Chương 39: A Cup of Opportunity IV

Sunday, March 7, 1971 London, England A pale morning sun broke through the clouds hanging over London. For the first time since Thomas Reynolds had arrived several days earlier, the city wasn't covered by rain. He stood beside the window of Room 417 in the Westminster Crown Hotel, looking down at the steady stream of red double-decker buses, black taxis, and pedestrians enjoying the unusually pleasant weather. His meetings were finished. The confidential assignment Mr.

Lombardi had entrusted him with would begin tomorrow. Today... He had nothing scheduled. He had promised his wife before leaving New York that he would take at least one day to enjoy London instead of spending every waking hour thinking about Thompson Manufacturing. Smiling to himself, he decided to keep that promise.

After breakfast, Thomas left the hotel carrying only a small leather shoulder bag. No briefcase. No supplier catalogs. No production reports. For one day... He was simply another tourist. He walked through Hyde Park, where families strolled beneath leafless trees while children chased pigeons across the open lawns. Street musicians played violins near the pathways. Horse riders from the Household Cavalry crossed one of the nearby roads at a slow, disciplined pace.

Thomas couldn't help but compare the atmosphere to New York. London felt... Older. Every stone building seemed to carry centuries of history.

By midday, he found himself standing outside Buckingham Palace. Tourists from dozens of countries crowded against the black iron gates. Some held cameras. Others simply admired the famous residence. A small boy sitting on his father's shoulders pointed toward one of the palace guards.

"Dad... do they ever move?" His father laughed.

"They do."

"Just not very often." Thomas smiled. Children asked the same questions everywhere in the world.

Later that afternoon... He wandered through the narrow streets surrounding Westminster. Old churches. Bookshops. Small cafés. Historic buildings whose names he couldn't even remember. Every corner seemed to tell another story. Eventually, he entered a quiet tea room. The owner, an elderly gentleman with silver hair, approached carrying a menu.

"Good afternoon."

"American?" Thomas nodded politely.

"Yes, sir."

"New York."

"Business or pleasure?"

"A little of both." The old man smiled knowingly.

"That's usually the best kind."

Thomas ordered tea and a simple lunch. As he ate, he found himself thinking about Mr. Lombardi. The chairman never asked anyone to do something he wouldn't do himself. He treated employees fairly. He remembered birthdays. He knew workers by name. When Thomas's youngest daughter had been hospitalized two years earlier with pneumonia... Mr. Lombardi had quietly arranged several days of paid leave without Thomas even asking. Most executives... Would never have noticed. Thomas looked out the window.

Whatever confidential business Mr. Lombardi has planned tomorrow...... I'm sure he has his reasons. He had stopped trying to guess the chairman's long-term plans. Every time he thought he understood them... Another surprise appeared.

As evening approached... Thomas returned to the Westminster Crown Hotel. He laid out tomorrow's suit carefully over the chair beside the bed. Then he opened the sealed envelope Mr. Lombardi had instructed him not to use until the appropriate day. Inside... Only a single sheet. One address. One time. One instruction. Wellington Hill Bookmakers Tomorrow afternoon. Thomas folded the paper again before placing it back inside the envelope. He never asked unnecessary questions. Tomorrow...

He would simply carry out the assignment exactly as instructed. Outside, the lights of London slowly illuminated the evening streets. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Inside Room 417... Thomas switched off the bedside lamp. Tomorrow would be another important day—not only for Thompson Manufacturing, but for whatever larger plans Enzo Lombardi was quietly building behind the scenes. 》》》》》》》》 Monday, March 8, 1971 The alarm clock rang precisely at six-thirty.

Thomas Reynolds was already awake. Years of business travel had conditioned him to rise before the alarm ever had the chance to finish ringing. He shaved carefully, adjusted his tie in front of the mirror, and put on the same charcoal-gray suit he had prepared the previous evening. The folded instruction sheet still rested inside the inner pocket of his jacket. He touched it briefly before leaving the room. Today's schedule was unlike the previous ones. Part of it belonged to Thompson Manufacturing. The other...

Belonged only to Mr. Lombardi. Thomas never confused the two.

Seattle, Washington The weekend had passed quickly. Just after nine o'clock that morning, Jonathan Bradley unlocked the front door of Evergreen Coffee & Tea Company's unfinished store. The scent of fresh lumber still lingered inside. Workers continued installing shelves while electricians completed the final lighting fixtures. Steven Grant arrived carrying the sealed envelope they had prepared on Saturday.

"You still agree?" Jonathan smiled.

"I do." Gregory Bowman entered moments later.

"No second thoughts?" Jonathan shook his head.

"If Mr. Lombardi traveled across the country for nothing..."

"... the worst thing we'd lose is an afternoon." Steven laughed.

"And if he's genuine?" Jonathan looked around the unfinished store.

"Then perhaps..."

"... this company has a future larger than the three of us imagined." Gregory nodded.

"Let's send it." The three founders walked together to a nearby mailbox. Jonathan slipped the envelope inside. It disappeared with a metallic clang. None of them knew... That simple letter would quietly begin one of the most important business relationships of their lives.

New York City James sat quietly at the breakfast table inside Apartment 4B. Enzo sat across from his grandson, reading the morning edition of the New York Herald. James unfolded his own copy. One headline immediately caught his attention.

FEDERAL INVESTIGATIVE BUREAU SURVEILLANCE FILES STOLEN Secret Internal Program Exposed James carefully read every paragraph. According to the article, a group of anti-war activists had broken into a regional office of the Federal Investigative Bureau (FIB) in Media, Pennsylvania. Thousands of confidential documents had reportedly been removed. Among them... Evidence suggests the bureau had been conducting secret surveillance against American citizens for years under a classified internal program.

James slowly lowered the newspaper. I remember this... History keeps moving almost exactly as I remember it... Enzo folded his own newspaper.

"Interesting?" James nodded.

"It'll probably stay in the headlines for quite some time." Enzo sighed.

"The country's already divided enough."

"It doesn't need more reasons." James quietly agreed. The early 1970s... We are becoming more complicated with each passing month.

After school... James climbed into Enzo's Cavallo V12 as usual. The familiar drive toward Brooklyn passed beneath clear skies. Construction crews. Delivery trucks. Busy sidewalks. Everything looked ordinary. Yet James knew... Several important pieces of the future were moving simultaneously. Seattle. London. New York. Each connected by plans only he fully understood.

London, England Thomas's morning began exactly as scheduled. Before lunch, he met representatives from two medium-sized British suppliers, Marcus Carter, had identified before the trip. One specialized in weather-resistant cotton blends is suitable for outdoor jackets. The other manufactured reinforced aluminum frame components that could eventually be adapted for larger hiking backpacks. Thomas carefully recorded prices. Production capacity. Shipping estimates. Every detail mattered.

Marcus expected complete reports. Thomas intended to disappoint him in nothing. By early afternoon... His legitimate business responsibilities had concluded. He checked his watch. Two-thirty. He quietly hailed a taxi. The driver glanced through the mirror.

"Where to, sir?" Thomas reached into his pocket. He unfolded the handwritten note Mr. Lombardi had given him.

"Wellington Hill Bookmakers." The driver smiled knowingly.

"Bit of racing, then?" Thomas offered only a polite smile.

"You could say that." The taxi merged into London's afternoon traffic. Neither the driver... Nor anyone else on the streets... Could you possibly know... That the quiet American businessman sitting in the back seat was carrying out one small piece of a much larger strategy quietly designed thousands of miles away by the Chairman of Thompson Manufacturing. The taxi rolled steadily through central London.

Rows of brick townhouses gradually gave way to busy commercial streets lined with cafés, bookstores, banks, and betting shops. Thomas quietly observed the city through the rain-speckled window. London had an elegance unlike New York. People hurried just as quickly... But with noticeably less noise. Even the traffic seemed more disciplined. The driver eventually slowed before a familiar storefront. Above the entrance hung a polished green sign trimmed with gold lettering.

WELLINGTON HILL BOOKMAKERS Several customers entered and exited casually. Most appeared to be local office workers stopping by during their lunch breaks. Others carried folded racing newspapers beneath their arms. Nothing about the place drew unusual attention. Which was precisely why Mr. Lombardi had chosen it. Thomas paid the fare.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, sir." The taxi disappeared into traffic. Thomas stood for a brief moment before straightening his jacket. Then he stepped inside.

The familiar scent of tobacco smoke, polished wood, and fresh printer's ink greeted him immediately. Rows of chalkboards displayed horse racing odds from various tracks across Britain. Several elderly gentlemen studied the boards with remarkable concentration. Others quietly filled out betting slips while leaning against polished wooden counters. The atmosphere was calm. Routine. Exactly as Thomas had expected.

He walked toward a small writing desk where blank betting slips, pencils, and racing forms were neatly arranged. Only then did he remove the folded instruction sheet Enzo had personally handed him before leaving New York. He unfolded it once. Read every line carefully. Then, they copied each instruction onto the betting slip in neat block letters. When he finished... He folded Enzo's note and returned it safely to his inside pocket. The betting slip alone remained in his hand.

He approached the counter. A middle-aged clerk looked up with a courteous smile.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Afternoon."

"What can I do for you today?" Thomas slid the completed betting slip across the polished wood.

"I'd like to place this wager." The clerk adjusted his glasses and carefully reviewed every line. He read the selection twice. His eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. Certainly... It wasn't an ordinary wager. Still... Professional bookmakers had long ago learned not to question customers' decisions. Only to record them accurately. He looked back up.

"The total stake comes to..." He checked the slip once more.

"... three thousand dollars, converted into sterling at today's exchange." Thomas nodded.

"That's correct." The clerk accepted the money without further comment. He began recording the wager inside a large leather-bound ledger. Every detail was written by hand. Date. Time. Stake. Selection. Odds. After completing the entry, he stamped both the original ticket and its carbon copy. The heavy metal stamp struck the counter with a satisfying thump. He tore off the customer's copy and handed it back.

"There you are, sir." Thomas accepted it carefully.

"Thank you."

"Best of luck." Thomas offered a polite nod.

"I appreciate it."

He slipped the betting ticket into a small envelope inside his jacket. For a brief moment, he instinctively touched the pocket to ensure it was secure. Then he quietly left the bookmaker's shop. Outside... London continued moving exactly as before. Office workers hurried toward train stations. Delivery lorries unloaded cargo. Children in school uniforms laughed as they crossed the street together. To every passerby... Thomas Reynolds was simply another American businessman visiting England.

No one suspected that the small paper ticket resting safely inside his jacket might soon be worth a fortune.

Back at the Westminster Crown Hotel later that evening... Thomas sat at the writing desk inside Room 417. He opened his notebook. The first several pages contained detailed supplier evaluations for Marcus Carter. Fabric quality. Metal hardware. Estimated freight costs. Potential production volumes. Everything was organized with his usual precision. Only after finishing those notes did he take out the betting ticket once more. He looked at it for only a few seconds.

Then placed it inside the hotel's room safe along with his passport and traveler's checks. He locked the safe. Turned the handle twice to confirm it was secure. Satisfied, he stood.

"Mr. Lombardi has always planned farther ahead than the rest of us," he thought quietly.

"If he believes this wager is worth making..."

"... then that's good enough for me." With that, Thomas switched off the desk lamp. Across the Atlantic... Evening was only just beginning in New York. And inside Apartment 4B... Enzo and James were about to witness one of the greatest boxing matches in history. 》》》》》》》》》》 Monday, March 8, 1971 New York City — Evening By the time Enzo Lombardi's Cavallo V12 pulled into its usual parking space outside Apartment 4B on East Street, the sun had already disappeared behind Manhattan's skyline.

The city was beginning its nightly transformation. Office workers hurried toward subway entrances. Taxi horns echoed between the buildings. Neon signs slowly illuminated one after another along the avenues. Inside the apartment... Claire had already finished her work for the day. Before leaving, she had prepared dinner and left a handwritten note on the kitchen counter. > Mr. Lombardi, Dinner is in the oven. I also picked up fresh bread from Luigi this afternoon. Have a wonderful evening.

—Claire Enzo smiled as he read it.

"She spoils us." James laughed while hanging his school sweater on the coat rack.

"I don't think either of us is complaining."

"Not at all."

Dinner was simple but comforting. Roasted chicken. Herb potatoes. Fresh Italian bread from Luigi Romano's bakery. A light salad. As always... Enzo insisted they eat together before anything else. Business could wait. The world could wait. Dinner was family time. James appreciated that. Even in his previous life... Grandpa had always protected moments like these.

Halfway through the meal... Enzo glanced toward the clock hanging above the kitchen doorway.

"We should finish soon." James smiled knowingly.

"The fight." Enzo nodded.

"I've been waiting all week." James couldn't blame him. Tonight wasn't simply another heavyweight bout. It was... History.

Twenty minutes later... The dishes had been washed. The living room lights were dimmed. Enzo settled into his favorite leather armchair while James stretched across the sofa with a blanket over his legs. The television warmed up slowly, its picture sharpening after several moments. The familiar opening music of the national sports broadcast filled the apartment. The announcer's voice carried unmistakable excitement.

"Ladies and gentlemen..."

"Good evening."

"Tonight, the sporting world turns its attention to what many are already calling the greatest heavyweight championship ever assembled." Images flashed across the television screen. The packed arena. Reporters crowding ringside. Photographers adjusting enormous flash cameras. Thousands upon thousands of spectators filling every seat.

The camera finally settled on the two fighters. In James's fictional world... Their names were different. Yet everything else remained almost identical to history. One was the undefeated champion known throughout the world for his speed, confidence and charisma. Adrian King. Across the ring stood the relentless challenger. Powerful. Patient. Methodical. Joseph Fraser. Enzo folded his arms confidently.

"I still think King's too fast." James smiled without answering. He already knew how the evening would end.

The opening bell rang. For the next several rounds... Neither grandfather nor grandson spoke very much. Their attention remained fixed entirely on the television. King danced effortlessly around the ring. His footwork seemed almost impossible. Fraser pressed forward without hesitation. Every punch he threw carried frightening power.

Round after round... The pace refused to slow. Both men absorbed punishment that would have ended ordinary fights long ago. Enzo leaned farther and farther forward in his chair.

"My God..."

"Neither of them will back down." James quietly nodded.

"They're both fighting for something bigger than the championship." Enzo looked over.

"What do you mean?" James kept his eyes on the television.

"They're fighting to prove who history will remember." Enzo smiled.

"That's one way to look at it."

By the twelfth round... Both fighters showed visible signs of exhaustion. Sweat poured from their faces. Their breathing had become noticeably heavier. Yet somehow... Neither seemed willing to surrender a single inch. The crowd inside the arena roared continuously. Even through the television speakers... The atmosphere felt electric.

Then came the fifteenth. The final round. Enzo gripped both arms of his chair.

"This is it..." James remained perfectly still. He remembered this moment. Every second of it. Midway through the round... Fraser stepped forward. A perfectly timed left hook exploded across King's jaw. The champion crashed onto the canvas. Enzo's eyes widened.

"No..." The referee immediately began counting. One... Two... Three... The arena had become deafening. James watched silently. He already knew... King would rise. And he did. Barely. He forced himself back to his feet before the count reached ten. The remainder of the round passed in a blur. Then... The final bell echoed through the arena.

Neither Enzo nor James spoke. They waited. The announcer collected the judges' scorecards. Several agonizing moments passed. Finally...

"Ladies and gentlemen..."

"By unanimous decision..."

"... the winner..."

"... and the new heavyweight champion..."

"JOSEPH FRASER!" The arena erupted. Enzo slowly leaned back against his chair. For several seconds... He simply stared at the television.

"I..."

"I honestly can't believe it." James glanced toward him.

"You really thought King would win?" Enzo laughed softly, still shaking his head.

"I did."

"He'd never looked vulnerable before."

"I thought his speed would carry him." He looked back toward the television, where Fraser stood with both arms raised in victory.

"What a fight..." James smiled quietly.

"It wasn't just a fight." Enzo raised an eyebrow.

"No?" James looked once more at the screen before it faded into post-fight interviews.

"It'll be remembered for generations." Enzo studied his grandson for a brief moment. Sometimes... James spoke with the certainty of someone who had already lived tomorrow. The thought crossed his mind... Then disappeared just as quickly. He simply smiled.

"If that's true..."

"... I'm glad we watched it together." James smiled back.

"So am I." Outside... New York continued buzzing beneath the night sky. Inside Apartment 4B... The television remained on as commentators continued discussing the unforgettable championship. Neither grandfather nor grandson changed the channel. Some moments... Were worth savoring just a little longer.