Chapter 68: Lids and Madmen
Wayne returned to the estate early that morning with Sergei in tow, completely unaware that Halle Berry, under Hela's suggestion, was enthusiastically studying the art of making dumplings.
His primary reason for returning this time was a meeting his mother had arranged—with a young accountant and stockbroker named Howard Jr., the son of their long-time family accountant. Fresh out of school, he was, by all accounts, exactly what Wayne needed: professionally competent and—most importantly—obedient.
Wayne wasn't interested in resumes or qualifications. All he needed was someone who would follow instructions and invest the money exactly where he said.
By November, the weather in Ventura County had turned noticeably colder. Even the robust old Ruben Garfield had pulled on a coat as he sat under the porch, fiddling with a revolver and flanked by two golden retrievers.
The moment the dogs perked up their ears, he knew someone familiar was approaching—unknown cars didn't get past the ranch without the hounds making a fuss.
As Sergei parked in front of the wooden house, Wayne stepped out of the car. The two retrievers instantly bounded over, tails wagging madly, nearly knocking him over in their excitement.
"Hey, Dad—how've you been?" Wayne crouched to embrace the dogs and looked up to greet his father.
"Nothing's changed," Ruben said, lowering his gun and stroking his beard with a grin. "Unless you count your mother's temper—that's definitely gotten worse."
"Holy s***! Hey there—I'm Ruben Garfield. You Russian? I haven't seen a big slab of muscle like you in ages."
The elder Garfield enthusiastically hugged Sergei, introducing himself with characteristic cowboy flair.
Sergei, clearly unused to such warm greetings, forced a stiff smile in return.
"I'm Sergei, Mr. Garfield's security detail."
Wayne didn't bother with the small talk. Leading the goldens inside, he glanced back and saw his father and Sergei already deep in conversation about guns. Maybe bringing the Russian bear home wasn't such a bad idea—if there was one thing a former soldier like Sergei knew, it was firearms.
---
"Mom!"
Anna, who was curled up on the couch watching a soap opera, turned at the sound of her son's voice. She sprang up and gave him a warm hug.
"Sweetheart, how's the new film going?" she asked as they sat down together.
"Perfectly. We wrapped all the shots. I just came back to take care of the investment stuff. After that, it's straight into post-production."
Wayne pushed the eager retrievers away from his lap and firmly planted them at his feet.
"I'm thinking of taking them with me this time."
"Go ahead. Your dad only takes them out when he's testing guns. The cowboys handle most of their walks these days."
Anna's tone made it clear—her attachment to the dogs wasn't as strong as Ruben's. She was perfectly fine with Wayne taking them off her hands.
"You've grown up now, so I've tried not to meddle in your personal life," she said, voice suddenly sharp. "But what's the deal with that Black girl? And don't even think about lying—I know you too well. You've never liked Black women."
Wayne let out a slow breath.
"Alright, fine. It's a publicity stunt arranged by Warner Bros."
There was no point in lying to his mother—he trusted her more than anyone.
"Once the film finishes its theatrical run, we'll break it off. It's all for show."
In that era, interracial relationships—especially between white men and Black women—were still controversial. In California, things were a little more progressive, thanks to L.A.'s openness. But in the deeply conservative states and towns, racial prejudice remained deeply entrenched.
Even decades later, places like Texas and Boston would remain notoriously hostile toward people of color.
Wayne knew better than to pretend his family was somehow different. Sure, his mother had been a producer and now wrote books, but deep down, families like theirs would never accept a Black woman as a daughter-in-law.
"Where's your father?" Anna glanced toward the door, clearly wary—there were things she didn't want Ruben Garfield to hear.
"Relax, Mom. He's probably off showing my security guy his gun collection." Wayne didn't even need to guess—he knew exactly how his father operated. "What's going on that you don't want Dad to know?"
Anna hesitated, clearly torn, but eventually spoke. "Thomson Rossman called me. He said you two had a bit of... tension?"
It took Wayne a second to place the name—an executive from 20th Century Fox. Then the memory of a phone call surfaced.
"Mom, there's no bad blood. It's just business. I swear."
"Just remember—business is business. Don't get into it with Thomson Rossman. He won't cause you any real trouble." Anna's eyes clouded with old memories. "He used to be one of your father's closest friends. It was your dad who brought him into the industry. But... something happened. After that, your father cut off all contact with his old friends. He doesn't trust anyone anymore."
Wayne nodded slowly, still petting the golden retrievers at his feet.
"Mom, I want to know what happened back then. I still have vague memories—we used to live by the beach, didn't we?"
Anna fell silent, clearly reluctant to speak further. She didn't want to lie to her son, but she also didn't want to tell the full truth. She just stared at the TV in silence.
After what felt like ten minutes of tense quiet—and just as Wayne was about to head upstairs—Anna finally turned toward him, her expression firm.
"Wayne, that has nothing to do with you. And there was no clear right or wrong in what happened. What you should focus on is your future—your career—not ancient history."
Seeing her unwavering tone, Wayne shrugged, grabbed the dogs, and left the living room. But he didn't even get a moment to rest before his mother called him back down again.
When he returned, a young man about his age was already sitting in the living room. One look, and Wayne could tell—this had to be Howard's son. The resemblance was uncanny.
The same thinning hairline, the same bulbous forehead, the same gas-can-shaped body—thick all around. If Anna hadn't warned him in advance, Wayne wouldn't have believed this guy was only two years older than him.
"Hi, Wayne. I'm Colin Howard—just call me Colin."
"Nice to meet you, Colin." Wayne shook his hand and gestured for them to sit. "So, did you bring the documents? I'd like to take a look first."
Colin opened his briefcase and handed him two thin sheets of printed paper. On them were detailed profiles of several internet companies—foundation dates, IPO dates, and recent stock prices.
Wayne scanned through them carefully. It was all unfamiliar territory. In his past life, he'd been just another nobody—working class, small circle, no investment experience. He had no real insight into tech companies or their actual value.
But one name stood out: Microsoft. You couldn't live through the turn of the century and not hear about Gates and his empire. Even if Wayne hadn't actively followed the market, Microsoft's reputation was unavoidable.
Another name jumped out at him too: Oracle, the brainchild of the madman Larry Ellison. If even Wayne had heard of it in his old life, then it must have been a company with staying power.
"This one," he said finally. "Let's go with this."
"Microsoft?" Colin asked.
"Yeah. Microsoft. All my money's still in the studio account. I'll have my lawyer contact you. Once the paperwork's signed, use all of it to buy Microsoft shares."
After calculating mortgage payments and operating costs for the estate, Wayne figured he could safely invest around ten million dollars.
Colin frowned slightly. "I've looked into them. Since their IPO, they've been a money-printing machine. But with that kind of capital, it'll be hard to grab a big chunk of stock right away. The market's flooded with institutional buyers."
He wasn't wrong. Everyone wanted a piece of Microsoft—its valuation had multiplied twenty times since going public. It was the golden goose, and all the hedge funds were already circling.
"In that case, split the funds with this one—Oracle," Wayne said, pointing at the sheet. "Just split it between these two companies. No need to worry about ratios."
If buying a big stake in Microsoft was slow and difficult, then he'd diversify—Oracle was the next best bet. It was the only other company he remembered well.
"No problem. I'll prep the paperwork. Just have your lawyer reach out."
Colin gathered his briefcase, politely said goodbye to Anna, and rushed off to catch his flight back to New York.
Wayne, for his part, wasn't trying to get rich off stocks. He just didn't trust keeping all his assets in cash—dollars kept losing value. Investing in blue-chip companies seemed like the safer route, a hedge against inflation. Definitely better than letting money rot in a savings account.
Besides, even with his limited knowledge, he knew Bill Gates became the richest man in the world thanks to Microsoft. And Ellison? He always seemed to be feuding with Gates—if he was wealthy enough to challenge that guy, Oracle had to be doing fine.
---
"All done with business?" Ruben strolled into the room around noon, Sergei trailing behind, clearly having spent the morning admiring gun collections.
"Yeah," Wayne said. "We just need to sign a contract and it's good to go."
"Don't get starry-eyed over the stock market, Wayne."
Ruben's voice was serious, tinged with experience. "Remember what you're after: asset preservation—not gambling."
He'd seen too many people go from rags to riches overnight—only to lose everything chasing dreams in the market. Greed had driven more than one person to jump from the Empire State Building or the Golden Gate Bridge.
And many of them were Jewish. Ruben would know. Greed, he said, was practically a racial talent they carried in their bones.
Wayne sighed. "Dad, my career is filmmaking. That's it. For the next several years at least, that's my only plan."
Born into a well-off family, he could've done many things—but instead, he'd set a plan for himself early on. Years of discipline, rigorous learning, all for one purpose.
This had always been his dream—not just in this life, but the last one too.
Back then, he only watched movies. Now, he had the chance to make them.
He'd fallen asleep to the glow of the screen as a child. Maybe that's how he knew—movies were always going to be his destiny.