"Our family migrated from Scotland to America in the late seventeenth century. During the War of Independence, our ancestors were involved. After America entered the First World War in 1917, I brought Allen with me to Central America, urging the countries here to declare war on Germany.
You could say this was where we first accumulated our political capital.
Later, our family entered Central America, and it was precisely during this period that United Fruit began to expand."
Hearing the Dulles brothers' introduction, Leo nodded, his expression puzzled.
"Forgive my bluntness, Mr. Dulles, but I don't quite understand. Did you go to all this trouble just to give me a history lesson about yourselves?"
John Foster Dulles glanced at his younger brother Allen, who showed no intention of speaking, so he took it upon himself to explain.
"Mr. Valentino, the family history was to illustrate one point—United Fruit is extremely important to us."
"So what?"
Leo had understood perfectly well, but why should he show it? Though the two men before him were far older, Leo was the one in the superior position now. There was no reason to help those below him carry the conversation.
The Dulles brothers were sharp enough. They knew Leo understood but was forcing them to bow their heads.
"Mr. Valentino, your movements are closely followed these days. From the moment you came to Central America, we took notice. Many in the company assumed you were here for leisure. After all, you've made a vast fortune in America—why would you care about the scraps of Central America?
But soon your actions proved otherwise. Just as in America, you moved with speed and precision. Before anyone realized what was happening, your Central American company had already been established. What frightened us most was that the company never specified its line of business.
Everyone began to wonder: are you here for fruit? For grain? For minerals?"
John's voice fell, and Allen Dulles finally added with a low murmur:
"Or perhaps… for all of them?"
"Allen! Apologize to Mr. Valentino immediately!" John barked.
Both brothers were much older than Leo, yet in this world strength defined seniority.
"I apologize, Mr. Valentino. That was out of line."
Allen stood and bent at the waist.
Leo watched their performance with cold detachment, saying nothing. The atmosphere froze.
Facing his icy gaze, both brothers began to sweat as if stripped bare. Just as they were about to excuse themselves, Leo suddenly broke into hearty laughter. He waved at Allen.
"Sit down. You two worry too much. As you yourselves said, I make a fortune in America—why would I waste time here? Do you know how many bananas I can buy from selling a single house? Look at you both, scared stiff. Amusing."
His words allowed the brothers to breathe again. Once Allen had reseated himself, he asked his lingering question:
"Then what is the purpose of establishing your Central American company?"
Leo turned toward the door.
"Aldo, come in."
As the young man entered, Leo gestured toward him.
"This is my childhood friend, Aldo. He's only twenty. Seeing his elder brothers make fortunes with me, he kept pestering me to start a company of his own. I had no choice. We were supposed to be traveling for leisure, but when he brought it up again, I humored him with this Central American company.
As for its business? Hahaha—look at him. Just a kid. Maybe once he finishes college, then we'll consider what the company should actually do."
Called a child, Aldo showed no hurt. On the contrary, under the sharp gaze of the Dulles brothers, he displayed remarkable acting skill acquired over the past year and a half. Feigning indignation, he huffed:
"Boss, how could you trick me like this? I've been observing along the way, and I think the sunshine here is perfect—for cotton!"
With his youthful air, his silly manner, and the absurd suggestion of planting cotton—never mind the alternating half-year seasons of rain and drought that would rot any crop—the brothers were convinced nearly entirely.
"Out! Go read your books. Fail your exams again, and I'll break your legs."
Leo snapped at him.
As Aldo left, Leo chuckled inwardly. The Dulles brothers had put on a show in front of him—so he gave them one in return.
The purpose was simple: to lull them, and the powerful interests they represented in Central America, into underestimating him.
With his power, Leo need not have taken such care. But he had two reasons.
First, he already knew MacArthur was planning a move. Now was the time to build strength, not to multiply enemies.
Second, Central America had long been cultivated by successive generations of Americans since the Monroe Doctrine. Each was a firmly rooted tiger. For an outsider like Leo to flood in recklessly would only waste resources with little effect.
What he needed now was patience: using the Church, the hundreds of trading firms he had acquired, and the British intelligence network, he would study Central America and erode it bit by bit—like boiling a frog slowly.
"Mr. Valentino, you treat your childhood friend very well."
John probed one last time.
"I have no choice. Aldo is an orphan. He's been with me since he was twelve, running the streets of our town. Saying I raised him as my own wouldn't be an exaggeration. Worrying over him is only natural."
Leo's words were watertight. John's expression eased slightly, and he moved to their second purpose.
"Mr. Valentino, we heard that at the Panama Hotel you raised funds for your Valentino Retail Group. Might United Fruit have a chance to participate?"
"Of course. I never refuse friends. But tell me, my friend—what can you bring to me?"
Leo leaned forward, eyes fixed on John.
"United Fruit is valued at six hundred million, just like Valentino Retail. We propose a cross-holding: each of us acquires ten percent of the other."
John said.
"Hah! Who would've thought? My impulsive idea of Valentino Retail hasn't even materialized, and already everyone sees it as a prize."
Leo chuckled.
"It's because of your brilliance. Among us suppliers, we've discussed it. The Valentino retail model has the potential to capture a huge share of the market. If that day comes, the end retailers could dictate prices to us—and that's something United Fruit cannot afford.
I believe the tobacco companies investing were driven by the same concern."
John's words were polished: flattering Leo, explaining United Fruit's motive, and showing he knew what transpired at the Panama Hotel.
"John, during the election you were Dewey's foreign policy advisor, weren't you?"
Leo asked.
"Yes, Mr. Valentino. But that is in the past, isn't it? What matters is that you nearly achieved victory. Besides, President Truman has forgiven us. The parties may differ in views, but both work for America's glory."
John replied flawlessly.
Leo sighed inwardly.
As for Allen—Leo already knew his capability. After meeting Kennedy, he had dreamed of fragments from his previous life: documentaries about Kennedy, and the Bay of Pigs invasion that humiliated him before taking office.
The chief architect of that fiasco was none other than the silent Allen Dulles before him—future Director of the CIA, and the man who would etch his name on that agency. His ability was beyond doubt.
What surprised Leo today was John, usually overshadowed, who proved himself formidable.
Still, both men were too old, their worldviews fixed, and staunch defenders of the Washington establishment. Investing in them was pointless.
"John, in principle I agree with your idea. But the Valentino Retail Group is still only a concept. That gathering at the Panama Hotel was merely among friends.
So I don't wish to take advantage of United Fruit. Let's wait three months until Valentino Retail is formally established. Then we can talk in detail."
Though phrased politely, Leo's tone was decisive, leaving the brothers no room for argument.
They watched as he boarded his ship. They would not sail back themselves—too busy, unlike Leo, the billionaire with leisure to drift at sea.
"Do you really think he has no ambition in Central America?"
Allen asked.
John gazed at the cruise ship fading into the horizon.
"Jefferson once told me Leo was nothing like a young man. I didn't believe it then, but now I do.
As for your question—of course he has ambition. He never once explained why he bought that 8% stake in the Central American Railway from the Church.
But what can we do? He's given us enough to explain to the merchants of United Fruit.
In life, one must learn to be content. As for opposing him—I've never entertained the thought. Allen, our battlefield is politics, not his. Our interests do not truly collide."
John said.
"How not? If United Fruit is threatened, so too are our family's interests—our campaign funds."
Allen countered.
"We may hold shares, but that doesn't mean we own the trust. And tell me—what successful politician ever rose on the back of a single company?"
John mused.
For him, meeting Valentino today had opened a channel between an old political family and a rising titan of wealth. After all, Leo's fortune already surpassed United Fruit's. Better still, he had yet to bind himself to any political party.
While the brothers discussed Leo, Leo himself was replaying the encounter.
His refusal was simple: a declining giant like United Fruit was not worthy of the brilliant future destined for Valentino Retail. Leo would never take a losing bargain.
Days later, after a bumpy voyage, Leo finally docked in Los Angeles. Curling his lip in distaste, he swore never to take a cruise again—such experiences were far too ordinary for a man of his stature.
Clea was no longer by his side. They had just parted—she hurried back to Sacramento, eager to return to the Bank of America's headquarters there.
Leo was never lacking in companions. Noodles had already brought Grace Kelly from Hollywood. The independent-minded girl was now nestled in Leo's arms, cheeks flushed, still lost in the lingering warmth of their passionate kiss.
Noodles hardly reacted. After all, this was the man who had once raped his childhood goddess in front of her driver, and later made her his household woman.
"Where to? Home, or Beverly Hills?"
Noodles asked.
He referred to Leo's suburban residence near Stanford, or his Beverly Hills mansion. Though Leo had never actually lived there, as America's largest landlord he owned estates in every major city.
"No. To KTLA Television."
On the edge of Sunset Boulevard, Leo entered his first television station. If not for the small signal tower on the roof, he would have mistaken it for a restaurant.
"Mr. Valentino, before I founded this company, I was a restaurateur. Steak was my specialty. You must try some later."
The owner of KTLA, Viggo Jones, spoke with eager anticipation.
Looking at the short, stout man with thick fingers, Leo couldn't help but see a cook. For a moment, he wondered if Lawrence had tricked him.
But when he entered Viggo's office, he saw the walls lined with film reels and photographs—each capturing moments from past programs. By current standards, these news clippings were impressive.
Most important was the license hanging prominently in the center. That was the key reason Leo had chosen to acquire the station.
"How many people can receive our broadcasts?"
Leo asked.
"In California, coverage is no problem."
Viggo answered confidently.
"And how many actually watch?"
"We have around a hundred thousand regular viewers in Los Angeles."
"Is it subscription-based?"
Leo asked curiously.
"Yes. Five dollars a month."
Leo raised an eyebrow. A local station with half a million in monthly revenue ought to be thriving. Why, then, was KTLA in financial trouble?
Sensing his doubt, Viggo drew out a photo of four men.
"I planned to invest a million into a transmission network that would cover the West, expanding us like NBC in the East, making us a cross-state broadcaster.
But my partners refused. They were content with the local revenue, even resentful of the licensing fees. So we split. They wanted to sell the license and divide the proceeds.
That I could never allow. So I gave them every cent of cash flow."
Now Leo fully understood the eager look in the man's eyes.
Just as he was about to continue their discussion, a brash voice bellowed downstairs:
"Grace! I know you're here—come out!"