Manhattan

The last honored guest was safely deposited in a taxi and on his way back to his hotel. At the curb, Ichiro Kamatsu burped so loudly that a couple walking by turned and stared.

"Too much to drink, too much to eat. I must be getting old."

The honored guests were important customers, the managers of a Japanese car company's U.S. plant, which was gracious enough do its banking with Taiyo's New York branch.

Back in Japan, the company could pick and choose the banks it used and had such vast cash reserves that the bankers were apt to bow and thank the Colossus for accepting their humble loans. In the U.S., it had been decided to use only one bank, and Taiyo had had the privilege of being chosen.

Now it was one of Ichiro's main responsibilities to ensure the auto maker had no fault to find with the bank's services. A change in bank would mean ending his career in disgrace. Leaving the bank with a satisfied customer which would be his successor's problem would guarantee an honorable retirement.

Ichiro burped again. The clients had wanted Italian food, which always upset his digestion. The marinated peppers in the antipasto, the puttanesca sauce thick with garlic, olive oil, black olives and anchovies, the intense red wine, the tiramisu, which the guests had insisted he try, then espresso and a complimentary grappa.