The managers flipped through their papers. The manager of Cascata Records, a subsidiary based in Milan, Italy, that had belonged to Polytone since the middle of the year, looked long and hard at the sales figures for a CD with the title Wasted Future.
“We’re suffering a setback,” McCaine said. “It’s unpleasant, but that’s life. Setbacks are unavoidable and they separate the men from the boys.”
John only nodded. They were on their way to the airport, but their armored limousine was stuck in traffic. Looking ahead, all he could see was a mass of trucks and red double-decker busses. It was drizzling and anthracite-colored umbrellas looked like giant mushrooms in motion.
“We need to keep our sights on our objective, otherwise we’ll get decimated one piece at a time. One of our next goals is the International Monetary Fund.”
One of the advantages of having your own aircraft is that you don’t have to worry about missing your flight.
John thought about what McCaine just told him, and frowned. “The IMF?” he repeated. He read about it before. The International Monetary Fund was an international institution that assured the worldwide finance system functioned properly, and that currencies remained convertible, and so forth. The description sounded utterly boring. “You’ll have to explain to me what this has to do with us.”
“The IMF currently has around hundred eighty member nations. Each member has to deposit a certain amount of money, its so-called quota, and the size of the quota depends on the wealth of the country, the richer it is the more it must put in. The quota also determines the country’s voting right — the more money a country puts in the greater its say. Right now, the US has about eighteen percent of the votes.” McCaine stuck out a finger and wrapped his other hand around it. “That is the first point and it aligns with our view of things: wealth is influence. That is laid down in the IMF’s statutes.”
John said, “Influence over what.”
“That is the second point we need to concentrate on. The IMF can look into any member’s books and is permitted to ask governments for information about their monetary and tax policies, but has no right to issue directives. At least that’s normally the case. It’s a different matter if a country needs a loan from the IMF. Such loans are given only under stringent requirements and the requirements are strictly controlled. There is no other way to get such direct control of a sovereign nation.” McCaine held on to middle and index fingers. “Do you understand? Through the IMF we can prevent the emerging nations’ uncontrolled industrial growth from destroying the environment.”
John looked at McCaine and was impressed. He had to confess that he would have never thought of such an idea. “The IMF … yes.” He nodded. “But how do we get control of the IMF?”
McCaine shrugged his shoulders. “Through well selected words, through offers of cooperation, or what I’d like to see most of all, Fontanelli Enterprises as the first member that is not a nation.”
John had to take a deep breath. “Well, that’s going to be tricky.”
“But not all that tricky. At the moment the IMF has a total worth of around a hundred ninety billion dollars. About half of that is in non-convertible currencies, money that can’t be utilized. For us it would be a simple matter of paying in more than even the US.”
For a moment John had that feeling of invincibility that had first come over him during the summer, a feeling better than sex. But whatever sort of container this feeling was kept in, there seemed to have a leak, because it quickly ebbed away and left him once again with uneasiness. “I don’t think they will accept us.”
McCaine was looking out the window. “That’s only a matter of time,” he said. “The era of nations is ending. People will hang on to this notion for a while longer, like grandmother’s tea set that you never use because it’s so delicate, but in future generations people will not understand what good a nation was.” He pointed outside to a display window of a bookstore that had a copy of an illustrated book of the long-passed Olympic Games in Atlanta. “You will see one day, believe me. One day the athletes of the Olympic Games won’t compete for nations, but for corporations.”
“Couldn’t we create a sort of prize?” John suggested one evening high above the Pacific. “Something like a Nobel Prize, but one for environmental protection measures?”
McCaine, who, as usual, was studying documents, memorandums, and contracts, looked up at john. “A Fontanelli Prize?”
“Not necessarily. But I could imagine awarding a prize each year to people who had done something significant to help fulfill the prophecy. I mean, that could be an incentive to help people to re-think, and it would do our image some good too.”
McCaine drummed his pen against his chin. “Do you want to endow a prize like that?” he asked.
John found McCaine’s way of putting it a bit odd. “Yes,” he answered.
“Then do it.”
“Me?” John looked at him doubtfully. “I have no idea how something like that is done.”
McCaine placed the pen on the pad. “You don’t have to know how something is done. Do you remember what I told you during our first meeting? Money trumps everything, money replaces everything, and money can have everything done. All you need to know is what you want to do. Leave the how to others.”
“And who, for example?”
“Call the organizational department, ask someone into your office and then tell the person what you want. Simple as that. And it will be done, because that’s what those people are paid for.” McCaine smiled. “By the way, I think your idea is great.”
At one of their rationalization projects, a company called HUGEMOVER, once the world’s leader in the manufacture of heavy equipment, there were unexpected consequences to their streamlining: the union decided to go on strike.
“Hello, Jim,” McCaine said as the video conference was up and running. “We’re hearing things here that we can hardly believe.”
John sat outside the camera’s range. McCaine told him it’d be better. He said it would probably get ugly.
Jim Straus was the chairman of HUGEMOVER, and he was a gentle-looking man with the rosy pink skin of a baby. He looked out from the video screen with an expression of defiance. His deputy, Donald Rash, sat next to him looking like he was trying to snap his pen with one hand.
“Well, I’d have to lie if I said I don’t understand the boys,” Straus told McCaine. “To have their pay cut by twenty percent and their work hours increased by two, and all this at once and without talking with them first or even offering negotiations. You would go on strike too, Malcolm.”
“What I would do or not do is not up for debate. The question is what you will do about it, Jim.”
“Well, I guess we’ll have to negotiate.”
“That’s not the answer I wanted to hear. The pay they had before had been utopian compared to the world market, and the work hours made HUGEMOVER almost seem like an amusement park.”
“Malcolm, you no doubt remember that I had misgivings about this. There are too many changes, and they are coming too fast. I told you.”
John saw McCaine’s lower jaw move like he was chewing gum. “You should check a dictionary what a self-fulfilling prophecy is. No negotiations.”
“We don’t have a choice. Good relations with the union is a tradition at HUGEMOVER.”
McCaine lowered his head and rubbed his nose. There was a pause in their conversation that grew more ominous the longer it lasted. “I was already in a bad mood, and then you had to use a word I’m allergic to: ‘tradition.’ Today is not the day, Jim. You’re fired.”
“What?” Straus was outraged.
McCaine turned to Straus’ assistant and asked: “Donald, tell me if you can do a better job.”
The big man finally snapped the pen. “Ahem … Mr. McCaine, sir …”
“Donald; simple question, simple answer. Will you do better, yes or no?”
“Ah …” Rash dropped the parts of his pen on the desk and glanc
ed to his former boss, who was still trying to get a grip on what just happened. Then he seemed to understand what was at stake. He grew an inch when he told McCaine, “Yes, Mr. McCaine.”
“What will you do, Donald?”
“I will not negotiate. Let them strike. We’ll see this through.”
“You’re my man, Donald. You’ll get your new papers as soon as possible. Please see to it that Mr. Straus gets his too.” McCaine switched off. He paused for a moment staring at the black screen. Then he looked to John. “Did you think that was brutal?”
“Yes.”
McCaine nodded. “It has to be sometimes. We need to be strong right now.”
Time magazine had a big article about the struggle at HUGEMOVER, including a title picture that was based on an old Bud Spencer and Terrence Hill movie, but with the faces of John Fontanelli and Malcolm McCaine, and the title The Left and Right Hand of the Devil. The article was merciless, calling John’s commitment to the environment hypocritical and McCaine’s business practice highway robbery.
John felt his ears got red and he began sweating as he read the article. He wondered how McCaine could remain so calm as he flipped through the pages.
“I’m getting tired of this stuff,” he finally said. “It was always part of the plan anyhow to buy the media … newspapers, TV channels, and so forth.” He closed the magazine and threw it to one side. “It’s about time we got on with that.”
Christmas was not far away. Thick fogs covered the Thames more often, spread out into the city, rolled over the high buildings and made them look like troll castles and the street lanterns like elven lights. The big hit for buyers this Christmas season were products with the Fontanelli f on them. People bought caps, cups, key chains, shawls, binders, and above all else, shirts — all white except the almost violet dark-red curvy f. The license payments for the logo alone brought in hundreds of millions of dollars.
On the fifteenth of December, Boeing and McDonnell-Douglas merged to become the largest aircraft manufacturer in the world. The reason given for this move in economics journals was the rapid growth of influence of the Fontanelli conglomerate. A number of other mergers were expected to take place in the near future.
The situation over at HUGEMOVER got bogged down. The union kept the strike going and the management refused to negotiate. The reduction in production over the Christmas and New Year was not only manageable but even welcome due to reduced orders for heavy equipment. But with the new season starting soon, new orders would come in that would not be fillable with only a non-union, skeleton crew still working.
“Even in the US, labor laws forbid firing striking workers,” Donald Rash explained with a ready-to-fight expression. “We’re buying as much as we can from our subsidiaries overseas and we re-organize more in a week than we usually do in a year, but we’re reaching a limit. We already reached it with the excavators.”
McCaine had his hands folded in front of his mouth as if he was praying. “What will you do?”
“Hire new people. Labor laws keep us from hiring strikebreakers. We have a recession and other companies are also rationalizing, and we’re getting good people from overseas who will work for less pay. Besides that, we’ve also streamlined a number of processes so they won’t require specialists anymore. That used to be a problem area during strikes — we were dependent on those people, but now it’s no problem finding new workers.”
“The union knows this too, I hope?”
“Hmm, yeah, I think so.” Rash looked at McCaine, who was sitting there motionless. “Oh, I guess it’ll be enough if I threaten them with that possibility.”
“It’s worth a try,” said McCaine.
Two days later the strikers went back to work, for twenty percent less pay and two hours more work per week.
“See?” McCaine simply said and had something that ever so slowly turned into an approximation of a smile.
The ringing telephone by John’s bed woke him up. He sat up startled and stared at the darned thing and was almost sure it had not rung. It was two thirty in the morning. He must’ve dreamt it, for sure. But it rang again. Not a good sign. A phone ringing at such an hour never brings good news. He answered it.
“Hello?”
“You damned dirt bag …” It was a woman’s voice, sounding far away and peculiar, like talking in a tunnel. She spoke in Italian.
“What?”
“I said you are a damned dirt bag!” She sounded inebriated.
John ran his fingers through his hair and tried to think. “Without a doubt,” he said. “But, would you tell me who you are?”
“Porco Dio …” There was a long moment of silence with only heavy breathing to be heard. “You haven’t forgotten me, have you? Tell me that you haven’t forgotten me.” She started to cry quietly.
John was racking his brain, but for nothing in this world could he place the voice. Hesitantly, he told her, “I’m sorry…“
“You’re sorry? Good. You should be. You should be because it’s all your fault.” She let out a squeaky sob, which did awaken a vague memory. “It is all your fault. Did you hear me? Yours alone! It’s your fault that Marvin is in jail. My life’s also going down the drain. I hope you’ll be sorry for that too, you dirt bag.” The phone was slammed down with a rattle as if the woman on the other end was so drunk she could hardly find the base.
John sat there with the receiver still in his hand. His heart was pounding as he stared before him in bemusement. Then it came to him. Constantina. That could only have been Constantina. For Christ’s sake! He didn’t even recognize her voice. Marvin’s in jail? It didn’t sound like she was kidding.
He dialed the number of the security service. Marco got on the phone sounding surprisingly awake for this time of night. John told him what just happened.
“I am very sorry, Mr. Fontanelli. I don’t know how the call got to you. Your number is the most secret of secret numbers.”
“She must’ve got it from Marvin. He’s good at stuff like that. But that’s not why I’m calling.” He explained what he wanted. Later, he put on his morning coat and restlessly paced around his huge room. Finally the phone rang again.
“It is true,” Marco said. “Marvin Copeland was arrested in Brindisi. He is being charged with dealing drugs.”
$28,000,000,000,000
TWO CHAIRS WERE the only pieces of furniture in the square room with high ceilings. The room stank of urine and mold. The door Marvin was brought through had a tiny window with a screen and massive locks, which looked new and appeared to be the only things in this jail from the twentieth century.
And there he sat, Marvin Copeland, shabby and worn-out, barely able to keep upright on the chair. It looked like he had slept for weeks in the clothes he had on, and not just since he had been in jail.
“What happened?” John asked him.
Marvin shrugged his shoulders and grimaced. Then he finally said, “Well, what happened — they got me, is what happened.”
“Dealing drugs? Is that true?”
“Aw, fuck! My record company threw me out from one day to the next. They said my CD wasn’t selling. But the truth is they didn’t promote it enough. I mean, how can you get a foot in the door with the likes of Michael Jackson or Aerosmith?” He sat bent over, staring at the floor, and then looked at John from below. “What am I saying my record company? It’s your record company, like half the planet is yours.”
“Marvin, you had a hundred thousand dollars. I got the figures from Cascata Records. They paid you an advance of three hundred thousand dollars. You’ve spent almost a half a million dollars in a year and half.”
“Man, you got nerves with your jumbo jet and all.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Yeah well shit, everything costs so much. I had to drive a rock star car, wear rock star clothes. You can’t imagine how expensive all that is.”
“If you mean that I don’t know how much coke costs, then you’re right.”
“Boy, oh boy, you should hear yourself. I told you so. The money will change you and it has. I told you!”
“Marvin … cocaine! That’s not the same as joints. And you were always against dealing drugs.”
Marvin leaned back and closed his eyes as his head tilted back. He looked pale and hungry. The two friends remained silent for some time. The small barred window high on the wall let diffuse light into the bare room and they could hear the traffic outside. It all sounded so much louder now, the mopeds and the honking horns.
“It’s the comet,” Marvin said breaking the silence as he opened his eyes.
“The comet?”
“Hale-Bopp. The comet. Don’t tell me that you haven’t seen it yet. It’s big enough.” He sighed and took in a deep breath. “Comets bring bad luck. People have known that for ages. An artist like me feels it. Artists are sensitive to these things, you know? Okay, coke might bring you to new dimensions, but even without it …” He shook his head for a long while, thinking. Then he looked at John. “Can you get me out of here?”
John studied Marvin’s face, the expression in his eyes. He thought he noticed a sly look in them, but there was also need and a plea for help. All that was missing was for Marvin to drop down on his knees and beg.
“That’s why I came here,” John told him and wondered if he really was doing Marvin a favor. “They said that you can get out on bail. But you can’t leave town and there are a few other conditions.” He took a deep breath and added with a bitter taste: “Anyway, I won’t go broke if you skip bail. If you understand what I’m trying to tell you.”
Marvin looked at him as if he didn’t understand a word he said. Then he nodded. “You still are a real friend. Despite all that money.”
McCaine was not amused when John returned to London. “Your friend, or whatever it is you see in him, is the prototype of a true loser if I ever saw one. He never did anything with his life and he never will. Forget him, John, as fast as possible. Avoid any and all contact with him. Losers are dangerous to people with important goals, believe me. You can be the most competent person on earth, but if you have losers around you, you won’t achieve anything. They pull you down and mess up your plans and get into your way at crucial moments. They poison your life like a contagious disease — they might even be a disease.”
One Trillion Dollars Page 38
