Asking for a Friend

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ically, was a piece of work. There was a reason the two of them got along so well.

king forward to, but it had to be done. Dad's estate had to be w

efore he could do his job. When his assistant called me to se

t, I saw I still had some time before I was expected at Clayton's office. The financial district was the

here were at least a half dozen coffee shops I could go to in order to satisfy my own cravings for the stuff. If I was going to be spen

nly about four tables inside and a counter with one barista named Paul. It was fa

, at least I would only have to attempt the feat once this morning. Somehow managing to snag a spot only about

a regular while Craig and I had a project going nearby. "Mr. Bridges.

ast a month since the last time I was here, yet Paul remembered my usua

their coffee that way and as such, was a safe guess. But I preferred to think

He left his empty cup behind, along with a coffee stained napkin. Paul made a m

near the door. Paul nodded his thanks, then handed me my coffee. As I sat down, I no

page with a familiar name right there in the title

r. Morbid curiosity took over and I turned to the article, even though I

but he was still my dad. It was terrible to have to keep staring that fact strai

ing from insurance companies and the likes right away and realized that was the tip of the iceberg and I'd have to end up canceling his subscriptions, his phone and cable befor

from work with everything that happened, I was in danger of falling behind for

e photos I'd used at the funeral. It was a good picture, one where he was wearing a

st intelligent, hardworking men of his generation. There were several quotes from friends and industry leaders, some of which h

ds. Articles similar to this one were a dime a dozen in his life. He was frequently contacted by reporter

e would never be one published about me. Except perhaps to answer the last

at would happen to said billions. I had an uneasy feeling about my meeting with Clay