Sixty Percent of Fair
Meanwhile, at Guccio headquarters, the chairman had gone and bought a castle on a whim. He had the money from the Ultimate collaboration, and the profits he expected ahead looked fat enough that he could not see what there was to worry about. He signed the contract with splendid nerve.
And then!
A certified notice came flying in, addressed to Alfredo Guccio. It stated, in so many words, that even after the contract with Ultimate had ended, he had secretly run extra units and sold them.
Nor was that all. One clause recorded that Park Jihoon had taken on the inventory—fifty thousand units of each item. Beneath it, in print large enough to loom, was written that in exchange for Park Jihoon shouldering a burden of responsibility unfair enough to raise eyebrows, Guccio, should it commit any unlawful act, would have to pay a ruinous penalty.
"Th-the contract! Bring it here!"
At Alfredo's bellow, the chief secretary hurried in with the file.
Unfortunately, the original held those very lines, perfectly clear.
"Printing a few extra units is against the law?"
"It is clearly a breach of contract..."
"Then you should have explained it properly!"
"I-I did explain it, sir."
"What the hell kind of nonsense is that! I don't remember hearing a word!"
Having made the money, he had been busy wondering where to spend it. There was a ninety-nine percent chance he had taken it in one ear and let it out the other.
"Fine, let's say you explained it! You knew about this clause, didn't you? When I told you to print the extra stock, why didn't you stop me!"
"I clearly..."
"You should have grabbed me by the collar! Slapped me across the face if you had to! And stopped me! You damned fool!"
"..."
"Isn't that why I pay you that fat salary?"
No amount of raging was going to change a thing. Now it was time to clean up the mess.
"The penalty... go cut a deal and knock it down. That Park Jihoon brat has made more than enough already..."
"Chairman, forgive me, but the party entitled to the penalty is Tennessee Grosvenor."
"What?"
Startled, he looked through the papers. The side that had sent the certified notice was none other than the Grosvenor family.
"They appear to have looked through everything, from your secret Swiss account to the assets you hold under other names."
"How would they even know those are mine!"
"The Grosvenors... seem to be capable of it."
Ha!
To have checked every last asset meant that if they moved to seize by force, he could truly be stripped to the bone. A fine tremor ran through Alfredo.
"If their intelligence is good enough to confirm a Swiss account, then proving charges of breach of trust and embezzlement against you, Chairman, would be... simple."
"What's wrong with running a company that has my name on it out of love!"
"..."
By this point the answer was already fixed. Step down from the presidency at once, before they could drive him out in disgrace. Settle with the Grosvenors before the penalty and the seizure came down like blows. And since the stock was going to crash anyway, dump the shares at a tolerable moment.
"What if the shareholders oppose my resignation?"
"Sir?"
"The rightful heir of the Guccio family leaves, and outside capital takes over the company. The shareholders will raise hell..."
"I don't think you need to worry about that."
"What?"
"No, no. I'll handle it myself... th-that is what I meant to say."
"See it through without a gap. If the shareholders grab hold of me and I can't leave, we're in trouble."
"It will be a sea of tears, but... I'll manage somehow."
At his secretary's words, Alfredo said nothing. For no particular reason, he felt bleak.
A week later, only seven days had passed, and yet a fair number of things had happened.
First, the disciplinary committee. The head of academic affairs, who had sheltered Carl Bernstein and demanded a written statement from Mr. Devon, was fired. His accomplice was being driven out; Carl was hardly going to slip the punishment. Judging his various charges substantiated, the committee handed down expulsion.
Perhaps because the wretch had the gall to appeal, reports of his misdeeds came pouring out in a rush. Rumor had it he had made an enemy of the Grosvenors, and the reporters swung freely, unburdened. Word afterward was that he could not come to school—could not even step outside the house.
Ralph, by contrast, was walking an entirely different path. Vacation was nearly here in any case, so the punishment held only symbolic weight, and the school's troubles were, for the moment, closed.
Grandfather could have returned to Korea, but he went out of his way to leave on a business trip to Italy, remarking that he would not be satisfied until he had looked over the homeland of the supercar.
Capsulemon's first broadcast was considerable news in its own right. They had serialized it in Queensman and kept up a steady promotion; perhaps that was why. Set against what Capsulemon would one day achieve, the result was only to be expected.
Even so, I'm proud of it.
Nothing but good news.
While Capsulemon clicked neatly along, Mad Bull and Ultimate were busy as well. First came Dmitri of Mad Bull. I had asked him to make our first television commercial. All I had given him was a concept—a rugby scrum flowing naturally into the Mad Bull logo—and Dmitri had not stopped putting flesh on it.
"By the way, sir. This commercial... where is it airing?"
"It premieres at the final of the European Cup—the tournament they now call the Champions League."
"...!"
It was a rugby concept, after all.
"The moment the new kits are finished, we go straight into the shoot."
It was a huge project, with an outrageous sum poured into the airtime. Wearing the Guccio collaboration, already finished, would have been a fool's move. Setting the spot as a new Malenciaga collaboration was the only thing that made sense. James Faber suffered a little for it. His natural enemy—if that was the word—Jo Sudeok had taken exclusive charge of him, and from design through production the work tore ahead without a hitch. Ahem.
Anyway. Once we had the uniform samples, still warm from the workroom, we went into the Mad Bull shoot. The cast was every first-year player and a few of the second-years. Ralph, it goes without saying, was among them.
Ralph looked deeply ill at ease. Shooting a commercial alongside the first-years he had been at odds with was bound to weigh on him. Whether it did or not, Dmitri explained the storyboard with all his heart.
"When we shoot the scrum, a camera will go in at floor level. We'll be filming your face from below, Ralph. Anyone can see the expression is what matters, yes?"
Dmitri launched into the acting notes all by himself.
"You know that deeply unpleasant feeling, when you sense defeat coming? A face soaked in every kind of irritation and regret! That's what you're going to show us. Understand?"
Ralph was no actor. As requests went, it was essentially impossible.
"Cut! Cut! Cut!"
So of course the takes kept failing. I drifted over to Ralph.
"Why are you making it so hard?"
"Huh?"
"Displeasure, irritation, regret. You just have to picture one scene."
"...?"
"The disciplinary committee."
Word was Carl had denied his own charges and dumped the whole of it on Ralph. The mere thought must have sent the heat climbing. Red, then a furious pallor—Ralph's face turned into a bull's.
"Stand by!"
Dmitri, sure enough, did not miss the opening. The performance had sincerity bursting out of it, and Ralph's scene wrapped clean. The rugby footage that followed was much the same. All they had to do was chase the ball and run, so it finished easily.
Only one scene remained: Tennessee draining Mad Bull in great gulps. A handsome face would do most of the work anyway. He only had to drink.
"Cut..."
Even Dmitri seemed to find Tennessee difficult, and spoke with exquisite caution.
"It would be fine if you simply did it ordinarily."
"What does ordinary look like?"
"Sorry? Right. Wh-what even is ordinary. Haha."
Dmitri glanced back at me—the same look as with Ralph, the one that said do something about this one too.
If that's how it's going to be, I might as well direct it myself.
I went over to Tennessee.
"We need to wrap this and go."
"Where?"
"You're asking me that..."
"Aren't you a shareholder?"
"What?"
"If you're a shareholder, you ought to take some responsibility and help with the test. Don't you think?"
"..."
"So just drink it like water. You like cola, right? I'll cut it with cola for you. How's that?"
Was cola the answer? Or was it Capsulemon? In the end Tennessee got through his part without a flaw.
"Great work, everyone!"
And right as the shoot ended, an enormous shadow fell across me. I looked up.
Huh?
It was Mr. Devon. Lately every outlet had been begging him for interviews, so the man had taken leave and shut his door. How was he here? Glad despite myself, I bowed first.
"Sir!"
"So that talk was true, was it?"
"Sorry?"
"That my beloved Queensman and Ultimate are both your work... is it truly so?"
"My work? They're a joint effort between Tennessee and—"
"Then wearing Ultimate all through training was also...?"
I scratched my head.
"And the 4XL being reissued... that was, in no small part, for me?"
Whatever I answered, the mood said he would think what he liked.
"So there was a point to buying you pizza till I nearly died."
"I've been grateful every time."
"Heh heh heh."
"Oh, and as you'll know if you've seen the articles... I do earn a fair bit, in my own way... so from now on, when we eat, I could also—"
"However much you make, you're my pupil, brat."
"Sorry?"
"Eat with me and I pay for the rest of my life. You hear me, punk?"
"You didn't say that just to look cool, did you?"
"Why, did I look cool?"
"A tiny bit."
"Heh heh heh."
Devon laid an arm as heavy as a barbell across my shoulder. For an instant my legs felt ready to fold, but I held my balance.
"How did you even think to make all of that?"
"I didn't do it alone..."
"Do I look like a fool to you?"
"Sorry?"
"The ideas were all yours, weren't they?"
"Hard to say."
"Hard to say, my ass!"
Look at that. He isn't hearing a word I say, not even with the back of his ear.
"If you're done, let's go eat."
"As you can see, once you count the shoot crew, there are rather a lot of us. Today I really will pay."
His face said there was not a chance.
"Should I call those guys too?"
"Who else?"
"The Cambridge lot."
"Sir... do you actually hate money?"
"What am I supposed to do, sit on it? You spend it while you've got it."
Now he was lecturing me on economics, of all things.
Ah, forget it.
And so we set off.
Midway through the grand—questionably grand—dinner, Tennessee and I slipped out. The party had grown too large, so we settled the bill partway through and made a decent escape. We had a pretext, too.
"But that thing... are we doing it in my room?"
That was what he was worried about.
"You come over to our room."
"Well, if that's easier. We'll do it that way."
Pfft.
While we waited for a taxi, Tennessee kept his eyes on the road and spoke.
"About Guccio."
"...?"
"I'm taking the stake at sixty percent of fair value."
If you thought of them unloading the whole block at once, sixty percent was a reasonably sane price.
"Do I look like a thug? I'm not taking it by force. I'm only moving a little faster than everyone else."
That was good. It was good, and yet the trouble was that it was fast—too fast. The money still wasn't ready.
Had he read my face?
"I'll put my own money in for now. That's all."
Tennessee went on in a calm voice.
"I acquire it with my money, and later we split it. That's fine, isn't it?"
"You're going to borrow from your father?"
"I told you. It's my money."
"You have money?"
"You think I don't?"
Well, of course he had some. Enough to acquire Guccio? I wasn't sure this was a thing one ought to ask, but I was curious, so I asked anyway.
"How much money do you have?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"There's too much of this and that. I don't really know myself."