Found Money - James Grippando [93]
A green light flashed, signaling approval. The guard hit the button that allowed passage to the elevators.
“Have a good day, sir,” he said.
Kozelka nodded and continued on his way. It was the same silly charade every morning, part of Kozelka’s self-cultivated image as a regular guy who tolerated no special treatment for anyone, including himself. Indeed, he never missed a chance to recount the story of the former security guard who had greeted him one morning with a respectful “Good morning, Mr. Kozelka,” allowing him to sidestep the scanner. Kozelka fired him on the spot. To his cigar-smoking friends over at the Bankers Club, it was a perfect illustration of how, in Kozelka’s eyes, the CEO was no better than anyone else. Never mind that a fifty-year-old faithful employee with a wife and three kids was suddenly on the dole. Kozelka didn’t much care about the real-life sufferings of the peons he used to promote his image.
And it was all image. Equality and accountability simply weren’t part of the K&G corporate lexicon. K&G had just two shareholders. Joseph held fifty-one percent. A trust for his children held the other forty-nine. The occasional talk on Wall Street of taking the company public never failed to make his lawyers giddy, but Kozelka wasn’t interested. Share holders would mean the loss of control. Kozelka didn’t need the money he’d get from the sale of his stock. It was the control that drove him—control over a corporate empire that in one way or another was connected to one out of three meals served in North America daily, be it pesticides, produce, fertilizers, feed, grain, livestock, fish farms, or any other link in the food chain. The real money, however, came from commodities trading. Some would even say manipulation. Minute-by-minute activity on the market flashed beneath the crown moldings in Kozelka’s penthouse office.
The elevator stopped on the thirty-first floor. Kozelka stepped off and transferred to a private executive elevator that took him to the penthouse office suite.
Half the top floor was his. The other half was divided among the remaining senior corporate officers—nonfamily members who served at the whim of Kozelka. No decorating expense was spared on either side of the hall. The doors were polished brass. The walls were cherry paneling. Sarouk silk rugs adorned floors of inlaid wood. The mountain views were nothing short of breathtaking, though Kozelka was thoroughly immune to them. For twenty years he’d commanded the same magnificent view, ever since his father had died and turned the desk, the office, and the thirty-billion-dollar family-owned company over to his son.
“Good morning, Mr. Kozelka,” his secretary said.
“Morning.”
She followed him into his office, taking his coat and briefcase. She had his morning schedule laid out on the desk for him, beside his coffee. Fridays were typically light, ever since his doctor had warned him about his blood pressure. He reviewed the schedule as he reclined in his leather chair.
His secretary stopped in the doorway on her way out. “One other thing, sir.”
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t sure I should even mention this, but there’s a man in the visitor’s lobby who says it is very important that he see you this morning. When I told him he would need an appointment, he said you would be expecting him. He’s been waiting two hours. I was going to call Security, but I wanted to check with you before making a scene.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s a doctor. Dr. Ryan Duffy.”
Kozelka said nothing, showed no emotion.
“Sir, what would you like me to tell him?”
“Nothing,” he said, reaching for his phone. “Just close the door on your way out, please. I’ll take care of this myself.”
Norm had an early-morning hearing in criminal court and didn’t reach his office until midmorning. It seemed to have come as somewhat of a surprise to Ryan, but