He didn’t care what anybody thought. Every time Harold Aaron Smith entered the lobby of the Chrysler Building, he felt exhilarated. Built against the backdrop of the Great Depression, the seventy-seven stories rose mightily into the New York skyline, symbolizing all the ideals of the great American society.
Harry Smith strode to the elevator and waited for the next ride up. The captains of industry hadn’t yet started their day. It was barely six a.m. Alice, his secretary of twenty years, would be there ahead of him with a fresh pot of coffee and his favorite raspberry Danish. The elevator
dinged, and the doors glided open to reveal shiny inlaid walls and a plush carpeted floor. He pressed a button, willing this self-service beauty to whisk him to the forty-second floor.