The First Billion

"So fire some people, Jett. Come on. Rationalize, downsize, economize."

"Compromise, marginalize, capsize," countered Gavallan, firing off the words like bullets.

"Survive!" shouted Norgren. "Stop being so damned proud and do what everyone else in your place would have done a year ago."

"Proud? I've fired forty men and women so far this year. Is that 'proud' enough for you?"

"It isn't up to me to decide- it's up to the market. It's no sign of failure if you cut back a little, tighten your belt." When Gavallan didn't respond to his prodding, Norgren threw up his arms in frustration. "Whatever you say, Jett. I'm just your lawyer. You pay me to keep you apprised of your best options. Consider yourself informed." And sighing, he bent over Gavallan's shoulder and thrust out a beefy hand to indicate where he should sign. "Here. Here. And here."

Gavallan affixed his violent slash to the documents as indicated. "That it?"

"That's it, my friend." Norgren added his own signature as witness, then gathered up the papers and laid them neatly in the out tray. "First payment isn't for sixty days. After that it's twenty-five grand a month, every month. And that's on top of your regular nut. That's a lot for a guy who hasn't taken a salary since Christmas."

Gavallan figured that taking a paycheck was like robbing Peter to pay Paul. He was all too aware of his precarious circumstances. "Not to worry, Sten. I'll have the entire amount paid back by the end of the month."

"Thousand-dollar prepayment penalty, just so you know. Couldn't get them to drop it. Come on, I'll walk you out." When they reached the reception area, Norgren said, "Sorry if I'm being a nervous Nelly. It's just that you're cutting it awfully close this time- I mean putting it all on this deal. Frankly, if you weren't my friend, I'd tell you you were out of your blazing mind. You sure it's going to work out?"

Gavallan smiled slyly as he threw an arm over the attorney's shoulder. "You saying you don't want your Mercury shares? Is that it?"

"Jett, I'm serious. If Mercury goes south- even if you have to shelve it for a few months- you'll be feeling the pain. You and your company. Think about what I said. About cutting. Make it temporary. A three-month vacation."

"Relax, Sten. It's not that big of a deal."

"Better yet, let me make that call. I'm just wondering if it's wise to bet it all on one number. It is a big deal, Jett."

"Nah," said Gavallan, shaking his friend's hand. "Betting it all isn't such a big deal- losing it is. Anyway, didn't you know? The house always wins."

Waving good-bye, Gavallan strode confidently to the elevator. He pressed the button for the ground floor, and as the car descended, his stomach went with it.

Cutting it close? Norgren had no idea. Gavallan was down to three thousand dollars in his checking account, a hundred grand in certificates of deposit, and his prize Mercedes parked out front, its value beyond reckoning. He had a first mortgage of eighteen thousand dollars a month, a second of twenty-five grand kicking in in sixty days, and a quarterly tax payment of two hundred and eighty thousand dollars due on the 21st based on a salary he wasn't receiving- and that was before he put one foot out of bed.

Walking to his car, he considered his other obligations. To his three sisters and a widowed mother, all in Texas. To a club of broken and battered men spread around the world whom he'd adopted as his own. To a hospital that this very evening would fete him as its Man of the Year.

"And so, Mercury," he whispered, with a secret hope.

And so, seventy million dollars in fees and a spigot of related business to come down the pike.

And so, a twenty-first-century return to normalcy.

Gavallan started the motor. He had one more stop before returning to the office.

***

The team of three men and one woman worked quickly, efficiently, and silently. They entered Gavallan's residence through the rear door, disabling the security system, then spreading out through the four-thousand-square-foot home to their assigned target areas. Each knew the house by rote. They had studied architectural drawings of the home as well as an electrical schema of its wiring. They carried the tools of their trade in black web belts hidden beneath striped cotton shirts declaring them employees of Pacific Gas and Electric.

It was a standard "look and listen" job. Two of the men, known in agency lingo as the "ears," planted ultrahigh-frequency wireless listening devices in strategic locations throughout the house. Under the dining room table. On top of the refrigerator. Behind the headboard of Gavallan's bed. Each bug had been assigned its own frequency, so that there would be no risk of one transmission interfering with another.