He looked out over the New York City skyline， then
let his eyes move slowly to the streets below. The early
morning people walking through Central Park were dis-
tant， less than human forms to the eyes watching them
from the heights of the massive building on Central Park
South.
\"Worker ants， that s what most of them are. And
about the only thing that most of them are qualified to
be. There re only winners and losers in life， and the
losers are down there below.\"
Paul Genova turned， from the tinted plate glass win-
dow to the interior of what represented his climb from
the streets. He sighed deeply and held his last breath as
he seated himself behind his two-century-old desk. He
slowly exhaled and clasped his hands behind his head
while contemplating the beauty of the desk. He had had
it shipped over from the old country. A baron had once
owned this very piece of furniture; now it served a new
master， one who， try as best he could， had not lost the
faint stench of the street. It pervaded his every move-
ment and utterance.
Glancing at his Rolex， he hit the intercom button with
a well-fleshed forefinger and manicured nail.
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