech at. We were near the back of the room, mixed in with the crowd. My mother said it was important that he not see us and that even though I wanted to demand an explanation from him, I needed to not give into the emotion. She said it would only bring us trouble.
And my mother had already had enough trouble because of Dale Keating.
My mother was a good woman. A kind woman. A great mother. And it killed me that having never found real love again, she died alone. She deserved better than that. Much, much better. Better than Deal Keating could have ever given her.
He might be dead, but I am going to make sure he pays for it by making sure that Brady – the reason he chose to break his promise to my mother – suffers mightily.
Mr. Dempsey clears his throat. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he says. “But, how are you going to make sure you take control of Keating Technologies? And the Copperheads?”
“Brady will never live up to the terms of the estate,” I reply. “It's just not in him. Especially the marriage condition. He's no better than his father in that regard.”
“Just to play devil's advocate for a minute,” he says. “But what if he does?”
“In that incredibly unlikely scenario,” I say, trying to keep my patience, “I will deal with it. I have the ammunition needed to nuke any potential marriage situation.”
“Sounds like you've covered all your bases.”
“Indeed, I have,” I reply. “Which brings me to you and that – football team. I assume that things are going according to plan?”
He nods. “They are,” he replies. “We're off to a winless start. We've already seen a drop in attendance.”
“Good news,” I say. “But we still have a ways to go before we meet the trigger to get us out of the stadium lease.”
He chuckles. “As long as I keep drafting the way I have and signing lower-tier free agents, we'll trigger that clause long before the deadline,” he says. “People want to come out and support a winner. And seven wins over the last couple of seasons isn't going to get it done. People will find something else to do with their Sundays.”
“That's excellent work, Mr. Dempsey,” I say. “Excellent work indeed.”
“Assuming we can get attendance down to trigger the lease clause,” he says, “there's still the matter of getting twenty-four votes to approve your relocation bid.”