Little Blue Lies by Chris Lynch Page A

an afternoon. We’d still have time for a round of golf—which I will also need to teach you—before dinner.”
    â€œI know how to golf, Father.”
    â€œAw, that’s cute. Anyway, the business side of the business. Here’s one of the main things about success, especially in my field, but it applies in every field of endeavor: Will trumps skill. Understand me? If you are willing, if you are driven, if you are prepared to do what it takes when you find out what it takes, you are going to mop the floor with the guys who have the skill without the will.”
    â€œHuh,” I say, genuinely impressed while also a little unsettled. “Will trumps skill. Nice one, Dad.”
    â€œOh, kid, you wouldn’t believe how many of those I’ve got in my quiver. And, you come along with me and wait till you see how quickly your quiver gets filled. I’ll have you a quivering mess.”
    Entrees arrive. Venison-mushroom risotto for me, veal chops for him.
    â€œAm I selling? Am I selling?” he asks anxiously.
    â€œAh, Dad . . . ,” I say, and hope that says enough.
    â€œYou’ll think about it,” he says.
    My venison is so vital, I feel it breathing inside me. I feel stronger already.
    â€œI don’t think I will,” I say.
    He visibly deflates, chews his veal more slowly. He adores veal, and I hate disappointing him.
    â€œYou could just try it, for a while.”
    â€œWhat if I wanted to go to school?” I don’t—at least not as I sit here, I don’t. And he knows it because he knows me.
    â€œI will take you to school, boy,” he says, poking a sharp knife in my direction. “Come on. I will be your school.”
    â€œDad?”
    â€œFine. Then if you want to go to that other kind, with the students and the football games and the drug orgies, it’ll still be there for you.”
    I just don’t know. I don’t know anything.
    That’s not true. I know something.
    It’s all about her.
    That’s what I know. And it’s crippling me.
    â€œGet me another beer, and I’ll think about thinking about it.”
    â€œOkay,” he says, grinning and waving at the waiter. “But I have to warn you, I have an employment contract here in my briefcase, and it won’t matter whether you recall signing it or not.”
    He does make me laugh. I do like his company. That is, spending time with him, as opposed to his business operation. There could probably be worse things.
    â€œSo,” he says as the pint lands on the table between us, glistening beads of condensation slaloming down its sides, “what do you know about this lottery ticket thing?”
    I sigh. I am already sick of this subject.
    â€œWell, from what I understand, one buys a ticket, picks some numbers, and then has about a one in triple-infinity chance of winning more money than one spent on the ticket.”
    â€œHa. Good one, O. But I think you know that I am referring to the rumors.”
    â€œThat One Who Knows has miraculously won the thing for a second time?”
    â€œWell . . . no. That your girlfriend has actually won.”
    â€œAre you going to finish that?” I say, reaching right over and spearing a veal chop that I bring to my plate. Passive aggression at its most tasty.
    â€œOh, by all means,” he says. “As for your girlfriend?”
    â€œI don’t have a girlfriend, and I believe you know that.”
    â€œSorry, Son. But did she? Win? Does she have the ticket in her possession?”
    I scoop a big spoonful of risotto and plunk it down onto his plate. I take a long pull on the beer. I take a bite of the veal chop.
    â€œIs this you changing the subject?” he asks.
    I take the lump of risotto back and pop it into my mouth. I return the empty chop bone to his plate.
    â€œIt was just a question, Oliver.”
    â€œIt’s none of my business, Dad. I hope she did win and