No matter how old I was, it was still “going to work with Dad” except there was no Dad to go with me. Everyone knew who I was, though, on sight. I wore a conservative dark suit and tie. The sleeves covered my tattoos. I’d designed them that way, to remain hidden in business attire. When I visited, it raised eyebrows. The Heir didn’t often stop by. Maybe once or twice a year. Since I was eighteen I’d been meeting semi-regularly with the management. Amsel is privately held, so no board of directors, only employees. These old men worked for me. I signed in at the front desk. Amsel occupied the top three floors of a center city highrise. The whole building belonged to me, but our offices took up only the three floors. For the most part, when Amsel invested in something, a publicly traded company did the actual work. Amsel itself was only what’s called a holding company, owning the stock and directing with a light touch. For the better part of two hundred years, it worked. Amsel prospered by finding men of talent in fields of interest and funding them.
