Naked Ambition. Dan Roberts

      “Storm’s pretty bad,” Clarkson said looking at the waterfall of rain that completely obstructed his view. “We’d better just sit here for a little while and wait this thing out.” That sentence was followed by a long period of silence that soon grew to be more than a bit uncomfortable. At least, for Jack. Without looking anywhere but straight ahead, he asked, “Can we get some music?”

      “Sure,” said Clarkson as he turned the key, switching on the car’s electrical system. Immediately, Jack’s finger was on the radio dial, trying to find his favorite radio station. It was not long until music with a heavy beat was soon booming loudly out of the Boise speakers that seemed to be placed all over the interior of this luxury car. The beat was quite pronounced and so forceful that it could be felt against Nick’s chest.

      “It’s too loud,” Clarkson said, as he reached over and turned the volume down. At this point, his tone was more like a parent than a coach. As Nick watched from the back seat, he noticed that neither the coach nor Jack looked at each other. In fact, he didn’t remember them looking at each other at any time since entering the car.

      Several minutes passed with no one talking. There was just the sound of the heavy rain and the beat of the rhythmic music. However, once the rain let up, Clarkson said, “Looks like we can go now,” as he started the engine. In less than a minute the Lexus was out of the parking lot and onto the main road, headed toward the Baker house. Even though the rain was less intense, the car’s windshield wipers were on full speed. Back and forth they flew across the glass, throwing off a significant amount of rain with each swipe of the blades.

      It was Nick, wanting to break the silence, who said, “I hear that the forecast is for rain tomorrow. Hope it doesn’t ruin our scheduled class time.”

      Clarkson responded with, “Me, too, ‘cause we need to get all our scheduled time in this week. If we can keep on track I think your group has a good chance of winning Saturday’s exhibition game.” Clarkson’s eyes went to the rearview mirror. He was looking directly at Nick as he said, “That’s all thanks to you, Nick.”

      After once more looking back to the road before him, Clarkson said, “Nick’s doing a great job, isn’t he, Jack?”

      There was no response from the young man sitting next to the coach. With a hint of irritability in his voice, Clarkson followed up, saying, “Isn’t that right, Jack?” For the first time, Clarkson looked at Jack, as if expecting—even demanding—an answer.

      “Uh, yeah,” was Jack’s offhanded response. His eyes were still looking forward.

      Trying his best to connect with Jack, Nick said, “And, thanks to you, too, Jack. You’re doing great out there. Are you enjoying it?”

      Jack remained quiet as Clarkson drove on. Noting that nothing was being said in response, Clarkson looked once again at Jack and, with a twinge of harshness in his voice, said, “So, are you enjoying it, Jack?”

      The word ‘yup’ came from Jack’s tightly held lips. It was obvious that disinterest was at the heart of that single word response. Nick noted the reply and the way it was said. For Jack, there was no thought of taking part in this conversation.

      Nothing was said for the next several miles. Nick, familiar with the Baker’s neighborhood, saw that they were nearing the street where Zach lived. Finally, as the Baker house came into view, Nick prepared to get out of the car. “It’s not raining much now, Coach. You can just let me out at the curb.”

      Clarkson did as instructed, pulling off to the side of the street in order to let Nick out. “See you tomorrow,” said Clarkson as Nick opened the door.

      “Sure thing, Coach,” was Nick’s reply. He then added, “See ya, Jack.”

      For just a brief moment before closing the door, Nick waited to see if there was any acknowledgement of his words to Jack. There was nothing. Feeling some raindrops on his shoulders, Nick slammed the door shut and ran toward the house. Once on the porch he looked out at the Lexus that was just pulling away from the curb. He saw Jack, looking toward Clarkson. They were, in fact, looking at each other. And talking. Loudly.

      THE TIME WAS 8:45 PM. THE SKY was already black, the result of the dark clouds that hung low overhead. The rain that had been coming down in torrents was now starting to lessen in intensity. That was good news for the man sitting in the red Porsche convertible parked just outside the Rose of the Orient, an Asian restaurant located in an upscale mini-mall just off I-78, not far from Newark International Airport. Because of the rain, he had been sitting in his car for over ten minutes. Up until now, he just couldn’t imagine not being soaked to the bone within seconds if he had attempted to make a run for it.

      However, now that the rain was somewhat lighter, he thought more seriously about making his way toward the restaurant, called The Rose by the local patrons. After grabbing his umbrella, he exited—or tried to exit—the Porsche quickly, which was, unfortunately, not quick enough. Because of his height—he was over six feet tall—extricating himself from the sports car was more than a little difficult. In fact, because of the cramped interior, he caught one knee and then the handle of the umbrella on the steering wheel, making him more exposed to the rain that was now pelting his elegant, beige silk sports coat. With visions of ruin in mind, the man spoke to himself as a sudden gust of wind blew rain into his face and onto the jacket. “Damn,” he said out loud as he finally slammed the Porsche’s door shut, “And I just bought this coat.” With the umbrella now open, the man ran the sixty-or-so feet to the canopied front of The Rose, splashing through a series of puddles as he did so.

      Once inside the restaurant’s lobby, the man shook off the rain from the umbrella and placed it in a stand near the door. To the side of the stand was a mirror where he checked himself, looking to see how much damage there was to his expensive jacket. Not bad, he thought, as he straightened his tie. However, as he glanced downward, there was a sudden thought of regret—regret that he had chosen to wear this particular pair of custom-made Italian shoes. They were more than wet. They were saturated. Soaked. Ruined. As he began to wallow in self-pity over the loss of five hundred dollars worth of creamy beige leather, he saw a petite, rather pretty Asian woman walking toward him.

      “Reservation?” she asked with a heavy accent.

      “Well, I guess so,” he said in return. “I’m to meet a man named Chen. Do you know if he is here?”

      “Come this way,” said the lady in broken English.

      As he followed the hostess through the restaurant, the man found the establishment much larger than it had looked from the outside. The two made their way through several nicely decorated, well-appointed dining areas, including the regular bar and the sushi bar with all its delicate delights on display. The hostess finally stopped when she reached a small, private dining room with only a few tables. All were empty. “This your table,” said the hostess with a slight bow. “You want drink?” she asked haltingly.

      He could have used a whiskey sour but said, “Just water for now, thanks!” Maybe a stiff drink later, he thought.

      “Lemon?” asked the Asian lady with a pleasant smile.

      “Yes, please.”

      The hostess turned and walked out of the dining room, leaving the man with the soggy Italian shoes sitting alone. That, however, was for only a few moments for it was no more than a minute later that a rather large, bald-headed man—a well-muscled man—of Asian origin stepped through the portal. Of average height, he was dressed in a nondescript black suit with a white shirt and a black tie. He stopped and stood by the entry doorway, looking like a soldier guarding something or someone of importance. He was soon followed by another man, less Asian in appearance, who entered the room briskly, with an air of authority. Unlike his predecessor, the second man was rather tall and slim to the point of being wiry. The man, probably in his late 40s, was casually dressed, wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and tan slacks. As if entering a stage with determination, his pace was quick and solid as he made his way toward the table and the awaiting man.

      The