[21:45, 1st May 2000, The Pierre Hotel, Manhattan]
The Pierre Hotel's ballroom gleamed with classical elegance—crystal chandeliers casting soft light over tables draped in white linen, floral arrangements that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, and a crowd dressed in designer gowns and tailored tuxedos. The charity auction for the Global Environmental Protection Fund had attracted New York's elite: old money, new Money, and even criminal money rubbing shoulders with celebrities, mingled with corporate executives, and even local politicians.
The cause of saving the planet sounded noble, but to most, it was a snobby enough reason to throw a party. It was a chance to network with your peers and make new connections. For the newly wealthy individuals, it was a chance to soft-launch themselves into the high society of the Big Apple.
Xavier adjusted his bow tie, remembering how his father had made sure he had a closet of fine suits. According to him, a good suit was like a suit of armour; it got you a foot in the door, whether that be in love or war. The event had been Jess's idea: You need to start building relationships with the people who run the city. The fact that the IOC moved in these circles was just an added bonus. He understood the logic, but the air here felt suffocating with all of the city's most vile vices.
He scanned the room, half-listening to a nearby conversation about deforestation in the Amazon. A woman in an elegant peacock-feather gown was explaining to her companion how her foundation was funding sustainable farming and animal husbandry initiatives in Indonesia. Another group discussed endangered species protection, their concern seemingly genuine beneath the designer labels.
Xavier wandered toward the silent auction tables, browsing items that ranged from boats to vacation homes to vineyard estates—anything wealthy people could offload to avoid taxes while appearing philanthropic. Nothing interested him. He had money, but he saw no reason to accept the burden of someone else's castoff just to make a donation.
He moved to a section offering experiences and celebrity dates—carefully labelled as "exclusive day experiences" because nobody wanted to acknowledge what it actually was. A high-end escort service for the rich to link up with Hollywood pretty people whom they felt a pathological need to dominate due to self-consciousness reasons.
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EXCLUSIVE VIP EXPERIENCE: A one-day date with Monica Bellucci at the Sydney 2000 Summer Olympics Regatta. VIP experience, Private box seating, behind-the-scenes access, and a meet-and-greet with athletes. Tickets to all events.. Starting Bid: $10,000
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Xavier paused for a second, picking up a brochure depicting the Regatta race and some other Olympic events. Not hesitating long, he pulled the pen from his jacket pocket and wrote: $50,000 – X. James.
"That's quite generous."
Xavier turned to find a man in his mid-fifties studying him with amused curiosity. He was of average height, maybe 5'7-8, with silver hair, sharp blue eyes; his weathered facial features told a story of their own, but he still looked handsome in a rugged way. His tuxedo fit impeccably, highlighting his aura and natural charisma.
"Well, I'm a big fan," He naturally responded, returning the bidding sheet to its designated spot.
"Oh, you watched Dracula then?' He asked, his expression lighting visibly with excitement at finding a fellow movie lover.
"Huh, no, I meant regatta Races, it's fascinating how crafts that were created for the purposes of exploration and war have been turned into entertainment for the masses." Xav clarified, noticing that the latter had clearly misunderstood his intentions.
"Hahaha, my mistake," the man said, extending his hand. "Peter Schumaster. And here I thought I'd found someone who appreciated Coppola's cinematography as much as I do."
"Xavier James," he replied, shaking the offered hand. "And I do appreciate Coppola, The Godfather was a master piece in my household—just not enough to drop fifty thousand on it."
Peter's eyebrows rose slightly. "James? As in the Tigers' James?"
"Guilty," Xavier admitted. "Don't hold that against me; not everything the tabloids say about me is true."
"Pray tell, what did they exaggerate?" The man said, arching an eyebrow in curiosity.
"Oh, I'm not 6 feet, it's 6'4, every inch matters, oh, and I'm actually brilliant, how else would I be doing an MBA at 20?" He paused as if to make sure the latter was listening before leaning towards putting a hand before his mouth. "But the most exaggerated claim said I wasn't New York's most eligible bachelor. I considered suing, but my lawyer told me my family owned the paper."
"Ahahha, I don't know if you're serious or joking, but I would have thought you would deny the reckless claims of overspending in the Tigers or the other claims," Peter said in good nature. "Heck, I feel like the past two months I have been here, your name is all that dominates the sports section, and some of it is brutal, young man."
"Well, what can I say? Most of it is true, but I see it as a chance to invest in my passion." He responded, shrugging his shoulders before nimbly grasping two champagne glasses from a passing waiter. "Let's toast to New York, the greatest city in the world, and Passion."
"Ay, ay, to Passion and of course the Forest and the Animals," Peter added, tapping his glass lightly against Xavier's. They drank the champagne, which was fine, but Xavier barely tasted it.
"So," Peter went on, glancing down at the bid sheet, "are you usually this generous with your donations, Mr James? Or is this a special occasion?"
"My father used to take us to regattas when I was younger. Columbia University had a team he supported. We'd spend hours watching them train on the Harlem River."
Peter's expression softened. "Past tense?"
"He passed in January," Xavier said quietly.
"I'm sorry." Peter paused, then added, "My father took me to sailing competitions in Germany when I was a boy. Watching something so technically precise yet so dependent on teamwork. I suppose that's what drew me to the Olympic movement."
Xavier's attention sharpened. "You're with the IOC?"
"Vice President of the Executive Board," Peter confirmed. "Among other responsibilities. Though tonight I'm just a concerned citizen trying to save the Amazon rainforest one overpriced auction item at a time."
They were interrupted by a waiter offering champagne. Both declined—Xavier reaching for sparkling water instead, Peter doing the same. "Not a drinker?" Peter observed.
"Not particularly, especially when I'm working," Xavier replied.
"And this is work for you?"
"Isn't it for everyone here?" Xavier gestured around the ballroom. "Half these people couldn't point to the Amazon on a map, but they'll write a check big enough to feel good about themselves."
Peter laughed—a genuine sound that turned a few heads. "Cynical for twenty."
"Realistic, still better than the alternative of spending their money on debauchery," Xavier noted after some afterthought. "Though I did just bid fifty thousand dollars to sit in a boat with a movie star, so maybe I'm a hypocrite."
"Or maybe," Peter said thoughtfully, "Sometimes the cause matters more than the method."
"Don't let politician hear you saying that they put that on campaign slogans to justify their shortcomings," he responded, lightening the mood somewhat. However, both dreaded the idea of that becoming a reality.
They drifted away from the auction tables, finding themselves in a quieter corner near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. The city sprawled below them, a constellation of lights and movement. "So," Peter said, "what brings a football owner to an environmental protection auction? Beyond the regatta, I mean."
Xavier considered how much to reveal. "Honestly, you, just being seen with you, will put pressure on my fellow New York team owners and hopefully get me what I want."
"That's surprisingly honest of you," Peter commented, reaching into his pocket, pulling out an ornate cigar case, and taking a cigar before offering Xavier one. He politely refused, showing no interest in this particular vice. "Most people would just tell me a lie, fish for a photo op, or try to get me to co-sign a project."
"I figured it's best to be honest, plus we both want the same thing, an Olympic-level Stadium in New York, albeit for different reasons, but the goal is the same." He explained with a smile, his auburn eyes shining as he looked at the colourful lights before him, so close he could almost grasp them. "Honestly, I feel like I got scammed and blessed at the same time. The team I took over is in the best city in America, but it has literally no assets that make a half-decent team successful."
"I'm sorry, I guess being a rich wastral has its back draws," Peter commented, lighting his Cuban before taking a big draw, releasing a puff of smoke into the night sky. "Sigh, honestly, it's looking like the Giant Stadium will get the bid, though they will have to refurbish some facilities."
Xavier glanced at his watch—11:15 PM. The event was about to reach its climax before winding down, but that didn't matter to him, as he couldn't care less whether he won his bid or not. "You hungry?" he asked suddenly.
Peter blinked. "I'm sorry?
"Food. Real New York food, not this tiny-portions-on-giant-plates nonsense. There's a deli about fifteen minutes from here. Best pastrami in the city."
Peter's laugh was surprised. "You're inviting an IOC Vice President to a deli at eleven thirty at night?"
"Since I'm going to pitch you my project, you might as well get some food out of it, and I doubt you've had a taste of the real New York during your stay here." Xavier corrected. "Hahah, call it a bribe or whatnot."
For a moment, Peter just stared at him. Then he smiled—genuine, warm, and slightly incredulous. "You know what? This will be the strangest bribe I've ever received in my life."
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To be Continued...