Free Switchback by Matthew Klein

hundred and forty thousand dollars each year simply by holding onto Pinky’s money. That was twenty thousand dollars per month. Which was enough to make Timothy amenable to switching places on the food chain for a day.
    Timothy strode into the reception area with his hand already outstretched. He reached for Pinky’s hand and pumped it aggressively. ‘Pinky!’ he practically shouted.
    â€˜Timothy, old boy!’ Pinky swung his left hand and grabbed Timothy’s right, thus controlling the pace and duration of the shake. ‘How are you?’ Timothy tried to extract his hand, but Pinky kept shaking. ‘It is great to see you, old friend.’
    â€˜And you,’ Timothy said. Pinky kept pumping his hand, and he smiled at Timothy and stared into his eyes. Pinky had cold, blue, smiling eyes.
    Timothy smiled back and kept pumping. It was pointless to try to retract his hand. Pinky would not let him go.
    Pinky was a big, colorful, bear-like man. His hair was oncebright red, but now auburn and gray. He wore perfectly polished penny loafers, bright green slacks, and a pink Oxford shirt. His face was bright red. For as long as Timothy had known him – since their days at Yale together – Pinky’s face had been red. This, Timothy understood, was the inevitable result of spending days sailing his catamaran through the windswept Atlantic; of sunning in Naples, Florida; and of drinking bountiful gin and tonics – sometimes all three before noon.
    â€˜I’m so glad you could take the time to see me,’ Pinky said. He said it without a trace of irony, which surprised Timothy. ‘And I apologize for dropping by unannounced, but I’m flying out tonight, and I simply had to say hello.’
    â€˜It is a pleasure, Pinky,’ Timothy said. ‘You are always welcome here.’ He continued pumping Pinky’s hand. Over Pinky’s shoulder, he saw Tricia sitting at her reception desk, watching him.
    Pinky dropped Timothy’s hand suddenly, leaving Timothy grasping at air. ‘Can I buy you some lunch?’ he asked.
    â€˜Absolutely not,’ Timothy said. ‘You will never be able to buy me lunch. But I would love to treat you.’
    Pinky laughed, ‘All right, then. Where to?’ He put his hand around Timothy’s shoulder.
    â€˜Come this way,’ Timothy said, as he allowed Pinky to lead him to the elevators. He didn’t want to turn to Tricia, to see her watching him. He was glad to be able to slink out of the office, to go far from her, to hide his obsequiousness. He was ashamed of having to act like this, ashamed at his new position on the food chain. Being prey was no fun.

8
    Timothy took Pinky Dewer to the Menlo Circus Club for lunch.
    The Circus Club was an exclusive country club in the middle of Atherton, California, which was itself an exclusive suburb in the middle of democratic Silicon Valley. During the Internet boom, newcomers to Silicon Valley liked to think they had found a high-tech Shangri-la, a perfect meritocracy, a place where people lived wherever they liked, and worked wherever they liked, and ate wherever they liked, no matter how peculiar their last name, and no matter what color their skin. This was true as far as it went, but what these newcomers did not know was that, when they weren’t looking, the Circus Club had quietly seceded from Silicon Valley without telling anyone. A four-acre throwback to twenties glamour, the club was a playground of the rich and the white, a place where people stabled their horses and played polo, and had a Tanqueray before heading off to a game of tennis on clay. Black was an acceptable color at the club, but only for a tuxedo – and tuxedos fortunately never applied for membership on their own.
    Timothy drove Pinky to the club in his BMW. They sped through the club grounds, past the polo field, where eight horses in blue and green leg bandages were trotting, warming up before a