CHAPTER NINETY
2000 – Okay
“Okay,” I told Prentiss, as I filled him in on my conversation with Pierre. “It’s a go.”
We were at Clarendon Collision, standing by as one of my friend’s many apprentices realigned the brakes on my Land Rover.
“It is?” Prentiss asked. “He’s down? Did you give him the full view or just the need-to-know version?”
“The latter,” I replied. “I mentioned that I have financing but he doesn’t know where it’s coming from. And knowing Cabrón, he’s going to want to become an equal partner as soon as humanly possible.”
“That’s fine by me,” Prentiss said. “I don’t care who does the work or what the split is. As long as I’m still getting paid.”
I laughed.
“Are you still thinking about winding it down here?” I asked, glancing around the garage.
“I don’t think I’m ready to buy a beachfront property next to Lloydie yet,” he replied. “But the wife is starting to run on about Wi need fi leave! It took cold and miserable here!”
“Is Linky ready to take this all on himself?”
“Not yet,” Prentiss said. “I doubt he could afford to buy me out right now. And I refuse to let this shop slide into shit just because I’m ready to be done.”
“Ahhhh, that’s the crux,” I agreed. “You can’t let your legacy suffer.”
Prentiss nodded and changed the subject.
A few days later I was at PanStar, going over the contractor’s work and noting things I needed him to re-do. My cellphone buzzed with a text notification.
Cabrón.
I’m outside. Forgot my key. Come let me in.
“Weh yuh ah deal wid, yute?” I asked him as we entered the storefront.
“Not much,” Pierre replied. “But I wanted to tell you something kinda crazy.”
He then related a story of stopping by his parents’ house to ask his father for help in setting up an LLC.
“My father’s a CPA,” he explained. “He is the king of paperwork.”
I didn’t bother telling Pierre about my own father’s background and the dashed dreams of my youth.
Pierre continued his tale.
“So, I stopped by for dinner,” he said. “My mom’s a really good cook.”
I couldn’t resist asking. “What did she make?”
“Espageti ak aransò,” Pierre replied. “Spaghetti with smoked herring and, like, tomato paste and this Haitian herb marinade we have called epis.”
That sounded like my type of meal.
“Anyway,” Pierre went on, “I stopped by for dinner, but I’d given my dad a heads up that I wanted to talk to him about some business stuff. So, before we sat down to eat, we went into his office and I told him about our real estate plan and I asked him if he’d help me file for my LLC.”
Pierre interrupted himself for a moment, walked over to the fridge, pulled out two bottles of Heineken and handed me one.
He cracked his beer open, took a sip and continued his story.
“So, I tell him what I need and he holds up a finger, walks over to this old as fuck wooden filing cabinet, pulls out a manila folder and hands it to me.”
I took a sip of my Heineken, gently tapped a knuckle against my temple, wondering where this story was heading.
“So, I read the papers in the file and it turns out my father set up an LLC for me when I was in college!”
“And you never knew?” I asked. I wished I’d come from a time and place where my father would have been able to do that for me. I’m sure he would have wanted to if it were a possibility.
“Nope, never,” Pierre said. “I asked him why he did it- like, how did he know I’d ever need this one day. And he told me ‘Voy a asegurarme de que mi hijo tenga las herramientas para construir el mundo que él quiera.’”
“Your origin story,” I replied, quietly.
“How did you know?” Pierre asked, practically shouting. “Mundo and I used to always talk about that shit! How his dad wanted to give him the world and how I got stuck with a father who wanted me to make my own world.”
“And look where Mundo is now,” I reminded him. “Where would you rather be?”
“Here,” Pierre said.
“Okay,” I told him. “It sounds like you’re ready to get to work, then.”
