Chapter 8: Thirty Days

The boardroom on the twenty-second floor had a long table for nine directors.

At the far end hung a screen as wide as a garage door.

Nate sat halfway down the table, in a chair with no name card.

The head of the table was empty.

Richard sat to the right of it, where he had sat for three years.

The three directors he had appointed sat beside him, all in navy suits.

Across from them sat the four old men from the funeral window, who had worked for his grandfather for forty years.

The union man sat at the very end, by the screen, in his flannel shirt buttoned to the neck.

The lawyer sat behind Nate against the wall with a folder on her knees.

"We have one item," Richard said. "Under my father's will, the board confirms or refuses his grandson as chairman today."

"I'll be brief, because I'd rather you see it than hear it from me."

He laid out his case in a calm voice.

Nate Mazur had worked at the bank for six years and then walked out.

He had held no job for three years.

His first act in this building, a month ago, had been to extend nine million dollars to his wife's family.

"It's in the minutes," Richard said. "Page two."

One of the old men by the window grunted.

"It was a good extension, Richard. The roofs aren't on."

"Then I'm sure he'll explain that too."

Richard nodded at the secretary, and the lights went down.

The screen filled with the ballroom at the club.

It was Brett's video, shot from across the table, and the sound came out of speakers in the ceiling.