Connaught just bought the Stratton Hotel. He wants to tear it down and build a fifty-story office building."
"The Stratton? That's a San Francisco landmark. It's been around forever."
"Exactly, It's old, crumbling, and the owners are going bankrupt. Connaught snapped it up for a song. He wants you to design the new building." Jackson slapped him on the back. "Congratulations."
Michael stared at Jackson for a long moment, flooded with conflicting thoughts. It was a hell of an opportunity; Jackson was right about that. But the Stratton? A lot of people would be upset to see that building go down in a pile of rubble. He had to admit to feeling somewhat bothered by the idea.
A long time ago he had dreamed about restoring old buildings, museums, cathedrals, libraries, civic centers. But Lawton, Hill and Cox rarely restored; they built new, they built high, they built bigger than anyone else. And they made a lot of money. Sometimes his conscience called him a sellout. Most of the time he ignored it. Today he couldn't.
"Are you sure Connaught has thought this thing through?" he asked. "The Stratton means something to the people of San Francisco. Nixon stayed there when he was president and -- "
"Nixon is dead," Jackson interrupted.
"Mae West stayed there."
"She's dead, too."
"And Lucille Ball."
"Dead. All dead. The Stratton is past its prime. It's time to move on, and frankly I thought you'd be delighted to put your signature on a brand new fifty-story tower. Do you want me to tell Connaught you're not interested?"
"No." He immediately shook his head. "Of course not."
Jackson laughed and slapped him on the back again. "Thank God. For a minute there I thought you were turning into some self-righteous restoration fanatic."
"Who me? Never." But his voice didn't sound as confident as his words.
Jackson's eyes narrowed. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Good, because Connaught is important to us. We need one hundred percent from you, Michael. Hell, make that one hundred and fifty percent."
Great, which left him with minus fifty for the girls and the rest of the family.
"I've set up a meeting with Connaught for nine a.m. tomorrow morning," Jackson added. "See what you can dream up between how and then."
"Tomorrow? I'm still working on the Dutton project."
"Pass it down the line. I want you on this one. You're the best we have."
As Jackson left, Michael set his briefcase on his assistant's desk. Helen Reed, a slender blonde with hazel eyes and creamy skin, slammed down the phone.
He looked at her in surprise. Helen rarely had words with anyone. She was one of the friendliest, nicest people he'd ever met. In fact, sometimes she was too nice. Her biggest fault was letting other people take advantage of her. "Something wrong?"
"Tony is back in town."
Anthony De Luca, his best friend and former brother-in-law -- the biggest troublemaker to come out of North Beach in the past fifteen years? He smiled at the thought. Not that he wasn't still pissed that Tony had taken off so soon after Angela's funeral. Tony could have stuck around. He could have helped with the kids, with the rest of the family. But as usual Tony had bailed out.
But he knew his friend had been devastated by his little sister's death, and he could hardly blame the guy for wanting to crawl away and lick his wounds. He'd wanted to do much the same thing. But that was the difference between them -- Tony cut and ran whenever problems came up while he usually had to stay and clean up the mess.
"When you call him back, you can tell him -- " Helen's voice faltered.
"Tell him what?"
"That I'm engaged to be married. That I don't need grief from him."
"Why didn't you just tell him that?"
"Because he wouldn't let me get a word in. He just kept talking about how he's bought a boat, and he's come home, and I should wear something sexy when he comes to pick me up tonight." Helen shook her head, bitterness filling her eyes. "As if I've been sitting here on the edge of my
"The Stratton? That's a San Francisco landmark. It's been around forever."
"Exactly, It's old, crumbling, and the owners are going bankrupt. Connaught snapped it up for a song. He wants you to design the new building." Jackson slapped him on the back. "Congratulations."
Michael stared at Jackson for a long moment, flooded with conflicting thoughts. It was a hell of an opportunity; Jackson was right about that. But the Stratton? A lot of people would be upset to see that building go down in a pile of rubble. He had to admit to feeling somewhat bothered by the idea.
A long time ago he had dreamed about restoring old buildings, museums, cathedrals, libraries, civic centers. But Lawton, Hill and Cox rarely restored; they built new, they built high, they built bigger than anyone else. And they made a lot of money. Sometimes his conscience called him a sellout. Most of the time he ignored it. Today he couldn't.
"Are you sure Connaught has thought this thing through?" he asked. "The Stratton means something to the people of San Francisco. Nixon stayed there when he was president and -- "
"Nixon is dead," Jackson interrupted.
"Mae West stayed there."
"She's dead, too."
"And Lucille Ball."
"Dead. All dead. The Stratton is past its prime. It's time to move on, and frankly I thought you'd be delighted to put your signature on a brand new fifty-story tower. Do you want me to tell Connaught you're not interested?"
"No." He immediately shook his head. "Of course not."
Jackson laughed and slapped him on the back again. "Thank God. For a minute there I thought you were turning into some self-righteous restoration fanatic."
"Who me? Never." But his voice didn't sound as confident as his words.
Jackson's eyes narrowed. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Good, because Connaught is important to us. We need one hundred percent from you, Michael. Hell, make that one hundred and fifty percent."
Great, which left him with minus fifty for the girls and the rest of the family.
"I've set up a meeting with Connaught for nine a.m. tomorrow morning," Jackson added. "See what you can dream up between how and then."
"Tomorrow? I'm still working on the Dutton project."
"Pass it down the line. I want you on this one. You're the best we have."
As Jackson left, Michael set his briefcase on his assistant's desk. Helen Reed, a slender blonde with hazel eyes and creamy skin, slammed down the phone.
He looked at her in surprise. Helen rarely had words with anyone. She was one of the friendliest, nicest people he'd ever met. In fact, sometimes she was too nice. Her biggest fault was letting other people take advantage of her. "Something wrong?"
"Tony is back in town."
Anthony De Luca, his best friend and former brother-in-law -- the biggest troublemaker to come out of North Beach in the past fifteen years? He smiled at the thought. Not that he wasn't still pissed that Tony had taken off so soon after Angela's funeral. Tony could have stuck around. He could have helped with the kids, with the rest of the family. But as usual Tony had bailed out.
But he knew his friend had been devastated by his little sister's death, and he could hardly blame the guy for wanting to crawl away and lick his wounds. He'd wanted to do much the same thing. But that was the difference between them -- Tony cut and ran whenever problems came up while he usually had to stay and clean up the mess.
"When you call him back, you can tell him -- " Helen's voice faltered.
"Tell him what?"
"That I'm engaged to be married. That I don't need grief from him."
"Why didn't you just tell him that?"
"Because he wouldn't let me get a word in. He just kept talking about how he's bought a boat, and he's come home, and I should wear something sexy when he comes to pick me up tonight." Helen shook her head, bitterness filling her eyes. "As if I've been sitting here on the edge of my
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