Looking south from the Chrysler building, the silhouette of the Empire State’s spire looms against the evening sky, an ominous reminder of the obstacles he has yet to face. Miles Venery, considered a giant in the food manufacturing industry, has now invested close to fifty million dollars in cannabis start-up costs in Nevada alone and the truth is, almost two years later, they are no closer to launching operations today than they were before they broke ground.
No stranger to running a corporation, this third-generation scion, captains his billion-dollar empire, Hammer Industries, as he was born to. But an additional slap in the face from Mad Hatter, denying him a partnership with their leading niche, cannabis beverage company, still burns, adding fuel to the fire. He’s patiently, trying to understand why his friends Stephanie and Remy Beroe, decided not to expand with him while attempting not to take it personally. It’s been humbling to say the least. They are close. Remy has become very close. And all parties are aware; had he not intervened last year when the couple was abducted, the Beroes would both be dead.
Miles is also aware it’s important not to push a quid pro quo. Knowing Remy, it wouldn’t work anyway, and the almost radical, idealism that Stephanie champions can only be countered by her husband’s innate sense of cynicism. He can’t argue with him, and he can’t blame him for arguing.
But the window is closing quickly and while he’s waiting for the Beroes to come to their senses, he’s been aggressively applying for cannabis licenses in multiple states and countries, not unlike a handful of other conglomerates taking advantage of a nascent market.
For over one hundred years, Hammer has made a fortune as a global brand in food manufacturing innovation, but the company built its foundation on pharmaceutical production at a time when the world was purchasing snake oil. Cannabis is different. This will be our legacy, he reaffirms. The resolute young, seventy-something, runs a hand through his soft, gray hair, his image reflected in the window reminds him to stay calm as he adjusts his suit coat. Control is something he is accustomed to, and this new feeling of vulnerability has become disorienting, at best. Last year, initial spending gave him a false sense of progress, but now that the money is gone, it’s obvious their inaugural projections were deceivingly hopeful. Straightening his tie, subconsciously questioning the outcome of today’s events, he admits out loud, “Yes, it has been a bit of a setback.”
“Dad, we bid on eleven of twenty-two cannabis licenses available in Nevada, and only received one,” his daughter Elizabeth states, more than disappointed. “This is a tragedy.” Her arms flare from her side as she consigns herself to the edge of her grandfather’s Jules Leleu, Deco desk. “We have spent millions of dollars building out properties all over Nevada for the application process. I don’t see an upside here.”
Looking into the same brown eyes of his wife’s through his daughter; the future of his legacy, he’s not worried about the millions they spent on securing properties. But he is worried about the juice for greasing the state board that grants the licenses, having had been personally guaranteed a minimum of six by the appropriate people, the distress over receiving only one dispensary license, is unmitigated.
Elizabeth sits patiently waiting for a response, her over groomed physical state, emphasizes her baring, before she comments, “Without a cultivation license for growing or a production facility license for manufacturing products, there is no chance for vertical integration. And if we purchase licenses on the secondary market,” she places several listings on his desk, “we are looking at an additional, thirty million dollars each minimum, just for the license, and they are scarce.” Annoyed but not surprised by her parent’s unwavering silence, she adds, “Not receiving a laboratory license today is unconscionable.” Crossing the room, she stands behind him, both of their reflections entwined in the city scape before them. “They know we’ve been successfully running compliant labs in six markets in the U.S. and another half a dozen globally for several years.” Unravelling, she admits, “I don’t understand any of this.”
The reality of actually launching in Nevada, becomes fleeting and causes Miles’ casual if not stoic demeanor to slip as he faces his daughter, and forces a smile.
“Horace Mendel, on your private line, sir,” his assistant, Anne, breaks in.
The speaker phone booms, “Miles, I just heard,” his long-time friend, and global media mogul, who is privy to a staggering amount of classified information states, as Elizabeth moves towards the door.
The call is not unwelcome, but it is unexpectedly, expeditious. “Yes, it’s a blow,” Miles, confesses, nodding to his daughter as she leaves. Surprised by his own composure, he turns his back on New York City, his left hand pressed against his forehead. Not even the rosewood paneled walls of his office and burled mahogany furniture, that has been Hammer Industries headquarters since the building was built can subdue his tension.
“Are you sitting down?” Horace’s low voice resonates conspiratorially.
Leaning against the desk, Miles’ age weighs down on him like a stone as he squares his strong chin, “Go on.”
“You realize Kultivation is backing Trichome Industries, the group that received sixteen licenses in Nevada so far?”
“I had no idea. How do you know that?”
“I picked through the mandatory FBI background checks for all the investors, but that’s not why I called.” Pausing, Horace’s uncharacteristic silence is a warning shot.
“What is it, old friend?”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on all of the survivors from the park, as you know,” Horace affirms, his voice bristling.
Recollecting the faces of the tattered men and women they liberated last year, Remy and Stephanie Beroe among them, Miles nods. “Yes, Horace, I know.” Pinching the top of his pointed nose, his tired blue eyes refocus awaiting a response.
“Three more of them are dead.”