“I prefer Lee to Johnston—the former is too cautious & weak under grave responsibility—personally brave and energetic to a fault, he yet is wanting in moral firmness when pressed by heavy responsibility & is likely to be timid & irresolute in action."
Gen. George B. McClellan, letter to Abraham Lincoln, 1862
San Ignatio. The middle child of California. 200 miles to the south lay Los Angeles. 220 miles to the north was San Francisco. Three of the greatest American cities: the crown jewels of the Golden State.
San Ignatio was Luigi Morello’s kingdom.
Oh, he did not have complete control. Xin Lo Pan and his Tongs were still a force to be reckoned with, as were the Yakuza. But Morello’s power was secure enough that both those formidable opponents knew to stay out of his way, and conflicts between the great powers of the San Ignatio underworld were rare. Besides, the Chinese and Japanese mobs might be dangerous, but neither controlled as much wealth or wielded as much influence as Luigi Morello.
Morello’s father, Giuseppe Morello, had been a Caporegime in the Defonte crime family. After he was killed in a shootout, Luigi had stepped in to take his place. But Luigi had been much cleverer than his father had. He slowly began to make gains of his own. He began to employ soldati off the books. He made close alliances with other underworld figures; all in secret so that Salvatore Defonte never guessed what was happening until, one day, his car was crushed by a pile of girders when a crane cable (coincidentally owned by Morello’s construction company) suddenly failed. Defonte, his underboss, Mario Rossi, and three more of his men were killed instantly. In the power vacuum that ensued, Morello moved quickly to seize control before Defonte’s consigliere, Perenchio, could consolidate his power. Morello produced evidence that the old boss’s death had, in fact, been Perenchio’s doing, and that he’d used Morello’s crane to try to throw suspicion on him. The evidence, an ‘intercepted’ letter giving instructions to the assassin, had been enough to convince most of the other family members, and Perenchio had vanished into the bay. At which point Morello, of course, was the logical choice to head the family.
Since then, the family had had no cause to complain about their choice. Morello had been more successful than Defonte ever was. He’d made the family a true force to be reckoned with in San Ignatio, whether for rival gangs or the law. His connections with San Ignatio gambling business – one the many alliances which had given him the power to take on Defonte – provided both a source of income and a convenient place to launder money. His contacts in the drug world were even more profitable. Morello was an entrepreneur at heart, and he liked to ‘diversify,’ as they say. The only business he refused to deal in was women. He might not be quite the good Catholic boy he had once flirted with being, but he hoped he wasn’t a monster. Killing people was one thing: you can respect a man you kill. Selling them, now, that was different.
Apart from that, and counting both his criminal enterprises and his genuinely legitimate business interests, he had a hand in just about everything that went on in the city. Nevertheless, he was the kind of man who was always looking for his next opportunity. And now a very enticing opportunity had come knocking at his door.
Settling his robust frame deeper into the welcoming folds of the comfortable armchair, Morello regarded his latest customer. The call had come as something of a surprise: very few men came to him directly. Those who did were usually either family or were so desperate that they were willing to brave his displeasure. This man was neither. He certainly wasn’t family; he wasn’t ever Italian, as far as Morello knew. He didn’t seem desperate either. In his own field, he was nearly as successful as Morello was in his. Here was a man sitting close to the top of the world, and he had just invited the king of the underworld into his presence. That was a curious situation.
Morello studied the man seated across the desk from him. About six-one, athletic, early forties, with short, well-groomed red hair, and eyes like bits of ice. Surprisingly rough and weathered-looking for a businessman. Dressed in a sharp-cut, but not ostentatious suit of charcoal gray. Nothing too interesting to look at.
And this is the richest man in the world, he thought.
Xander Calvan, CEO of Centron Farms, was explaining a rather simple and even commonplace job he wished to hire the Morello Family Construction Company to perform; just a bit of repair work on his company headquarters. Nothing unusual about that, except for the fact that the richest man in the world was personally hiring the most dangerous man in the city to do it. Not that Morello’s other business dealings were exactly public, but his reputation was well known nonetheless: you didn’t wield the kind of power he did without becoming just a little famous. Besides, the only reason this man would ask for a private, personal meeting with him was if he at least thought he knew what other services the owner of Morello Construction might be able to provide.
“If you impress me on this job,” Calvan concluded. “I may have a very lucrative contract to offer you.”
His voice was low and raspy, like soft crackling embers.
Morello took the offered plans for the repairs and glanced carelessly at them.
“You know,” he said. “I have people who usually handle this sort of thing.”
Calvan smiled.
“Of course,” he said. “But even when you’ve reached the top, sometimes it is best to do things for yourself, just to keep appraised of the situation on the ground. At least, I have found that to be the case in my own profession.”
Morello gave him a sarcastic and completely joyless smile in return. Who the hell did this guy think he was?
“And as a busy man yourself, I’m sure you appreciate how much I hate it when people waste my time,” he replied in very polite voice.
“I never waste time,” said Calvan. “Time is the one thing you cannot provide yourself. Believe me, Mr. Morello, I would not have asked you here if I did not think it worth your time.”
“Then enlighten me,” said the mobster.
Calvan regarded him a moment with those ice blue eyes. Morello looked right back with his own obsidian black ones. Clearly, this was a man who was used to being thought intimidating. Morello, however, found him merely tedious.
“You know,” said Calvan. “I admire a man like you. I have read all about your fascinating history in the press. Your family has lived here since the 1906 Earthquake, I believe. From that time, they eked out a modest living in various professions. Your company was started by your grandfather, if I am not mistaken. But it was you who took it and built it up beyond anything your fathers could have imagined. You are a maker, Mr. Morello, and I admire makers.”
He smiled, but the smile gave no warmth to his eyes.
“Is that why you called me down here?” asked Morello. “To ask for my autograph?”
“Centron Farms,” said Calvan, as though he hadn’t heard the snipe. “Will soon be undergoing a restructuring. After which, I intend to move my company in another direction, and to a new headquarters.”
He stood up and pulled aside the curtains. The sun was still to the east, and so the westward-facing office remained in shadow, but everything before them was bathed in sunlight. The surrounding skyscrapers gleamed and cast their enormous shadows out toward the harbor. Calvan pointed to the ocean a mile away.
“I have recently purchased St Luis Obispo Island. I plan to make it the site of a more suitable headquarters for my company. The structure that I will build there will stand three-hundred and fifty stories high and tower over a mile above the ocean. It will be the tallest building on Earth and the wonder of the world.”
He turned back to Morello, who looked back at the businessman with an impassive face, but who inwardly was digesting the implications of that remarkable prospect.
“Obviously, I will require a construction firm for this project,” Calvan went on. “I do not have a cost estimate yet, but I would imagine the contract would run well into the billions over the course of several years.”
Morello was interested now, but his interest was more of an abstract than a businesslike nature, as he didn’t really believe Calvan’s estimate. You couldn’t build something that high and make it structurally sound. It’d be too much weight to put on the foundations; it wouldn’t stand up in the winds, and that’s even if the ground on St Luis Island were able to hold it, which he doubted. More likely, he thought, Calvan was one of those men who dreamt big, but whose ambitions would be whittled down by the more practical. Still, it was an interesting proposition, even if only half true.
“I still don’t see why you needed to call me up here,” he said.
Calvan returned to his desk and pressed the ends of his fingers together.
“If you impress me with this job,” he said, nodding at the order in front of him. “Then I will be inclined to offer you this contract.”
“That didn’t really answer my concern,” said Morello.
“This job includes some rather specific instructions,” answered Calvan, producing a small, folded piece of paper from inside his jacket and setting it on the desk. “Instructions that must be carried out exactly. I thought that you alone would possess the authority to ensure that this is done properly, as well as being the man who would best appreciate my very generous offer.”
Now Morello was really interested. He had suspected that this wasn’t just a normal job, and now he was certain, but what was it? He, of course, knew better than to ask outright, but he was frankly burning with curiosity.
“If you intend to accept my offer, it must be done immediately,” said Calvan.
Morello read the proffered note (careful not to touch it) and smirked. He was pretty sure he knew what this was about: he’d dealt with this type before. Calvan was the king of his little world, and he fancied himself king of everything else as well. This was a way for him to preen himself; make himself feel like a man of action and intrigue: a sop to his ego. It was common enough; these types that had made all their money in board meetings and paper trails often felt inadequately masculine. They all had their different hobbies to delude themselves that they were ‘tough guys.’ Some went in for hunting, others for sports, and some especially deluded ones got themselves involved in crime.
Well, that was no skin off his nose. If Calvan wanted to come swim in the deep end, he was welcome. It’d be a coup to have the richest man in the world under his thumb.
“I’ll talk to my people,” said Morello, scooping the note up into the work order he already held. “I think we can do this.”
He stood up and held out his hand. Calvan tilted his head, as though considering his options, then took it. He did not get up.
Let’s see how long you can keep that smug little attitude of yours in this game, Mr. Calvan, Morello thought.
“Remember,” said Calvan. “I am paying you for a rushed job. We will be hosting a charity ball this Saturday with many important investors present, and it would be highly embarrassing if these repairs were not completed before my guests arrive.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Morello. “Your guests won’t notice a thing.”
“Mr. Strasser, I can’t tell you how flattered I am that you’ve taken the time to come and see me.”
Mr. Strasser smiled as he sat down. Ben thought he looked like he was fantasizing about going for his throat. Good; that showed he meant business and they’d get along. Ben Osborne liked to get to the point, and he didn’t intimidate easily.
Strasser was thin, with jet-black hair, a hooked nose, and pale skin. His hair was slicked and well-stylized, and Ben recognized his suit as coming from a very high-end tailor. His whole attitude bespoke that particular form of snobbery common to the super-rich business type; the kind of muted opulence of Rolex watches or sleek cars, where only those who already knew what such a thing looked like and how much it costs would ever be impressed. Vanity which craved the envy of the vain.
Though he was from the same world as the German – the world of board meetings, private jets, and business deals involving millions – Ben had no patience for that sort of thing. He liked to show off too, but he preferred to do it by, say, trying out for the Olympics, or climbing Mt. Everest, or hunting lions. Things normal people would be impressed by. Not a watch that only cost ten-thousand dollars because it gave you the right to say ‘this watch cost ten-thousand dollars.’
“I hope we can finally come to an agreement, Mr. Osborne,” said Strasser. “I assume your employer has authorized you to make these decisions?”
Authorization hell, Ben thought, still smiling politely. Who do you think you’re dealing with, kraut?
“All except the final approval,” he said aloud. “Which I’m afraid he insists on handling himself, but I am authorized to negotiate and make any offer that seems fitting. Now, you have my latest figures, I am assuming?”
The representative of Empire Chemicals nodded.
“I find them…very interesting,” he admitted. Strasser had a way of speaking as if he were sucking on his words as they came out; lingering over each one until he had drawn every ounce of flavor before releasing them. It made for long conversations.
“However,” he went on. “I believe my superiors would be more inclined to consider them if we had Mr. Calvan’s assurance that these are indeed the final and approved offers. Perhaps I could meet with him.”
Ben twirled his pen, silently counting to five. Not only did that request strike him as an insultingly dismissive assessment of himself, but it had taken the German nearly a minute to say it. Strasser smiled that toothy smile again.
He’s doing it on purpose, Ben thought. He wants to throw me off. We’ll see about that.
“As you know, Mr. Strasser,” he said. “Mr. Calvan has many demands on his time…” (Also I’m not his goddamn secretary) “You’d have to talk with his assistants about setting up a meeting.”
“I have,” said Strasser. “And they inform me that the earliest he will be able to see me is December. Quite frankly, Mr. Osborne, your offer is not that interesting to us.”
Ben kept twirling his pen, focusing on keeping it balanced. It was an old trick he’d picked up to control his temper.
He had been working on this purchase for almost a whole year now. It was his baby; he had found Empire Chemicals, he had decided they would be a good addition to Centron Farms, he had made the first approach, he had presided over the long, arduous process of investigating and negotiating. He had even been the one to present the idea to Calvan, had dared to fight with him over the course of three weeks, and had actually done the impossible in convincing the old ice block to change his mind and agree to the purchase. This purchase was supposed to be his triumph: a brilliant maneuver that proved in a single stroke that he was one of the company’s top players. And after all that, he was looking at the possibility that the whole thing would fall through because some dandified prick didn’t think he was good enough.
Ben was young, certainly; younger than most people were when they started out. But he’d been doing this sort of thing all his life. He started working for his dad when he was ten. He’d taken over AVI Communications when he was twenty-one. Now at twenty-six, he’d sold the company for a very lucrative deal, which included a seat on the board of directors of one of the largest and most important corporations on Earth. He was used to swimming in the deep end; he wasn’t some clueless executive assistant that you could just dismiss with a sneer and a wave of your hand.
“As I say, Mr. Strasser, I am a member of the board of directors and I have been authorized to make this offer. If you did wait to speak with Mr. Calvan, I can tell you right now he’d say to come see me, because I’m the one who is authorized to oversee this purchase.”
“I appreciate your position, Mr. Osborne,” said Strasser. “However, you must appreciate mine. I have been very specifically ordered to meet with Mr. Calvan to finalize this deal. If this is truly as important to your company as you have made out, perhaps he could reschedule one of those innumerable demands on his time. It is really essential to us that this agreement be made personally with him. If your employer does not care enough about this sale to take the time to meet with us – as, I wish to remind you, he has not done once in all our negotiations – then we do not care enough to sell.”
The pen slipped from Ben’s fingers and bounced on the floor.
“I know that you Americans think you are entitled to dictate your own terms in everything,” said Strasser.“In my country, on the other hand, your corporation’s behavior on this point would be considered ‘presumptuous.’”
The deal that Ben had worked so long and so hard to close was slipping away before his eyes just at the very moment of consummation, all because his employer wouldn’t take the trouble to even meet with these people. Ben knew perfectly well how Calvan would react to the idea of changing his schedule to accommodate Strasser: the man practically had a phobia for ‘accommodating’ anyone. He’d say that he wasn’t about to be dictated to by some comparatively puny European corporation and that they should just forget the whole thing. But Ben had put much too much effort into this to forget about it now. If this deal fell through, he would be the laughing stock of the board. They might even kick him off; say that this proved he was ‘too young’ for such a position of authority.
It was infuriating. His career was poised on the brink of complete success, and was about to be thoroughly ruined because his boss wouldn’t move a damn lunch date.
Then he had an idea; a perfect idea.
“There may be a way to arrange a meeting after all,” he said. “Centron Farms will be hosting a charity ball here this Saturday. Mr. Calvan will, of course, be in attendance, as well as the entire board of directors. If you would join us, I am sure I can arrange a meeting where all this can be straightened up, and there will be cocktails to boot.”
And he’ll tell you the same damn thing I just did.
Strasser considered that.
“It would be much better if he could simply make room on his regular business schedule,” he said.
“Yes, and perhaps he will if you were to present the issue to him face-to-face,” said Ben. “But even if not, he’ll be able to clear up any questions or misconceptions you might have.”
The German’s expression was unreadable as he pondered the possibilities. Ben waited, careful not to demonstrate by any twitch or flicker of expression how unbearable he found the suspense.
Finally, Strasser nodded.
“Very well. Have the invitation sent to my hotel.”
Ben’s stomach unclenched and he felt as though a weight had lifted from his back.
“I can guarantee you’ve made the right call, sir,” he said, standing up and shaking Stasser’s hand vigorously.
And so have I.
When Otto Strasser left Centron Farms headquarters, he walked briskly to the nearest subway station, which was fortunately not as packed with humanity as it would be in a few hours. He flashed his day pass into the machine, stepped briskly down the stairs, and immediately selected a vacant phone booth.
The phone was answered on the third ring. There was no greeting.
“Hello, darling,” said Strasser in German. “I can’t wait for you to join us. I’ve gotten us tickets to an exclusive event this Saturday evening. Seven o’clock. All our friends will be there. Be sure to bring the children: they’d love it.”
He hung up, picked up his quarter, and took a seat on what seemed to be the cleanest bench in view. Public transport was so repulsive, not to mention beneath his dignity, but it was part of the job. Besides, it was only two more days. Then he would be out of this disgusting country for a time.
Meanwhile, in a small, dirty, basement apartment on the other side of the city, Commander Gidan hung up the phone.
“Spread the word,” he said to the men who sat in the shadowy room with him. “It’s time.”
Chapter Four: Best of Friends
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