Santa Monica Airport, California.
The heat rolled off the Pacific Ocean in shimmering waves, dancing across the private jet apron. A black stretch Lincoln glided onto the concrete, coming to a halt in front of an independent VIP terminal.
Smith, the aircraft broker, straightened his vibrant Hermès tie. His smile was more brilliant than the California sun—the curated smile of a white elite salesman with porcelain-white teeth and an aura of expensive cologne.
As Fujita Tsuyoshi stepped out to open the rear door, another guard unfurled a black umbrella to shade the passengers. Two Asian girls emerged: one an elegant porcelain doll in a trench coat and wide-brimmed hat, the other carrying a heavy technical manual.
In Smith's eyes, they weren't children; they were two Statues of Liberty forged from pure gold.
In 1988, for the American business world, there was only one god: the Japanese. They were walking wallets. They bought Van Gogh's Sunflowers, the Pebble Beach Golf Links, and were currently eyeing Rockefeller Center. No broker would risk racial discrimination against a checkbook that could buy their entire company.
"Oh! Miss Saionji!" Smith shouted in clumsy Japanese, "Konnichiwa! Welcome to America!"
Satsuki removed her sunglasses, revealing a sweet, disarming smile. "Hello, Mr. Smith. The sunshine here is truly wonderful."
"The California sun was prepared just for you!" Smith gestured toward the hangar. "I heard you want a 'big toy'? I have the finest one in the world ready for you."
Smith led them past the streamlined modern jets to the center of the hangar, where a Boeing 727 stood, painted in gaudy gold lines.
"A ride worthy of Elvis Presley!" Smith boasted, leading them up the gangway.
Inside, the cabin was a fever dream of nouveau riche excess. There were no rows of seats—only a massive reception room. The deep red Persian carpet felt like it would swallow one's ankles. Every buckle, reading light, and faucet was plated in gold. At the center sat a neon-lit bar and a circular water bed covered in leopard-print sheets.
"The Versailles of the Skies!" Smith patted a leather sofa. "Imagine the parties at thirty thousand feet!"
Satsuki touched a gold faucet, letting out a soft exclamation. "Wow, what beautiful gold. This style reminds me of a Las Vegas casino."
Smith beamed, thinking it a compliment. "Top Hollywood designers! We used twenty kilograms of gold!"
Satsuki's smile remained, but her eyes were cold. She stroked the heavy marble bar. "But Mr. Smith, with all this marble and gold, do the engines... 'run out of breath' during takeoff?"
Smith's smile stiffened. "It's a Boeing 727! The weight is for comfort! For prestige!"
Satsuki turned to Emi, who was frowning at the aircraft's maintenance logs. "Emi, what do you think?"
Emi pushed up her glasses. In this room of perfume and gold, she looked like a surgeon examining a tumor.
"Saionji-san... the airframe life exceeds 25 years. The avionics are analog. And because of the gold and marble, the empty weight has increased by 15%."
Emi looked Smith dead in the eye. "The thrust-to-weight ratio has plummeted. Fuel consumption is 1.5 times normal. Because the pressurization is aging, it can't fly above thirty thousand feet—which means a 45% probability of hitting heavy turbulence."
Satsuki pouted. "So, if I were sleeping on that water bed, I'd be bounced off? And to fly to Tokyo, I'd have to stop twice to refuel?"
Cold sweat broke out on Smith's forehead. He had tried to dump his most expensive "stale stock"—a fuel-guzzling, gilded scrap heap—on a "fat sheep." He hadn't expected a teenage girl to read aviation parameters like a pro.
"Interrupted sleep is the enemy of beauty, Mr. Smith," Satsuki said, turning to leave. "The smell of gold dust here is too heavy. Let's go, Emi."
Back on the apron, Smith scrambled to save the deal. "Wait! I have a Challenger! A Falcon!"
Satsuki ignored him, her gaze locking onto a silver-grey aircraft in the corner. It was long, streamlined, with swept-back wings and two massive Rolls-Royce engines. It was a Gulfstream G4, the pinnacle of late-80s engineering.
"I want that one," Satsuki said, pointing a gloved finger.
Smith's heart sank. The G4 was "hard currency." It was sought after, its price was transparent, and the commission was low. Most importantly, it was already promised to a Middle Eastern prince.
"Miss Saionji, that's a G4. The fastest in the world. But it's reserved. A prince from the Middle East takes delivery next week. The contract is signed."
Satsuki ignored the refusal and walked to the wing, feeling the cold metal. "Emi?"
"Service ceiling 45,000 feet—above the weather," Emi recited, eyes sparkling. "Mach 0.85. Range 7,800 kilometers. With a tailwind, it can fly Los Angeles to Tokyo non-stop. And the pressurization keeps the cabin at sea-level pressure. You won't feel jet-lagged."
Satsuki nodded. She turned to Smith. "True luxury isn't a gold toilet or leopard print. It is absolute control over one's time and walking on level ground while high in the clouds."
"But the prince..." Smith stuttered.
"Mr. Smith," Satsuki interrupted gently. "With the recent drop in oil prices, the prince's payments haven't been very prompt, have they?"
Smith froze. He was hit dead center. Crude oil futures had plummeted, and the prince had delayed his final payment twice.
Fujita stepped forward, tapping his briefcase.
"Rather than clinging to a dying contract," Satsuki said, her dark eyes flashing, "why not take a cashier's check for the full amount right now and celebrate being sales champion?"
VIP Lounge.
Inside, away from the heat and noise, Smith regained his composure. He crossed his legs, putting on his "shrewd businessman" face.
"A contract is a game of reputation, Miss Saionji. A unilateral breach would cost me dearly in the industry. It's a loss that's hard to measure with money."
Satsuki didn't blink. She knew the game. "Everyone is busy, Mr. Smith. Let's not beat around the bush."
She took a checkbook from Fujita and wrote a string of numbers. "A 20% premium over the list price. In cash. No loans, no installments. A Citibank cashier's check you can verify right now."
She pushed the check across the marble table. $21,600,000.
At that time, the exchange rate was approximately 130 JPY to 1 USD, making the purchase worth roughly 2.8 billion yen.
Smith's pupils contracted. The 20% premium alone was nearly $4 million—enough for a mansion on Malibu Beach. In the face of $21 million in cash, "reputation" was a negotiable adjective.
"Deal," Smith said, his professional smile returning with genuine warmth. "That prince is indeed overdue. The G4 belongs to someone who knows how to appreciate it."
He stood and extended his hand. Satsuki didn't stand; she simply shook his fingertips.
"Handle the paperwork, Mr. Smith. Livery and legalities."
"Three days," Smith promised, his eyes gleaming with the reflection of the check. "In seventy-two hours, she will be on the runway, as compliant as the President's Air Force One."