“Mr. Jutting is up on the top floor,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “Easiest to take the elevator. A few cautions. Mr. Jutting does not shake hands. He becomes angry easily but it passes quickly. He may try to converse about unrelated matters. Interrupting him is one of the things that can trigger his anger.”
“I understand. I’m just here to ask a few questions.”
“Fine. However, if he asks you to stay for dinner please accept.”
“Stay for dinner?”
“Yes. He has been inviting people for dinner lately. His doctor suggested he socialize more. It helps keep his mind off other things.”
“You act like he’s a child.”
Victoria stopped and turned to face me. “Yes, I do a bit I suppose. We all do. He is a brilliant man but he has his quirks. The ultra-wealthy are not like regular people. They create their own reality in a way. Anyway, he’s my uncle. I’ve known him since I was a child. I know he’s not kind to everybody. He can be a very ruthless person when it comes to business. But he has always been very kind to me. So, I return the favor. He’s a great man. I’m sure you’ve heard rumors but please ignore whatever you’ve been told. He is at the top of his game.” Her eyes had an inward look as she said the last part and she seemed distant, like she was examining her own idealized vision of the great man towering over teeming multitudes of the cringing, common rank and file of humanity. It was a narrow hallway. Her fanatical energy was palpable.
I rocked back on my heels instinctively, putting a little bit of space between us. “Got it,” I said. “If he asks me to stay for dinner, I’ll say yes.”
“Excellent!” She smiled, snapping back to all business, and turned on her heel.
We rode an elevator up to the fourth floor and disembarked into a room set up as a kind of reception area. It looked like it was meant to be a parlor but now had an elegant desk facing the elevator and a grouping of Corbusier grand confort sofas and chairs where supplicants awaited their audience with the genius recluse I supposed. It seemed the regency style was only for downstairs. In this room the colors were subdued neutrals and the furniture was modern. I glimpsed leaves out the window, flashing light dark in the breeze, as Victoria led me over soft carpets to a door behind the desk, near the windows.
“Mr. Jutting is in the solarium. It will be a little warm in here. You might want to remove your jacket.” She stopped, pulled a set of keys from her pocket, and swiped an RFID card across a scanner. A solenoid bolt clacked deep in the innards of the lock and Victoria pushed the door open, revealing a hallway running along the side of the house, leading toward the back if I had correctly maintained my sense of direction. A wave of damp, warm air rolled out. We stepped inside and Victoria closed the door. I took her advice and removed my jacket. “This way please,” she said, starting down the hall. As we approached the rear of the house, I saw a bright glow. The humidity, together with a sweet, cloying smell of rotting vegetation grew oppressive. At the end we emerged into a brilliant greenhouse solarium built into and projecting out from the back of the house. It was designed to look Victorian but was decidedly new. The thin struts that made up the structure were metal glazed white and the glass between them was double paned and fogged with moisture so that a diffuse, hazy glow filled the space. A narrow, terracotta tiled pathway ran down the center, seemingly the full width of the house, and on either side orchids of every color and shape grew rampant, twisting out of pots on stepped shelves, hanging from suspended planters, dripping green, bulbous leaves. I followed Victoria down the pathway. Mixed in with the orchids were various carnivorous plants—gaping, whiskered maws and fluid filled tubes of fibrous green. Maybe they were orchids too? I didn’t know much about tropical vegetation. At the center point the pathway ran into a circular seating area with wicker furniture set out on an intricate tile compass rose, then continued on. A man was standing ten feet away on the farther side of the seating, bent over a flower. Victoria Butler cleared her throat and he looked up, something halfway between a scowl and a smile crossing his face for a moment. He looked just like he did in pictures but not as tall as I had thought—heavy brow, thick neck, and lines running down from the corners of his mouth that gave him a supercilious air as if he was in a constant state of disapproval. He wore a black T-shirt, loose black pants, and black loafers without socks.
“Mr. Vincent, you’ve arrived,” he said, "please, let’s sit and have our talk." He gestured to one of the chairs. “Victoria, please take notes. Oh and ask Karl to bring some refreshments. Soda for me. Would you like soda, Mister Vincent?
"Yes, thank you. Your orchid collection seems quite extensive."
"It is, yes. One moment." Jutting jumped up and made a wild gesture, closing his hand around something. He opened the hand slowly and, with thumb and forefinger of his other hand, carefully plucked something out. It was a fat little gnat or fly of some kind, still alive, little legs flexing, trying to find purchase in thin air. “Lunch for you,” Jutting said, dropping the insect into the waxy, pink orifice of a nearby plant. “I don’t know where these bugs are getting in.” He held out both hands to Victoria Butler and she squeezed a dollop of hand sanitizer into each palm from a small bottle on a carabiner clipped to her key ring. He rubbed his hands together vigorously for
