The past was useless. Ross had a speech to give. A eulogy. Seventy-five immaculately dressed millionaires had flown across the continent to hear from a man they knew only from the business section of Forbes and instead they would meet Ross Berman, who had never read Forbes in his life and in fact held certain prejudices against people who did, whose entire wardrobe and eyeglasses and haircut were purchased at the Walmart down the block from his 550-square-foot studio apartment. Still, hadn’t it been his idea to have all profits from the annual conference fund his charity? So what if it had been a cover just to get his buddy Phillip in the right place at the right time to satisfy the Serenity Group? He was, in many ways, responsible for this gathering of capitalist thugs. His name was in the program. Ross checked his waist. Was his shirt tucked in his belt like it had been this morning? No. Good. How about his tie? Was the knot tight? Not especially, but it wasn’t the baby’s fist it had been when he’d first tied it.
