The Prince of Risk A Novel(17)

“I brought something for you,” said Astor, clutching the gift. “To help you celebrate.”

Edward Astor stood up laboriously, making no move to approach and welcome him. “Today is Thursday, is it not?”

“October fifteenth,” said Bobby Astor. “At least, I hope.” A few guests chuckled. He chuckled, too, pleased to have broken the ice, his eyes flitting nervously from face to face, marshaling support.

“Still at Deerfield, young man?” It was the mayor. Astor recalled hearing his father denounce him in terms that would make a marine blush. Yet here he was, seated at his father’s side and somehow aware that Astor had attended Deerfield Academy. Astor saw his father’s eyes flash. The mayor could not have asked a worse question.

“No, sir,” answered Astor. “I didn’t—”

“He was kicked out,” Edward Astor stated, in the same stentorian baritone. “My son the pyromaniac.”

Astor tried to grin. The effort was painful. “It was just a paper fire…in my trash can…bad grade on a test.”

“A paper fire that enveloped the curtains and severely burned one of your fellow students.”

“Just his hands. Only second-degree. He’s fine.”

A silence fell on the room. All the bonhomie and goodwill present when he’d entered had vanished as if sucked out through a pressure grate. The smiles vanished, too.

“My son attends the Kent School at present,” said Edward Astor.

Astor tucked the birthday gift back under his arm. It didn’t matter what he had brought. It wouldn’t be enough. “For the moment, at least,” he added sheepishly, hoping to win back the crowd. “I’m getting a math test back tomorrow.”

There was a guffaw and a few chuckles. His father cleared his voice and the laughter stopped. “Speaking of tomorrow, there is school?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pray tell, Robert, how did you get leave to join us this Thursday at nine o’clock in the evening?”

Astor hadn’t expected the question. Or if he had, he’d expected it man-to-man, when he could make up a bullshit story about getting permission from the dean of students. He was a good liar, but he was punching above his weight with the chief of the New York City Police Department staring at him. He looked at his father, standing there like a statue in a three-piece suit, hands tucked into his waistband, eyes boring into him as if he’d been caught stealing someone’s wallet.



“I…uh…” Astor considered leaving. The door was right behind him. A rapid about-face and he could be gone before anyone could say a word. His pride might be tarnished, but he’d have time to stop at Trader Vic’s in the Plaza for a mai tai and still make the 11:04 to Westport.

“We are waiting,” declared his father, a judge demanding a confession.

It would be the truth, then.

“I bribed my proctor,” said Astor.

“Ex—excuse me?”

It was the closest to a stammer Astor had ever heard come out of his father’s mouth.

“My house proctor,” he went on. “I took him for fifty bucks playing poker before football practice. I knew he needed the money to take out his girlfriend this weekend. I told him I’d forget about the dough if he’d let me come into New York for the night.”

“And he agreed?”

“He wants to get laid, doesn’t he?”

At that, the entire room burst out laughing. The chief of police covered his mouth and looked away, but he was smiling. So was the mayor. Astor waited long enough to see his father’s eyes narrow, his jaw set, then added, “I explained that it was your birthday, of course.”

Edward Astor waited until the room quieted. “Very amusing, Robert, as always. I’m sure we’ll all be equally amused when you are expelled for leaving campus without permission.”

“Don’t worry, Dad, I’m going now. I just wanted to bring you this.” Astor made his way between the tables and handed his father his present. It was slim and the size of a sheet of paper.

Edward Astor dropped it on the table.

“Don’t you want to open it?”

“The only present I want from you is a decent report card,” said his father. “Hopefully without an F.”

Astor came closer so that they were face-to-face and could speak without the entire room overhearing them. “It’s a paper I wrote for school. It’s about the stock market. You see, I think that something’s going to happen—”



“Do you? I’m glad. Something always happens in the market.”

“I mean, I think there’s a bubble. Prices are too high, given earnings.”