Page 13 of Five

“Mr. Aston,” the butler says.

“Yes,” I reply. “I was invited to a party?” I try to see past him, my curiosity in overdrive right now, but he’s a big guy. About three inches taller than me and I’m over six feet tall. Plus, he probably outweighs me by thirty pounds.

“This way,” he says, moving aside just enough to let me pass.

I end up in a two-story foyer with a chandelier that probably cost more than the rental BMW parked on the street.

Again, no music, or people, or decorations.

“This is a party, correct?” I ask.

“Follow me, sir,” the butler says.

So I do. What choice do I have?

We pass numerous hallways, rooms, and servants as we make our way to the back of the house and here—finally—is what I’ve been looking for.

A large tent. The kind used for wedding parties or grand family reunions. But it’s empty, save for workers still setting up.

There is a small gathering on the far side of the lawn. I take it in as the butler opens a set of double glass doors and waves me through.

A dozen men are sitting around a table, all wearing white linen suits and smoking cigars, looking pretty much like The Great Gatsby come to life. They laugh, sip amber liquid from cut-crystal glasses, and generally act very full of themselves.

One of them spots me and stands. “Ah, Mr. Aston! Finally!” He maneuvers away from the table as all the other men turn to look and stand. He meets me on the lawn with an outstretched hand.

I shake it out of habit, saying, “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage. I’m not sure why I’m actually here.”

He claps me on the back like I just made a fantastic joke. “I’ve heard about your bluntness, Aston. All in due time, son. All in due time.”

Son. It makes me bristle a little. He’s not old, maybe thirties? And I’m not really that young. Not when you take into account who I am and what I’ve done with the twenty-one years that came before this one. So… son? Really?

“Bring Mr. Aston a drink.”

I’m not even sure who he says it to. The other men approach. A few are my own age, but most are in their thirties, like this guy.

“I’m Grant Pittman, Mr. Aston. And these are my colleagues in the Young and Mobile Society.” He rattles their names off one at a time. I have an uncanny memory, just like my father. So I hear the names, shake each hand, and catalogue them for later.

“What should we call you, Mr. Aston? I hear you have a rather interesting nickname.” This comes from a guy called Stanford. Stanford Young. He’s one of the older guys.

“Five,” I say. “I’m Rutherford Aston the Fifth, but everyone just calls me Five.”

“I knew your father,” another man says. He might be the oldest in the bunch. Maybe early forties. Severance VonPatrick. What a fucked-up name.

“Did you?” I ask Severance.

“Yes,” he says, bellowing laughter. “And from my recollection, nobody called him Four.”

“No,” I say, stepping back to give myself a better view of the grounds. Large trees give us shade. A long table with a cream-colored tablecloth is set with fine china. Whiskey bottles, cigar humidors, and, yes, a fucking badminton net is set up off to the side. “He’s just Ford. And I’m just Five. Does one of you want to tell me why I’m here?”

“Cuts to the chase,” another man says. Young, like me. Montie Christian is his name. “Just like his friend.”

“Friend?” I ask. I really don’t like these people.

“Jack Joseph. You went to Oxford together.”

Well. That explains a lot. Jack Joseph is a pretentious bastard.

“Did I hear my name?”