The lackluster banquet finally ended, but Leo did not return to his Beverly Hills mansion. Instead, he went straight to the airport.
To adapt to his ever-expanding business empire and his increasingly hectic schedule, Leo had purchased a Douglas C-74 Globemaster transport plane directly from the Air Force. The aircraft had barely been delivered before the war ended and it was decommissioned.
After a year of meticulous modifications, it was finally ready for use.
Leo spared no expense—because the kind of luxury private jets that future tycoons would casually buy simply did not exist yet.
Even so, despite the retrofitting, the C-74 was still a military transport at heart. Compared to the comfort of a future Boeing 747, it was crude. But relative to other aircraft of its time, it was already the pinnacle of luxury.
When the plane landed in Washington, D.C., Leo didn't linger. He headed straight to Lynchburg, Virginia, where President Truman was on vacation—or rather, waiting for him.
No one, not even Chief of Staff Louis, knew what the two men discussed. All Louis saw was the President and his financial backer walking out of the cabin arm in arm, smiling.
It was a clear message—one that Louis would deliberately spread: the President and his "Godfather of Money" had finally broken the ice.
Leo, the Iron Man, didn't stay long in Lynchburg. He returned to D.C., then immediately boarded his private plane again, this time heading west.
But unlike his previous eastward journey alone, this time, his plane carried two passengers.
One was Arson Beckett, the Mayor of Philadelphia, whom Leo had invited for a California vacation.
The other was Lawrence Rockefeller, who had volunteered himself aboard.
The two men entered the plane and were instantly overwhelmed—it was like stepping into another world.
The only difference was in their reactions:
Arson Beckett knew he would likely never own such a plane in his lifetime, and every glance he cast was filled with envy.
Lawrence, however, carefully studied every detail of the modifications, already plotting. By the time he returned east, he had decided to contact his Air Force friends to acquire a similar plane for himself. For men of their wealth, the ability to flaunt was itself a form of power.
Once the flight stabilized, Lawrence accepted a glass of champagne from the stewardess, took a sip, and said to Leo:
"Jack should be in the air around this time as well. Your last move really infuriated him. The Rockefeller family won't meddle in Central American affairs, but this time in the West, he'll definitely make things hard for you."
Leo smirked.
"People always refuse to believe I'm not easy prey. Fine—let Jack try for himself."
Lawrence had actually misspoken—Jack wasn't in the air at all. He had already arrived in Los Angeles. Right then, in one of Lawrence's hotels, Jack was meeting with Barney Balaban, the president of Paramount.
"I've studied Leo. He's a cunning fox. He must have delved into some ancient Eastern wisdom. Other than striking last, his greatest skill is misdirection."
Jack was a genius. Influenced by his elder brother, he had developed a strong interest in Eastern culture. When he spoke of it, he sounded fluent and assured.
Barney, on the other hand, was bewildered—the words might as well have been scripture. Jack, noticing his confusion, explained:
"What I mean is this—Leo's moves against television, his attacks on Hollywood, they're all smoke and mirrors. His true target must be Bank of America—that's the lifeline of the West's economy!
Barney, don't worry—he won't waste all his strength on you. What I need is for you to keep him entangled, buy me time. Once I take control of Bank of America and seize all the hot money flowing through the West, your problems will solve themselves.
I promise you—every Paramount production loan will be backed by Bank of America. Not only that, I'll even secure you a seat as a shareholder there.
You've been in the West longer than I have—you know what that means."
Barney left the hotel with a heavy heart. Sitting in his car, staring at the flickering lights in Jack's room, he felt nothing but disappointment. He had expected Jack to produce some brilliant strategy. Instead, Jack simply told him to hold the line.
Back in Beverly Hills, at Leo's mansion, Arson sighed:
"No wonder people yearn for the West. This mansion of yours is incredible—the view, the openness—it's breathtaking."
Arson had readily accepted Leo's vacation invitation not simply out of leisure, but because one of Leo's deals with Truman involved his family. Though it hadn't yet materialized, the deal promised great benefits for the Becketts.
Wanting to show sincerity, Arson had decided to follow Leo westward.
"Hah, Arson—Philadelphia has such fine conditions, yet you waste your time dealing with those scientists, giving up all the chances to make real money. Otherwise, there'd already be one of your mansions here too."
Lawrence teased.
"That's my passion, Lawrence. Perhaps you really should take a closer look at my field—it is the future."
With that, Arson dove into Leo's enormous swimming pool, swimming freely and laughing.
"See? Always like this. Everyone says he's obsessed with science. The future? Ha. Without money, what future is there?
Anyway—forget him. Tell me, Leo—what's your main target this time? Don't worry, I won't tell Jack. In fact, I'd love to see him humiliated."
Lawrence leaned in, grinning knowingly.
Leo only chuckled.
"Lawrence, you can tell him if you want. When I was weak, I relied on tricks. But when I am strong… as long as the cost is bearable—I want it all.
Go play with Arson. I'm going to rest. Next week, I'll be making some very big moves. Hahaha!"
Hollywood. A Monday morning in April.
Barney entered his office, puzzled by the pile of legal documents his secretary handed him.
"Did we really issue this many contract terminations?"
The secretary nodded.
"Ever since last year's television ban, just our studio alone has sent out 137 termination notices. Most of these were for small-time actors who depended on television work to support their families. They didn't dare resist us before.
But after the Clark incident blew up, and with the union's support, they've all come forward.
Boss, the trouble is this: individual lawsuits we can delay. But once it becomes a class action, the courts will fast-track it to avoid headaches."
Barney's face darkened. Though many had recently encouraged him to keep resisting, he had no confidence against an opponent of Leo's caliber.
"Wait—you said that's just us. Didn't the other studios get hit too?"
"Yes. All the Big Five and the Little Three have received lawsuits. I've checked—1,132 in total. That means the courts will move much faster than we imagined."
Even before the words finished, Barney's phone rang. It was Jack Warner.
"Barney, come to Warner. We need a meeting—now."
Barney snorted inwardly: So now you're panicking too?
Though the studios were all clustered around Hollywood, the morning rush brought the streets to chaos—crowds, luxury cars, equipment trucks all choking the roads. Barney's car slowed to a crawl.
As he sat, brooding, a newsboy's voice pierced the air:
"Today's New Times! Headline: How the Big Five and Little Three Rob Everyone in Hollywood!"
The cover was scathing. Inside:
"Refined Exploitation Techniques,"
"Behind the Glamour—The Misery of Actors,"
"Exposing the Rotten Histories of the Studios."
Worst of all was the third-page spread—an old sultry photo of Rita Hayworth, captioned:
"Rita Hayworth and Paramount President Barney—An Affair Too Scandalous to Ignore!"
"Slander! Outrageous slander!" Barney cursed.
He wasn't even the only one involved with Rita back then—Jack and Louis had their turns too. Warner and MGM had been in on it, so why was Paramount singled out?
But soon his thoughts returned to the earlier articles. As he read, his heart sank.
He knew the moment those stories spread, all the oppressed workers across Hollywood would realize the studios had lost control of the media.
And they would see that Tycoon Valentino was openly defying them.
Barney had no doubt—those people would rise up to seize their share.
Perhaps this was why Jack had called him.
Sure enough, when Barney entered Warner's meeting room, he found all the executives of the Big Five and Little Three present. Each had a copy of New Times in front of them.
The room was heavy with silence—except for Howard Hughes, who was ranting:
"We need to fight back! Buy off the media—throw money at them! If we stand united, what can Leo do to us? And we need to buy off these plaintiffs—RKO has already started!"
Barney frowned, instinctively looking for Nicholas Schenck, who usually restrained Howard's madness. But once again, Nicholas was absent.
"Shut up, Howard! You're a billionaire. We're not. What, you'll spend millions bribing a thousand people? And even if you do—how do you know they won't demand more next time?
Our industry is already shrinking from TV's rise—we're cutting costs as it is. How can we increase them?
As for bribing the press—ha! The TV networks would love nothing more than to see us ruined. And newspapers? Tell me—which paper now has more influence than New Times? What, you think they'll take our money to insult their own boss?"
That was Louis B. Mayer, his tone dripping with mockery.
"You—! Then what do you propose? We've sat here in silence for half a day, useless!"
Howard Hughes stormed out, unable to endure the filth of the room, convinced it was infested with germs. In truth, he was close to abandoning RKO altogether, if not for his hatred of Leo.
Only after he left did the meeting finally proceed. They talked all day, from morning until the sunset painted Sunset Boulevard gold. Secretaries brought lunch and dinner, but by the time the weary moguls filed out, the answer was obvious: nothing was resolved.
"Let's wait and see. We've survived this long—some East Coast tycoon won't bring us down.
Besides, Barney mentioned Bank of America—that's a crack we can use. If Leo can accuse us of exploiting Hollywood, we can just as well warn California's real powers: the wolf is here."
Jack Warner concluded.
The others reluctantly agreed.
But Leo's offensive was moving far faster than they imagined.
Hollywood. Tuesday.
"Reverse! Reverse!" Barney shouted at his driver.
He sat in the backseat, pale with terror, as fists pounded the windows from every side—Hollywood workers from every trade, furious and unrelenting.
Just ten minutes earlier, Barney had been dozing in the car, exhausted after the endless meeting. His driver muttered, "Why so many people out here?"
Then came the pounding—dozens of fists against the car body—jolting Barney awake in horror.
Thankfully, his veteran chauffeur kept his cool, swiftly reversing and escaping the mob.
Barney knew immediately—today's shoot was impossible.
At Santa Monica Beach, among the sunbathers and swimmers, several men in suits stood out awkwardly. They were the other moguls—each of whom had suffered the same harassment.
They had chosen the beach for one simple reason: open visibility, easy escape.
"These protests—so fast, so organized, across all industries. Something's off."
Said Darryl Zanuck of 20th Century Fox.
"It's that tycoon, of course. Don't forget—he's Italian. Since last year, the Italians have been clever. They've infiltrated nearly every guild except the Producers Guild. Only the guilds could stage protests this large."
Jack Warner explained.
"I can already see tomorrow's headlines making a spectacle of today. That young man moves quick, and he strikes hard!
We can't let this continue. Among the Big Five, only Howard and I aren't Jews. You all know how you succeeded. It's time the Jewish mob took action."
Zanuck declared.
"What nonsense—what, you'll hire the mob to kill a billionaire? Who would dare take that contract?"
Jack snapped.
"Not Leo—just the mobs causing these protests."
Louis B. Mayer smirked.
"That's right. He's had his turn. Now it's ours."
Barney growled, still shaken from his morning ordeal.
Meanwhile, at Leo's Beverly Hills mansion, a new guest had arrived—Mike, from Nevada.
"So you're saying the Jewish mob has deep roots in California too?"
Leo asked.
Mike nodded gravely.
"Yes. In fact, Hollywood's rise was fueled by Jewish mobsters laundering money. Mo Greene, whom you eliminated in Vegas—he may have seemed like one of ours, but in truth, he was the right-hand man of Jewish crime boss Hyman Roth."
"Hyman Roth…" Leo murmured, a name he hadn't heard in a long time.
"I remember his strength was mainly in Florida and Cuba. How much reach could he possibly have in California?"
"Not much, directly. But the Jewish mob multiplies like cells. Greene was his Western protégé. After Greene's death, his lieutenant Levi Cohen returned to Hollywood, taking over the business.
Cohen's a smart one. His crew is strong, but instead of expanding territory, they mainly solve problems for the West Coast's Jewish elites.
That's where their money comes from.
Because they're non-expansionist and tough to handle, I never moved against them. But now that you've struck Hollywood, those people will likely respond fiercely."
Mike explained.
Leo nodded.
"Alright, I understand why you brought so many men. Since they're in place—let's strike first.
I'll give the Governor a call."
"I heard L.A.'s mayor, Fletcher Bowron, doesn't see eye to eye with Governor Earl Warren."
Mike said worriedly.
Leo smirked, picking up a pure-gold golf ball from the table, tossing it in his hand.
"They may not share a cup. But at least they won't piss in each other's.
And besides—who ever says no to money?"