[legendsport]

Brooklyn, NY: September 12, 1929:

"Gene, with all due respect, I think you're in over your head."

Eugene Weston, the 32-year-old owner of the Brooklyn Kings, narrowed his eyes as he gazed across the table.

Rollie Barrell, who'd known him since they were both teenagers, didn't flinch in the face of his long-time friend's glare. "You know I'm your friend, Gene."

Weston sighed heavily and seemed to visibly deflate as he sat back in his chair. Rollie and Weston were enjoying an early lunch at a restaurant owned, ironically, by Daniel Prescott's brother.

"I never really wanted to own the Kings, you know," Weston told Rollie, who did, in point of fact, know exactly that. Malcolm Presley, Gene's grandfather, had left him the team in his will. Presley, one of baseball's finest gentlemen and one of the game's true elder statesmen, had passed away at 88 back in May. Weston, the son of Presley's daughter Bertha Presley Weston, took over reluctantly. Rollie knew that Gene liked to pretend he was Jay Gatsby, the tragic hero of F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel of a few years past. Like Gatsby, Weston had lots of money and was a veteran of the World War. Owning a baseball club was - theoretically - interesting. Owning and running the Kings County Bank, on which the family fortune rested, was much too much like work to suit Eugene Weston.

"Regardless, you do own the Kings... and the bank too. Your job now is to protect what your grandfather built over the past thirty-plus years," Rollie pointed out.

"I could sell the team. Dan Prescott's been after me about just that ever since Granddad died."

Rollie nodded. Daniel Prescott was his partner in the Brooklyn Barrels basketball club and had often spoken of his desire to get into the "highly exclusive club" of FABL owners. "I think Dan sees the Kings as another jewel in his crown," Rollie told his friend.

"I know," Gene said. He sighed and added, "and my mother would kill me if I sold the team. The Kings were precious to her daddy... so the team is precious to her too. Even though she knows less than I do about baseball."

"The GM runs the team. Just stay out of his way and it'll work out," Rollie pointed out. "You need to be more concerned about the bank. The market has been really volatile lately and I don't like the way things are trending."

Weston waved a hand dismissively. "The market is fine. The bank is heavily leveraged. If I pull out now, what kind of confidence would that show our investors and depositors?" He shook his head. "No... I need to keep a steady hand on the wheel. This is just a rough patch, it'll sort itself out." He took a drink of his club soda (Rollie suspected there was more than just club soda in that glass). Then Weston added, "You'll see. It'll be fine."

Rollie shook his head. "Are you trying to convince me? Or yourself?"

"Don't be an old woman, Rollie. I swear you're worse than my mother."

Rollie pointed a finger at his friend. "You realize that there's so much trading going on that the ticker can't keep up, right? If things go south in a hurry, no one will be able to get out in time and that would lead to a dangerous downward spiral."

"I have faith in our system," Weston stubbornly replied.

"Well, I don't. I'm slowly selling out and I suggest you do the same."

Weston started to reply, but Rollie held up his hand. "Not all of it... Just a bit. All this buying on margin? It's gambling and if you lose it, you'll lose everything."

Weston grimaced. "You really are worse than my mother," he said again.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hollywood, CA: September 12, 1929:

"Stop acting like a child!"

Joe Barrell ignored his wife, his focus was completely on showing up his challenger. This... kid... had the nerve to suggest he was stronger than Joe? Well, Joe was determined to show him what's what on that score.

Dorothy had her hands on her hips, scowling at her husband, whose right hand was locked with that of an up-and-coming young actor named Wilbur Denison (the studio would need to do something with that name, Dorothy reflected automatically). Both men's faces were red with strain as they arm wrestled to see who was the stronger man.

Joe's arm pushed his opponent's down... just a small amount, but Joe knew every inch increased his leverage.

"Joe, you're 35 years old, you have nothing to prove!" Dorothy gave it another - equally ineffective - shot.

Joe puffed out his lower lip and blew his hair out of his eyes. He was wearing it longer than he ever had before - a necessity for his upcoming role in Tarzan's next adventure. Dorothy, on the other hand, would skip this one. She was pregnant. The writers had grumbled a bit, but had come up with a story that involved Jane making an early cameo - close-up only - before Tarzan headed off to chase down some poachers. The 23-year-old across the table from Joe was playing one of the poachers.

"Well, I hope out daughter has more sense than her father," Dorothy grumbled and spun on her heel. Joe frowned... "what if it's a boy?" he wanted to shout.

"Give it up, old man," Wilbur Denison said.

Joe's scowl deepened. Then he released a bit of pressure... just a tiny bit and as he saw Wilbur's eyes widen momentarily, Joe threw all his strength into a mighty push... and slammed Denison's arm down onto the table.

"Score one for the old man!" Joe shouted in triumph.

The phone was ringing. Joe looked around their small bungalow... Dorothy was nowhere to be seen.

"Dot! Get the phone!" he yelled. He shook hands with Denison, being good natured although he was still stewing at the kid's insolence. For his part, Denison looked suitably chagrined. Either the kid was actually a great actor, or Joe had indeed proven his point.

The phone continued to ring. Joe wanted to spit. Instead he told Denison, "Be right back. I don't know where Dot has got off to..."

He snatched the handset from the cradle with a barked, "Hello?"

"Uh, hello Joe, this is Mort," he heard tinnily.

"Who?"

"Mort... Goldstein? Your accountant?"

Joe rubbed his left hand over his face. "Right... sorry, Mort. What can I do for you?"

There was a pause. Joe had a sense that Mort had some bad news.

When the silence continued, Joe lost his patience, and said, "Come on, Mort, spill it."

"Uh... the bank called. They denied your request."

This took Joe by surprise. "What? Why?"

"They said you've got too much out on margin already. Something about the market being volatile lately."

Joe's face screwed up in a grimace. "And... that's what I pay you for, right? To advise me on stuff like this?"

"Uh... yes, that's true. I apologize Joe, I thought the bank would okay the credit for this one. They've been incredibly willing up to this point."

"So, what's your take? Should we sell some of our stock?"

Mort paused again, but just as Joe was about to bark at him, he finally replied. "I don't think we can. Most of what you have is on margin and the price hasn't risen enough to cover us if we sell. We need to ride this out and hope for the best."

"Hope for the best? And what happens if it doesn't get better?" Joe growled.

"Well... it always has in the past," Mort answered. "No reason to think this won't blow over too."

Joe huffed out his breath in frustration.

"Look at the bright side, Joe," Mort said. Joe muttered a "what" in response and Mort finished, "Since they denied you credit, you can't get in any deeper."

Joe was glad that Mort wasn't in the room. He might have strangled him.

.