—So is this going to work? he asked.
—Sure, I said hesitantly, turning to Carter and silently cursing him for leaving me so unprepared.
—Seth’s kind of a wizard. What he doesn’t know about music technology isn’t worth knowing.
—And you think New York isn’t a mature market?
We both shrugged, at a loss.
—It’s like, too mature, said Carter. It’s decadent. People want to get back to the source. The old school. They want things they can touch.
I waited for him to say more, to give me a clue as to what we were trying to sell, but he trailed off into silence, scuffing the rug with a foot. The contrast between the two brothers was instructive. Corny, neatly put together, impregnably respectable. Carter’s bare legs, the tattooed skulls on his chest, visible in the deep V of his poet’s linen shirt. Corny spoke slowly, savoring his own patronizing restraint.
—I meant, are there other people who offer the same service? What is your competition?
I’d never seen Carter blush before. Sure, he mumbled. Of course.
—So there are?
—No. We’re the only ones. We can do, like, a lot of stuff. No one has what we have. I mean, in terms of equipment. And talent.
—Did you actually do any research? Or do you just know?
—Man, get off my back! Give me this one little area, at least. One tiny little area where I’m the one who knows.
—Please don’t call me “man.”
Carter threw his arms up in exasperation. Corny made a pantomime of thinking about his investment decision.
—If I do this, will you wash your hair?
—Fuck off.
—And wear underwear, and stop taking drugs?
—I knew this was pointless. Jesus, for a moment I actually thought you weren’t going to be a dick.
—I am serious. You’re a goddamn disgrace.
—Seth, let’s get out of here.
Corny chuckled.
—God, Carty, don’t get your panties in a bunch.
He took a large leather-bound checkbook out of a drawer, produced a pen.
—Like shooting fish in a barrel. How much, again?
—Fifty.
He sat down to write, arranging his materials with fussy formality.
—I’m satisfied you can’t be in that much trouble. If you had a drug habit or you owed money to the mob, you’d have promised to wash your hair.
Carter took the check and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans.
—Like I said, this isn’t charity. We’ll hook you up, no doubt.
—Dad would tell you to live within your means.
—That would involve Dad finding out my number from his assistant.
—Such a martyr. And don’t take it out on Betty when you run out of funds.
—Why not. She’s paid to deal with my shit.
—She’s only authorized to go up to a certain limit.
—But she’s paid, right. I’m her job.
—You’re all our jobs, Carter. Everybody does their share.
Corny made an ironic face, to show that he was waiting for the thank-you he didn’t expect to get. He held it for a second or two, then let it drop.
—So, I’m bringing some polo buddies into the city next weekend.
—Sure. I got you. Whatever you need.
—Great. I thought you might want to congratulate me, though. You know Dad’s made me VP of Correctional Services?
—Really?
—Really. I’m in charge of the whole Walxr operation. Fifty-eight facilities. All the ancillary services. Effectively I’m the CEO of my own company within the Wallace Magnolia Group.
—Feet fitting the big shoes, huh?
—Be as sarcastic as you like, but you know he’d love to do something for you too. If you cared enough.
—You are truly fucked in the head, Corny. You never take me seriously. I don’t need a job. I have a job. I make music.
—You shouldn’t leave it too long. Don’t get stuck in that life.
He waved a hand at me, casually dismissing the visible manifestation of “that life” like a tasteless shirt or an earring, a kid brother’s foolish and transient choice. Carter sighed.
—Come on, Seth. We’re done here.
We hopped on a golf cart and pit-stopped at the guesthouse, where we smoked a joint, leaning out over the balcony. I was aware that the check was still stuffed into the back pocket of Carter’s jeans, and I asked him if he wanted me to hold on to it. Carter handed it over and I filed it in the pocket of my laptop case. He asked if I really wanted to stay the night. There was probably a scheduled flight back later on, we could get on it. I told him I didn’t mind. Whatever he wanted to do was fine. He seemed despondent, all the morning’s manic energy broken on the jagged rocks of Cornelius. There was something intimate about the moment that made me feel I could risk a question.
—I know it’s not my business, but why are you having to do this?
—Do what?
—Go to your brother. We’re making some money. You don’t need to bow down before him.
He said nothing. I tried to work out if he was offended.
—I’m sorry. It’s just—we’re not in trouble, are we? Financially.
He shook his head.
—There’s stuff I want, that’s all.
—Stuff?
—Records. What else? Things have been put on shellac that I was born to hear.
—What records?
—I have one or two things going on. Deals I’m trying to swing. Don’t worry, you’ll get to hear whatever I buy.