The fountain pen scratched across the thick parchment. It was the only sound in the private suite of the Waldorf Astoria.
Jason Underwood signed the name Ezra Prentice with a flourish.
He pushed the document across the marble table. Beside it, he slid a cashier's check drawn from the newly formed Standard Oil of New Jersey.
"Twenty thousand dollars," Jason said. "For fifteen percent of the company. Plus the silent partnership rights."
Across the table, Mr. Klingensmith wiped sweat from his forehead. He was a small man, Henry Ford's personal attorney, and he looked like he was selling his soul.
He stared at the check.
"Mr. Ford will be... reluctant," Klingensmith stammered. "He dislikes Wall Street. He dislikes bankers. He wants to build cars for the common man, not for the trust funds."
"Mr. Ford is broke," Jason cut him off.
Jason leaned forward. He poured himself a glass of brandy, his movements precise and predatory.
"I've seen the balance sheets, Klingensmith. The Model K was a failure. The factory in Detroit is hemorrhaging cash. He can't pay his suppliers. He can't build the Model T without steel, and he can't buy steel without this check."
Jason tapped the paper.
"Tell Henry to build the assembly line. Tell him to ignore the craftsmanship and focus on the speed. I don't care if the cars are ugly. I care if they are cheap. I want one in every driveway in America."
Klingensmith swallowed hard. He picked up the check. His hands trembled slightly as he folded it into his pocket.
"And your involvement remains... anonymous?"
"Completely," Jason said. "My name appears nowhere. Use the shell company. 'Future Holdings.' If Henry asks, tell him a guardian angel sent the money. Just make sure the stock certificates are in my safe by Friday."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Klingensmith stood up. He bowed—too low, too obsequious—and hurried out of the room.
The heavy door clicked shut.
Jason let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
He stood up and walked to the window. Below him, New York City teemed with horse-drawn carriages and pedestrians. But in his mind, he saw asphalt highways. He saw traffic jams. He saw gas stations on every corner.
He had just bought the twentieth century for the price of a Manhattan townhouse.
He raised the brandy glass. The amber liquid caught the light.
"To the future," he whispered to no one.
The lock on the suite door clicked.
Jason froze.
He hadn't called for service. His bodyguard was stationed in the lobby. No one should have been able to open that door.
The handle turned. The door swung open.
It wasn't a waiter.
Mr. Gates stood in the doorway.
He wasn't wearing his usual trench coat. He was wearing a suit. A brand new, pinstriped monstrosity that was three shades too blue and tight in the shoulders. A bright red carnation was pinned to his lapel.
He looked like a wolf trying to dress up for a wedding.
He smiled. It was a jagged, ugly thing.
"Knock knock," Gates rumbled.
Jason lowered the glass. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"How did you get past security?" Jason asked. His voice was ice.
"I told them I was your associate," Gates said. He stepped into the room and kicked the door shut with his heel. "Mr. G. They seemed to think that was funny."
Gates walked to the table. He moved with a rolling, confident swagger that didn't belong in the Waldorf.
He pulled out the chair Klingensmith had just vacated. He sat down, spreading his legs wide.
He lifted a muddy boot and rested it on the pristine white tablecloth.
Jason stared at the mud staining the linen. A flash of pure rage blinded him for a second. This was his sanctuary. This was the clean world. The world of contracts and visions.
Gates was polluting it.
"Get your feet off the table," Jason said quietly.
"Nice place," Gates ignored him. He reached out and grabbed the bottle of expensive French brandy. He didn't use a glass. He took a swig straight from the bottle.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Tastes like money."
"What do you want, Gates?" Jason walked back to the table. "If you want more cash, send a message to the blind drop. Don't come here. If my partners see you—"
"They'll see a businessman," Gates interrupted. "We're partners now, aren't we, Boss? We got secrets together."
Gates reached into his jacket pocket.
He pulled out a folded newspaper. He tossed it onto the table, right next to the muddy boot.
It was the Wall Street Journal. A small article in the corner was circled in red grease pencil.
FORD MOTOR COMPANY SEEKS FINANCING AMIDST INSOLVENCY RUMORS.
Gates tapped the circle.
"I did some reading," Gates said. "Word on the street is that this car mechanic in Detroit is finished. Everyone says he's a bum. But you..."
Gates pointed a dirty fingernail at Jason.
"You just met with his lawyer. You just handed over a check big enough to choke a horse. And you don't bet on losers."
Jason's face remained impassive, but his mind was racing. Gates was smarter than he looked. He wasn't just a thug; he was a parasite who paid attention.
"It's a speculative investment," Jason said. "High risk."
"Bullshit," Gates laughed. "You know something. You always know something. Just like the copper crash. Just like the oil breakup."
Gates leaned forward. The playfulness vanished from his eyes, replaced by a hard, greedy glint.
He reached under the table. He pulled out a burlap sack. It landed on the marble table with a heavy, dull thud.
"I want in," Gates said.
Jason stared at the sack. "What is that?"
"Fifty thousand dollars," Gates said. "Cash. Small bills. Dirty as hell."
He opened the sack. It was stuffed with crumpled banknotes. Some were stained with things Jason didn't want to identify. Blood. Grease. Booze.
"This is from the... collection business," Gates said. "Racketeering. Kneecaps. The works. The problem is, Boss, I can't spend it. If I walk into a bank with this, they call the cops. If I buy a house, the tax man asks questions."
Gates patted the sack.
"I want you to wash it for me."
Jason felt a wave of nausea. "You want me to launder your money?"
"I want you to put it in the car company," Gates said. "Add my name to the ledger. Or use one of your fancy fake names. I don't care. I want shares. I want dividends. I want clean, white checks arriving in my mailbox every month."
"No," Jason said instantly.
"Excuse me?" Gates' eyes narrowed.
"I am building a legitimate empire," Jason said. He leaned over the table, his voice trembling with suppressed fury. "I am building the future of American industry. I will not taint it with your blood money. I hired you to fix problems, not to become a shareholder."
"Taint it?" Gates laughed softly. He stood up slowly.
He towered over Jason. The smell of cheap tobacco and violence rolled off him.
"You think you're clean, Mr. Prentice?"
Gates reached into his breast pocket.
He pulled out a photograph.
He dropped it onto the table, right on top of the burlap sack.
It was a grainy, black-and-white photo. Taken from a distance, but clear enough.
It showed Jason in the alleyway. His hand was on Sarah's arm. Their faces were close. Intimate. Desperate.
"She's a cute girl," Gates said. "Sarah, right? Works at the telegraph office. Lives in a rat-hole on the Lower East Side."
Jason stopped breathing. The room seemed to tilt.
"I did some checking," Gates whispered. "Your wife... the lovely Mrs. Rockefeller... she's a jealous woman, isn't she? Very proud. If she saw this photo... if she knew her husband was sneaking out to meet a gutter rat..."
Gates picked up the photo. He held it by the corner, dangling it like a dead mouse.
"Or maybe I don't show the wife. Maybe I just pay Sarah a visit. Maybe she has an accident. The stairs in those tenements are very steep."
A red haze filled Jason's vision. He wanted to grab the brandy bottle and smash it into Gates' face. He wanted to kill him.
But he couldn't.
If he attacked Gates, the photo would get out. If he refused, Sarah would pay the price.
Gates had him. He was in a cage, and Gates held the key.
Jason looked at the photo. He looked at the dirty money. He looked at the Ford contract.
He realized then that there was no such thing as a clean empire. Every dollar was built on someone's throat.
Slowly, Jason reached out.
He took the burlap sack. It felt heavy and greasy in his hands.
"Fine," Jason whispered.
Gates grinned. He clapped his hands together.
"That's the spirit! Partners!"
"I will put it in a blind trust," Jason said, his voice dead. "Under the name 'G. Enterprise.' You will get your dividends quarterly. But you never come here again. You never approach me in public again."
"Sure, sure," Gates said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm a silent partner. Silent as the grave."
He grabbed the brandy bottle again. He took another long swig, then slammed it down on the table.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Ezra."
Gates turned and strutted to the door. He paused with his hand on the latch.
"Oh, and Boss?"
He looked back. His eyes were dead cold.
"Don't try to move the girl. I have men watching the train stations. If she tries to leave the city... she doesn't make it to Jersey."
The door clicked shut.
Jason was alone.
He stood in the silence of the luxury suite. The smell of Gates' cheap cologne lingered in the air, overpowering the scent of the brandy.
He looked at the table.
The muddy boot print on the white linen. The sack of blood money. The photograph of Sarah.
He grabbed the brandy bottle and hurled it against the wall.
It shattered with a crash that sounded like a gunshot. Glass and amber liquid rained down on the carpet.
Jason braced his hands on the table, gasping for air.
He had bought the future. But he had just sold his freedom.