leaned close. “On the other hand, if you fuck up the White House, then maybe even I’ll forget who you are.” Charleston squirmed. “I get the picture father,” he said. “I’m prepared to fight hard and win.”
“Good,” said Edward. “Then I’ve made my point.” Edward complimented Charleston on the speech he gave earlier, then looked past his son at a portrait of his father and grandfather, their faces stern and impatient.
“Have you given any thought to our conversation about Ian Goldstein?”
“For campaign manager? I’ve already decided on Ralph Wright.
You know he’s been with me from the start of my career. I trust him.
How would it look if I abandoned him now?” Edward rose to his feet, bumping the coffee table, knocking over his drink. “It would look like you really wanted to win! And by the way, you trust him? No, trust me. Trust me when I tell you that if you don’t start listening, you’ll fail miserably. You trust him. No, you spoiled ungrateful ass! I’m still your father. You trust me.” Charleston’s face twisted. Edward walked over to the large Rothschild portrait and looked up at his namesakes. Their presence gave him a sense of peace during stressful moments. Likely I’ll come here often during this campaign. .
Charleston walked up behind him. Edward faced him. “Son, look, I’m just saying…”
“You’ve said enough,” snapped Charleston. Fire blazed in his eyes.
Good, thought Edward, very good.
“Dammit dad. You’re not running for President, I am. And it would do you well to remember that. I need your help, but make no mistake about it. I’ll live without the White House, and live well. How will you sleep?”
“Meaning?” asked Edward.
“Meaning I know you want me in the White House for reasons other than the Rothschild legacy and honor. So if you intend to interfere throughout my campaign, I’ll drop out.”
Edward considered calling the bluff, but decided to let his son walk away. Too soon to pressure him too much. It didn’t matter. He’d already offered Ralph Wright a substantial sum to withdraw.
“Calm yourself son.” He gently, lovingly, put a hand on Charleston’s shoulder. “It’s not that important. Let’s pull together on this one. Your grandfather would kick both our blue blood asses if we didn’t.” Charleston smiled, relaxing like a boy standing up to his father for the first time.
“Move ahead with your plans,” said Edward. “I’m here if you need me.”
They embraced. Charleston thanked him for understanding and ran off to a press conference at the Ritz, energized.
Edward wondered what his son’s face would look like when he and the others met the new President in the Oval Office the night of the inauguration, and fed him a dose of reality. One moment you were the most powerful man in the world, minutes later, the most powerful flunky.
He sat down and watched the sun ease down behind a panoramic view of Washington, tenderly putting the city to bed for the night. He hit the intercom button. His assistant, Jenny, answered immediately. “Get Ralph Wright on the phone and tell him to meet me at the club at nine tonight,” he ordered, smooth and stern. Ralph Wright will play along.
He better. Edward puffed away on a Cuban. If not, there’s no telling how long his stay on earth will last.
“Mr. Rothschild, Mr. Wright has confirmed,” Jenny said, five minutes later. “Your next meeting is ready in the main conference room.” He thanked her dryly and put out the cigar. Edward walked down the long dimly lit hall that led to his private conference room, perusing the photos and portraits of various members of the Rothschild clan. Men willing to go the extra mile come hell or high water.
He paused at a black and white photo of his parents sitting on the patio of their Long Island estate. At the time of the photograph, they were typical Ivy League blue bloods, living a life of privilege during a time of war.
In August, nineteen forty-five, his grandfather and father, steel barons, earned millions from defense contracts and corporate takeovers.
World War II ended with two atomic bombs, and Reconstruction and the Marshall Plan brought more money, more power, more influence.
His mother, Katherine, a dedicated social butterfly, seldom showed him any real attention. She believed raising boys was a man’s job, leaving Edward to fend for himself, with a hard driving, competitive father who offered little encouragement, praise, or kind words.
Once, in a desperate attempt to gain his father’s acceptance, Edward worked feverishly on a school science project. Like most twelve-year-old boys with a busy father, he thought if he could make an impression with his work, it would bring them closer together.
During one of his mother’s many parties, Edward overheard a Texas oilman complain about the number of wells he’d shut down because of heavy wax build-up caked around the well’s openings, from pumped out crude, leaving millions of dollars in the ground. It gave Edward an idea.
He developed a concept using portable steam generators to heat chemicals to high temperatures. When shot down into the well, the mix would melt the paraffin, allowing additional oil to be pumped out. His grandfather was ecstatic, and helped him get the idea patented.
The project a hit, the Texas oilman offered the Rothschild family millions to license the concept. Edward’s father negotiated a handsome fee and placed the money in Edward’s trust fund. Edward beamed, but his Dad was stoic, detached, and business-like. When the final papers were signed and the office empty, Edward silently stood in front of his father’s massive oak desk. As though sensing his son’s gaze, his father looked up, stone-faced. “What next?” he asked, plain and firm.
Edward stood in stunned disbelief.
“Oh, you want a pat on the back do you?” his father continued.
“Maybe a hug and a lollipop?”
Edward quivered uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
His father walked from behind the desk. Relief washed over Edward.
His father finally realized his need for attention and comfort from the man he admired most. He stopped shaking. His father slapped him to the floor. His vision cleared. Edward II stared down at him, unmoved.
“As long as you live and carry the name Rothschild, don’t you ever weaken or break,” his father warned. “If you want pats on the back and hugs, wear a dress and change your name. You can only count on yourself Edward, remember that. The day you forget you’ll be finished.” His father dropped a handkerchief on his chest, sat back down, and continued to work as if nothing happened, not raising his head as Edward slinked out of the room.
Edward ran from the Fifth Avenue office to Grand Central Station, his tears a trickle, then a flood. He caught the train home and ran to his room, where his grandfather waited.
His grandfather, almost seventy years old, carried himself like a much younger man. Ever the optimist, he’d often rattle on about the future, how one day a Rothschild would sit in the White House. Edward knew his grandfather hoped he’d fulfill that dream, but dismissed it as the ranting of an old fool.
“Sit my boy,” he ordered, patting the end of Edward’s bed. “Tell an old man your troubles.”
Edward guessed his grandfather already knew what happened, but felt the need to unload, and poured out his heart. His emotions overflowed in a mixture of confusion and anger. When he’d finished the diatribe, his grandfather sat quietly, studying him as though he were one of the rare coins in his collection. He stroked Edward’s short black hair.
“Your father’s right son. You have to learn to stand on your own two feet or nobody will ever give a damn about you.” Edward looked up at the old man feeling betrayed.
“Now mind those tears boy, or I’ll slap you myself.”
“But grandfather, it’s not fair.”
“It’s not meant to be fair,” he barked. Edward looked at the floor. The old man placed his long, bony finger under his grandson’s chin and slowly, gently, raised his head until their eyes met.
“Of all the things I’ve taught you, never ever forget this.” Edward focused hard not wanting to miss a word.
“You don’t get what you deserve in life, you get what you take. And if you’re not willing to go after what you want at all costs, then here.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an old civil war pistol, fully loaded, and cocked back the hammer, pointing it at Edward’s head.
“If you think life’s unfair, then end it. Right here, right now. I’ll help you. I’ve had a good run, we can go
