Chapter Six: The Huston Gold

“You had better — all you people at the South — prepare yourselves for a settlement of this question, that must come up for settlement sooner than you are prepared for it.”

-John Brown

            The corporate headquarters of Centron Farms Inc. had started life as a five-star hotel back in the 1920s known as the Huston Gold, a name most people still used. In addition to catering to the richest clientele, it also had become something of a tourist attraction in itself for its impressive architectural design. At fifty floors, it was the tallest hotel built up to that time. It was constructed in the shape of a crescent moon, curving inwards to half-encircle the immaculately kept courtyard and roundabout, in the center of which played a large and ornate fountain. The building tapered as it reached the top, with each of the two wings ending with an outer and an inner roof, the inner being a few stories higher. The central span of the building ended in a penthouse topped with a spire and flanked with eight stone jaguars (which had been added after the original owner, Howard Huston, visited the Chrysler Building in New York and decided he wanted something similar).

            Its most famous feature, however, were the two sky-patios: huge, circular balconies off of the ballrooms on the twentieth and fortieth floors. Each of these patios was large enough to host a party for over fifty guests apiece, which they had indeed done shortly after the building was completed. 

            On that Saturday evening, though, George was the only person on the fortieth floor balcony. There had been a chill drizzle all day and no one else wanted to be out. Neither did George, when it came down to it. He just felt the need for a little fresh air. He’d been to more than a few elegant, high-class affairs like this, dragged along by Ben, but he never quite got used to them. He felt awkward in his borrowed tuxedo and was never really sure how the mingling was supposed to work. People just seemed to drift about, occasionally pausing to have a conversation about the weather or the coming business year or their clothes, then move on. It was like an extremely boring game of round robin. Besides, he didn’t like crowds. His bad ear made it so that he could barely understand anything when the whole room was talking. It made for a frustrating and embarrassing experience.

            After a few minutes of drinking deep of the cold night air, he turned back to the full-front windows that looked in on the ballroom. On the plus side, Martha looked simply radiant in a red silk dress. She didn’t seem to be having any problem with the crowd; she was chatting amiably with a couple of military officers. Smiling at the sight, George took it as a sign to head back in.

            There were about fifty or sixty people attending the party; most of them members of the company’s senior management and their dates, but also a few military brass come to view the outpouring of support Centron Farms was offering (and to listen to informal contracting bids). There were also a few invited guests, like himself and Martha. George recognized the thin, dark form of Mr. Strasser standing off in a corner looking sulky, accompanied by a few equally ill-tempered-looking gentlemen whom he guessed were underlings. George had never met the man (and, frankly, had no wish to) but he’d seen him once or twice in Ben’s company.

            Speaking of which, Ben was nowhere to be seen. George guessed he was off calling somewhere to try to find out what had happened to the CEO, since Calvan hadn’t arrived yet. He couldn’t help grinning just a little at the thought of his friend running about like a chicken with its head cut off dressed in a six-thousand-dollar tuxedo.

The ballroom had been built as the ‘other half’ of the Sky Patio: exactly the same size and shape, with a great curved wall and ceiling, giving it the look of a band shell. The dome was midnight blue at the top, fading to the color of the summer sky at the bottom. A sting quartet played dance music from a stage opposite the balcony, and a bar along the left wall served drinks. In the middle of the room, a dozen or so couples revolved on the dance floor.

George drifted over to where Martha was talking to the officers. They seemed to be enjoying her company.

            “Oh, this is my friend and co-worker,” Martha said. “George Adamson. A true American patriot.”

            This rather caught George off guard so that all he could manage in response was “Uh…”

            “Glad to know you,” said a man in Army uniform. “Colonel Foster. This is Major Andrews, Colonel Phelps, and Captain Symes.”

            George shook hands all around, feeling a twinge of awkwardness in the presence of so much military authority.

            “We were just talking a bit about the war so far,” Martha put in.

            “I understand it’s been rough going,” said George.

            “Well,” said Colonel Foster. “That’s been a bit exaggerated in the press. I won’t deny we’ve had setbacks: not being able to take Zanzibar was a blow, as the captain here will tell you. Shields any sea based attack on Dar es Salaam and gives them a nice base from which to stage raids along coast. But we’ll get back on our feet soon, never you fear.”

            George guessed that the Colonel was lying, or at least putting the best possible spin on the situation, as was to be expected of an officer talking to civilians.

            “I’m sure we will, sir,” he said.

            “Do you have any brilliant tactical maneuvers planned?” asked Martha slyly.

            “Dozens,” said Major Andrews, who was wearing the dress blues of a Marine and seemed to particularly admire Martha.

            “Like what?”

            “Oh, you’ll find out,” he said with a wink.

            She smiled and sipped her drink.

            “Do you ever think of signing up, Mr. Adamson?” asked Colonel Phelps.

            George knew this had been inevitable and tried to put the bravest face on it.

            “I tried, sir,” he said. “4F.”

            “Sorry to hear that,” said the Colonel. “We can use every man we can get. What was the problem, if you don’t mind my asking?”

            “Bad ear, sir. Plus I have some bad allergies as well; bee stings, in particular, but I don’t think that would have kept me out on its own if it hadn’t been for the half-deafness.”

            Colonel Phelps nodded.

            “Mr. Adamson, have you ever heard of the Battle of Tanga?”

            George couldn’t help giving a nervous chuckle.

            “Yes, sir; I have. First World War; the ‘Battle of the Bees.’”

            “Right about where we’re fighting now,” said the Colonel, who sounded rather impressed. “As a matter of fact, I was there when we took Tanga back in March. Ran into quite a few bees ourselves, nothing like what the British and Germans faced, but nasty enough…”

            He launched into a recollection of the battle. George knew about it, of course, from the newspapers, and he noted that the Colonel was hewing very close to the version the papers had reported, with only a few personal details. That either meant the papers had been accurate, or the Colonel was trying to make it seem like they were. It really could go either way. George wasn’t especially concerned; he knew perfectly well that he had no business knowing any of the details of the war, and if the military wanted to keep the country in the dark, he figured that meant they believed to do otherwise would make the war harder to win, which was the last thing anyone needed.

            But listening to the Colonel talk made the old aches start up again in George’s heart, and after a few minutes he politely excused himself to drift away to a more deserted corner of the room. He should have been out there. He should have been serving his country in its time of need. This was his fight, like Vietnam had been his father’s and World War Two had been his grandfathers’. This was the challenge of his generation, and he had to sit it out. It gnawed at him like a physical pain.

            George had no romantic illusions about war. He remembered only too well the grief of learning his father had been killed. He had read enough books on the subject and listened to enough stories from his relatives that he probably was more aware of the real nature of war than almost any other man of his age who had never served. One of his uncles had been driven to suicide by a morphine addiction he had picked up in Korea. Another had come home from Vietnam with about two-thirds of his face missing, which had given George nightmares as a child. But every time something like that happened in their family, they would always repeat the same thing to each other, like a mantra; ‘This is what it costs. This is what it costs.’

            The Adamsons, since the days of the Civil War, had seen just how high a price freedom could command, and they took it as a point of pride that they were always willing to pay whatever was asked of them. George was willing, alright; he just wasn’t able. But the thing about not being able is that you always wonder if you really would be willing, if it came down to it. When you know you will never be asked to make good on your oaths, you can never know whether they were false or not. And so, though George told himself again and again that he would have gone, that he tried to go, the question of how he would have reacted if it had come to the point still ate at his soul like acid. And it was never so fierce as in times like this; when he had to stand alongside the men who had had that question posed to them and had answered as he wished he could.

            Absently, he reached up and fiddled with the ear that had kept him out of the service. It admitted nothing but a faint buzzing sound and its sole contribution to his senses was to make it that much harder to understand anything that its fellow let in.

            “You okay?” Martha had followed him.

            “Fine,” he lied. “Just…”

            He didn’t bother finishing. There was nothing to say, and he doubted he could make her understand anyway.

            She watched him expectantly, but when he didn’t elaborate she seemed to decide to let the matter drop.

            “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go see how the captain of industry is doing.”

            She slipped her arm into his and led him back and into the crowd of partygoers. George recognized one or two more members of the board whom he had met through Ben and gave them awkward nods of recognition as he passed.

            “I don’t know about you,” Martha muttered. “But with all these rich folk, I’m feeling kind of out of place.”

            George though she was easily just as glamorous as any of the other ladies, and said so.

            “Thanks,” she said. “But it’s not the looks; it’s the attitude. Don’t they just seem so…so posh?”

            “I think you’re imagining things,” he said, bringing his hand across to rest on hers. “Relax. I’m sure most of these folk are perfectly friendly and wouldn’t give two hoots whether you’re from the Bronx or Littleton, Iowa, just as long as you’re polite.”

            “If you say so.”

            “If you’re expecting them to be snobs, of course they’ll seem to be,” he said. “Try to think of them as coworkers or potential friends.”

            “There’s an idea,” she muttered absently. “Speaking of friends…”

            She nodded over to where Ben was now talking to Mr. Strasser. Ben seemed to be trying to sooth the aggrieved German when he spotted George and Martha. 

            “As I say, Mr. Strasser, you will get to meet with Mr. Calvan before the night is over. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see if I can find him.”

            Ben detached himself from his guest of honor and headed over to George and Martha.

            “How’s it going?” he asked with a huge, fake grin on his face. “Guys having a good time?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he added. “You haven’t seen Calvan yet, have you?”

            They shook their heads.

            “Guess he’s running late,” George said with a shrug.

            Ben checked his watch. “That’s very bad: he’s never late. I swear, if this whole thing is ruined by a car crash or something…”

            “Easy there,” said George. “Everything will be fine, don’t worry.”

            “Right,” said Ben. “Gotta stay positive.” He gave himself a little shake. “Well, anyway. You both look great. Enjoy the champagne. Or cocktails. Or whatever you want. I’m going to go talk to old Fletcher; see if he knows anything.”

            Ben darted off to catch the elderly board member for a discussion of their employer’s lack of punctuality. Ben caught Martha’s eye and they both giggled.

            Dana Meadows was twenty-five, petite, raven-haired, and stunningly beautiful. She had made her living as a model for a while, before Xander Calvan had found her and asked her to dinner. They now had been together for four years. Calvan didn’t believe in marriage, or monogamy, but on the whole it wasn’t a bad set-up; she had the run of his house, all the money and jewels and cars she wanted, and plenty of free time.

            The only catch was enduring Calvan’s occasionally-alarming personality. He wasn’t what you would call bad-tempered or cruel, at least not to her, and most of the time she enjoyed his company. He was what she liked to call an ‘interesting subject.’ However, every so often she caught flashes of something nasty in him; of a rage and ego so extreme that they frankly terrified her.

            Tonight was one of those times.

            Their trip from home to the Huston Gold had been uneventful enough until they got onto one of the bridges that crossed the Avila River leading into the city. They had just reached the middle of the span when the heavy evening traffic abruptly ground to a complete stop.

            At first they had thought it was nothing but a traffic jam, and that they would be moving on soon. As the minutes snailed by and the horns began to blare, however, Calvan’s face had grown darker and darker.

            “Leopold, go see what is the matter,” he ordered at last.

            Leopold Stratsky, Calvan’s bodyguard, chauffeur, and personal assistant, extracted his enormous body from the limo to obey the command. Standing over seven feet tall, with biceps the size of bowling pins and a hard, brutal face, he looked rather as though someone had taught a rhinoceros to walk on its hind legs and then dressed it in a tuxedo for reasons best not to consider. Dana had not the slightest doubt that he would be able to get them moving again.

            They waited, Calvan drumming his fingers impatiently against the armrest. Dana didn’t say a word or make any kind of gesture: she just sat as calmly as could be and waited. There was no sense in potentially aggravating him any more than he already was. She knew him well enough to gauge his mood, and right now she guessed that his mind was cycling through the various possible causes of and solutions to their current predicament as well as all the implications it would have for his subsequent actions. Interrupting him in any way would only direct his already awakened anger onto herself.  

            After a few minutes, Leopold returned.

            “Sir,” he said. “There’s been an accident; a huge pileup at the far end of the bridge. Looks like a garbage truck hit traffic broadside. There’re at least ten cars scattered all over both lanes. I am afraid there is no way through.”

            “No way through?” Calvan said in disbelief. “There is always a way through, if you only have the brains to see it, Leopold.”

            Leopold didn’t so much as blink at the insult.

            “Yes, sir. Perhaps you’d like to see for yourself?”

            Calvan took a second to decide, then opened his door.

            “Wait here,” he told Dana, and followed his chauffeur over the bridge.

            Dana had already resigned herself to a long stay. Leopold was the kind of servant who considered his employer’s wishes to be something in the nature of divine commandments, so she was pretty sure that if there were any conceivable way through the pileup, Leopold would have found it, even it require him to move one of the cars out of the way himself. Since he hadn’t, that probably meant the thing was impossible and they were stuck there until the way was cleared.

            Sure enough, a few minutes later Leopold and his employer reappeared, Calvan looking as bad tempered as she had ever seen him. Dana braced herself as he threw open the car door and dropped into his seat.

            “Damn it!” he snarled. “Of all the nights for something like this to happen! If I ever find the idiot who caused this…”

            He kicked the driver’s seat furiously.

            “I have never been late for anything in my life,” he said. “Now, I’m delayed by this stupidity!”

            He slammed his fist against the door and lapsed into silence. Dana said nothing, but watched him with a wary eye. After a moment, he turned to look at her and, to her surprise, actually looked a little ashamed of himself.

            “Perhaps I shouldn’t lose my temper,” he said in as close to an apologetic tone as she had ever heard him use. Encouraged by this, she ventured to speak.

            “It’s your party, Xander; you’re entitled to be late to it.”

            He gave a small chuckle, and she smiled at him.

            “Well,” he said. “Nothing we can do now except make the best of it.”

            He pressed a button on the divider between their seats. The lid flipped off and a minibar rose between them. Dana was amazed he had recovered his good mood so quickly and grinned.

            “What’ll you have?” she asked.

            “Champagne.”

            She raised an eyebrow.

            “Doesn’t seem quite appropriate, given the circumstances, does it?”

            He seemed to think about it a bit.

            “Then call it an act of defiance against cruel fate and all his works,” he said.

            She laughed and poured the drinks. He raised his glass, studying the clear, bubbling liquid, and smiled.

            “What shall we drink to?” Dana asked.

            Calvan swirled his champagne around a bit.

            “Let’s drink…to freedom.”

            “Mr. Strasser, I assure you, Mr. Calvan will be here. Believe me, he’d consider it much more of a shame on himself than an insult to you if he didn’t show up, so you don’t have anything to worry about. Try to enjoy yourself! Have a drink, or some refreshment. Have you tried these shrimp? They’re really excellent, as you’ll see…”

            “Sheesh,” Martha muttered, watching Ben try to calm his guest for the fourth time in the last half-hour. “My Junior Prom date wasn’t that transparently desperate.”

            George gave her a quizzical look.

            “You know the cliché of the kid in school who everyone thinks is a creep, but is really just shy, sensitive, and a total romantic?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Turns out that’s not always the case,” she sighed. “Sometimes the kid everyone thinks is a creep really is just a creep. I stuck with handsome jock-types from then on.” She suddenly grinned mischievously at him. “Case in point.”

            George choked a little on his drink. All at once it occurred to him that tonight might be a good time to ask if she wanted to take things up a notch, relationship wise. He filed that thought away for further consideration. Perhaps he’d try later, like after Ben stopped running around like a chicken with his head cut off.

            The said chicken scurried over to them again, more, George thought, to escape his irate guest than for any social concerns. His face was fixed in a very unconvincing grin that made him look as though his cheeks had been wired back. He didn’t change his expression, or even unclench his teeth as he asked “Where the hell is Calvan?”

            “Don’t worry, Ben,” said Martha. “I’m sure he’ll be here. He’s not going to miss his own event.”

            “Well, he’s late,” said Ben, still through clenched teeth. “Very, very late. Strasser’s starting to feel snubbed again, and that’s not good.”

            “Just calm down, okay?” said George.

            “I’m calm,” Ben lied. “I’m perfectly calm. Only Calvan had better show up soon or I just might jump off the balcony!”

            “Oh, don’t do that!” said Martha. “It’ll make you look desperate.”

            “Yeah,” said George. “And we wouldn’t want that.”

            Ben scowled at him, his face twitching angrily.

            “Easy there, slugger,” said George. “Just trying to lighten things up a bit. The night’s still young; Calvan will be here, don’t you worry about it.”

            “In fact, this is probably him now,” said Martha, nodding at the elevator. The numbered display over the door was showing it rising from the lobby.

            Ben turned to look, so eagerly that he knocked George’s drink out of his hand. Fortunately, most of it ended on up George rather than Ben, since a stained tux wouldn’t have helped the aspiring tycoon’s nerves. They both apologized at the same time.

            “I’d better go clean this off before Calvan gets here,” George muttered, surveying his dripping shirt. His glass had been nearly full. “Ben…”He held out his hand. “Good luck buddy.”

            Ben grinned and grasped it.

            “Appreciate it.”

            They smiled, then George hurried off for the men’s room.

            Ben took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Martha laid a hand on his arm. 

            “Don’t worry,” she muttered. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.”

            The elevator dinged and the doors opened. A second later, the air was rent with the sound of gunfire.

Next Week;

Chapter Seven; Shots in the Dark