Pool_1

ceiling windows were paired. They were Gothic in shape, gaudily embellished full perimeter in baroque ornamental clutter which was predominantly of gilded hand carved figures set off with flourishes of solid silver trim. The walls of the room, divided into large rectangles by malachite junctures, were hung with Victorian and rococo art framed in black pearl. The room was a study in arrogance and vainglorious tastelessness. A single black table top telephone stood guard on the imperial end of the long cherry wood stretch of opulence. Perfectly suited in black pinstripe with purple pocket silk tie and handkerchief sat a gray haired man who deported himself in the manner of an Elizabethan courtesan, that is, until now. With the complete phone unit raised in his hand initially about two feet above the table his sudden unexpected explosive down crashing phone gavel was amplified by the magnificent full room length sounding board which the table became. "Plug it, or I'll cut your balls off! All of you! Now, sit the fuck down!" Silence of the dead dominated a rapid seating in pecking order. "First, any questions about our last meeting? ... Hmm? ... No? ... No misunderstandings? Clarifications? No? That's just ducky. B. J. Your report." The one man who didn't move to sit but who stood on the right of the leader of this muster, spoke. B.J. was dressed in a suit which was equal in excess to that of the seated leader. A standing posture in this location allowed him to share printed reports, in camera, with the angry man postured at the throne. B.J.'s demeanor was that of an outsider, yet, an equal of the presiding gentleman. While standing adjacent the chair, his notes and folders were kept secreted on a small rolling cart behind him. After pointing out a few items quietly to his compatriot, he began without any convention of recognition of his audience, "Thank you, Mr. P.. Last quarter, gentlemen, A.M. collected fifteen percent more revenues than in the preceding quarter and paid out ten