Full Circle by Collin Wilcox

hour by hour, day to day, of his own personal maintenance. Here, now, there were three bodyguards and two drivers who doubled as guards. At his home, high above the sprawl of Los Angeles, there was a valet. A nurse lived on the grounds. Two day women cleaned. There was a cook, two gardeners, and a secretary. Grand personnel total, thirteen. Grand total yearly outlay for salaries, almost two hundred thousand, give or take.
    Like James, the spinster secretary—Grace Campbell—enjoyed a particular measure of DuBois’s trust, and was rewarded accordingly. It was Grace Campbell who took responsibility for running the house. She did the accounts, paid the staff, paid the taxes, contracted for needed repairs and maintenance. She’d been with him for ten years, and was the only employee who lived on the premises in the main house, in an apartment with a separate entrance and its own garage. For the first five years, she’d been scrupulously honest. Then, when she turned fifty, still unmarried, without prospects, Grace had begun systematically skimming from the household accounts. On principle, DuBois reviewed the accounts quarterly. When he’d first discovered Grace’s lapse, five years ago, he had considered firing her, even considered having her prosecuted. But he’d already had his first heart attack and one small stroke. He needed Grace more than she needed him. Therefore, if she were intelligent enough to keep her graft to a minimum, which she did, DuBois would ignore her lapse, charging it to “retirement.”
    Justin Powers could profitably learn from Grace Campbell, because he had lost his way, somehow slipped his moorings. During eight of the past nine years, he had made himself indispensable. Powers had been, in fact, the perfect second-in-command, the ultimate functionary. He ran complicated, far-flung financial operations with precision and, yes, a certain imagination, a certain creativity. But like all bred-in-the-bone assistants, Powers had no appetite for risk.
    All this DuBois could abide. Could, in fact, turn to his own advantage.
    But Powers was a coward.
    And cowards, DuBois had learned, couldn’t be trusted.
    As he once more allowed his eyes to close, he realized that, in the next several minutes, he must make his decision. At age seventy-eight, doubtless with less than a year to live, he’d come to the last crossroads. Would he turn toward the battle? Or, for the first time—the last time—would he turn away?
    The Mercedes was slowing. He opened his eyes. It was a traffic jam, doubtless an accident. Would Bernhardt wait? Unless he could be contacted by phone, a remote possibility, the question was unanswerable, therefore must be dismissed in the interest of efficiency. Dominion over other, lesser men, DuBois had learned, was essentially a question of who could think most effectively. And the secret of efficient thought was not to allow trivialities to intrude. While lesser men fretted as a hurricane approached, DuBois would sell insurance stocks short.
    Now the car was inching forward, inexorably impacted in traffic until they reached the next freeway off-ramp. Once more, DuBois allowed his eyes to close.
    Seventy-eight years…
    In financial histories still unwritten, his name would figure prominently. But to what end? He’d gratified uncounted whims. He’d ruined a succession of adversaries, and rewarded a like number of allies. He’d demolished whole city blocks and built skyscrapers in the rubble. He’d once cornered the copper market, a coup that would never be equaled. He’d dined with heads of state, and turned down Cabinet posts. He’d married twice, both times because he wanted children—sons to carry on his name, daughters to cherish.
    But there’d never been children. And the wives had taken the millions he’d given them and left the country.
    In the next moment, his heart could falter. But there was no doctor with him, no nurse. No help could reach him in time.
    Billionaire Dies in