In the early morning of February 6, 1928, the winter sun cast a cold metallic luster on the bronze gates of the New York Stock Exchange.
Shane stood in Henry's third-floor office, watching the feverish activity on the trading floor through a wide pane of misted glass. Outside, winter's chill pressed against the windows; inside, the air was thick with the hum of business and ambition.
Below, hundreds of brokers surged between the oak railings, waving slips of paper, shouting bids and offers. Even with the glass muffling the noise, the pulse of Wall Street could still be felt—a living, breathing thing.
In Shane's hands were a stack of RCA stock delivery orders, the ink still fresh. Each slip bore the number $251, the day's price. He had begun buying these shares in late November of the previous year, gradually accumulating 5,000 shares at an average of $158—all under tenfold leverage.
Now, with prices soaring, his position had yielded a fortune. A total profit of $760,000 had already been credited to his account.
The office door opened softly. A waft of Blue Mountain coffee drifted in. Old Henry, leaning on his ebony cane, entered with his gold watch chain glinting faintly in the morning light. Behind him came Philip Fisher, a sharp-eyed young analyst from San Francisco, followed by Benjamin Graham, whose furrowed brow hinted at deep thought.
Fisher set a thick report on the mahogany desk. "The Federal Reserve is quietly tightening," he said, his pencil tracing a line down the page. "First National Bank of Kansas has leveraged itself twenty-two times over—far beyond safety."
The pencil snapped in his hand. "They're even using depositors' savings to finance wheat futures. And according to the latest reports from the Chicago Board of Trade—"
Graham interrupted softly. He pressed his hand over the paper. "Cleveland Trust is worse. They're using General Electric bonds as collateral, and Edison just delayed their annual report."
A long silence followed. The muffled roar of the Exchange below seemed to swell, echoing through the glass.
Henry drew deeply from his cigar, blue smoke curling around his gray temples. Then, suddenly, the quote board downstairs erupted—Western Power flashed crimson, numbers tumbling in chaos.
Shane watched his reflection fracture in the misted glass—thin lines of condensation cutting across his image like cracks in a mirror. He could almost see the invisible web of short positions he and Henry had spun across these very banks.
Henry tapped ash onto the desk, his eyes pale and sharp through the haze. "When are you leaving?"
"In four days," Shane replied quietly. His fingers brushed the telegram in his coat pocket—a reply from Charlie Chaplin's manager, confirming a meeting at London's Savoy Hotel. "Enough time to close the Cleveland Trust short."
Henry chuckled, the sound gravelly. "You've come a long way, kid. When you first walked in here, you didn't even know how to cut a cigar."
Shane smiled faintly. He remembered that day vividly—Henry tapping his cane and saying, "Kid, on Wall Street, you either learn to smoke or learn to lie."
Across town, the East Coast United Freight & Storage Company was filled with the scent of coffee and the clatter of typewriters.
Mikhail, tall and broad-shouldered, stood by the window overlooking the East River docks. "Mr. Cassidy wants me to form a security company," he said in his deep, steady voice. "Same share structure as East Coast United—Mr. Cassidy holds fifty-one percent, ten reserved for incentives."
His hand brushed the leather holster beneath his jacket as he spoke.
Outside, the freighter S.S. Neptune glided into Pier 3, its hull gleaming in the morning light.
Volker, seated nearby, exhaled cigar smoke and said, "East Coast United's doing well. Our partnership with Costa's Atlantic Shipping is paying off. But now, Shane wants to open a new front."
Vik, flipping through a notebook, laid a sheet of paper on the table—a list of names. "Ex-soldiers from the Marne," he said. "Good marksmen. Loyal."
Mikhail leaned over the table. "We'll need two types of men. The visible kind—guards who can pass background checks—and the invisible kind." His voice dropped lower. "Cleaners. Preferably newcomers from Europe."
A ship's whistle echoed faintly through the window.
Volker stubbed out his cigar. "This isn't just about guarding warehouses. Shane wants control of every secure transport from here to Wall Street—bank vaults, valuable cargo, even discreet deliveries."
Vik unfolded a blueprint. "I found a place in Brooklyn—17 Van Brunt Street. Three blocks from the freight center. First floor for offices, basement for a training range."
Mikhail placed a check on the table. The ink shimmered under the morning light. "Mr. Cassidy has already funded the startup. He has one condition—within three months, the bankers must come to us."
February 9, 1928 – Gramercy Park, New York
Evening cloaked the Players Club in quiet grandeur. Its Gothic spires pierced the violet sky, and yellow light glowed faintly through stained glass. Chauffeurs waited by gleaming cars, their breath rising in white mist.
Inside, the fire crackled in the library hearth. The bronze bust of Shakespeare caught the flicker of flame as Mary Pickford sat gracefully near the fire, her diamond bracelet scattering sparks of light.
Beside her, Douglas Fairbanks uncorked a bottle of 1899 Hennessy XO, the amber liquid catching the glow.
The door burst open. A gust of icy air rushed in, dimming the firelight. Howard Hughes entered, snow still clinging to his black coat. He pulled a roll of 35mm film from his pocket.
"The glare and ghosting on my aerial shots," he said sharply. "Can your new lens coating fix that?"
Reinhardt Krause, a bespectacled German engineer, adjusted his glasses. "Mr. Hughes, our three-layer coating will cut distortion by at least thirty percent. You'll see it in every frame of Hell's Angels."
Shane stepped forward from the shadows, nodding to Volker, who opened a briefcase lined with alligator leather. Inside lay a document embossed with gold.
"Our new security division," Volker said evenly, "is ready to provide armored transport for your film reels. Bulletproof glass, private routes, full confidentiality."
Mary Pickford's slender fingers turned her champagne glass slowly, her expression distant. What had begun as a farewell dinner had turned into yet another negotiation.
Douglas Fairbanks reached for her hand under the table, but she only smiled faintly, her eyes lost in the firelight.
Outside, the wind howled against the stained glass. Shadows danced on the wall of masks.
Hughes raised his glass, breaking the silence. "Shane," he said with a grin, "you always bring the most unexpected farewell gifts."