6.

MONTREAL IS COLD, a cold unlike anything Daniel has ever experienced. In the brief time it takes him to walk from the cab into the newly completed Ritz-Carlton Hotel, it snaps his nose hairs and numbs his face. Earlier that day, when the sun, shining from a cloudless sky, had warmed the air to a more tolerable temperature, he walked the streets of Montreal. Although wide and snow-covered, many of them in various stages of development, they somehow reminded him of the streets he walked in France; one area in particular was reminiscent of Place du Tertre in Paris. The architecture here was more eclectic, yet retained enough of the classical to lend weight to the city’s atmosphere. He stopped in the Place d’Armes square as though he was being held in place, lost in a frozen landscape of memory.

The New York Life Insurance Building, standing at eight storeys high, was Montreal’s first skyscraper—erected thanks to Elias Otis and his elevator, which had opened up futuristic possibilities for the world. The very first of these skyscrapers was in Daniel’s hometown. The Home Insurance Building, completed in 1885, was a familiar beacon for Daniel who, loving architecture, often marvelled at mankind’s ability to design and construct. For him, architecture, like art, represented the beauty of the human soul. Facing the Place d’Armes square was the Notre-Dame Basilica, its Gothic Revival design amongst the most dramatic in the world. Walking inside, Daniel found himself assailed by unexpected emotion. The god of his childhood, so omnipotent and undeniable, had been lost in the cold mud of France, the battleground where his idealism, his morality, and his faith were sacrificed in the immediacy of survival. But entering the church, Daniel suddenly encountered that lost god again. He was shocked at his own visceral reaction to the church. The basilica, almost ephemeral in its beauty, was too much to take in. Its vaulted ceiling rose above him, absorbing and alienating, calling to a primal need to believe in something bigger than himself, while at the same time reinforcing a rage he can’t articulate. He staggered from the building into the harsh light of a winter sun, inebriated with emotion.

Now, at six o’clock, the evening closes in like a raven’s wing, dark and claustrophobic, the omnipresent cold re-establishing itself with a vengeance. The people he passes, often deep in conversation with each other, are definitely speaking French. Although he can’t understand the words, the cadence, the accentuated lifts are recognizable. Except for the painful cold in his extremities, he can almost imagine he is in France, Bordeaux, or Paris, walking with the guys from the regiment and looking for some fun: fast French skirt or good French wine, or both.

His contact is Pierre Montcalm. Of course, what else would his name be? Daniel thinks as he hurries through the front doors of the hotel, thankful to be out of the evening air. The hotel lobby is elaborate and opulent, and Daniel, removing his fedora, looks around as he unbuttons his coat and straightens his tie. He is duly impressed. His face feels numb, but in the heat of the lobby, his feet and hands begin to tingle with returning blood.

There is a small band playing in the deep recesses of the lounge to his right, an atmosphere he recognizes. He thinks about a drink. Debating whether or not to enter the lounge, he is unaware of a man, short and neat but powerfully built and impeccably dressed, who has seemingly appeared from nowhere beside him. “Are you Daniel Kenny?”

“Yes,” Daniel replies, curt with surprise.

The man smiles, his eyes dark, and quickly extends his hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I am Pierre Montcalm. Welcome to Montreal, Monsieur.” Pierre is clearly bilingual: his English is flawless, and his pronunciation of “Monsieur” is impeccable.

“Thank you, Mr. Montcalm. And no, you didn’t startle me. Your approach was just unexpected. Where did you emerge from so suddenly?” As the words leave his lips, Daniel can see the double French doors of the restaurant. Following his gaze, Pierre nods. “I had a perfect view of the lobby entrance, and it was not difficult to spot you, my friend.” Pierre laughs, clapping Daniel on the back. The movement is so natural and affectionate that it leaves Daniel feeling charmed.

“Am I that obvious, Monsieur?” Daniel smiles nervously. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be conducting our business out in the open like this?”

“No, no. Not to worry. You do not look as though you are here for anything other than to meet an old friend and enjoy a meal. And perhaps to warm up, no?”

“Yeah, I have to admit I’m pretty cold.”

“You do, however, look Irish.” Pierre continues as if Daniel hadn’t spoken. “And with a name like Daniel Kenny, I expected nothing less!” He laughs again, thumping Daniel on the back. “Come now. If you have warmed up sufficiently, you can check your coat and hat and allow me to buy your meal. Then we’ll talk.”

“Thank you, Mr. Montcalm.” Daniel replies, his eyes darting around the large lobby and then back towards the lounge.

Following his gaze, Pierre smiles. “You are enjoying the music?”

“Well, not this music particularly, but I do enjoy being in lounges, night clubs. I don’t know if you are familiar with jazz, but that is the kind of music I like. In fact, I think I’ve fallen in love with it.”

“Oh, oui, I know jazz. Montreal is a surprising city, and there are many clubs with this music.”

“I’m pleasantly surprised to hear that. I mean, I didn’t know that jazz had made it to Canada, I thought it was an American anomaly.”

“No, it is here. The St. Antoine district has three clubs where you can hear jazz every night of the week. If you like we can make arrangements to visit them; I am well acquainted with the proprietors.”

“Yes, I would very much like that. Thank you, Mr. Montcalm.”

“Please, it is Pierre. Now perhaps we will sit and eat and get down to the business, as they say. And not to worry.” Pierre continues, trying to assuage Daniel’s obvious trepidation. “Our business is not illegal, at least not yet, and not on this side of the border.”

“Not yet?”

“Yes. These laws, they change back and forth, back and forth. It depends I think on who is running for office, no? I have been in this business for years, one way or the other.”

“One way or the other?” Daniel asks over his shoulder as he hands his coat over the counter to the coat check girl. She smiles shyly at him.

“Yes, importing liquor from other provinces, from other states. Filling the need during this country’s dry spells. Now we export to you. The routes are the same, my friend; it is the direction that has changed!” Laughing again, Pierre leads Daniel into the restaurant. It is busy and dark—an atmosphere charged with informal, unrestrained conversation—and Daniel relaxes into the anonymity of the place.

“Quebec has never been dry,” Pierre continues, seating himself at a small table and lifting his glass. “The French are a civilized race. We have always understood that liquor is the lubricant of society. Through liquor, we avoid friction.” He drinks and smiles. “But the laws of the land are changing, no? The Volstead Act now prohibits the consumption, the sale, or the importation of liquor in any state in your country. These ridiculous measures!” Pierre shakes his head and looks directly at Daniel. “They will only enable the entrepreneur to become rich!” He laughs with excitement. “And, that my friend, is capitalism at its best.”

“Entrepreneur? So that’s what you call it up here.” Daniel says, looking over at Pierre and nodding slowly.

There is something compelling about this man; he has a European charm flavoured with a new-world realism and a sense of proportion in his ironic humour. Daniel cannot help but like him. Over their meal, he enlightens Daniel on the subject of Canadian and American prohibition laws, his knowledge of the subject encyclopaedic. “The routes for rum running have been established for years. It is almost as if the government planned it. Wouldn’t you agree, Daniel?”

Daniel lifts his glass of Rémy Martin. “It’s preordained.”

“Exactement!”

“So, where do we go from here, Pierre? Will we be signing a contract and establishing a payment plan? You obviously have the experience; in fact, I’m quite humbled by your knowledge.”

“Well, it is my business, and up until now it has been a living. But what is to come may well make us both rich. The demand for beer and whiskey will be unprecedented. The law may change toward virtue, but man’s vice does not.”

“Will you be able to supply the demand? It will be more challenging than in the past. Where will you be securing the liquor?”

“I have a partner, Simon Bigman. Don’t laugh, that’s his real name.”

“Wow. I would call that destiny.”

“Yes, you may be correct. He is a Russian Jew from Western Canada. His family was prominent in Russia but fled during the anti-Semitic program. They settled, or maybe I should say they were placed, in Manitoba. They have done a little of everything, from trading horses to running hotels. They have connections to Hirsch and Rothschild.” Pierre nods as if clearing up an important point. Daniel looks back blankly, realizing he is missing something.

Pierre shrugs. “They are Zionists. Their business dealings have no borders and are little concerned with government rhetoric. The Bigman’s are the ones who bought the Canadian Pure Drug Company. During the War Measures Act, they sold liquor through the loophole of medical purposes.” Pierre raises his eyebrows for emphasis. “Up until this year, they were the sole importers of whiskey from your country.”

“So, you’re saying that they’re well connected?”

“Yes. To say the least. Now with prohibition in America, the Bigmans have simply turned from importing to exporting. It is that simple! They also import from Britain. They have strong ties to the government there.” Pierre smiles genially at Daniel, who is enjoying his drink and the conversation. “Simon has been in Montreal only a short while but he has the connections and he has the capital.” Pierre sips his cognac falls silent for a moment, appraising Daniel. “You will like him,” he continues.

“When will I meet him? Is he joining us?” Daniel sits up, eager with anticipation.

“No, no. Not tonight. Tonight, is for us to establish contact, which we have done. Dean O’Banion said I would like you, and he is correct. I do. We will work out the payment schedule and the best routes—Detroit is never a problem. Once on the American side, your men will have to work out the best routes to Chicago. It will not be hard. Times are difficult, and men are more than willing to get steady, dependable work. We are the wholesalers; you are the retailers. It is a good business.”

“How long will all this take before we get the first shipment in Detroit?”

“Well, that will depend on a couple things. How quickly you can establish your men and have them ready? Remember, this is not new to us. Also, we will have to agree on a payment schedule. But don’t worry. We have a few days to work it all out.”

“Good. When shall we meet again, then?”

“I am having a dinner party tomorrow evening. I would like very much for you to attend. I’m sure there is no one you know in Montreal. You will be able to meet Simon and some of our other retailers. After dinner we can discuss further business in the privacy of my drawing room.” Pierre nods at Daniel, and then continues. “We also have a very charming niece staying with us. She is my wife’s sister’s daughter from the east, come to experience the big city. She is very pretty and charming.” He looks at Daniel out of the corner of his eye. “You never know, maybe she will see something in you. Besides, your presence will make an equal number of men and women, and my wife will be pleased with this.”

“Well, thank you for the invitation, Pierre. I look forward to meeting your niece. What did you say her name was?”

Pierre laughs. “I did not say! Her name is Jeanie, Jeanie Lehman.” Pierre rises from his seat and adds, “I will pay the bill and call for cabs.”

Minutes later, Pierre joins Daniel who has been waiting outside the front doors of the Ritz, stamping his feet, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his coat. The two cabs pull up at the same time. “Bien.” Pierre extends his hand, “I believe things will work out well between us, Daniel Kenny. There will be a cab outside the hotel for you at seven o’clock tomorrow night. I will see you then.”

Watching Pierre moving toward the open cab door, Daniel calls out, “Should I bring anything tomorrow night?” He raises his shoulders to emphasize the question.

“No, nothing.” Pierre laughs and then adds, “Perhaps a warmer coat, no?”

Daniel nods in agreement. “Yes, maybe a warmer coat.”

DANIEL ARRIVES AT PIERRE’S DOOR shortly after seven. He is wearing a new wool coat and carrying cut flowers that have been well wrapped against the Canadian cold. He adjusts his fedora, thinking of the fur hat the salesman at the store had suggested. He has noticed quite a few people wearing fur hats, a smart choice in the face of such bitter cold, but his fedora will have to suffice for the few days he will be here. The coat was a must, and it was certainly worth the money, if only to keep him warm for the few minutes he stands on the stone portico waiting for the magnificent mahogany door to open.

Soon, a middle-aged woman—obviously the maid—greets him, taking his coat and hat and indicating a set of white pocket doors. A hum of conversation punctuated by laughter emanates from the room, and Daniel hesitates before sliding the door open. He feels awkward and self-conscious, worried that this social encounter may be too much to handle. He’s noticed that he’s not felt warm lately; since France, he’s become sensitive to the cold. His feelings also seem uncontrollable at times, leaping here and there, straying of their own volition, as if disconnected from him. In certain situations, feelings of distress rush in, stimuli overwhelming, heart pounding in anticipation; he becomes over sensitive to his surroundings, feeling trapped and frightened and vulnerable. He finds a reprieve from this in the dark, broody atmosphere of the night clubs he frequents. They afford him a place apart, a reprieve from his own thoughts, but away from their familiar atmosphere, he is left to deal with these emotions on his own. Breathing deeply, he wills his heart to slow, his nerves to calm. There is nothing on the other side of the door to be concerned about, and he can’t let his anxiety dictate his life. He hears his father’s voice: “Have no fear, Danny-boy.” With a conscious effort of will, Daniel slides open the door.

The room is well lit and warm, with an open fire at the far end. The murmur of conversation of a moment ago halts when the door opens, and all eyes for a brief moment are on him. What will they think if I just take a step back and slide this door closed? The thought crosses his mind as his eyes meet those of the young woman standing directly in front of him. She reads the indecision in his face and smiles with understanding. They will both remember this moment, this quiet exchange, this unspoken understanding. Words, as well as physical affection, will always be important between them, but it is this laconic communication, this sharing without words, that will bind them, one to the other, in silent orbit.

He is introduced around the room. A blur of impressions swirls around him, but clears and sharpens with the introduction of Jeanie Lehman. They are seated together during dinner, but after the intimacy of the shared moment in the drawing room, there is an awkwardness between them. She is small and fair, and Daniel is painfully aware of her presence at his side. He has never felt at a loss for words before, especially with women. His brother and his friends always teasing him about his blarney with the women, but this Jeanie Lehman has arrested his abilities. His interest in Simon Bigman and the business at hand has waned. He has experienced the power of a female presence before, but never to this extent. He is aware of her movements out of the corner of his eye, and he is amused by his own reactions. He wants to take her hand and hold it in his own, push it against his mouth, smell her, taste her.

“I understand you were in the war, Mr. Kenny?” Lenny Davis, who is sitting at the end of the table to Pierre’s right, asks. With the shock of the direct question, Daniel realizes that he has been silent for much of the meal. The others turn, anxious for his answer. Mike Frank—Sardinian born but of Italian descent and the head of the Frank Gang, the Calabrian faction of the Black Hand—and his wife Louisa are directly across from Daniel. On the other side of Louisa sits Simon Bigman. His comportment belies his beginnings; his family’s history of selling, trading, and bribing, as he sits confident and easy in the opulent room. Simon Bigman will become one of the new country’s leading businessmen, a wealthy, influential and powerful man. In later years, he will become a philanthropist; pulling around himself the cloak of civility and respectability, just as the country will learn to reinvent itself through the retelling of old stories.

Daniel is unsure of the political feelings in the room, of the attitudes toward “the war that would end all wars.” He is unsure of his own feelings about his part in the war, what it means to him, what it will come to mean. Was it nothing but a heartbreaking and pointless conflict? It was imperialism taken to its extreme—millions dead, millions more crippled physically and emotionally. An entire generation shattered, and for what? The Canadian effort was enormous considering her scant population. He knows of Vimy, of Passchendaele, the human cost. American casualties and deaths seem trifling compared to that of other countries. He feels cornered by this simple fact, confused as to his feelings. He took part in the war; he was a soldier who took and gave commands, that was all. “Yes. I was, Sir.” he answers Lenny Davis’s question, his voice ringing flat in his own ears.

“Did you see much action?”

Daniel looks down the table at Lenny, a Paris born Jew who is working to establish himself in the young country as a man with connections. Daniel looks down, stroking the smooth polished steel of his dinner knife. He is contemplating the question, the question that has been asked of him so many times and with such idle curiosity, or perhaps morbid voyeurism, he’s never sure, either way, the question always throws him off balance, bringing into focus scenes he has pushed into the depths of his mind, leaving him feeling angry and frustrated.

“Mr. Davis, I think our guest would rather not speak of such things during dinner.” Sophie Montcalm, Pierre’s small but confident wife, comes to Daniel’s rescue. Continuing quickly, she adds, “There are too many opinions at this table to make this a suitable topic of conversation.”

“My wife is correct, no? We French know when to leave well enough alone.”

“Wasn’t that your attitude toward the war itself, Pierre?” Davis asks, raising his wine glass and looking at it intently.

“The riots in Montreal over conscription would attest to that, would they not?” Pierre answers, his smile repudiating the strength of his convictions.

“Enough, gentlemen! This is not the place for such a discussion,” Sophie continues, looking severely at her husband at the other end of the table, her voice firm with redirection. “Have you heard of the poet Emile Nelligan, Mr. Kenny?”

The conversation unfolds like a work of art; in moments spattering exchanges erupt between the guests, the hum of voices becoming a palpable lubricant. Daniel drums his fingers on the table. Jeanie leans forward and places her hand lightly over Daniel’s, stilling its movement and quieting his mind. “Don’t take any heed of Mr. Davis. He is a cantankerous man who likes nothing more than to stir the pot.”

Daniel turns and says the one thing he has been thinking the entire evening. “Could I call on you sometime, Miss Lehman?

Jean Lehman is from New Brunswick, and at eighteen, is anxious to experience the world. Montreal is an exciting city with many opportunities, and it affords her a social life that her home town does not. Daniel Kenny is another surprise the city has to offer. His blue eyes rimmed with black lashes are exquisite, and his brooding attitude intrigues her. “Please, call me Jeanie, Mr. Kenny. After all, we have been formally introduced.”

“All right, Jeanie.” Uttering her name brings a smile to his face. “And please call me Daniel.”

“Do you ever get Danny? You look like a Danny.”

“I do get that, but it feels somehow childish to me now. I prefer Daniel.”

She returns his smile. “Very well, Daniel.” She lowers her head, averting her eyes. She is embarrassed at her reaction, at her immature prattling. You look like a Danny! What a ridiculously silly thing to say. Who looks like a Danny? Her chest feels tight, her throat constricted. This must be what it feels like to have your heart in your mouth, she thinks. She would like to speak to Daniel again, not just to erase the stupidity of her last comment but to hold his attention, to look into his eyes, to watch his slow smile make its way across his handsome Irish face. Rushing over topics, she rejects one after the other as inappropriate or silly until finally she settles on one. “How long will you be staying in Montreal, Daniel?”

“Well, that will depend.” He breaks into another slow smile as he takes in her high colour, cheeks flushed with the heat of the room or his attention; he’s unsure of which but hoping for the latter.

On what? Jeanie thinks but dares not say, “On me?” Instead, she asks, “On the business with my uncle?”

“Yes.”

Looking at him, she smiles at the unspoken words, at the meaning passing between them, the emotions. Is it the war that has done this? Is it the lack of young men, the horror of the returning dead, that sharpens the need to reach out and take what is given without reserve? she wonders. Daniel Kenny, young and handsome, is her future. She knows this. The knowledge is buried deep within herself—past the pounding of her heart, past the rush of emotion, in the pit of her stomach. She knows this with an undeniable precognition that reveals itself in impatience.

“Can you meet me tomorrow, Daniel?”

Daniel’s mind rushes ahead to the business concerns they will address this evening, when the men adjourn to the study. In the following days, he will have no plans except to wait for the concluding details before he returns to Chicago. “Yes. Where?”

They are speaking quietly, with a nonchalance neither one feels. Daniel’s answer is louder than he expected, drawing enquiring smiles from around the table. Nodding, he continues, his voice softer but still full of its previous intensity. “I don’t believe I have any plans for tomorrow. Could you suggest something, perhaps?”

“I would be more than happy to accompany you at your convenience and show you the sights of the city.” Jeanie lowers her head to disguise the excitement she feels.

Yes, I would like that. I want to spend as many hours as possible with you, Jeanie Lehman, Daniel thinks. He replies, “Yes, thank you. I would appreciate that, Miss Lehman. Would the afternoon suit you?”

“Yes, around three?”

“I will look forward to it.” Daniel nods and picks up his glass.

As if on cue, Pierre stands and looks around the table. “Gentlemen, I believe we shall retire to the study. I have brandy and cognac. We can talk business and allow the women their own time.”

AS HE ENTERS THE WELL-LIT STUDY, Pierre sweeps his arm in a grand gesture. “Sit, gentlemen, sit.” Deep burgundy leather chairs are pulled around a fireplace that glows amber. A large oak desk on the north wall faces the room, and to the left is an expansive bar lined with bottles of varying size and shape. “What is your pleasure, Daniel?”

“What would you suggest?” Daniel seats himself, shaking his head when Simon offers him a cigar.

“That will depend on what you like—something sweet, something smoky, or something to bite the back of your throat?” Pierre laughs over his shoulder as he reaches for the bottles. “Would you like a whiskey? I have one of Hiram Walker’s better brands here.”

“Yes, Daniel,” Simon says between puffs. “Walker is one of your own countrymen, chased out by the growing temperance movement.

“Dismantled his distillery in Detroit one day, crossed the lake, and set it up in Windsor the next!” Mike Frank adds, picking up the story.

“I think that would take a little more than a day,” Daniel says.

“We can get nothing by you, Mr. Kenny.” Pierre winks as he hands Daniel his drink.

“There is something quite ironic about all this, don’t you think?” Daniel takes his glass, nodding his thanks.

“You mean, our drinking while we discuss the topic of prohibition?” Simon asks.

“Yes.”

Pierre laughs. “The idea of prohibition is an English thing, Daniel. We French have never had to worry about where our next drink will come from, or indeed if it will be there at all.”

“Is that because you’re French, Pierre, or because drinking is part of your Catholic religion?” Lenny Davis asks, taking his drink from Pierre.

“Exactement! It is a sacrament—the breaking of the bread, the drinking of the wine.

“No law will stop the consumption of alcohol,” Davis continues. “We’ve seen that over and over again. Any country that declares itself dry is setting itself up for exploitation.”

“Exploitation is a bit harsh don’t you think, Lenny?” Simon says with a dry laugh. “We are simply entrepreneurs who see a need and are obliged to fill it.”

“That is thinking in the noblest of terms, Mr. Bigman.” Mike Frank agrees.

“Perhaps that is why they call it the noble experiment, no?” Pierre laughs.

“Well,” Davis continues, “if it is an experiment, it’s failing. We have been successful in supplying dry states and provinces for years.”

“How do you get it across the border?” Daniel asks, looking at the men in the room, men used to getting what they want.

Simon Bigman laughs loudly and taps his cigar into the ashtray. “With a few bribes here and there. Anyway, how well can they enforce this law when there are hundreds of miles of open border between our countries?”

“And the lakes—they’re wide open, Daniel.” Mike Frank nods.

“The desire to legalize temperance has been with us forever.” Simon squints his eyes through the smoke.

“Yes,” Lenny Davis adds, “and where would the true businessman be without the Puritan? As we know, value is increased through scarcity.”

“It is the way of the world.” Pierre nods in agreement. “The Volstead Act creates a need, and one way or another we will be filling it for some time to come, gentlemen.”

The men around the room nod and remain quiet, their thoughts varied and diverse. Simon Bigman breaks the silence. “These are chaotic times we live in. Messy times we have lived through, where the value of human life has been nullified.” His sentiments move through the room like the pungent odour of his cigar. “What has been lost? What has been gained?”

“I think much has been gained.” Pierre states as he looks around the room. “We sit here tonight, a Parisian Jew, a Russian Jew, a Sardinian-born Italian, an Irish American besotted now with my lovely niece, who is herself a product of a Scottish and German marriage. We represent the European nations at war against each other months ago, and here we are tonight in congenial acceptance.”

“Perhaps it is the flavour of the new world: forging our own national identity with combinations of others,” says Mike Frank.

“And it is so much better, no?” Pierre adds.

“It makes you wonder about the point of war, if there is one,” Frank muses.

“The point of war is to eliminate fascism, to stop it from taking root,” Lenny Davis answers, his intensity a cold presence in the room. “Evil can only happen when good men stand by and do nothing!”

“Perhaps you are right.” Daniel nods, his eyes on Davis, his mind a thousand miles away.

“Let us return to the business at hand, shall we, gentlemen?” Simon entreats, nodding slowly, sensing the distance in Daniel’s eyes.

“Yes! We drink and we discuss the business that has brought us together, no?” Pierre says, taking Daniel’s empty glass and moving to the bar to refill it.

The business is interesting and amiable, and Pierre keeps the atmosphere jovial and social. Daniel appreciates this; he finds Lenny Davis somewhat intense and tiring, and he can’t stop his mind from wandering back to Jeanie and the intimacy of her presence. It is as if he knows her, has already experienced a lifetime with her. Meeting her tonight has allowed him to reflect upon the hollowness he has been feeling; he understands now that the feeling of emptiness is simply her absence in his life. Or is it? Could it be that easy? Is her presence in his life preordained? It seems absurd that such a quick encounter, such a minimal brush against another individual, can cause such a cascade of emotion, such an awakening of possibility. New thoughts and feelings dart like minnows in the depths of his soul.

When the men emerge from the study, hours have slipped by and the women have left or retired for the evening. They part in the small hours of the morning—Pierre Montcalm, Lenny Davis, Michael Frank, Simon Bigman, and Daniel—their smiles and handshakes forging the future, shaping the past.

Daniel can hardly remember returning to his hotel, his mind is so full of the evening. He remembers the men in the room, turning the world toward their own ends with an ease that seemed like child’s play. Men with the ability to change and shape, influential, powerful men. And the soft brown eyes of Jeanie Lehman.

That night, he cannot sleep.