By the fifties, Borden's Oleomargarine owned five floors on the top of a Madison Avenue tower in which all the elevator operators were red-headed women. It handled thirty million dollars worth of billing a year at fifteen percent off the top, and as representative of six of the most powerful American industries (among other clients) was a monolith of agencies. It had offices in Chicago, St. Louis, New Orleans, Hollywood and San Francisco. It employed over five hundred people, among whom were the bright young bandits who would eventually mutiny in their own turn.
Success did not prevent Avery Borden from having a drink with Jake Lennox and Gabby Valentine in the saloon across the street from the Venice Theater, or from worrying about his train back to Westport where he owned one hundred acres and a twenty-room house. Our business may be cut-throat, but it's democratic. We have the highest percentage of inter-denominational ulcers anywhere.
"I've got a train to catch," Avery Borden said, "But leave us bleed the lizard again." He caught the bartender's eye. "The same all around and extra special for the lady, please. Extra special."
"Yes sir, Mr. Borden," the bartender said. "I know just how Miss V. likes it."
Lennox glanced at Gabby. "They know you here?"
"I get around," Gabby smiled. "Now, Mr. Borden...."
"Call me Avery," Borden cooed. "Call me Avery and I'll miss my train." Mr. Agency was turning all his powerful charm on Gabby. He was a remarkably young fifty, tall and slender, and looked so much like Roy Audibon that Lennox glared at him.
"Please don't," Gabby said in alarm. "I get train fever. My heart's beginning to thump now."
"Show me."
"You can feel my pulse."