He paused a moment before answering.
"Very well, Contessa. Civility is very important. I apologize for that. So, how'd ya figure me out, Mrs. de San Finzione?"
"Whyte Telecom," she answered. "Are you new to this whole 'criminal mastermind' thing, Leonard? Cause I'm willing to give you a few months, let you go try to blow up the Eiffel Tower or blackmail the UN with your weather machine; you know, get a feel for it. Then we can pick things up right back where we left off."
"Figured it'd go unnoticed, I admit. Whyte Telecom is where I made my first billion, and decided that there are plenty of billionaires, and you, yourself, are probably one of the world's first trillionaires, so let's shoot for quadrillionaire, shall we? Whyte Phones the brand of choice for crack dealers and terrorists the world over." Whyte chuckled. "They said I created eighteen tons of waste when I shrank the size of the SIM card by half a millimeter for the Whyte 3000. And I'm guessing by the laughter and your jovial mood, that you're in the company of Troy and Julie Equals, correct? Hullo."
"Leonard says hi, guys." She said to someone on her end. There was an "Eat a dick, Leonard" in Julie's voice in the distance on her end before Helena resumed. "Yeah, I told them all about you, Leonard."
"Oh, is that the artist Julie Equals?" Leonard asked. "I've purchased a couple of Julie Equals originals since we last talked, Contessa."
"You can return those at any time for a full refund." Julie said, approaching the phone now. "I don't want YOUR money or MY work hanging anywhere YOU can see it. Whatever you paid for my stuff, my husband and I will get by without it."
"Oh, I know you will, Mrs. Equals. Mr. Equals is no slouch in the money department. If anyone looks closely enough at the public financials of a small, quiet, out-of-the-way corporation called Trans-Universal Exports, which... REALLY, Mr. Equals? But what a track record they have! It's as if they know market trends before they happen. Buying low, but short of rock bottom; and selling high, but well before the bubble bursts. Always quits while he's ahead, satisfied to turn one dollar into eight; when he knows he could be making ten or more by riding the wave. But who cares about the guy who got out at EIGHT, right? Who even notices that he doing that all day, every day? Here an eight, there an eight, everywhere an eight-eight. Not necessarily eight, mind you, but it does add up quickly, doesn't it? Everyone talks about Midas, but who ever heard of a King with a Bronze Touch? Who even notices that he's got so many Bronze Medals that his beautiful wife could melt them down and recreate the Colossus of Rhodes with his face?"
The women all looked at Troy. He looked at Helen's phone, silently. He knew why they were looking at him too, but didn't say anything. He often employed his Greek heritage in his lessons about Doing What They Do responsibly. One of them was an Olympic Medal analogy that wasn't that far off from Whyte's, but with enough of a difference that he could have come up with it on his own. The look on Julie's face said that she was now contemplating making a Colossus with Troy's face.
"But Trans-Universal's Corporate Giving Program is where one truly learns whom Troilus Equals is. Discreetly supporting so many worthwhile causes, never seeking any accolades. The only 'thank you' they ask is the tax receipt and their anonymity. They claim their deductions, of course, but claim no expenses on the Program itself, not even giving himself a salary for running it, which would be completely legal. Except the one dollar a year that the President, Treasurer, and CEO pays himself, of course. Completely legitimate; every 'i' dotted, every 't' crossed, and all completely beneath anyone's notice or care. Lots of news shows would just love to do a human-interest story about him if they knew. 'Troilus Equals: The 28-Year-Old Multi-Millionaire Philanthropist You've Never Heard Of.' Kinda sickens me, really."
"Mr. Whyte," Troy's voice came from her side. "I proposed to my best friend, and she said yes. Her father entrusted me with a firearm to defend his daughter. The Colonel often compliments me on my handshake. My secret is that my workouts focus on grip, arm, and upper body strength. My reason for THAT is a secret worry that, on the day Daddy's Little Girl squeezes my hand bringing his first grandchild into the world, my Partner-In-Everything may very well rip off my arm and beat me with it. This morning, she did something to me with her mouth and a warm mocha latte that I will be writing a letter to a dirty magazine about some time later today."
"That'll be our sixth, right hon?" Julie's voice, returned to the background, came.
"Fifth, dear. Our drive down the Al-Can ended up a two-parter, but still counts as one. But back to you, Mr. Whyte. La Contessa requested she paint my portrait, and my wife agreed because they both love me that much. For my last birthday, My First Girlfriend issued me a San Finzione Ministry of Intelligence License to Kill."
Helen cut in.
"That was a gag gift, Troy. I mean, yeah, it's real, but still."
"My point, Mr. Whyte, is that I speak without hyperbole when I say that your last four words, coming from your lips, flatter me more than I have ever felt in my life."
"You're a very loyal ex-boyfriend, Mr. Equals. Have you seen the All-Star Cast that's traipsed through her bedroom since?"
"She's My FIRST Girlfriend, sir, but I never accepted her resignation. I'm also a very loyal grandson. So please understand, sir, that your last comment compels me to tell you to go fuck yourself and the goat and the whore that conceived you."
Sounds of laughter and kissing came from the other end of the line.
"Now, Troilus," Helena said, in a mock tone of condescending to a child. "That was very rude. Mr. Whyte called to threaten Yia-Yia, and he's a very busy man, so let's not keep him. Let him deliver his threat so he can get on with his day." She went back to her normal voice. "Sorry about that, Leonard. KIDS! Ya know? Please, go on."
"I'm glad you're having fun with this, Helena, did you know that? Because with your 'no bystanders' rule, I'm forced to invent fun of my own."
He looked down at the street far below. A limousine was stopped at a red light.
"You really should have been at the ceremony, Helena. Everyone who's anyone was there. Why, even the Elders sent a delegation."
Helen's voice became serious. Leonard watched as below, a pair of motorcycles pulled up to either side of the limo.
"And why are the Elders worth name-dropping, Leonard?"
"Because of the recent death of a man whose only crime was sharing a name with someone whom I pulled entirely out of my ass. An act of appeasement to... what do the Triads call you? Oh, yes. 'The Viper That Speaks All the Tongues of Man. I'm sure the representative you sent to let the Elders know that the matter was settled was very convincing. The Triads were certain the issue was resolved. An unprovoked attack would catch them completely off guard. And it's important because someone established a No Innocent Bystanders rule, and... well, I'd hardly call a team of Triad lawyers and accountants 'innocent.' Would you, Helena?"
Below, a van pulled up very close behind the limo. The driver caught on a second too late, just in time to ram into a garbage truck that'd stopped in front of him.
"So, if anything happened to their delegation, say..."
He held his phone up in the air as the men on the motorcycles opened fire with sub-machine guns into the limousine from both sides, audible over the phone, even from the six hundred and five-foot observation deck of the Space Needle. Leonard brought the phone back up to his ear and spoke.
"That, for example, they don't get paid if they kill the driver. Bystander, you see. Unless he killed himself just now, ramming into that garbage truck, but that was entirely his decision; I wouldn't fault them for that. I'm sure he'll live at least long enough to remember the words... I don't have it written down in front of me. What's the Cantonese for 'Slavery and Human Trafficking DO NOT happen in San Finzione' again?"
Those had been the exact words of her message to the Elders, that she'd sent back with the thugs Whyte had manipulated into trying to smuggle kidnapped women through San Finzione. She clenched her fist and took another deep drag of her cigarette to stop herself from shouting into the phone. Trying to get to her had been Whyte's motif from the beginning. She couldn't let him have the satisfaction of flying into a rage and screaming at him now. Or letting her friends see that side of her, especially Susan.
"Well, I have to congratulate you, Mr. Whyte. The warehouse thing and sending Morgan were the last clever things at which you've succeeded, and given your track record since, I kind of thought you'd blown your wad there. I mean, the war with the Elders will be easy enough to stop; I won't even need to use my abilities when they hear your confession. Oh, didn't I tell you, Leonard? I had the Minister of Intelligence put a tap on my own phone, just in case we ever got a chance to talk like this. We knew we wouldn't be able to trace you, of course, but we still had to try. Routing it to my birth parents' old house in Alaska was a nice touch.
"But without the recording, the Triad problem might've taken me all week to sort out, forcing me to miss the auction. So, don't get me wrong, this is still clever. I mean, take a cookie on your way out for the effort. But now the Elders are going to learn your name and how you've been playing them. You've got bigger problems now than me." Helen took a drag. "Bigger might be the wrong word, because I'm still your biggest. 'More problems' let's say, then."
"Indeed, I have, Contessa. But nothing I won't be able to solve once Springheel is mine. For now, though, the Elders are your problem, and I'm certain more will crop up as the week goes on. But I'm interrupting your reunion with The Equals. I should let you get back to your friends and preparing for the Elders response to the hit. I mean, what are the odds that traditional old Chinese gents like them will fall into that old 'saving face' cliché and have no choice but to hit you back harder before they'll be willing to talk peace. I wonder if they know about the Equals, too? I'll be better about calling this week. Ta-Ta!"
He ended the call, smiling as police cars and fire trucks gathered at the scene below. He breathed deeply, and caught scent of something. Fresh-baked pretzels? Yes. One of those sounded good to him right now. With a little cup of that cheese goo that Americans like so much. Lovely!
