Free The Five Times I Met Myself by James L. Rubart Page B

truth.”
    “No you don’t. You never do. You just want this company all for yourself. And it ticks you off that you never have been the true owner. The fact I’ve held that itty-bitty two percent over you galls you so bad. You taste it every morning along with your three cups of coffee. And it torques you something fierce that I’m your baby brother and the one who is really in control.”
    “Oh, we’re going to talk truth? How ’bout if I’d focused on the business side I’d be better at that part of the company than you could ever be.”
    “Now we’re in fantasyland.” Ron flicked his fingers in dismissal. “Enough.”
    The reality of what was about to happen to his life settled on Brock like a thick fog.
    “What will we have left when this is over?”
    “Nothing. I already told you that.”
    Brock’s stomach clenched. They’d just bought the big house two and a half years ago. A nice vacation house too. When Tyson applied to colleges last fall they told him private college wouldn’t be a problem. And he’d been accepted at Gonzaga. Shelling out $75,000 per year? No problem. Now suddenly it was.
    “Does Shelly know?”
    Ron nodded.
    “You told your wife before you told me.”
    “Now you get to tell Karissa. Get over it.”
    “How many other people know?”
    “Richard. The lawyers. No one else.” Ron rubbed his forehead. “Yet.”
    “When is it going to leak?”
    “It wouldn’t surprise me if it hits the web by tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”
    “Wow. Thanks for giving me so much lead time.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    “I want to look at all the financials. Everything. There has to be a way out of this.”
    “I knew you’d say that, and knew what you’d want to do. So I’ve prepped it all for you. It’s all ready to go.” Ron pointed to a stack of papers on the corner of his desk. Two silver flash drives sat on top of the papers.
    “I’m going to find us a way out of this.”
    “With your vaunted business skills?”
    “Whatever it takes.” Brock rose, picked up the papers and flash drives, and strode to the door. “There’s always a solution if you dig hard enough.”
    “Not this time, brother.”

    When Brock left his office at nine thirty that night, a large part of him admitted Ron was right, on two counts. First, he didn’t have the skills to find an answer. Second, from what he could understand, Black Fedora was drowning in red ink so deep he couldn’t see the bottom.
    As he pushed through the lobby doors of their building, despair stabbed at him. But it wasn’t over yet. He refused to believe this was the end of the company he’d given his life to and loved like nothing else.
    He trudged toward his parking lot two blocks away, wracking his brain for an answer, for even a shred of hope, but nothing came. Brock rounded the corner on Cherry Street and smacked into a man, who crumpled to the sidewalk as a muffled grunt escaped his mouth. Brock bent over and took the man’s shoulder.
    “Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine. How are you?”
    “Good.”
    “Sorry about that.”
    His matted hair was the color brown that looked like it had dust in it. His skin was dark and his thin green coat and pants clung to him as if they were a size or more too small. A backpack that might have been bright red once upon a time leaned against the building.
    “Whew.” The man shifted from his knees onto his backside and wrapped his arms around his legs. He glanced up at Brock. “You used to play football?”
    “No.”
    “I did.” The man patted himself on the chest. “Made it too. Cornerback. Played five seasons for the Rams back when they were in Los Angeles. Not a starter every game, but still made good coin. You should look me up.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Robert.”
    “You need money?”
    “Could always use a buck.” The man grinned.
    Brock looked at him. “That’s all you want? A dollar?”
    “If you can spare more, God will bless