He looked out over the New York City skyline， then<br >let his eyes move slowly to the streets below. The early<br >morning people walking through Central Park were dis-<br >tant， less than human forms to the eyes watching them<br >from the heights of the massive building on Central Park<br >South.<br > "Worker ants， that s what most of them are. And<br >about the only thing that most of them are qualified to<br >be. There re only winners and losers in life， and the<br >losers are down there below."<br > Paul Genova turned， from the tinted plate glass win-<br >dow to the interior of what represented his climb from<br >the streets. He sighed deeply and held his last breath as<br >he seated himself behind his two-century-old desk. He<br >slowly exhaled and clasped his hands behind his head<br >while contemplating the beauty of the desk. He had had<br >it shipped over from the old country. A baron had once<br >owned this very piece of furniture; now it served a new<br >master， one who， try as best he could， had not lost the<br >faint stench of the street. It pervaded his every move-<br >ment and utterance.<br > Glancing at his Rolex， he hit the intercom button with<br >a well-fleshed forefinger and manicured nail.<br ><br >