Beverly Hills Maasai by Eric Walters

it would have been more intimidating if my father had been dressed like a biker … or a Maasai.
    “Thank you for coming down so quickly,” Dakota said. “We could certainly use help in resolving our situation.”
    “Resolving situations is how I earned my first million dollars—and the second and the third and the fourth …” He let the sentence tail off. “But first, I was told that we have some mutual acquaintances.”
    “Yes, your cousin Evan and his charming wife.”
    “Evan’s a good egg. Never had much success in business, but a good fellow nevertheless. Just seems to coast on the old man’s money … trust fund. I’m sure that summering in Newport, you must have run into more than a few fellows like that,” my father said, and he chuckled.
    Dakota gave a nervous laugh, a little smile, and nodded his head. I think my father may have hit the nail on the head. That was probably what Dakota was—some rich kid with a “hobby job” living off his father’s money.
    “Now, Alexandria tells me that a sticking point is that our three friends have failed to post any qualifying times.”
    “Exactly! It is necessary for all entrants to prove that they are qualified. It certainly wouldn’t be fair to our other racers if they had to dodge around or be tripped up by hordes of unqualified runners.”
    “That would be a problem. So how many unqualified runners have applied?” my father asked.
    “Well … only the three of them.”
    “Three could hardly be described as a horde,” my father said. “But still, you do have standards. Standards that are a cut above the others’.”
    “Yes, yes we do.”
    “But we also know that there’s more to it than that,” my father said. He got up and perched on the edge of Dakota’s desk. “Dakota, you are obviously a person of, shall we say, a certain station in life … a man of the world.”
    Dakota didn’t answer, but I could see by his expression that he agreed.
    “As two men of the world, we know that the issue of standards goes beyond technicalities such as race times … if you understand what I mean.”
    Dakota shrugged and gave a small nod of agreement.
    “You are trying to run an event that speaks of money, success, and style.”
    “We are certainly trying to present and preserve those elements.”
    “And our three friends,” my father said, gesturing to the closed door, “have many fine qualities, but theycertainly do not represent, even by our generous assessment, any of those things.” My father paused. “We understand.”
    Dakota looked relieved.
    “I’m so glad you see my point.”
    “We do,” my father said. “You’re here to run a world-class marathon and not some sort of circus or sideshow. Really!” my father went on. “Did you see how they’re dressed? For goodness’ sake, they’re wearing blankets! It’s like they’re here for some sort of—I don’t know—almost like they’re going to a … to a …”
    “A costume party?” Dakota said.
    “Exactly! Exactly! Obviously we see eye to eye!” my father exclaimed.
    And just how any of this was helping our cause was a mystery to me. It felt like my father was on Dakota’s side. I almost said something then, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. Even though I didn’t know what he was up to or where he was going with this, I knew my father well enough to know that
he
knew what he was doing. He hadn’t got rich by being stupid.
    “And there’s something even worse,” my father said. “Did you see what they were wearing on their feet?”
    Dakota shook his head.
    “Tire-tread sandals! Can you imagine what your sponsor would say?” He gestured to a big poster advertising a famous shoe brand and a wall lined with boxes of those shoes. I hadn’t noticed those. “What would their reaction be if the winning runners wore tire-tread sandals instead of these shoes?”
    Dakota went a bit pale beneath his tan when my father said that.
    “I … I … hadn’t even thought of