I was sitting in my office, writing plans in my notebook, when Marcus knocked on the door. Lately, he had been knocking far too often, and every time it meant a new problem.
"Boss, there's an inspector from the Department of Labor downstairs. Wants to check Aegis Security's paperwork."
I checked my notes. There wasn't supposed to be any inspection.
"What's he saying?"
"Scheduled inspection. But there's nothing on the calendar."
Of course there wasn't. Scheduled inspections were scheduled in advance. They sent written notice, agreed on a date, listed what documents they wanted to see. When they showed up without a call, in the middle of a working day, with a piece of paper they only pulled from their pocket after being directly asked, that wasn't an inspection. That was a shakedown.
"Let him wait. Fifteen minutes."
Marcus nodded and left. I picked up the phone and dialed Jennings's extension.
"Ron, we've got a guest from the Department of Labor. Yes, another stray one. Can you come down? Explain to him how badly he's behaving."
"On my way."
I hung up and leaned back in my chair. Then I gave the inspector another ten minutes to sit in reception under Marcus's stare and get nervous. Let him understand he hadn't walked into the office of some frightened rookie who would fawn and scurry.
When I came downstairs, Jennings was already there, standing beside Marcus and leafing through some papers. The inspector sat on the visitor sofa, fidgeting and adjusting his tie. A man of about forty-five, balding, with shifty eyes and sweaty palms. Cheap suit, worn briefcase, nervous movements.
A small fry. The kind they sent to do dirty work while the important gentlemen warmed their hands upstairs.
"Mr. Miller?" He jumped up when I entered and held out his hand.
I didn't shake it. I just looked at him and waited.
"Speak."
His hand hung in the air for a second before he awkwardly lowered it and wiped his palm on his pants.
"George Parker, New York State Department of Labor." He dug into his briefcase and pulled out a paper. "A scheduled inspection as part of the licensing process for security operations. We need to review personnel documents, working conditions, safety compliance…"
"Show me the inspection order," I cut him off.
He blinked.
"What?"
"The inspection order. With the department seal, the division chief's signature, and the date of appointment. Or do you not know what that is? I can explain, if necessary."
Parker opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"Well… this is scheduled…"
"Scheduled inspections are assigned two weeks in advance, in writing, with the date, time, and list of documents to be reviewed," Jennings said, his voice flat and almost bored. The voice of a man who had gone through this many times before. "So show us the order… or get the hell out."
Yes, even Jennings's patience was wearing thin. Earlier we had been softer. Explained things, cited regulations, gave people a chance to leave on good terms. Now it was straight to the forehead, and I was perfectly capable of sending the next one in the same direction Ron had.
Parker went pale, then red, then pale again.
"How dare you speak to me like that… I am a public official!"
"Which is exactly why you are required to act according to the law," Jennings said, taking a step forward. "Article 212 of the New York State Code, Administrative Procedures. Any inspection requires written notice fourteen calendar days in advance. Exceptions apply only in cases of substantiated suspicion of workplace safety violations, immediate danger to employees, or a written complaint. Do you have anything from that list?"
Parker stood there, opening his mouth, closing it, then opening it again. He looked like a fish thrown onto dry land. I genuinely didn't understand why they kept coming. By now they should have told each other that I had competent people working for me.
"I… I was instructed…"
"By whom?" I asked quietly. "Name and position."
"That… that is confidential information…"
"There is nothing confidential about administrative procedure." Jennings pulled out a notebook and clicked his pen. "Name your immediate superior. Now."
"Charles Morrison, deputy director of the department…"
"Excellent." Jennings wrote it down. "Mr. Parker, you will now leave this building, return to your department, and inform Mr. Morrison that Aegis Security requires an official written inspection order for any inspection, in full compliance with all procedural rules."
"But…"
"If such an order does not arrive within three business days, we will file a complaint with the State Attorney General's office for abuse of authority," Jennings continued, perfectly calm. "With a request for an internal investigation and damages."
Parker stood with his mouth open and even clutched his chest.
"You can't…"
"We can, and we will." Jennings put away his notebook. "Marcus, escort Mr. Parker to the exit. Make sure he finds the way."
Marcus stepped forward, and Parker swallowed involuntarily.
"I… I'll come back anyway! With an order!"
"We'll be delighted," I said, trying to smile politely and mostly managing a snarl. "Within the law, we are always ready to cooperate. Freelance initiatives, not so much."
Parker grabbed his briefcase, turned around, and hurried toward the door. Marcus followed him, and I had the distinct impression he wanted to kick our guest in the ass on the way out. I stayed where I was, ready to call him back if needed.
The door slammed. I looked at Jennings.
"He'll be back?"
"With an order? Unlikely. Too much paperwork, too many traces." Jennings shrugged. "They'll try another way. Tax office, maybe. Fire marshal. They'll find a different angle."
"How many have we had in the last two months?"
"Eight, not counting today."
I combed my hair back with my fingers. This wasn't even funny anymore, and I had no idea whose tail I'd stepped on. The only thing saving me was spotless paperwork and a law firm constantly throwing itself into the fight for me. But they kept coming again and again. Different faces, different departments, petty flaws and absurd nitpicks.
"Good work, Ron."
"Just doing what I'm paid for." He looked at me closely. "But you understand this won't end here."
"I understand. I've already started moving. Don't worry."
"I don't doubt you, David, but you should understand this is delicate."
"I understand."
Jennings stayed silent for a moment, then finally asked the question he clearly didn't want to ask.
"Are you paying them?"
"No. But plenty of people are already feasting off my business."
He nodded.
"Apparently, it isn't enough."
"It never is."
I turned and went back to my office. I had to think about how to crawl out of this shit.
I'm not a stupid man, and I like to believe I'm fairly pragmatic, so I understand a basic thing like generosity with the right people. Many were warming their hands on my business. Police, certain officials, and don't even get me started on factories. I understood that and accepted it. When people care about their money, they work better. I didn't interfere. I saw where we were losing a few percent and didn't stick my nose in.
The problem was that people are greedy creatures, and they often mistake kindness for weakness.
That was what happened with me. More and more often, unscheduled inspections knocked on my door with idiotic complaints. More and more often, our perfect paperwork came back with moronic corrections. We sued a couple of times and won, but the system didn't stop. The guilty ones were fired, and identical ones were put in their place. Nothing changed.
And I realized I needed my magnum opus.
I can't call myself an expert in bribery, but I understood the basic mechanics. A pyramid of power. For all the low-level riffraff to leave me and my company alone, I needed someone big at the top. An important man who could frighten police precinct captains and department directors with one look.
Of course, that important man would also need to be fed. With something more substantial than what the minor clerks got. Obviously not direct money. At that level, that was vulgar. Maybe a stake in a profitable project. Maybe a favor that money couldn't buy.
That was how the game worked at higher levels. It wasn't just money. It was connections. You protect me, I protect you. You open doors for me, I do favors for you. Symbiosis hidden behind handshakes and smiles at official receptions.
The problem was finding such an important man. You couldn't just walk up to a senator or judge and say, "Hi, I'd like to buy your protection, how much?" That wasn't how it worked. Those things were done through intermediaries, hints, chains of people where each one knew only their own part of the picture.
And most importantly, I needed the right person. Not a greedy asshole who would take the money and disappear. Not an idiot with a criminal trail who would attract attention and drag me down with him. Not someone playing completely dirty, because even bribes can be given legally if you know to whom and how.
I needed a professional. A man who had been playing this game for decades and had never been caught. Someone who knew where the line was and when not to cross it. Someone who understood the value of a word and a handshake. Where do you find someone like that?
That was where the next problem began. I realized I had to start slowly entering the game called politics and the ruling elite. It was very easy to break your neck there by choosing the wrong faction. But a person with connections and protection at that level was a person almost no one touched. Later I would have to build the necessary influence myself and become the man people came to with requests. But we would start small.
I talked to Jennings, Hoffman, and Corrigan. Called the detectives and gave them their assignments. No one had a lead on a man of the right caliber, but I did manage to choose the direction I needed to move in.
Specifically, how to start entering elite circles.
Westchester Hills Golf Club was an hour's drive from Manhattan. The grounds were the size of a small town: manicured lawns, a red-brick clubhouse, tennis courts, a swimming pool, a huge pond. A place where people gathered whose names were frightening to say out loud.
The initiation fee alone was fifteen thousand dollars. Annual membership was three thousand. Add the mandatory minimum spending in the club restaurant and bars, another fifteen hundred a year or so. Almost twenty thousand dollars for the right to walk on grass and hit a ball with a crooked stick.
I had never played golf. In my previous life, I considered it some senseless, boring disgrace. Recently, however, my eyes had been opened to the sport and why it existed at all. Corporate owners, partners at major law firms, bankers, politicians of varying success. People who knew people who knew people who could help.
You could say the selection began immediately. Money wasn't even the most important part. You had to find people willing to vouch for you. I submitted my membership application through MacDonald from Toronto and the owner of a factory in Boston. Both wrote letters of recommendation. I passed an interview with the membership committee: three elderly gentlemen asked questions about business, education, and my "public position." A week later, approval arrived.
I wrote a check for eighteen thousand and became a member of the club.
The first thing I did was hire an instructor. Roger Stevens, a former professional, a gray-haired man in his sixties. One hundred dollars per lesson, three times a week. Showing up at a club and not knowing the basic rules was the worst thing you could do. It was like immediately shouting that you were there only for connections, and no one here liked that. These people could smell amateurs from a mile away and treated them accordingly.
"Golf is not about strength, Mr. Miller," Stevens said, correcting my stance. "It's about control. Technique. Patience."
For the first two weeks, I missed the ball more often than I hit it. Stevens stood beside me with the expression of a man who had seen thousands of such incompetents and patiently explained the same thing over and over again. How to hold the club. How to shift my weight. How to keep my eye on the ball.
By the end of the month, I had learned to hit well enough that the ball at least flew in the right general direction. Not always where I aimed, but at least somewhere close. Stevens showed me different shots, explained the rules, taught me etiquette. Don't step on another player's putting line. Don't speak during someone else's shot. Don't walk ahead of the player. Little things that seemed insignificant, but were actually things you were expected to obey.
"You're an excellent student, Mr. Miller. I believe you're ready for your first round," Stevens said after a month.
I asked the administrator to find me easier partners. Newcomers or people who didn't mind playing with a newcomer. I got three: owners of a brokerage firm and a lawyer from a mid-level practice.
We met on Saturday morning. Handshakes, introductions, polite smiles. I tried to look relaxed, but it didn't work very well. Whenever you start something new, you have to fight yourself a little. And this kind of networking was new to me.
I played the first hole badly. The second a little better. By the middle of the round, I started finding the rhythm, stopped frantically remembering what Stevens had said, and just played. In four hours on the course, we played eighteen holes. Conversations about the stock market, politics, recent gossip. I listened, nodded, inserted comments where needed. Memorized names, connections, who did what.
By the end of the round, my legs buzzed, my back ached, and my face was tired from smiling. But I got three business cards and an invitation to lunch the following Saturday. That evening, I wrote down everything I remembered in my notebook. Names, positions, connections, topics of conversation. None of the three was useful for solving my main problem, but it was a first step. Acquaintances, contacts, a gradual infiltration into the circle. The more people you knew, the easier life became, so I didn't neglect anyone and tried to befriend everyone… useful.
Yes, it's disgusting.
The following weeks followed the same pattern. Saturday, golf with new people. Sunday, notes in my notebook, contact analysis, and assignments for the detectives. I memorized everything: who did what, who had which problems, who needed what. Then I searched for points of intersection. Monday, calls to those who seemed useful, invitations to lunch or dinner.
Most of them were useless for my goals. Businessmen without political ties, doctors, real estate lawyers. Successful, wealthy people, but without access to the levels I needed.
Even so, I didn't waste time. I connected those people with mine. Grant met the deputy head of a large construction company. They talked about real estate, exchanged cards, agreed to have lunch. A week later, he was already helping her search for a lot for a new purchase. Jennings got access to a partner at a patent firm specializing in complex disputes.
They, in turn, introduced me to other people, and my circle of contacts grew like a snowball. At some point, it was enough to frighten whoever stood behind the inspections, and they almost stopped. An unofficial circle of interests formed. Small but ambitious players helping each other. You solve my problem, I solve yours. You give me a contact, I give you a contract.
And since I was the one actively bringing interested people together and doing it profitably for all sides, my reputation grew nicely.
"Miller? Yes, I know him. Sharp guy. Knows how to find solutions. You can trust him."
That was how people started talking about me.
But it still wasn't enough. The middle level solved current problems, but it didn't provide real protection. Then, at one point, I finally got lucky.
William Jenkins, vice president of a large bank, turned out to be a man with serious connections. He financed city council election campaigns, knew the right people in City Hall and Albany. He was looking for investors for a new project, something connected to residential real estate. Of course, a small fish like me couldn't give him the money he needed, but he appreciated my willingness to invest and my readiness to take risks.
We started talking after one of the games. We sat on the club terrace, drank whiskey, discussed the economy, politics, market prospects. Many of his views seemed reasonable to me, just as mine did to him. I didn't try to seem smarter than I was, didn't offer advice in areas I didn't understand. I simply said what I thought and honestly admitted when I didn't know something. Jenkins appreciated that.
Later, Robert Sanders joined us, a lobbyist for several industrial associations. He worked with state legislators, pushed useful bills, blocked inconvenient ones. Cynical, pragmatic, sharp-tongued, with a sober view of the world.
Those two were the only people from the club whom I could call reliable. People I could even befriend. We were united not only by business, but also by certain personal views.
A month later, Jenkins called me on a Wednesday evening.
"David, there will be an interesting group on Saturday. I'd like to introduce you to some people. I think it would be useful for you."
So he finally wanted to bring me to the big players. Very good.
"I'd be delighted," I said.
"Excellent. We'll meet at the first tee at nine in the morning. And David?" He paused. "Dress accordingly. These are serious people."
I hung up and called Stevens.
"Roger, I have an important game on Saturday. I need to go over the basics again. Can you make it tomorrow at six in the morning?"
"Of course, Mr. Miller."
On Saturday morning, I arrived at the club half an hour early. I wore the best of what I had bought for playing. Not flashy, but expensive, with the right cut. Checked my clubs, gloves, balls.
Four men were already standing by the first tee. Jenkins saw me, nodded, and called me over.
"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce David Miller. David, this is Mr. Whitmore, Mr. Foster, and Mr. Beckett."
Handshakes. And that was when I began to understand that I had truly broken through to the important men.
Charles Whitmore was tall, wiry, with gray at his temples and eyes that noticed everything. Senior partner at one of New York's largest law firms, adviser to several Fortune 500 corporations. Henry Foster was heavyset, red-faced, with a booming laugh and a handshake that made my knuckles crack. Owner of a department store chain on the East Coast, board member of two banks. Thomas Beckett was middle-aged, calm, quiet. Former assistant to the mayor, now a public relations consultant for major companies.
Jenkins wouldn't have invited me without their approval. Apparently, my connections had crossed some critical mass, and rumors about me had reached such people.
We began to play.
I immediately understood these were not the same people I had played with before. Whitmore hit the ball with astonishing precision, every shot calculated, no unnecessary movement. Foster's technique was worse, but he compensated with pressure and confidence. Beckett was the golden mean. Good, but without fanaticism.
The conversations were different too. Not gossip and complaints, but real things. A new tax bill in Albany, who was pushing it, who benefited, what loopholes could be used. Upcoming city council elections, which candidates had promise, which had already burned out, who was worth investing in.
I listened more than I spoke. I only added comments when I was sure I knew what I was talking about. Asked careful questions that showed interest without showing ignorance.
On the sixth hole, while choosing a club, Foster said casually:
"Jenkins, I heard you connected Harrington with that firm from Jersey. How did it go?"
"Excellent." Jenkins smiled. "They signed the contract last week. Harrington is pleased."
"It's useful to have a man who knows whom to introduce to whom," Whitmore noted, looking at me. "A rare talent."
I understood the hint.
"Mr. Miller is not bad at that himself," Jenkins said. "Over the past few months, he has introduced quite a few useful people."
"Really?" Beckett looked at me with interest. "Tell us."
"Nothing special." I shrugged. "If I see that two people might be useful to each other, I introduce them. Sometimes it works out."
"Sometimes?" Foster laughed. "William says you have an entire network of such acquaintances."
"Not a network," I corrected him. "Just a circle of people willing to help each other."
"And what do you get from it?" Whitmore asked directly.
It was a provocative question.
"A reputation as a man who can solve problems," I answered just as directly. "And connections that help my business."
Whitmore nodded approvingly.
"Honest answer. I like that."
On the twelfth hole, he asked me directly:
"What exactly do you do, Mr. Miller?"
"Office supplies and safety products," I said. "Aegis Enterprises. We work with manufacturers across the country, and we recently entered Canada."
"Aegis," he repeated thoughtfully. "I've heard that name. Adhesive note pads?"
"Stick-It, yes. But we also have SafeGlow reflective patches for children's clothing and workwear."
"Ah, those yellow things." Foster nodded. "My wife bought our daughter a jacket with those. Says they're very convenient."
"That's exactly what we made them for." I smiled.
"Practical things," Beckett approved. "Is there a market?"
"Growing steadily. Contracts in forty-two states, predictable royalties. Nothing revolutionary, but reliable."
"Reliability is underrated," Whitmore said. "Everyone wants fast money, then acts surprised when everything collapses."
"Exactly," I agreed.
Beckett, who had been silent until then, suddenly asked:
"And do you have problems?"
The question was simple, but I caught the subtext.
"What business doesn't?" I said calmly. "Competitors try to copy the product, departments run inspections more often than I'd like, officials decide they're entitled to a share. The standard package."
"Departments?" Foster raised an eyebrow. "Nitpicking?"
"Sometimes. They find violations where none exist. Or invent new rules no one has heard of."
"And how are you handling it?" Whitmore asked.
"A patent fence of twenty-three patents against competitors," I said, counting on my fingers. "Good lawyers against the departments. So far, we've won every dispute. As for the officials…" I shrugged. "I'm working on a solution."
"Working on a solution." Whitmore smirked. "You know how to speak diplomatically, Mr. Miller."
"I try." I smiled back.
"Can you be more specific?" Foster pressed. "I'm interested in how you see the situation."
I hesitated, choosing my words.
"I understand the problem can't be solved on the level where it appears. Departments send inspectors, which means someone is giving them instructions. You find that someone, come to terms with him, and the inspectors stop coming."
"And have you found that someone?" Beckett asked.
"I'm looking," I admitted honestly. "I'm not yet at the level where I can settle the matter permanently."
Whitmore and Beckett exchanged a glance.
"A reasonable approach," Whitmore said. "Most people try to fight the symptoms. At least you understand where the root of the problem lies."
The rest of the game went easier. Conversations became freer, jokes more frequent. Foster told a joke about a congressman and a prostitute that even made Beckett burst out laughing. Whitmore shared a memory of playing on the same course thirty years earlier with a future governor.
By the end of the round, I felt that I had passed the exam. Not brilliantly, but well enough for the first time.
At the eighteenth hole, Whitmore shook my hand.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Miller. As for your department problem, I think we may be able to come up with something. Call me this week. We'll discuss the details."
He handed me a business card. I took it, trying not to show how sharply my heartbeat had quickened.
"I'll be glad to," I answered evenly.
Foster slapped me on the shoulder.
"Good game, David. We should do it again sometime."
"With pleasure."
Beckett simply nodded in farewell.
Jenkins walked me to my car and clapped me on the shoulder.
"Not bad, David. Whitmore rarely approves anyone the first time."
"Thank you for the invitation."
"Don't mention it." He paused. "Truth be told, they wanted to see you themselves. To learn what you are. You know, you look like a promising man right now. You've gathered quite a few people around you. I hear people are already wearing out your doorstep with all kinds of requests."
I shrugged.
"I try to be useful."
"Exactly." Jenkins smiled. "By the way, there's a charity dinner at the club in a month. The ticket is five thousand, but there will be people of rather high standing. Interested?"
Five thousand for dinner. God, for that money you could buy a decent car. I hoped none of them would learn that I was still living in a rented apartment. Though I think Grant had even bought a couple of apartments. I should ask. Although why would I need my own if I barely slept there anyway…
"I'm interested," I said out loud.
"Excellent. I'll send you an invitation."
I got into my Mercedes-Benz 450SEL and drove out of the parking lot. I had bought it a month ago. Dark gray, ivory leather interior, with that particular new-car smell that hadn't yet faded. Thirty-two thousand dollars. Insane money for a piece of metal on wheels, but the right money for the right impression.
Foster's Cadillac drove past. Long, black, chrome details gleaming in the sun. Then Whitmore's Lincoln. Dark blue, austere, without unnecessary ornament.
The Mercedes rode smoothly, the suspension swallowing the road's unevenness, the steering obeying lightly. German engineering, for which you paid three times too much and got exactly what you paid for.
Thomas sat in the passenger seat. He accompanied me to important meetings, quietly covering my back against possible threats. Most of the time he was silent and looked out the window, but I knew he noticed every detail.
By the way, I needed to remember to buy a fleet of cars. In twenty or thirty years, classic Mercedes, Ferraris, certain Porsches would cost as much as a small business. I had already been eyeing a couple of cars for storage. Buy them, put them in a garage, and forget about them for a few decades.
The golf club had produced good results. Connections, reputation, access to the right people. But there was another club, no less prestigious, maybe even more. And now, with recommendations from Jenkins and Sanders, I could get in without trouble.
Hampton Ridge Riding Club was even farther from the city, an hour and a half away among the wooded hills of Westchester. The grounds were smaller than the golf club's, but the atmosphere was even more closed.
Membership cost twenty thousand dollars as an initiation fee plus four thousand a year. Many were willing to pay the money, but money alone didn't get you in. You needed connections, recommendations, the right surname, or the right reputation.
This was harder for me than golf. As a child, I had been afraid of horses. Huge, unpredictable animals with heavy hooves and powerful teeth. That fear hadn't gone anywhere. I had simply learned to ignore it. I had to push through myself again, but New York high society adored riding, and I couldn't miss that opportunity. It was a sport with history, tradition, a veneer of aristocracy. People moved here who considered golf too bourgeois.
My instructor was Margaret Chamberlain, a British woman in her fifties with gray hair pulled into a tight bun and the manners of an aristocrat. Former champion, now trainer of New York's wealthy.
"Mr. Miller," she said at my first lesson, looking me over from head to toe, "have you ever sat on a horse?"
"No."
"Are you afraid?"
I hesitated.
"A little," I admitted.
She nodded approvingly.
"Good. Admitting fear is the first step toward overcoming it."
She led me to a bay mare named Lady.
"Introduce yourself. Hold out your hand. Let her smell you. Slowly, no sudden movements."
I held out my hand. The horse snorted and pressed her soft lips into my palm. Warm breath, the smell of hay and something sweet.
"Stroke her neck. Like this. Firmly, but gently."
The first lessons took place on the ground. Chamberlain taught me how to groom the horse, saddle her, check the shoes. She explained anatomy, habits, how to read the animal's body language.
"A horse is not a machine, Mr. Miller. It is a living creature, with character and mood. If you do not understand her, she will not understand you."
Only on the third lesson did she allow me into the saddle. I climbed up awkwardly, with the help of a mounting block. Lady tossed her head, but stood still.
"Back straight!" Chamberlain commanded. "Heels down, toes up. Hold the reins softly, don't pull. A horse is not controlled by force."
I rode the first circles around the arena at a walk, clutching the reins with both hands. Lady moved calmly, as if she understood she was carrying a beginner.
"Relax," Chamberlain repeated. "You're as tense as a wire. The horse feels that and tenses too."
Easy to say. I was sitting on a living creature weighing half a ton that could bolt, kick, or throw me at any moment. Relaxing in such a situation was not simple.
But gradually, the fear receded. I got used to the swaying, the rhythm of movement, the feeling of power beneath me. Lady turned out to be a patient mare. She forgave my mistakes, didn't react to abrupt movements, and went where I clumsily directed her.
On the fifth lesson, Chamberlain allowed me to trot.
"Rise in the saddle with the movement. One-two, one-two. Don't drop back down. Settle softly."
I tried, missed the rhythm, and slammed into the saddle, painfully hitting my tailbone. Lady shook her head in irritation.
"Again!"
I tried again and again. A couple of times I even fell, when through inexperience I startled the horse into rearing and got scared. Luckily both times it was onto the soft arena footing, but it was still painful and humiliating. I got up, brushed myself off, and climbed back into the saddle.
Chamberlain stood in the center of the arena with a riding crop in her hand and watched me with the expression of a strict teacher, but she seemed pleased with my progress.
"Mr. Miller, if you don't learn to listen to the horse, she will not listen to you."
By the end of the second month, I could sit the trot more or less confidently. Chamberlain still hadn't taught me to canter. She believed it was too early.
Unexpectedly, I liked this sport much more than golf. It kept the whole body engaged, demanded concentration, and gave the feeling of controlling something living and powerful. After a morning lesson, I felt better than after four hours of walking around a course with a club.
All of that was enough to start participating in group rides.
Every Sunday, the club organized rides along the surrounding trails. Groups of five to eight people, two hours of leisurely riding through woods and fields. Afterward, the clubhouse terrace, tea, light snacks, polite conversation. Those conversations were why I had come.
On my first ride, I was placed with a group of six: two elderly gentlemen, three middle-aged ladies, and a young woman of about twenty-five. The gentlemen turned out to own trading companies, importing European goods. Nothing especially interesting, although the money there deserved respect. Two of the ladies discussed an upcoming charity ball and gossiped about some mutual acquaintance. The young woman rode slightly ahead, sitting straight and confidently. Dark shoulder-length hair gathered beneath her helmet, a slim figure in a perfectly fitted riding outfit, a posture one could envy.
We stopped in a small clearing by a stream. The group needed a rest, and that was when I found myself beside her. She dismounted easily and gracefully, then stroked her horse's neck. I got down far less elegantly, but in my opinion still managed to preserve some dignity.
"First time on one of these rides?" she asked with a smile.
"Is it that obvious?"
"A little." She held out her hand. "Catherine Holloway."
"David Miller."
Her handshake was confident, her palm cool.
"How long have you been riding, Mr. Miller?"
"Only a few weeks," I admitted. "Trying to catch up."
"You're doing well," she said, seemingly without irony. "Many beginners on their first rides clutch the mane with both hands and pray they don't fall."
I smirked.
"There were a couple of moments when I was close."
She laughed, and we started talking. She asked questions with light curiosity. New faces didn't appear here often, so I was an excellent way to brighten up the boredom.
"What do you do, Mr. Miller?"
"I have a company. We produce office supplies and safety products."
"Sounds practical." She tilted her head. "I heard something interesting is happening in that field right now."
"And you?"
"Me?" She smiled with mild self-irony. "Professional wife and charity organizer."
Her tone was ironic, but not bitter.
"Charity is important work," I said carefully.
"Yes." She gave a somewhat bitter sigh. "If you aren't doing it purely for show."
We returned to the horses and continued the ride. On the way back, Catherine rode beside me, and we talked about different things: the club, the city, recent events. She was an intelligent conversationalist, not an empty society chatterbox, but a person with a sharp mind and a sense of humor. On the terrace, when the group gathered at a table with tea and sandwiches, I learned a little more.
Mrs. Vanderbilt, judging by the surname, from that Vanderbilt family, casually remarked:
"Catherine, dear, how is your husband? I hear he's in Albany again this week."
"Yes," Catherine nodded calmly. "The legislative session. William will be back on Friday."
William and the legislature. I didn't show anything, but made a mental note.
"Give him Charles's regards," Mrs. Vanderbilt continued. "My husband said they were discussing some tax bill."
"I certainly will."
That evening, after returning to the city, I called Stern.
"Catherine Holloway. Husband is William Holloway. Connected to the state legislature. I need full information."
She called back the next day.
"William Holloway, forty-two. Member of the New York State Assembly. Democrat, third consecutive term. Chairman of the Committee on Economic Development. Influential figure. Controls the distribution of state contracts for major infrastructure projects."
I listened carefully.
"Reputation?"
"Clean, as far as that's possible in Albany. A couple of minor scandals, nothing serious. Wife is Catherine Holloway, née Stanford. Old money. Her family owned textile mills in the nineteenth century. The fortune is now mostly in real estate and stocks."
"Children?"
"No. Married eight years, no children. Rumor says it's a painful subject for both of them."
I wrote it down.
"What else?"
"Holloway is a moderate Democrat. Not a radical, not a populist. Supports business, but favors reasonable regulation. Good connections with Governor Carey. Considered a rising star. Many expect him to run for Congress or Secretary of State in a few years."
Exactly what I needed.
"How do I approach him?"
Stern was silent for a moment.
"Directly? You don't. He's drowning in petitioners. Hundreds of businessmen want his attention. Without the right introduction, you're just another supplicant in line."
"And indirectly?"
"Through his wife."
I thought about it.
"Go on."
"Catherine Holloway is heavily involved in charity. Chair of a foundation helping children's hospitals, member of the Museum of Modern Art board, organizer of the annual ball for educational programs. If you appear in those circles, become visible as a generous donor and an interesting person, she'll notice. And through her, so will her husband."
"How much do I need to donate to become visible?"
"At least twenty to thirty thousand at a major event. Plus regular contributions to foundations. Five to ten thousand a year."
Not small money, and no guarantee it would pay off. But even the slightest chance of building a strong acquaintance with a man like that was worth a lot.
"Fine. Arrange me an invitation to the nearest charity dinner where Catherine Holloway will be present."
"I'll handle it."
I hung up and leaned back in my chair.
Yes, I had done a tremendous amount of work. I could admit that even to myself. Now neither I nor the company were seen as upstarts anymore. I had wrapped myself too tightly in a web of acquaintances over these months. Golf club, riding club, dozens of meetings, hundreds of conversations, constant introductions between the right people.
And all of it made me understand that the company needed a special department for this kind of work. Not legal, not accounting, but a relations department. People whose only job would be this: building bridges, maintaining contacts, finding the right people, arranging meetings. Donating to charity, contributing to election campaigns, and so on.
I had a couple of names in mind. Corrigan knew union guys who had spent their whole lives doing this. Jenkins from the golf club had mentioned a former congressional aide who had moved into the private sector. Stern could recommend someone from her own contacts.
Wait, stop, stop… plans again. Plans, plans, and more plans.
I needed to go to sleep.
Getting more than four hours at least once a week would be wonderful.