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every month to scratch together $680 for the lease. He cursed his condo as he backed away in the parking lot. It was one of eighty new ones wrapped around a shallow pool in an overflow section of Manassas.
    He’d been raised better. Life had been soft and luxurious for the first twenty years, and then he received his inheritance. Buthis five million had disappeared before he reached thirty, and his father despised him for it.
    They fought with vigor and regularity. Junior had held various jobs within The Phelan Group, and each ended in disaster. Senior fired him numerous times. Senior had an idea for a venture, and two years later the idea was worth millions. Junior’s ideas ended in bankruptcy and litigation.
    In recent years the fighting had almost stopped. Neither could change, so they simply ignored each other. But when the tumor appeared, TJ reached out again.
    Oh, what a mansion he would build! And he knew just the architect, a Japanese woman in Manhattan he’d read about in a magazine. Within a year he’d probably move to Malibu or Aspen or Palm Beach, where he could show the money and be taken seriously.
    “What does one do with half a billion dollars?” he asked himself as he sped along the interstate. “Five hundred million tax-free dollars.” He began to laugh.
    An acquaintance managed the BMW-Porsche dealership where he’d leased his car. Junior walked into the showroom like the king of the world, strutting and smiling smugly. He could buy the whole damned place if he wanted. On a salesman’s desk he saw the morning paper; a nice bold headline about the death of his father. Not a twinge of grief.
    The manager, Dickie, bounded from his office and said, “TJ, I’m very sorry.”
    “Thanks,” Troy Junior said with a brief frown. “He’s better off, you know.”
    “My sympathies anyway.”
    “Forget it.” They stepped into the office and closed the door.
    Dickie said, “The paper says he signed a will just before he died. Is that true?”
    Troy Junior was already looking at the slick brochures for thelatest models. “Yes. I was there. He divided his estate into six pieces, one for each of us.” He said this without looking up, quite casually, as if the money were already in hand, and already becoming a burden.
    Dickie’s mouth slipped open and he lowered himself into his chair. Was he suddenly in the presence of serious wealth? This guy, the worthless TJ Phelan, now a billionaire? Like everyone else who knew TJ, Dickie assumed the old man had cut him off for good.
    “Biff would like a Porsche,” Troy Junior said, still studying the charts. “A red 911 Carrera Turbo, with both tops.”
    “When?”
    Troy Junior glared at him. “Now.”
    “Sure, TJ. What about payment?”
    “I’ll pay for it the same time I pay for my black one, also a 911. How much are they?”
    “About ninety thousand each.”
    “No problem. When can we take delivery?”
    “I’ll have to find them first. That should take a day or two. Cash?”
    “Of course.”
    “When will you get the cash?”
    “A month or so. But I want the cars now.”
    Dickie caught his breath and did a squirm. “Look, TJ, I can’t turn loose two new cars without some type of payment.”
    “Fine. Then we’ll look at Jaguars. Biff’s always wanted a Jaguar.”
    “Come on, TJ.”
    “I could buy this entire dealership, you know. I could walk into any bank right now and ask for ten million or twenty million or whatever it would take to buy this place, and they would happily give it to me for sixty days. Do you understand that?”
    Dickie’s head rocked up and down, his eyes narrow. Yes, he understood. “How much did he leave you?”
    “Enough to buy the bank too. Are you giving me the cars, or shall I go down the street?”
    “Let me find them.”
    “Smart man,” TJ said. “Hurry. I’ll check back this afternoon. Get on the phone.” He tossed the brochures on Dickie’s desk, and strutted from the office.
    ________
    RAMBLE’S IDEA