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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