The First Billion

"Remember to smile, hon," she said, her flack's professional grin splitting her ruby red lips. "This one's for the morning papers."

Nina handled all of Black Jet's PR, and to Gavallan's mind the date was strictly business. Not to say he didn't find her attractive. Twenty-nine years old, blond, petite, and lithe, she had dressed for the evening in a skintight black sheath, spaghetti straps, and just enough fabric to cover her nipples and navel, maybe a little more. Yes, she was attractive. Stunning even. But Gavallan wasn't looking.

Gavallan paused in front of the bank of photographers to allow them a few seconds to rejigger their flashes and pop off a few shots.

"Let everyone see those baby blues," Nina said, keeping a tight clutch on his arm, not letting him even think of moving on until the photographers were done. She might be a prig, but she knew her stuff when it came to corporate PR. She was right about the importance of his projecting a confident image, especially when one of his company's issues was under fire.

It was a classic San Francisco evening. An offshore breeze had cleared out the cloud cover, leaving the sky clear, dusted with stars. Across the street from the Fairmont sat the Mark Hopkins Inter-Continental and down the block the Huntington Hotel and the California Club, a gentleman's conclave so stodgy that only ten years ago it had refused entry to a serving mayor due to her sex.

A hundred years ago, Nob Hill had been home to the Big Four: Collis Huntington, Mark Hopkins, Chester Crocker, and Leland Stanford, the railroad and silver barons who'd built California. Setting foot on their stomping grounds, Gavallan never failed to feel bucked up, as if the tycoons had left behind some of their marauding spirit. Tonight was no exception.

Inside the ballroom, he made a beeline for the bar. It proved a long and arduous journey. Every two steps he was accosted by a friend or business acquaintance. Half were eager to congratulate him on the honor to be bestowed that evening, half to learn how the Mercury deal was likely to fare.

"I need a cassette player," he whispered to Nina, after swallowing half of his vodka rocks. "I only need two answers: 'Thank you' and 'Just fine.' I'll say I'm saving my voice for my speech."

"Come on," said Nina, "they're your friends and they're happy for you. You're the star this evening. They have to pay their respects. It's your duty to smile and play the good host."

"And I shall not disappoint," he said gallantly. Despite his distaste for glad-handing and small talk, he recognized that Nina was right, and that of all his duties, civility and good cheer were the ones he could guarantee were met.

Gavallan had been donating to St. Jude's Children's Hospital for eight years, dedicating ever-larger chunks of his salary to the institution and its programs to battle children's cancer, spina bifida, and infantile paralysis. He was quick to point out that he was hardly an ascetic. He had the house in Pacific Heights with the roomfuls of Kreiss furniture and Pratesi bedding. He wore whatever clothes he liked. Music came via the firm of Bang & Olufsen, stereo makers to the King of Denmark; television courtesy of a sleek Sony Plasma screen. He owned two Remington bronzes; some lithos by Branham Rendlen, a local artist he thought was dynamite; and, of course, the Mercedes.

There were other claims on his money. He saw to his mother's needs, helped out with his sisters' occasional purchases- washing machines here, new pickups there, schooling for their kids if they asked. He kept a fair amount in the bank, a little in stocks and bonds. (Or at least he had until he'd stuffed it all into his company.) He had enough to take care of him and his family in comfort should everything go to hell in a handbasket.

The rest he gave away.

The ballroom was filling up quickly. Elegant couples drifted through the carousel of tables, a monochromatic mélange of tuxedos, cocktail dresses, and ball gowns, laughing, chatting, and, to his eye, having a sincerely good time. San Franciscans enjoyed their liquor, and under the influence of a stiff drink or two their voices began to rise and fill the room with a jolly din.

Gavallan ordered another drink, then asked Nina if she wouldn't mind going to their table. Bruce Jay Tustin and Tony Llewellyn-Davies were already seated, Tustin with his wife, Nadia, Two Names with his partner, Giles, another wayward Brit. Meg sat at the adjoining table with her husband of forty years, Harry.

Gavallan greeted his guests with exaggerated bonhomie. He wanted it clear that the day's problems were behind them. Tonight they could relax and let their hair down. "Don't I know you nice folks?" he called, lending his voice a bit of the old Rio Grande twang.

The table stood as one. To Caesar, his due.

"Look who's here," said Bruce Jay Tustin. "And I thought security was supposed to keep the riffraff out. Do you have a ticket, young man?"