Sovrano

by Michael Powers

  “Who and where, Jack?”

  “Let’s see. Your boss, Cranston, and three of the flunkies he brought here from New York with him: Mason, Strickland, and Peterson. None of your people were here though. They only used Cranston’s office. Burning the midnight oil to get the board presentation done?”

  Eric delayed his response for a few moments, not wanting to discuss an intra-department squabble with Jack.

  “Eric, don’t it seem kind of stupid for the big boss to be here that late? What the hell has he got that whole big staff for?”

  “I wonder the same thing,” Eric muttered. Before Jack could press any further, Eric thanked him and hung up.

  “What’ll you do about this, Eric?” Jean-Paul asked excitedly. He loved to see his boss take on the big shots and win.

  “Let’s release the presentation just like it is. Then prepare the income statement the way it should be, and make copies for me to take to the board meeting. I’ll let Richard present his material. Then I’ll hand out the real income statement. We’ll let our auditors determine which set of numbers is right.”

  Richard dropped by Eric’s office at seven-forty-five the morning of the board meeting. “You don’t need to attend the board meeting today,” Richard announced crisply, then turned to leave.

  “Any particular reason, Richard?”

  Richard stopped, then turned back to Eric. “Your presence is redundant. I can handle anything that comes up during the meeting.”

  As soon as Richard left, Eric called his friend, Jack Gentry. “I’m glad I caught you before you left. I need another favor.”

  “Sure Eric, but make it quick. We’ve got a board meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s the favor. Richard took my name off the authorized list and I need your help to get by security. He plans to show the board a false earnings report and I want them to see the truth.”

  “I’ll get you in,” Jack agreed, “but you’re on your own after that. Mess with the bull and you’ll ride his horns! You know it’ll probably cost your job,” he warned.

  Eric’s firing was a relief, but it still hurt. Just as Jack had predicted, Richard terminated Eric immediately following the board meeting. Being right was distressingly small consolation. Eric feared most people would only remember he had been fired, not that he had been right. It was humiliating to be drummed out of the corporation he had come to regard as his family. Instead of blowing his brains out with booze, Eric surrounded himself with his sober gay friends, who managed to convince him it was all for the best.

  Three days later, Eric got a call from the chairman of the bank’s finance committee, Vincent Newhouse. A living legend, Vincent had founded a corporate empire which ranked among the top hundred corporations in the U.S. Vincent’s company was the bank’s largest single customer, so he wielded considerable power. He called to commend Eric for his courage, and to express his appreciation. He also informed Eric there would be an investigation to determine the bank’s true financial condition. When Eric told Vincent his courage had cost him his job, Vincent promptly offered him a position at Newhouse Enterprises International (a.k.a. NEI).

  Even though Eric’s career was back on track, something was missing. He had scores of great new friends, yet he still felt alone. There were moments when Eric wondered why he identified himself as a gay man. He had been celibate since he sobered up, with no change in sight.

  CHAPTER 8

  Los Angeles

  Micky Ryan carefully adjusted the white cashmere sweater wrapped around his waist one last time to give it the casual look he worked so hard to achieve. The adjustment gave him another excuse to check himself in the mirror by the front door. Still adorable! His high cheekbones, ski slope nose, and large, deep-set brown eyes captured the admiring glances of both men and women. Medium length, dark blond hair completed his boyish image, which promised to last another decade. His average frame tipped the scales at one-hundred-forty pounds, giving him that highly prized lean look. Dark pigmentation and angular facial features hinted of Native American ancestry, but Micky preferred people believe his ancestors came from a country bordering the Mediterranean.

  Eric teased Micky, insisting he was the descendant of Columbus and Hiawatha. Every time Micky studied himself in the mirror, he recalled Eric’s taunts. Micky missed Eric, but would never admit it, not even to himself. He moved to Los Angeles to get a fresh start. Much to Micky’s surprise, Eric had not lifted a finger to stop him. Eric didn’t even say good-bye. There had been absolutely no contact between them since their last angry parting.

  Blowing into a cupped hand, Micky checked his breath. Still fresh. He leaned into the mirror to inspect his neck, just above his shirt collar. “Damn bed bugs!” Micky muttered. He consoled himself that his new job would soon allow him to afford a better lifestyle. He would move into a plush, high-rise condo, leaving the vermin of cheap apartments behind forever. Micky smiled at himself to see what everyone else was about to see. He made a small clucking sound with his tongue and teeth, then whistled his way out the door, heading for his favorite bar on a Friday night.

  Micky sauntered into the huge nightclub, hands in his pockets and head turning slowly, careful not to make eye contact until he was ready. He liked to check the whole place before stopping to chat with friends, or allowing a stranger to engage him in smalltalk. When Micky was a cruising novice, he was hit on the moment he walked in the front door. Flattered by the attention, sexually starved and insecure, Micky invariably agreed to leave with the first person who asked him. Eventually he realized the cream of the crop congregated deep inside most bars, surrounded by layers and layers of potential suitors. The desperate, aging hawks who preyed exclusively on pretty, young boys lurked around the front entry, hoping to snare the inexperienced ones. Micky learned to breeze right past the desperados in search of superior talent. Once he became an established face, the chicken hawks quit greeting Micky, knowing they had lost him forever to the crowd within.

  The nightclub was enormous, catering to a variety of subcultures. There were eight distinct bars, each with its own atmosphere and clientele. Changing from one world to another was as easy as walking a few feet. The boundaries of each bar tended to be mobile, with a large melting pot in the hub connecting the separate worlds. The entire complex had a capacity of five thousand patrons. On a crowded night, the variety was breathtaking. The show alone was quite enough. Meeting an attractive potential mate was icing on the cake. Scoring sexually was the equivalent of a homerun. A long-term relationship from such an encounter was not merely a grandslam; it was winning the World Series.

  Micky preferred a section known as the Janus Lounge. Most of the regular crowd identified themselves as bisexual, with almost an even split between men and women. An attractive man like Micky could score with anyone in Janus. The age of the crowd ranged from mid-twenties to mid-forties. Many were professionals with advanced degrees, earning six-figure incomes. They wore expensive clothing and jewelry. Premium-priced cocktails were served by scantily clad waiters. Anyone who felt uncomfortable in Janus Lounge usually lacked the appropriate income, education, or career credentials, referring to it as the Anus Lounge.

  Micky toured the leather bar, the main dance floor, the Goth bar, and then glanced into the other rooms before settling into Janus. He sat in the middle of six empty sofa sections, preferring to let the area around him fill up rather than join a party already in progress.

  A cute blond waiter pranced up to Micky. “What’ll ya have tonight, handsome?” he purred seductively.

  Micky eyed the attractive young man, flashing his best fake smile. He knew the waiter’s manner was calculated to yield the maximum tip. Micky had his fill of golden boys with room temperature IQs. “Gin and tonic, gorgeous,” Micky cooed, matching the waiter’s seductive tone.

  While the waiter fetched his drink, Micky carefully surveyed the crowd, spotting only two familiar faces. It never ceased to amaze Micky that he rarely saw more than a handful of peop
le he recognized, even though he had met hundreds since his arrival in LA. Micky wondered where all the old faces went, and where the new faces came from.

  A ruggedly handsome man with short, jet-black hair and a three-piece suit stood quietly beside Micky. “Mind if I join you?”

  The stranger’s voice startled Micky. Embarrassed, he glanced up. “Please do. Gee, those short naps are great. I try to squeeze one in between cocktails.”

  “Remarkable for someone to be so deep in thought with all the distractions in here,” the stranger observed. “What were you thinking about?”

  “Just thinking I’ve been coming here for over a year now and I’ve met hundreds of people, yet I never see anyone I know,” Micky complained.

  “That can be a blessing,” the stranger chuckled. “I’ve been coming here for two years and tonight is the first time I’ve ever seen you. Odd, isn’t it?”

  “Seeing me?” Micky grinned.

  “No, that our paths have never crossed before.”

  Micky delighted in teasing people, then felt guilty when they took him seriously. “My name’s Micky. What’s yours?”

  “Mark,” the stranger replied, shaking Micky’s hand firmly. “Nice to meet you, Micky.”

  “Where ya’ from Mark?”

  “Midwest mostly. Grew up in Chicago, lost my virginity in Detroit, and my idealism in New York. Moved here a few years ago. This was the first bar I came to in LA and it’s my favorite. Where you from, Micky?”

  “Midwest, too. Isn’t anybody born here?”

  “With the large LGBT population, there isn’t enough breeding going on in California, so they have to import people,” Mark cackled.

  Micky felt safe assuming he was being pursued by a gay or bi man. He liked Mark, and hoped this innocent tête-à-tête might actually lead somewhere. Yet, something about Mark triggered an alarm deep within Micky. Perhaps it was the mismatch between Mark’s soft-spoken manner and his smoldering eyes. Tall, dark, and handsome had never been Micky’s type, but he was intensely attracted to Mark.

  “Mark, have you found a lover since your arrival in La-La-land?”

  “No. And you, Micky?”

  “Nothing serious,” Micky shrugged. “Tell me, what do you look for in the perfect mate?” Micky was certain that would get Mark to commit to one sex or the other.

  Mark adopted an ever-so-serious look. “The right person should be attractive, but not flawless; bright, but not an arrogant ass. Sexy, independent, and fun to be with. How’s that?”

  It appeared Mark could dodge the sexual preference issue indefinitely, so Micky took the plunge. “Let me know when you find him, will you?”

  “Maybe I just did,” Mark suggested coyly.

  When they finished their cocktails, Mark suggested they spend the night together. Micky promptly agreed, then Mark insisted they use Micky’s place since his was being painted. Micky didn’t care if that was a lie. He just wanted to get naked with Mark.

  Micky was pleased with Mark’s performance in bed and hoped Mark felt the same. Mark intrigued Micky. In fact, Micky detected a faint resemblance to his father. As Mark dressed to leave, Micky went on a fishing expedition. “How’ll you explain this to your wife?”

  “Did I say I have a wife?” Mark snorted.

  “Not in so many words, but I’ve been with enough guys to know a married bisexual from a gay man.”

  Mark fussed with his tie, appearing to be only mildly interested in the conversation. “And just what is the difference, Micky?”

  “For one thing, married guys want something they can’t get at home. They want to be on the receiving end of a good screw.”

  Mark stared at Micky. He was beginning to loathe his young sex buddy for being gay, for being pretty, and for his flippant remarks. But mostly he loathed Micky because he was right. Still, Mark knew he would probably visit Micky again when he became desperate enough. He would continue to see Micky until he couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore, so he allowed Micky to continue. “All right, that’s one difference which fits,” Mark conceded. “What else?”

  “No ID. You didn’t carry one thing in here identifying you as Mark whatever-your-last-name-is. You aren’t wearing anything distinctive which could be linked to you later. You haven’t talked about anything in your personal life which could be verified. Yup, all the signs are there,” Micky concluded, then frowned. “One thing might be considered distinctive I suppose. I noticed you were wearing a silver charm around your neck with some Arabic writing on it. What's that all about? You’re Muslim?”

  Mark smiled thinly, deciding it couldn't hurt to share one little piece of personal data with Micky. “I converted while working in central Asia. The inscription reads There is no God but Allah.”

  “I see,” Micky muttered without conviction. “I don’t mind if you want to keep your identity secret, but will you tell me if I'm right about you being married?”

  “You're right,” Mark snickered. “I’m wearing this suit because I went to a boring cocktail party with my wife last night and pretended to be called away on business.” As Mark fastened a cuff, he spotted a picture on Micky’s dresser. “Who’s that? One of your boyfriends?”

  “Trying to change the subject?” Micky chided Mark.

  Mark turned to Micky and grinned. “Now who’s being evasive?”

  “Do you really want to know who the guy in the picture is?”

  “Yeah,” Mark admitted. “He looks like someone I knew a long time ago.”

  “His name is Eric Price,” Micky replied. “When I left Minneapolis, he was a banker.”

  Mark gazed at the picture while he finished dressing. “Guy I knew was sort of a banker, too.” Approaching Micky, Mark sat next to him on the bed, flashing a wicked smile. “Micky, be a good little fairy and tell me everything you know about Mr. Price. Then I'll tell you a secret. Deal?”

  CHAPTER 9

  Vincent Newhouse saw qualities in Eric he found lacking in most NEI executives. He saw a man with vision and courage. Guessing Eric’s fierce sense of fair play had been forged like a piece of fine steel, Vincent spotted the fire in his eyes when they spoke. The flames were always there, burning steadily, but never out of control.

  There was something wrong with the corporation Vincent spent a lifetime building, but he couldn’t pinpoint the problem. NEI was five layers deep in MBAs, attorneys, CPAs, operations managers, and marketing gurus. Vincent realized too late his management style filtered out all the mavericks, leaving only one type of executive. They were splendidly educated, with a wide range of experience, but had all risen to their current posts by taking orders well. They cranked out position papers by the truckload. In a crisis, they held intense and lengthy meetings, usually appointing a task force to study the problem further. Risk-taking, intuition, and creativity had all been purged out of NEI.

  Vincent called an executive staff meeting to introduce Eric. When everyone was seated, Vincent’s secretary notified him. He and Eric entered the boardroom together.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Vincent began as he circled the oblong table and took his seat at the far end. “I called this meeting to introduce the newest member of our team, Eric Price. Eric has a strong financial and banking background. His title will be Chief Planning Officer and he’ll report directly to me. Eric’s mission will be to gather information about our operations, competitors, and customers as quickly as possible. Then, he’ll help us develop strategies to halt the tailspin we’re in. Hopefully, these strategies will enable us to return to the tremendous growth and profitability we’ve enjoyed so long. It’s no secret we’ve got problems. We’ve lost money for the first time in our history the past two quarters. Our response was to cut staff to serve a dwindling customer base, but that’s not a long-term strategy for success. I think we’re all too close to the problems to be objective. That’s why I turned to an outsider. I believe Eric can help us. He has my complete support, and I expect he’ll have yours as well. I want you to
share all your expertise with Eric. I’ll look very unfavorably on footdragging. Any questions or comments?”

  George Wesley, NEI Vice President for U.S. Operations, asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Vincent, I think bringing in a consultant is an excellent idea. I’m sure we can all benefit from a fresh viewpoint. Will Mr. Price have any specific authority?”

  Vincent nodded. “Good question, George. I’m not going to limit Eric’s authority. He and I will be working closely together. Assume that Eric has the same authority I do. When he gives an order to buy or sell a company, close a plant, or shift operations, do it. I know that isn’t our usual management style, but these are not usual times.”

  There were no more questions or comments. Horrified looks on the faces of the assembled executives said it all. They had a loose cannon in their ranks, free to fire at will. Everyone was at risk! When Vincent adjourned his executives, they scampered back to their offices, closed their doors, and began phoning, texting, and emailing each other. By the end of the day, each executive began updating his or her resume, or decided to get drunk, taking whatever came down the pike. No one expected anything good to come from Eric’s appointment as NEI’s Chief Planning Officer.

  After his first week, Eric asked to meet with Vincent and his top seven officers, a group known as the Management Policy Committee or MPC. Anxious to get Eric’s initial impression of NEI, Vincent scheduled a meeting for the following Monday. Most MPC members looked forward to the meeting with all the anticipation of a trip to the dentist.

  When Eric entered the boardroom, he discovered he was the last to arrive, so he checked his watch. Part of Eric’s management strategy had always been to arrive at important meetings a few minutes before the scheduled start. He did not want to be late since that was rude, but he didn’t want to be too early either, since that was a sign a person did not have enough important work to do.