The Great Gallagher

Despite being acquainted with how high society conducted its parties, John Matsumoto couldn’t help but find himself overwhelmed at the social gathering he was attending. The foyer of the mansion of the one and only Scott Gallagher stood as the image of decadence and luxury: tables topped with marble, floors and stairs marked with the highest quality of wood, and carpet that would make any aristocrat swoon.

It was a special occasion, after all, both a product unveiling and anniversary of the founding of the company which had paid for the mansion he now stood in, alongside numerous others no doubt. All wealthy businessmen like Gallagher owned more than one house; not owning one was a sign of lesser wealth. The other parties John had attended were either held at dedicated spaces for such gatherings or the host’s second house, but as far as he could tell, this party was being held at the primary residence in which Gallagher dwelt.

As he watched the other attendees move about and socialize, John helped himself to some of the concessions. He was hoping to catch a glimpse of the event’s host amongst the various people who had been invited. Of course, that didn’t mean that he couldn’t eavesdrop while he searched.

“I just can’t stand getting pricked every time I want to withdraw some money, it’s too much of a hassle!” one woman said. Using DNA taken from a blood sample was a common way to access high-profile files and bank accounts amongst the well-to-do.

“Yes, I know, but would you rather go back to facial recognition? People can fake that so easily these days,” another woman replied.

John turned his attention away from the idle chit-chat of others and back to the people around him. He was a journalist and, according to his employers and ego, a rather good one. He wanted to at least get an interview with the man behind the unveiling before it began in earnest. It would at the very least add a little bit of life to his article. To his disappointment, Scott Gallagher was nowhere to be seen, but he was happy when he recognized a familiar face instead.

“Abel, is that you?” he called, walking over to the face in question. When the person – Abel LeMasson – turned towards him, it took him a second to recognize John’s face. When he did, he smiled brightly and made his way towards him.

“Matsumoto, my old friend, how have you been?” Abel said. Most people referred to John by his last name, a habit that had carried over from his days in the military.

“Very good, how’s your wife doing?” he replied. Abel was someone that John had seen frequently at events and press releases they had both attended over the years. The two had hit it off enough that they considered each other friends. Abel’s wife in particular was an incredibly kind woman who had taken care of John’s son on more than one occasion.

“Oh, she’s doing absolutely wonderful, she keeps asking if you and your wife can go on a date night so she can take care of your son again. I think she likes the lack of responsibility compared to having an actual child of her own.”

“Still, if you guys want to have a kid, I’d say go for it.” John smiled, thinking of his son, who was a little over a year old. “My little boy might be a bit of a fuss, but he’s the greatest thing to have happened to me and Rebecca.”

“I know, it’s just,” Abel waved his hands in the air, trying to find the right words. John didn’t need to hear what he was thinking. They’d already gone over this topic a dozen times since little Matthew had been born, and every time they’d ended at this exact same spot. Abel wanted a child, certainly. It was just the pressure his family was putting on him that was a bother. His family was old money in the strictest definition of the phrase, having built their fortune back in France building furniture and bringing their company over to the United States in the mid-nineteenth century. Any children he had would be under deep scrutiny to see if they were worthy to inherit his family’s money and assets. The LeMasson family could be incredibly strict, to say that Abel was worried about placing those restrictions on his child would be an understatement. Despite that fear, he still wanted to be a father more than anything else in the world.

John was about to respond when an equally familiar but much less pleasant face appeared and flashed a devilish grin his way. That face belonged to Mishka Gomez, who promptly spilled his wine all over John’s suit in a way which was amateurishly framed as though it had been an accident, though John knew him too well to assume it had been genuine. While others at the event – including Abel, whom John considered to be the most morally upstanding of those in attendance – might have had a few illegitimate business dealings, Gomez’s business was nothing but illegitimate. The son of a cartel lord and a high-ranking Russian operative, he had more connections to both crime organizations and government agencies alike than anyone could dream of. He knew enough secrets that a permanent target had been painted on his back by more than a few rivals of his. Gomez hated John because he’d put out an exposé the previous year on his illegal businesses that had made that target even larger and put him in prison for a couple of months. He was rich and connected enough that he’d been able to pay the police off, but the jail time and news about him was enough of an indignity to make him hate John forever.

John tried to wipe the wine off of his suit, but it felt like the more he wiped, the worse it got. He shot a glare at Gomez, who just mumbled an artificial apology, maintaining a grin filled with nothing but petty malice. Abel stood there, patting his pockets for a second, looking for a handkerchief that he had clearly forgotten.

“Guess I left it at home again,” he said. “Let me get you some napkins.”

Before John could say anything, his friend had already left, leaving him alone and soaked with a suit that had been stained wine red. John could feel his face turning a similar shade of red from embarrassment (mostly as he thought about his wife’s reaction to the suit when he got home) when someone handed him a handkerchief.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you’re in a bit of a pickle. Would this help?” the person said. John took the towel and wiped himself off. It stopped the liquid from dripping, but didn’t stop the stains from being all over his suit. He thought he heard a grumble come from Gomez as the man himself walked away in indignation at the thought that someone would dare to show kindness to another human being.

“Thank you, so sorry to bother you,” John replied, only to see that the small rag had come from the host of the function, whom he’d been looking for mere moments earlier: Scott Gallagher. He tried to think for a second for something to say before he was interrupted.

“Of course, Mr. Matsumoto, I’m so happy to see you accepted the invitation. No doubt you’ve been pursuing me all evening trying to get an interview, right?” Gallagher probed. “Well, I’m sad to say that you won’t get that tonight, I’m set to give my speech in about-” He checked his watch, a wonderfully golden timepiece which matched his eyes. As golden as the concept of fortune itself. “-five minutes. Not nearly enough time for you to learn my life story, is it?” Gallagher was all too aware of John’s reputation as a journalist, someone who dealt in secrets and knew how to get to the bottom of a story, no matter how obscure. John had tried to learn if he had any secrets a few years prior, but the man was a total mystery. There were no school records, no living relatives, nothing of any real note that could be used to draw a picture of the man’s life before his business ventures had started in earnest. It was as if he’d been born on the day his company was founded.

“A shame,” John said, examining every corner of Gallagher’s face for anything that he could use for his article, something that could increase his understanding of the mysterious tech mogul. There was nothing to be found, however, in the smooth contours of his face, nothing out of the ordinary in those golden eyes or those eternally pursed lips. “Perhaps some other time.”

“Yes, truly,” Gallagher replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe it’s time for me to make the announcement that I’d promised everyone. Don’t forget to write down every detail of that, I’m certain that it’ll be an engaging read.” Gallagher walked away just as Abel returned with a set of napkins. John had to try his best not to let any anger show in him. If there was one thing he hated, it was not knowing something. It was the entire reason he had become a journalist.

However, he wasn’t entirely wrong. That announcement was what needed writing about and John had at least prepared for that. He grabbed his personal notepad and a pen out of the pocket of his slacks, bid Abel a brief farewell so that he could get closer to hear better as he opened his ears for when the party’s host would begin speaking. After all, Scott Gallagher was the sort of man who everyone listened to when he began speaking; he wanted to hang onto every single word.

Even if those words might have deadly consequences.