Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Seventy

There was not a glimmer of recognition in Ulysses Morse's eyes as the two men shook hands. The apparently older man regarded Tommy carefully up and down, as if appraising a racehorse. Finally, it appeared that Tommy had passed inspection, though without Morse first scrutinizing his teeth. There was a huge smile, not unlike that of his daughter, and a friendly greeting.

"It's good to meet you, son," he said warmly. Morse had even less of a southern twang than did his daughter, likely the result of many years spent in foreign climes. Had Tommy not known the man, he would've ventured his age to be around 60, a very well preserved 60. The man opposite wasn't tall, an inch or two under six feet, but he was well put together, with a strong neck and broad shoulders that even his handsomely tailored dinner jacket couldn't hide.

"The honor's all mine, sir. I've just recently had the pleasure of meeting your lovely daughter, and already she's spoken of you warmly. Filial piety is not what it once was ... or so I hear. You must be very proud."

The old man cracked an even broader grin and gave an affectionate pat to Tommy's shoulder. "You have no idea, young man. I don't think any fellow's ever had a finer daughter." There was kindliness and generosity in his words.

Tommy had known many people of Morse's stripe through the ages—he'd long been such a person, in fact. As brutal and dismissive as the man was toward outsiders, the weak, or those he assumed different or inferior, when faced with family and friends, or someone he saw as a peer, his bounty and congeniality were without limit. That was why the measuring to which Tommy had just been submitted was so important. He'd received the Ulysses Morse stamp of approval.

Tommy hoped to chat with the man for a time. Clearly, he was a player in this tale. Africa, Asia, the Middle East. Oregon, Utah, Montana. Hollirich, Valhalla, SSA. Guns, oil, kidnapping. But where, exactly, does he fit in? Wherever that was, Tommy had to tread lightly. Ulysses was no dewy youth.

"So, Mr. Morse, what's your line?" Tommy began.

"Oh, me?" The old narcissist spoke as if surprised Tommy would ask. "I'm mostly retired now. Before that, I dabbled a mite in the oil business. But it wasn't much to my liking. I never fancied Arabs much, and Russians even less."

"Valhalla did some business in Russia a few years back. That wasn't you, was it?"

"Oh, just a tiny speck," Morse said in well feigned modesty. "I still have a few connections there and helped open a couple of doors."

Tommy realized that the Russian arms deal in which Valhalla had participated was right up Morse's alley. Russians. Moving closer, Tommy spoke more confidentially.

"Are you an investor in your son-in-law's company? I'm looking to park a small windfall, and I hear-tell this group has a license to print money."

The gray-haired man seemed to think. "Well," he said, his voice low, "they're still privately traded. I don't think you'll find anyone willing to part with any shares. Hollirich is the majority shareholder now, and, hey ... if I was a young guy with a few pesos to invest, that's where I'd put my money." The man gave this information in a friendly and fatherly tone. "And, come on, the next president of the United States is on the board of directors," he said, as if the fix were in.

"Are you a supporter of hers, sir?"

Morse gave a slight smile and winked once at him.

That says it all, Tommy thought.

By that time, he was part of the small circle with which Morse had been speaking. When Morse responded to a question of another guest, Tommy took the opportunity to introduce himself to the rest of the small cluster. None of their number seemed of particular interest until he turned to the man nearest Morse. Taking the tall young fellow's hand, Tommy realized with a colossal sense of shock the young man was Gifted.