Temptation by Douglas Kennedy Read Free Book Online

if you are willing to trust me with a nominal sum of money – say, fifty grand – I promise you to double it within six months. You write my company a check for fifty grand, I send you the necessary paperwork, six months later you get a check for 100k minimum . . . ’
    ‘And if you fail . . . ’
    He cut me off. ‘I don’t fail.’
    Pause. I asked, ‘Let me ask you something: why have you put all this effort into snagging me?’
    ‘Because you’re hot, that’s why. And I like hanging with the A-team. Here I go name-dropping again, but have you ever heard of Philip Fleck?’
    ‘The multi-billionaire recluse? The film director
manqué
. Who hasn’t heard of Phil Fleck? He’s infamous.’
    ‘Actually, he’s just a guy like the rest of us. A guy with twenty billion dollars . . . ’
    ‘That’s certainly “fuck you” in your book, Bobby.’
    ‘Phil is
Hall of Fame
“fuck you” – and a seriously good friend of mine.’
    ‘That’s nice.’
    ‘He’s a big fan of yours, by the way.’
    ‘You kidding me?’
    ‘“Smartest writer on TV,” he told me just last week.’
    I didn’t know whether to buy this line or not. So I just said, ‘Say thanks for me.’
    ‘You think I’m talking star-fucking shit again, don’t you?’
    ‘If you say you’re a friend of Phil Fleck’s, I believe you.’
    ‘Do you believe me enough to write me a check for fifty grand?’
    ‘Sure,’ I said, sounding uneasy.
    ‘So write me the check.’
    ‘Right now?’
    ‘Yeah. Take the checkbook out of your jacket pocket . . . ’
    ‘How do you know I’ve got my checkbook with me?’
    ‘Well, in my experience, the moment a guy makes some serious money – especially after years in the swamps – he starts carrying his checkbook around with him. Because he can suddenly buy a lot of big stuff that he couldn’t buy before. And there’s something a lot classier about writing a check than tossing down some platinum-dyed piece of plastic . . . ’
    I inadvertently touched the breast pocket of my jacket.
    ‘Guilty as charged,’ I said.
    ‘So, write the check.’
    I pulled out the checkbook and my pen. I placed them on the table. I stared down at them. Bobby impatiently tapped the checkbook with his index finger.
    ‘Come on, Dave,’ he said. ‘It’s time to deal. This is one of those critical moments that helps define the future. AndI know what you’re thinking: “Can I trust the guy?” Well, I’m not going to sell myself any more. Just let me ask you this: do you have the courage to be rich?’
    I picked up the pen. I opened the book. I wrote the check.
    ‘Smart guy,’ Bobby said.
    A few days later, the official documentation for my investment arrived from Roberto Barra and Partners. Two months went by before I heard from him again: a quick ‘Hey, how’s it going?’ call, which told me that the market was buoyant and ‘we are winning.’ He promised to call again in another two months. He did so – almost to the day. Another fast, pleasant conversation, in which he sounded rushed but upbeat about the market. Then two months later, a Fedex envelope arrived at my office. It contained a bank check made payable to me, for the sum of $122,344.82. A note was attached to it.
    ‘We actually did a little better than 100 per cent. Now let’s party.’
    I had to admire Bobby’s style. After pitching me successfully, he then backed off completely . . . until he had results. In the wake of this amazing return, I immediately reinvested the lot with Bobby, then threw another 250k his way when the second series came through. We started hanging out together on an occasional basis. Bobby still wasn’t married (‘I make a bad prisoner,’ he told me), but he always had some piece of arm candy in tow: usually a model or a wannabe actress. Inevitably she was blonde and sweet and Princess-Not-So-Bright. I used to give him shit about conforming to ‘money dude’ archetype.
    ‘Hey, once I was just a short wop