The Christmas List: A Novel

David Carnes

Your friend from high school. He came to you in confidence, and you used the information to benefit yourself. (I remember you calling it an “end-around” play.)

Current home address unlisted.

Place of employment: Provanti Building, 670 West 482 South, Orem.

It took Kier nearly a week after his visit with Estelle Wyss before he was ready to approach the next person on his list: David Carnes.

Of the five people on the list, Kier knew Carnes the best. They had been friends through much of middle and high school and had even spent graduation night together, party hopping and cruising State Street in Carnes’s silver Pontiac Firebird. It wasn’t until a year after high school when Carnes left for Oregon State that the two of them lost contact. Twelve years later Carnes returned to Utah, a successful financial advisor.

Carnes had united with a group of investors who were planning on developing a golf course community in the south end of the Salt Lake valley. They had completed most of the preliminary work but had yet to secure a particular piece of property vital to the development. Carnes learned that the owner of the property, MAC management, was a business associate of Kier’s so he went to Kier for some friendly advice on how to negotiate the deal. Because of the still unresolved nature of the project, Carnes was operating under strict confidentiality agreements with his development partners that required him to have Kier sign a nondisclosure agreement before sharing with him their plans; but because they were old friends Carnes ignored the formality.

Kier was impressed with the project and told Carnes that he’d see what he could do to help. As soon as Carnes left his office Kier contacted his associate at MAC and purchased the property himself. He doubled the property’s price, then went directly to Carnes’s partners and forced himself into the project. The partners, angry with Carnes for disclosing confidential information that cost them a substantial amount of money and equity, kicked him out of the deal and Kier took his place as a majority shareholder. The project was as successful as the group anticipated and netted Kier millions. Carnes never confronted Kier about the betrayal. He hadn’t seen or heard from Carnes since that meeting in his office.

The address on the memo led Kier to a modern seven-story building on the outskirts of Orem. It was the only building above two stories for miles. Kier parked in a thirty-minute visitors parking stall out front and walked up the concrete stairs to the building.

The interior of the building was as impressive as the exterior, a glass atrium that was the height of the building. The lobby was bright and spacious; on one wall hung a vinyl banner with a bottle of juice nearly sixty feet tall. The floor was black marble.

A kidney-shaped stainless steel and glass receptionist station stood in the center of the lobby, vibrant red poinsettia plants surrounding its base. Two attractive blond young women wearing headsets were busily answering calls. Behind the women, in gold, three-foot-tall letters mounted on backlit, frosted glass was the word P R O V A N T I.

As Kier approached the desk one of the young women looked up at him and smiled. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see David Carnes.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. I just thought I’d drop by.”

She gave him a peculiar look. “I’ll have to call his office. Your name?”

“James Kier. Mr. Carnes and I are old friends,” he said, thinking he should have emphasized the word “old” more than “friends.”

“Thank you. Just a moment, please.”

She pushed a button on the phone console and spoke into her headset, “Shantel, there’s a Mr. James Kier to see Mr. Carnes. James Kier. That’s right. No, he doesn’t have an appointment. He said they’re old friends. Okay.”

She looked back at Kier. “She’ll see if Mr. Carnes is available. He’s on the phone right now so it will be a few minutes. Let me have you sign in first, then please have a seat.”

Kier signed his name on the ledger. “Is this building all Provanti?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What exactly is Provanti?”

“We’re an online nutritional company. Provanti juice is our flagship product. It’s a super-juice made from the Brazilian mochanut.”

“What does it do?”

“Provanti enhances well-being, promotes weight loss, and boosts energy. I’ve even had people tell me it cures cancer.”

“Maybe I should get a bottle.”

“You should,” she said proudly. “We sell more than a half billion dollars of Provanti a year.”

Kier looked at her incredulously. “A half billion dollars?”

“That was last year. We expect to exceed that this year. And last October we introduced a line of skin care products using the mochanut.”

Kier shook his head. “A half billion dollars. I’m in the wrong business. So what does Mr. Carnes do here?”

The woman smiled. “Mr. Carnes is the founder and CEO of Provanti. Excuse me.” She pushed a button. “Yes. Thanks, Shantel.” She reached under her desk and pulled out a plastic tag printed with the word VISITOR. “Mr. Carnes will see you. Here’s your visitor’s pass. Take the elevator to the seventh floor. Shantel will meet you and take you back.”

“Carnes is the founder,” Kier said.

“Yes he is.”

Kier took the pass, clipping it to his front pocket. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. The elevators are to your left.”

Kier walked over to the double elevators and pushed the up button. One of the elevators immediately opened. He stepped inside and pushed seven. The interior of the elevator was all mirrors except for a plexiglass poster with a picture of a beautiful woman jogging on the beach and copy expounding on the virtues of Provanti. A moment later the door opened to a lobby panelled in dark wood and hung with lush oil paintings. There were two couches facing each other and each was upholstered in tucked bomber jacket leather with carved pineapple feet. A beautiful woman in an elegantly tailored gray suit, and lavender silk blouse approached him. “Mr. Kier? This way please.”

She led him around the corner to a single door. “Mr. Carnes is in his office. He’s expecting you.”

“Thank you.” He unclipped the visitor’s tag and shoved it into his pants pocket, then stepped through the door.

The office was huge. Near the back was an oversized walnut desk framed by an enormous mural depicting an exotic jungle scene. The wood blinds were all drawn and the lighting was indirect, creating a particularly rich ambience. Carnes, a handsome, athletically built man, sat in the middle of it all in a forest green tucked-leather chair that looked more throne than office furniture.

“James Kier.” He motioned to the three leather chairs in front of the desk. “Have a seat.”

Kier sat down in the middle chair. “Nice office.”

“Thank you. I designed it myself. Those bookshelves there are made of Makore wood, imported from Ghana. I had them made for my collection of first editions.” He stood and walked over to the bookshelves, which ran nearly the entire length of the wall and pulled out a book. “This is my prize, Gone with the Wind, signed by Margaret Mitchell. I also have six Steinbecks, signed of course, and A Christmas Carol signed by Dickens. I won’t tell you how much that cost me, unless you ask.”

“Impressive,” Kier said, as surprised by Carnes’s good humor as his hubris. “So, you’ve done well since I last saw you.”

Carnes walked back over to his desk. “Business has been good.”

“And the family? How’s Heather?”

“We dissolved that partnership about three years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No need. People change. We’re on better terms now than when we were married.” He leaned back. “I’m surprised to see you.”

“Because of our parting?”

“Actually, because I thought you were dead. I read about it in the Tribune.”

“The newspaper got it wrong.”

“That’s too bad,” Carnes said.

Kier smiled. “That I’m not dead or that the newspaper got it wrong?”

Carnes smiled back wryly. “Pick one.” He leaned back in his chair. “You should know it brought me no small satisfaction to learn of your death.”

“You must be very disappointed.”

“I’ll get over it. So what brings you to my kingdom?”

“I came to tell you I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“You know what.”

“Yes, but I want to know that you do. I want to hear it from your own slippery tongue.”

“Fair enough. I took the information you trusted me with and used it for my own profit.”

Carnes nodded. “That pretty much sums it up. Are you dying?”

“No.”

Carnes looked Kier over, sizing him up. “So, exactly what kind of ‘sorry’ do you mean?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Are you ‘sorry you’re a thief,’ ‘sorry you’re the kind of guy who would steal from a friend,’ or ‘sorry’ your actions have finally caught up to you and you need something from me, so you’ve come to apologize.”

Kier thought it over. “The first two.”

“Good. Though I was hoping it was the third. It would have been blissfully poetic to have you need my help.”

“I bet.”

“So let me tell you what I think of you and your apology,” Carnes said, his face lit with an arrogant smile. “I think you’re a worm, Kier. A parasite and blight on humanity.” He lifted both hands. “There you are. So now that you know what I think of you are you still sorry?”

Kier looked down for a moment. “If I had to do it over again, I would do things differently.”

Carnes nodded. “Not bad. I almost believe you.”

“Why wouldn’t you believe me?”

“Because, leopards don’t change their spots.”

“Not usually.”

Carnes’s eyes flashed with sudden passion. “I don’t know what really brought you here, Kier. Maybe you found religion or cancer or maybe even a conscience, but frankly it doesn’t matter to me. Your ‘sorry’ serves only you. You’re wasting my time.”

Kier stood. “Then I’m also sorry for wasting your time.”

Carnes threw back his head and laughed. “Sit down, I’m just punking you. I’m genuinely intrigued by this visit.” He leaned forward. “See this watch? It’s a Patek Philipe. They call it the million-dollar watch. It makes a Rolex look like a Timex. You know why I’m telling you this?”

“Either you think I’m interested in timepieces or you want me to know how rich you are.”

Carnes laughed. “Haven’t lost that sense of humor, have you? Actually, you’re right. I want you to know how rich I am so that you can fully appreciate the irony of this situation.”

“Which is?”

“That everything you see around you, everything I am, is, in part, because of you.”

The revelation brought Kier no pleasure. “Explain.”

“That little fiasco with you—and in the grand scheme of things it truly was little—was devastating for me at the time. But it was exactly what I needed. You gave me two gifts of wisdom that have influenced everything I’ve done since. First, you taught me to trust no one. Everyone is looking out for themselves, so you better do the same.

“Eat or be eaten.” Kier mumbled, as if conjuring up a spirit from the past.

“That’s right. Second, winners don’t follow everyone else’s rules. There are no ‘shoulds’ or ‘oughts’ or even right or wrong in business, only what you can get away with and what you can’t, nothing more. A lion doesn’t give its prey fair warning before it pounces. It doesn’t search out the strongest or fastest impala to even the odds; it searches for the weakest, then feeds. It’s survival instinct. The greater the mismatch, the better the feast. I took that lesson into the business world and it’s rewarded me well. In fact, I’m writing a book about it. It’s called Predator or Prey. Great title, eh? I’ve already got a publisher and my publicist tells me I’ve got a shot at Larry King and GMA.”

Kier was speechless.

“Oh, and there’s a third gift you indirectly gave me. I decided that if being in the real estate development business meant working with people like you, I’d do something else. So I tried my hand at a few things—seminars, infomercials, MLMs. I eventually found my niche in Internet marketing, selling exotic fruit juices at two dollars an ounce. So, again thanks to you, here I am. I own a mansion in Alpine, a ski condo in Vail, an apartment in Manhattan, a bungalow on Catalina, and a little summer home in Chianti surrounded by vineyards. My home in Alpine has a custom garage for my seventeen cars, including my Lamborghini, a ’39 Rolls Silver Shadow, and a Bugatti Veyron.” His eyebrows rose. “Now there’s a car for you.”

“Isn’t a Veyron a million dollars?” Kier asked.

“A million euro and worth every penny. She tops out at 407 kilometers; that’s 253 miles per hour. At full throttle she’ll burn out her tires in fifteen minutes.”

“Practical,” Kier said.

Carnes laughed. “A far cry from that Pontiac Firebird we used to tool around in.”

Kier nodded. “A far cry.”

“I also have a seventy-foot yacht at the Balboa Beach Yacht Club, a private jet, and I own this building outright. You know I don’t know if I should kiss you or punch you.”

“You’ve done well for yourself,” Kier said again. “How are your children?”

Carne’s expression darkened. “They do their thing. Andy’s a ski bum, Clara’s in drug rehab, and Marci, I honestly don’t know. She’s in Europe somewhere. We don’t talk anymore.”

Kier nodded. “Jimmy and I haven’t talked for a while.”

Carnes shrugged. “They make their choices. You give them everything and they hate you for it. Go figure.”

“Our paths are more similar than you know,” Kier said. “For which I am truly sorry.” He stood. “Sorry to waste your time.”

“No problem, Kier. I’ve enjoyed our conversation. You sure you’re not dying?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then maybe we should get together for a drink sometime. Speaking of which, you should try some Provanti. Even if you’re not dying, it could do you good.”

“I will. Good luck with your book.”

“I’ll send you a first edition when it comes off press.” He buzzed his assistant. “Show Jimmy the way out and fix him up with some juice and swag.”

Shantel appeared at the door. “This way, Mr. Kier. I have some things for you at my desk.”

“Parting gifts,” Carnes said. He stood and extended his hand. “Really, Jimmy-boy, call me sometime. We predators need to stick together.” Kier shook Carnes’s hand and followed the young woman out the door.

Shantel loaded him up with a box of juice, a Provanti sweatshirt, pen set, and a vinyl Provanti bag to carry it all.

Back in his car he took a bottle of juice from the carton and held it up to the light. “Provanti. The official drink of predators everywhere.”