by Jeff Buick
“Are you saying that since you hired me as president, your company’s ethical position has changed?” Swanson asked, a slight edge to his voice.
Morgan measured his response for a minute, then said, “You put profits ahead of people, financial gain ahead of the environment. When we brought you on, we were ready for change. You’re the reason that change has never happened. We’re still burning our coal dirty and cheap. And it’s having an effect on our community.” He wet his thin, pale lips with a quivering tongue. “You can label it ethics if you wish, Derek. But this company has not moved in the right direction since you took over.”
“We have plans to clean up our emissions,” Swanson said. “But it’s expensive. The conversion to an income trust will generate a lot of money. Money that can be used to upgrade our facility.”
Morgan laughed, a full-bodied chortle that took a full thirty seconds to completely die out. “Now who’s having an attack of conscience? You could have implemented those changes anytime over the past eight years. Phased in over time, the effect on our bottom line would have been almost negligible. But you didn’t.” He leaned forward on his desk. “And now, when you have fifty million dollars riding on this conversion, you tell me the real reason you want it to happen is to initiate changes that will benefit other people. That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“The conversion is a done deal,” Swanson said. “We have regulatory approval from the stock exchange and DC Trust is behind it. There’s no stopping it, Reggie.”
“I still have some influence,” Morgan said. “My great-grandfather built this company.”
“And now the shareholders tell us what to do,” Swanson snapped back. “And they like the idea of the value of their shares increasing by forty percent overnight. I couldn’t stop this if I wanted to. And neither can you.”
Morgan’s face took on color. “Don’t underestimate me, Derek. That would be a mistake.”
Swanson sat back in his chair, his voice returning to normal, his demeanor composed. “The conversion is an excellent business decision. The wheels are in motion. It’s out of our hands.”
“Nothing about this company is ever out of my hands,” Morgan said. “And you’re forgetting one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Senator Claire Buxton. Her new fresh-air initiative. If her bill goes through, our equipment will be obsolete. Overnight. That makes our company unattractive to investors. Unless we have the money for the necessary upgrades.” He paused and stared hard at the younger man. “Which, at this precise moment, we have. But you convert to an income trust and pay out hundreds of millions of dollars, and that money is gone. Buxton’s initiative could sink us.”
“It’ll never happen,” Swanson said.
“Why? Because you’ve hired a handful of lobbyists to protect companies that pollute the environment?”
“Careful. You’re grouping your own company in with the bad boys.”
“I am,” Morgan said emphatically. “We pollute the air. We create massive impoundment ponds filled with sludge. We strip the tops off mountains to mine the underlying coal seams.”
“I don’t think you want to repeat that outside this office,” Swanson said.
The elder man’s face contorted with rage. “I’ll say whatever I want, Derek. I’ve been pushing for more environmentally friendly methods of mining the coal and burning it since we hired you. You, however, have managed to talk the shareholders into keeping the status quo.” He slammed a weathered fist on his desk. “I swear to God, Derek, I’m not going to let you run roughshod over this company, my family name, or our legacy any longer. The conversion is out. It’s not going to happen.”
Swanson struggled to retain his composure. “Like I said, you can’t stop it.”
“Yes, I can.” Morgan’s eyes burned with a strange mixture of desire and hate. “And I will.”
Derek Swanson stood up and adjusted the sleeves on his suit so a half inch of dress shirt cuff showed. “This is going nowhere right now. We’ll talk about it when you get back from your vacation.”
“Maybe,” Morgan said. “By then Senator Buxton’s bill could be tabled. That will kill your conversion on the spot. The regulatory body at the exchange and the bank will immediately pull their support.”
Swanson turned and walked to the door without looking back. He closed the door quietly behind him, his mind a seething mass of hate and loathing. The old man was a dinosaur. The company may have originated with his ances- tors, but the shareholders controlled its destiny now. And the shareholders wanted what he wanted: the hundreds of millions of dollars the conversion to an income trust would pump into the company’s book value. That he would personally benefit by almost fifty million dollars was simply a convenient by-product of the restructuring. And without Senator Buxton’s bill passing through the Senate and Congress, there was no reason to change the way they did business. Although he knew they should.
Coal-Balt was a poster child for environmental destruction. They tore mountaintops apart to reach the coal seams, then pumped millions of tons of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere when they burned the coal to produce electrical power. But people wanted air-conditioning in the summer and lights in the winter. They couldn’t live without the thousands of megawatts of energy that the steam-powered turbines generated. And that was going to make him even richer than he already was.
Swanson slowed as he passed Reginald Morgan’s executive assistant. She glanced up at him and smiled. “What are you going to do when your boss is gone?” he asked.
“Catch up,” she said cheerfully. “The only time I get a chance to clear off my desk is when he leaves for a week or two.”
“Where are Reginald and Amelia going?” Swanson asked her.
“Caribbean,” she answered.
“Their place in the Caymans?”
“No, Mr. Morgan wanted to move around a bit. They’re taking a cruise.”
“Late in the season for a cruise.” Swanson headed for the door. “Almost hurricane season.”
“Mr. Morgan thought of that. He figures the best place to be is on a cruise ship,” she said. “They simply change course and miss the storm.”
“Makes sense.” Swanson gave the CEO’s assistant a nod of his head. “Unless the storm comes looking for you,” he said quietly under his breath.
5
Leona finally left the office at twenty minutes to seven. She had opted not to drive to work in the morning, and hailed a cab and gave the driver the address to her restaurant. Invited guests would be arriving by eight and she wanted to help Tyler with the setup. Her mind wandered as the taxi moved with the evening DC traffic, past Washington Circle on Pennsylvania Avenue. The tightly fitting buildings, like a precise jigsaw puzzle, melted away as they traversed Rock Creek Park. They came out on the west side and entered Georgetown.
Anthony Halladay had dropped quite the plum on her desk. She should be thrilled; they didn’t hand out vice presidencies at the bank very often. Currently there were six. Now seven. Her take-home pay would go through the roof, and her profile in a city built on profile would increase exponentially. But his comments bothered her. The caveat attached to the position.
It goes without saying how important Coal-Balt is to us. I don’t foresee any problems with this conversion. I hope you don’t either.
His words were specific—don’t screw this up. But his tone was normal, not malicious or threatening. She was probably reading too much into it. Monday was her first day on the twelfth floor, her first day on the income trust conversion. She’d worry about it then. Right now, she had a weekend ahead of her, starting with a fundraiser to host.
The cab slowed on M Street in Georgetown, then pulled in behind a Foggy Bottom shuttle, finally arriving in front of Gin House. She paid the driver and checked her watch as she cut across the sidewalk to the front door. Seven-thirty. Plenty of time. The outside of the restaurant was in contrast to the name. Stylish taupe-colored acrylic pillars bordere
d each of the eight floor-to-ceiling picture windows. A portico of the same color and texture jutted out over a stylish patio packed with diners listening to light rock on the Boettger sound system as they ate or drank.
She glanced at the menu posted inside the front door. It was the food, and how they prepared it, that set Gin House apart from every other DC restaurant. Everything was organic, and locally grown. The chickens were free range, the beef grassfed and the vegetables had somehow reached maturity without being sprayed with chemicals. The concept had caught on, not just with tree huggers, but with average people who liked fresh, well-cooked food and didn’t mind paying a premium. Leona Hewitt loved to cook, and owning a restaurant was a dream that had happened more by happenchance than good planning.
Mildred, her favorite aunt, had bought the building that housed the restaurant twenty-five years ago when DC real estate was still reasonable. For the next quarter century, a deli occupied the main floor and a tailor ran his business from the upper level. Her aunt had never bothered getting involved with running either business. Instead she collected the rent every month, paying off the mortgage in fifteen years. Until her death, about a year ago, the building provided her with a steady form of income. When her will was read to the family, one line was a shock to almost everyone. It was the line where she left the building to Leona, with the provision that it could not be sold for at least five years, and that Leona would use the hundred thousand dollars also allocated to her in the will to convert the building to a restaurant. It had cost almost five hundred thousand for the build-out, but with the building as collateral, the bank had been only too willing to lend the other four hundred. Leona had the restaurant she had always dreamed of owning. But with her job at the bank, which she needed for the income, she didn’t have time to run it. So she relied on the chef, Tyler Matthews.
Leona waved to her serving staff as she wound her way through the crowd and got smiles and waves in return. Another thing that made Gin House stand out was how she and Tyler treated their staff. The restaurant had a separate lounge with a plasma television and comfortable chairs for the servers and cooks. Each staff member had a private locker and there was always tea, coffee and fresh sandwiches on the counter. Her staff turnover was almost zero. She reached the kitchen, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.
Tyler’s domain was organized mayhem. With a hundred and twelve seats plus the rooftop patio, a lot of dishes got plated every night. Leona caught Tyler’s eye as he tested a sauce, nodded to the cook and headed straight over. Only twenty-eight, Tyler was already an excellent chef. He was self-taught, from years on the job working with a slew of different chefs, each with their own strengths and quirks. There was little he hadn’t cooked, and nothing he couldn’t cook. The menu reflected his, and her, eclectic nature. She hated boring, and the restaurant was anything but that. The name, Gin House, reflected the fusion of French and Thai cuisine. Translated to English, Gin, in Thai, meant let’s eat.
“Hi,” he said, and they hugged. Tyler was a bit over six feet and wiry, with blond hair that tended to red. His eyes were shocking blue and honest. He had a quick grin, and a couple of scars from some of his rougher drinking nights. He’d learned a lot of lessons over the years, but backing down from a fight wasn’t one of them.
“Busy tonight,” she said.
“Always. Good food, lots of business. People come back.”
A cook waved him over and he crossed the kitchen in short jerky moves. He tested the sauce, nodded, and returned to Leona. “We’re ready for the fundraiser. The gals have it set up on the patio. Nice weather for it.”
“What are you serving?”
“Roasted lamb short loin with sugar snap peas and chanterelle risotto.” The excitement in Tyler’s voice grew as he talked about the food. “And if they like seafood, a little grilled lobster tail with heirloom tomato and arugula salad to start. Plus sweet corn and okra fritters with preserved lemon sabayon. Should be delicious.”
“Well, the kitchen’s your domain. Whatever you think.”
“This will get them in a giving mood. Great food always does.”
Leona left her head chef and climbed the back stairs the kitchen staff used to ferry food and drink to the rooftop patio. The steep stairway was old, but well lit with bright lights her contractors had mounted in the ceiling. Still, the walls felt constricting. Her breathing was quick and shallow when she reached the upper landing. The early evening air was warm and the potted ferns swayed about in the soft breeze. The terra-cotta motif was perfect for the weather, and each table was garnished with a hand-carved elephant, no two the same. The tablecloths were white linen, the wineglasses cut crystal. The clientele for this one were some of Washington’s most generous philanthropists. She expected to raise a quarter million dollars. Minimum. More was always better.
Three staff members were putting finishing touches on the tables, but there was a fourth person on the patio. He was dressed in business casual and standing next to the roof edge, looking down on the street scene. She threaded her way through the tables and approached him. He was tall, well over six feet with a friendly face and wire-rim glasses. She figured him a couple of years older than her, maybe forty.
“Hi. I’m Leona Hewitt.”
He extended his hand. “Ross Carpenter.”
“Are you here for the fundraiser?”
He nodded. “I’m early. I flew in from London a couple of hours ago and set my watch wrong. An hour late. Which got me here an hour early.”
“Not a problem.” Leona waved over one of the servers and they ordered drinks. “So where are you from and what brings you to Washington?”
“Pittsburgh. And I’m here for a video-game conference.”
Leona tilted her head slightly and narrowed her eyes. “You’re here to play video games?”
“I wish,” Ross laughed. He accepted the Perrier water from the server and thanked him. “I’m in town on business. My partner and I come up with new concepts for video games and then develop them and get the new games on the market.”
“Video games,” she said, interest creeping into her voice. “Can’t say I understand the appeal. I never played them and grew up in a house with no brothers and sisters, so I had very little exposure to them.”
He nodded and looked away for a few seconds, scanning the street scene below. Two cars jockeyed for one parking spot. “Well, lucky for us, most people have at least tried playing them.” He took a sip of water and switched the conversation. “I’m very interested in your fundraiser. A friend of mine called and passed along the invite to come as his guest. He knows I’m passionate about Africa. And from what he said, your foundation not only provides protection for the elephants, but it pumps money into helping the villagers as well.”
Leona grinned. This was her turf. Her strength. “I’ve worked a deal with the Kenyan government where they’ve given me a tract of land around Samburu, with about eighty to a hundred elephants.”
“Kenya?” Ross asked. “I though they had a functional park system. More than functional, actually. It’s touted as being the best in Africa.”
She nodded, her ringlets bobbing with the motion. “They do have a great parks system, but even the best conservation efforts in Africa need help. The poachers are always better funded and armed. If they really want to kill the elephants, they do.”
“Except in Samburu.”
“Exactly. The money we raise pays a team of ex-police and military to patrol the roads and plains. They’re well armed and know how to use the guns. And the poachers know this. That’s the biggest deterrent to them coming around. So they mostly leave us alone.”
“What do you do for the villagers?” Ross asked.
Leona spent the next ten minutes giving him the details she had hammered out with the government. How they had agreed to bring in engineers and drill wells for drinking water and irrigation. The number of schools they had built and the increase in the local hospital’s capacity. When she was fini
shed, he stroked his chin thoughtfully and nodded.
“Wise use of the money. I like it.”
“Thanks.” Leona glanced about the rooftop. Twenty-plus people had arrived and were standing about with drinks. She looked back to Ross. “I’ve got to mingle. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” He extended his hand. “This is your party. That’s your job tonight.”
She shook his hand. “It was really nice meeting you.”
“You, too.”
For the next two hours she worked the crowd one-on-one, then gave them ten minutes of prepared words. The applause was long and loud, and people were nodding and reaching for their checkbooks. She had them. She’d make her goal of a quarter million dollars, perhaps more. It was a lot of work to set up a fundraiser like this, but worth the cost in hours and dollars. The difference she was making in Africa was substantial—life altering to many of the poor villagers. Lifesaving for the elephants.
Leona worked the room until the last guests had left for the night. She made a special note of thanking Ross Carpenter for stopping by, then headed down to the main floor. One of her helpers was totaling the donations and glanced up when she entered the small room off the kitchen. He ripped the paper tail off the adding machine and handed it to her.
“Five hundred and twenty-three thousand dollars,” he said. “Pretty good night for the elephants.”
“Wow.” Leona looked down the tape. Her eyes stopped on one of the entries. “Who gave fifty thousand?”
“That fellow from Pittsburgh you were talking to when we were setting up. You must have impressed him.”
“Not me.” She let the tape drop to her side. For a moment she was back on the arid African plains, the dry wind coursing through her hair. Vast open spaces under cloudless skies—eerily quiet and deceptively peaceful. Kubala by her side, the elephants splashing in the water hole. Life as it could be. Life as it should be. “The kids. The elephants. They were the reason he gave the money.”