POV: Thurmond

Thurmond Van Arsdale swore that his only son was an imbecile. Bradford never saw loopholes, workarounds, and just plain sketchy opportunities on the edges. Nor had the young Van Arsdale even begun to catch on to his father’s plans.

And then there was Brad’s foolishness about Jocelyn. Why couldn’t he just bite the bullet and marry the silly girl? No one would expect him to be faithful. He could have it all.

Not only was she loaded, but Jocelyn had also potentially valuable political connections. Her uncle was the US attorney for their district. Not that Thurmond expected any problems. He had been running his games for years.

One of his private investigators reported a new woman in Brad’s life.

*Wonderful. A new chippie for him to chase. A nobody. She probably barely breaks $100K. Pretty enough. But worthless and potential trouble. What’s it going to cost me to be rid of her?*

Thurmond stumbled on an inspired new tactic—he and Jocelyn could team up. Together, they would be formidable. Brad needed to be two-carded; the kid either learned to cooperate or was destroyed.

There were so many more women ripe for the plucking. The kid was naïve. He was his mother’s son, alright. But was Brad his father’s son?

Thurmond Van Arsdale sipped his expensive brandy in the parlor of the exquisite Van Arsdale mansion. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. Yet, he could not shake the feeling that something was amiss. He could swear that he heard his only son’s voice earlier at Dior.

*Why? What business did Brad have at Dior HQ? Checking up on the old man?*

The gospel according to Thurmond: No one ever did anything in this life that was not about Thurmond.

The elder Van Arsdale decided to pacify himself with the primitive projection that Brad was just chasing some bimbo.

He mentally retraced his steps over the past several years as best he could recollect. No, not a single misstep.

*Well done, old boy.*

Then why was the now familiar grey sedan parked across the street?

“Arthur!” Thurmond bellowed to summon his assistant who had better still be in the outer office.

Arthur could live another day; he was still working.

“Sir?”

“What the devil is going on out there?” He gestured towards the windows.

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Look out the damn front window! Better yet, take your lazy arse outside. Who is in the damn grey car?”

Dutifully, Arthur went to the windows and pulled back a drape, “I don’t see any cars.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” a vexed Thurmond stood up and went to the window that Arthur expected to be thrown out of.

“It’s right THERE!”

Except that it wasn’t.

“Well, it will be back.”

“Of this, I have no doubt, sir.”

Thurmond had the feeling he was being mocked.

“Arthur, get my worthless lawyer over here.”

“At this hour, sir?”

“What are you, his social secretary? YES, AT THIS HOUR!”

Arthur scurried away while there was an opening. Fortunately, he knew which of Thurmond’s attorneys to summon; it was Foxy, Thurmond’s full-time fixer.

Every wealthy man needed at least one.

Heretofore unknown women popping up announcing the imminent arrival of unanticipated heirs were all in a days’ work for a “fixer” who operates as something of a scam fairy. Then there were the various and sundry blackmail schemes to handle as well as the just plain goofy who could be surprisingly troublesome.

A wealthy man without a fixer, preferably a stable of them, was a stationary target.

“And hurry the hell up!”

Arthur pretended not to hear as he shut the double doors behind him. As he carefully and quietly secured them, Ferguson approached.

“Hello, Ferguson, what might I do for you?”

“Actually, sir, I thought you might be getting hungry. I brought you a sandwich.”

A grateful Arthur took a peek, “Roast beef! Of Ferguson, you spoil me so.”

“One needs to keep up one’s strength, Mr Arthur.” The moniker “Mr Arthur” was a compromise. Ferguson couldn’t bear the thought of calling the Lord of the Manor’s assistant by his first name and Arthur didn’t feel comfortable with what felt to him like exaggerated formality.

By the time Foxy was hunted down, captured, and delivered, Thurmond’s mood had turned even more sour.

“It certainly took you long enough.”

“Thurmond, the Thirteenth Amendment made slavery illegal.”

“How is your daughter these days, Foxy?”

Foxy felt a sudden rush of ice water in his veins, “Amanda is fine. Why?”

“Still engaged to that fine fellow she loves so much?”

“Yes, she is.”

“They’re planning a winter wedding, I believe.”

*How could he about know this?*

Foxy nodded.

Thurmond lowered his voice to a growl, his eyes were two slits in his twisted face: “I can make that not happen.”

Foxy gulped.

There were a few moments of silence.

Foxy spoke first, “I believe you sent for me?” He couldn’t choke out the term of respect “sir” though he knew his wretched client expected it. He felt such a fool for taking Thurmond in as a client years ago when he was still hungry. Now there was no way out. At least none that he could see.

“That’s more like it.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m being followed,” Thurmond revealed.

“I don’t doubt that for a second.”

“What?”

“Men in your position are followed all the time, everyone wants a piece of you. The correct political term is ‘bimbo eruptions.’ Industrial espionage is always happening and you are a high kidnapping risk. I have been telling you for years to hire an executive security team for you and Brad.”

Thurmond sniffed when Foxy said “Brad.”

“I can bloody well protect myself.”

“Then why are you so worried about being followed that you ordered me here at 9 pm?”

“This is different. It has to be a government vehicle. Or someone wants me to think it’s a government vehicle. It’s always parked along the curb, I can’t see the plates.”

“What does it look like?”

“Nondescript, grey, four door. Could be some Chrysler rubbish.”

Foxy sighed, “Let me see what I can find out. Anything else?”

“Yes. Brad. I want him watched.”

“Are you sure you really want to do that?”

“Perhaps I will introduce him to Amanda.”

“Fine. Whatever,” Foxy was already making a move towards the door, “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“You mean what your investigators find out. You won’t be lifting your pinkie.”

Foxy kept on moving while he still could.

*Damn old fool. I’ll find out who’s tailing you and pray it’s the US prosecutor but if you think I am going to help you destroy your own son, you are quite mad.*

Foxy had reached the end of his tether. Even attorney-client privilege was not 100% airtight. The next time some law enforcement agency approached him about Thurmond, he just might consider a few options.

Meanwhile, he would create dummy reports about Brad. Foxy was certain, however, that Thurmond would not entrust this particular surveillance to himself alone. He would be running PIs of his own.

More chillingly, Foxy understood that should the investigations fail to turn up anything damning, Thurmond would order his investigators to create something.

The lawyer was left torn; he could carry out Thurmond’s wishes or he could, for once, do the right thing—warning Brad.