If Jericho Parr lost a hundred million dollars in a stupid bet, especially to Gabriel Fish, his father would take it as the final nail in Jericho’s coffin that he was a royal fuck-up.
Even though Jericho held an MBA from an Ivy League school, even though he’d run a successful venture capital firm for five years, his father had worked his way up the social ladder from nothing. His father never let Jericho forget that he’d had every opportunity that his father hadn’t.
Nothing was ever good enough to satisfy Jericho’s father, but losing this bet and putting himself millions of dollars in debt, maybe having to declare bankruptcy, would be bad enough to make it the sarcastic topic of his father’s every conversation for the rest of their lives.
40
NEWCASTLE GOLF CLUB
JERICHO
Jericho Parr coasted his Jaguar F-Type convertible into the parking lot of the middle-class golf club in Newcastle, Connecticut, a month behind schedule.
The wooden sign at the club’s entrance readNewcastle Golf Club,which lacked imagination. The trees were a little skinny, maybe malnourished from being ill-kept, and the golf holes he’d seen while driving down the road had bald patches. The greens appeared yellowed in some places and overgrown in others. The clubhouse looked large, but its white paint was rough and peeling in places.
Jericho wasn’t looking for perfection, however. He was looking forpotential.
Match, Morrissey, and Kingston had been skulking around the office, hinting they’d made “offers” and were “making progress.”
Jericho felt behind. He didn’t like feeling behind.
Not that they were helping each other or communicating. That would cause them to forfeit the bet.
Granted, Gabriel The Shark wouldn’tknowif they talked about it. He lived in California, and he wasn’t psychic. He probably didn’t have listening devices hidden in the corporate offices of Last Chance, Inc. in Stamford, Connecticut.
Probably.
But they’d all agreed it was unchivalrous to collude on bet specifics, that it bordered on the unethical, especially since it was four against one. For venture capitalists, the four guys at Last Chance, Inc. were strangely concerned about ethics. It had kept them out of trouble with the US Securities and Exchange Commission at least a few times, maybe a lot.
ButNewcastleGolf Club? Newcastle was a working-class town in England known for its shipbuilding industry. Maybe Jericho would rename it Knightsbridge Golf Club after the tony neighborhood of London.
No, the name should be KnightsbridgeCountryClub, not merelygolfclub. He could raise the membership dues thirty percent with that name change alone, increasing the club’s value by the same amount immediately.
Yes, this place might have promise.
Jericho grabbed the warm, oversized cup of his matcha chai latte out of the cup holder and unfolded himself from his sportscar.
Gravel skidded under the soles of his leather shoes. Black stripes of tar painted black lightning bolts over the asphalt.
Tires would throw those loose stones, and they’d hit other cars. Jericho didn’t like the liability. The parking lot would need repaving, which would be an expense with very little return on his investment. He needed to buy a place where cosmetic improvements and advertising would increase its membership rolls and thus its value.
Essentially, Jericho needed to flip a golf course like real estate investors flipped houses.
And after this stupid bet with Gabriel Fish was over, Jericho wasabsolutelygoing to divest himself of the golf course in question with all possible haste. There was no reason to have even one golf course, let alonefour freakin’ golf courses,on the books at Last Chance, Inc., dragging down their return on investment.
Jericho walked around to the back of his Jag carrying his super-large matcha chai, and he wasseethingabout being conned into this stupid bet in the first place. As he turned the corner around the rear of his car and thumbed his key fob to release the trunk, a blond kid high on testosterone and driving a golf cart zoomed past him.
The kid’s elbow knocked Jericho’s hand that was clutching the cup.
When his arm was slammed, Jericho’s hand involuntarily squeezed the flimsy barrel of hot, creamy tea.
Over-sweetened bright green sludge erupted from the collapsing cup, blasting the lid aside and fountaining over Jericho’s golf shirt and trousers.“Hey!”
As the kid careened away in the golf cart with its tires crunching on the pavement, he yelled, “Sorry about that!”
Thick, sticky matcha tea saturated Jericho’s shirt and pants. Green milk froth slid down his shirt. He looked like an alien who had been gored and was gushing chartreuse tree sap.
He’d worn his golf clothes to the course, so he didn’t have an extra set of clothes to change into. At least he had an extra set of socks in his golf shoe bag because the hot latte was seeping into his shoes and squishing around his toes like warm vomit.
