“I hear that you’re going to start a charitable foundation,” the Secretary of State said after a bite of salmon poached in a champagne sauce.
“Yes. I’m having a great deal of the Peruvian government’s generosity donated to create an organization in my father’s memory. It was he that did the research that enabled me to find Paititi, and he would have wanted the money to go to furthering similar pursuits, I’m sure.”
Polite applause greeted his statement, and Drake despised them all for a moment before choking down his volatile emotions. This was a necessary part of being a hero, Spencer had said, whether he liked it or not. The only thing he had to do was get through the evening without vomiting on the white tablecloth, and he’d be remembered as a hit: young, handsome, gracious, sunburned, and appropriately rakish — the perfect embodiment of the successful adventurer.
The only problem was that it felt like a lie. All he’d done was stumble around in the jungle following his father’s clues. He didn’t deserve any of it.
He offered a wan smile to the beautiful starlet the organizers had seated next to him and took another gulp of wine. Drake might have felt like an empty suit, but if he looked at this public appearance as a job, part of an act, he could get through it. He wouldn’t embarrass himself and tarnish his father’s name.
Spencer caught his eye from his position halfway down the table and grinned a warning. He’d spent enough time with Drake to know he was in trouble. As the entrée was removed to make way for dessert, Spencer excused himself and approached Drake. He bowed deferentially to the gathering and addressed them like trusted conspirators.
“I’m sorry. Would you excuse us for a moment? I need to ask Ramsey here for some investment tips.”
Everyone laughed, the wine having flowed like water, and Spencer led Drake out onto a balcony overlooking the twinkling city lights.
Spencer leaned close to Drake. “Are you all right? You looked like you were about to yack on the hottie they set you up with.”
They were interrupted by a servant carrying a humidor filled with Cuban cigars. Drake shook his head. Spencer took one and, after a slight hesitation, took a second, and slipped them both into the breast pocket of his tuxedo.
“I can’t wait for this to be over,” Drake said.
“Yeah, well, it shouldn’t be much longer now. Just don’t stab anyone with the silverware and you’ll be okay.”
“I know. But I’m having a lousy time.”
“Welcome to the lifestyles of the rich and famous.”
“So far it sucks.”
“Yeah, but the hours are good, and the food’s not bad.”
“I want to get out of here.”
“You’re the guest of honor, Drake. You don’t get to disappear.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
“What’s up? We talked about this. You just need to smile. They don’t even care if you pick your nose. You’re a rock star. A blinding supernova. You can do no wrong.”
“It just feels…wrong.”
Spencer nodded. “Maybe so. Tomorrow it will be over. You can get on a plane and go anywhere in the world. You’re set. So man up, grin and bear it, or I swear I’ll personally bring a scorpion to your room and have it bite you on the ass.”
“I’m pretty sure scorpions sting.”
“Whatever.”
“All right. Hell, if I can brave the Amazon, the least I can do is tackle a few geriatrics in monkey suits.”
Spencer slapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit.”
Spencer turned to rejoin the dinner, and Drake stopped him.
“Thanks, Spencer. For everything. I couldn’t have gotten through any of this without your help.”
Spencer paused. “Bullshit. You nailed it every time. If you’re beating yourself up because you think you didn’t do your part, that’s idiocy. You found Paititi, Drake. Not me. Not Jack, not your dad, and not even Allie. You did. You located the treasure. You tracked down the ore. I just held your gun for you.” Spencer looked off at the city and then fixed Drake with a hard stare. “You’re frigging Drake Ramsey, you found Paititi, you’re world famous, and Goddamn it, you deserve every bit of it, and more. So suck it up and deal with it.”
They stood facing each other like gladiators, breathing heavily, the music drifting from the ballroom like tendrils of curling smoke.
Drake nodded and smiled. “I have issues.” Spencer pulled one of the cigars from his pocket and sniffed it appreciatively.
“Welcome to the human race, dude.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Drake opened the door of his apartment’s refrigerator and grimaced. The milk had gone bad and the bread was a science experiment. But strangely, being back home, packing his things, centered him, something he needed after two days in Lima before returning to California and what passed for real life. That had all seemed fake, including sitting in first class, the pod seats, polite flight attendants and warm bowls of mixed nuts impossibly luxurious to his pedestrian eye.
Drake stared down at his torn jeans, worn running shoes, and No Fear T-shirt and shook his head. It felt like a mistake. This was reality, not the jungle, or state dinners, or luxurious suites. Reality was a fridge with two cans of cola, a six-pack of beer, some frozen waffles that had been there longer than the TV, and dairy products that qualified as hazardous waste.
He rinsed off one of the sodas and popped the top and, after a swig, returned to pouring products down the drain in preparation for the movers. They’d arrive within the hour, and he wanted to hand them the keys and be out of there, no love lost for his sad collection of furniture and few electronics. The only things he was taking with him were a duffel bag with most of his clothes and the new laptop he’d bought. The rest could rot in storage while he figured out what he wanted to be when he grew up.
The morning had been busy. He’d stopped by New Start Bail Bonds and made arrangements for Betty to work for him as his assistant. Not that he needed one, but she’d declined his offers of financial help, making clear that she didn’t want charity. So they’d reached an agreement where she’d find suitable offices and act as the manager for his new foundation — which at present would largely involve fending off the near constant media inquiries.
The knock on the door startled him. He flipped the switch for the garbage disposal and, satisfied that the worst of the refrigerator’s contents were now either in the sewage system or the garbage, went to the door and twisted the knob.
Spencer took in his ratty clothes and extended his hand. “Nice outfit,” he said.
“Thanks. I thought I’d put on something special,” Drake responded, shaking it.
“It’s not every day you cut a check for thirty-three mil. I hardly recognized you with shoes on.”
“They don’t cut checks anymore. They do wire transfers.”
“Nobody likes a know-it-all.”
Spencer followed him inside and closed the door behind him. He tossed Drake a newspaper with a photo of Drake at the award ceremony on the front page. Drake groaned as he read it. Spencer sniffed the air disapprovingly.
“So how you been?” Spencer asked.
“Good. I just landed this morning. Got out on a red-eye.”
“You could have hired a private jet and flown whenever you felt like it.”
“I wouldn’t know how to book one. Seriously. I’ve never done it before.”