It was a crisp, cloud-kissed morning in Los Angeles when Harry Jackson walked into the glossy glass building of Charles Schwab Corporation, located at 211 Main Street, San Francisco—but his meeting was scheduled at their LA private wealth division. This was no casual walk-in. This was serious business.
Wearing a fitted navy blue suit and a white shirt—no tie, but you know the swagger of old money meets new ambition—Harry approached the man waiting for him in the conference room.
"Mr. Jackson," said John K. Murray, senior investment advisor at Schwab's private client division, "What an honor. Mr. Mason said you are one to watch. Apparently, he wasn't kidding."
Harry managed a dry smile and extended his hand. "Let's just hope my forecasts are as reliable."
Two hours later, Harry set the stage. He didn't say September 11 outright—he couldn't—but he did ever so subtly indicate that there would be a significant event in the world that could shake the financial markets.
"I want to pivot ten million dollars into defensive sectors—Raytheon, Lockheed Martin, Northrop Grumman. And the same good old fashioned gold reserves, healthcare logistics, and a small percentage of retain in cash-flowing consumer staples."
John blinked again. "That… is quite a pivot from entertainment."
"Thinking about it, Harry leaned away from the table. "Sometimes knowing when to start circling is the only way to stand still."
By the end of the meeting, the orders had been made - some automated, some scheduled with conditionals. Harry left the building feeling as if he had just handed himself a parachute.
Back at the office of JTV, Lisa was bending over her desk, reviewing color grading samples from Dead Walkers, when Harry breezed in with the satisfied countenance of a man who had just played a chess match with tomorrow.
"I'm going to London soon," he said casually.
Lisa's eyes widened like a startled feline. "Please tell me it's not another 'work trip' where I end up with a photo of you shirtless with a bunch of strangers with tan legs on a yacht."
Harry groaned. "That was one time! And there were distributors. Important people."
"Oh yes," she drawled. "You were 'distributing' your eyeballs all over that beach."
Harry did his best to roll his eyes. "That's different this time. I'm going to see the progress of the Dream theatre. The renovations and expansions are done. Grand reopening. Press. Champagne. In London. Hopefully I will have an idea for a show too."
Lisa sighed. "Alright. But I'm going to need another holiday."
Harry grinned. "Approved."
_____
Two Days Later - London, England.
It was grey and cloudy, quintessential British weather. But the streets around the inner hustle of Westminster, just a stone's throw from Buckingham, were a cornucopia of colour, sound and media vans parked as far as the eye could see.
The Dream Theatre London had opened.
Three-Storey. Eleven Cinema Halls. Two food courts. Elevators, escalators, and luxury lounge spaces, with glass façades so clean and pristine that they shone.
There was a red carpet laid out, and gaggle of reporters were hovering like vultures near the entrance. Some were from local TV stations. Some were tabloid reporters eager to get dirt on "London's Youngest Theatre Baron."
On the inside, Marsh Wahan looked as if he hadn't slept in a year.
His under-eyes had taken on a life of their own. The shirt well pressed and the face screaming one espresso away from a meltdown.
Harry arrived in a black Jaguar XJ; the car door opened for a suit wearing a charcoal Armani coat. With him was Rachel Jackson, dazzlingly glamorous in her velvet coat and diamond brooch, and Uncle Mason, who was nothing short of beaming in pride, considering he previously thought Harry wouldn't make it out of the front lobby of a media company.
It was quiet upon arrival and Marsh, for what it was worth was holding it together, and was best described as panting.
"Boss," he released. "We are... operational. Barely. Three halls open. Others will be opened with a phased approach. Food courts are operational. Staff trained. Cleaners tripled. And yes, I can confirm the special staff room, on the third floor, exists and you better believe I fought for that."
Harry looked on, hands in pockets, the smile enlarging into a grin. "You not only survived, Marsh. You performed a miracle."
"I'm not going to be at my sister's graduation because I look like I aged ten years," Marsh replied, witlessly serious.
Harry gave him a pat on the back. "If needed, we will clone you."
The theatre was a sight to behold.
A blend of modernist architecture, and grand cinema. Recliners for premium rooms—the house Food Court on the second floor had other names:
Later that night, as the final press cleared and the champagne ran low, Harry stood in the VIP lounge overlooking the glass panels of the city street below. Rachel walked in, sipping wine.
"You're turning into your father," she said, with something resembling affection.
Harry blinked. "Is that an insult or a compliment?"
"Depends on the day," she replied. "But you're building something."
He looked out at the theatre. "One theatre. Two shows. A crumbling TV network and a head full of ideas."
Manger, Nando's and, two new local startup, that he himself had invested in - which he was pretty excited about.
The ground floor lobby had an art deco popcorn bar and camera museum corner - the vintage cameras had been curated by Harry, as his own little added touch.
When asked if it was a vanity project, Harry smiled and said, "If being vain is making great cinema experiences available to people in London, then I guess, I'm very vain."
_____
The next day the Daily Mail headline read:
"Billionaire Brat or Brilliant Businessman? Harry Jackson Opens Dream Theatre with Hollywood Dreams in His Sights"
Even he had to admit, it was a good headline.