Storymania - This Little Piggy by Matt Crisci

This Little Piggy (13)
Matt Crisci

selected key accounts or geographical areas where we are not allowed to sell the inventories.”
      “Fine, I get it,” said Bob, a bit embarrassed. “We’ll make sure it’s phrased to your satisfaction in the draft contract. Are there any other issues?”
       “Funding my pension.”
       Jerry explained he had a paid-up-in-twenty plan with only four more annual premiums before it became fully funded. “I expect ITI to guarantee those payments at closing.”
      “How much?” asked Bob.
      “Two hundred and fifty thousand a year.”
      “Ouch! That’s a rich pension plan for a company your size. My shareholders will balk like crazy,” said Bob, pulling out all the stops in front of Michael. “We could open ourselves to demands from the other acquisitions to say nothing of…”
      “Take it or leave it,” Jerry laughed. “No skin off my nose.”
      “I’ll talk this over with our Advisory Board,” said Bob.
      “Talk to whoever you want,” said Jerry. “The pension plan is not up for
negotiation.”
                                                                       *
       A FEW DAYS LATER, Bob and Michael explained the pending acquisition deals to Ray and Jesse Dothan.
       “Each one’s got its own wrinkle. The Foreman deal has a mother of a pension obligation. Nachman wants all cash to buy the business plus the existing inventories. Tothson wants all cash plus the existing inventory plus accumulated earnings,” complained Bob, trying to save face. “The greed of those crooked bastards. These deals are effectively ‘zero net worth’ transactions.”
    Michael just listened; he had a feeling Bob knew what he was thinking.
    “Pay the fuckers what they want,” said Ray. “Who cares? Once we get them in the fold, we have a great story for The Street.”
     “Absolutely,” said Jesse firmly. “Where are we on the acquisitions?”
     “We’re working through the issues,” said Bob.
     “What issues?” she shot back. “The stock closed at three and a half yesterday on the basis of hearsay. When these pro formas hit... Whamo!”
       “Yes, but…,” said Bob awkwardly. “These are not the kind of people I’d invite home to dinner.”
       “Earth to Bob,” Jesse lost her patience, “I don’t give a shit who you’d invite anywhere. Get the fucking acquisition agreements signed!”
                                                                     *
       THE PRESSURES OF DEALMAKING was like an aphrodisiac to horny Bob.
     “Let’s swing by the office and see how it’s going.”
     “You do that,” said an exhausted Michael. “I’m heading home. You can reach me on the cell phone.”
     Bob craved a nooner. Preferably with Astrid.
    “Got a little something for my favorite trainer. There was this little shop on Madison Avenue,” said Bob handing her a small box wrapped in red foil with a gold bow and sporting the prestigious Hermés logo. “How about a workout at my place?”
     To Bob, Astrid was just another trophy, a commodity created to satisfy his enormous sexual appetite.
     To Astrid the noontime fuck was merely a means to an end—being crowned ‘lady of the Goldstrom house’. She saw Bob as rich, powerful and single. A very attractive Prince Charming, despite his obvious flaws.
     “Bob, the gift is thoughtful. Really wonderful. But I want to be more than a midday snack. I want to be the main course.”
      Bob was easy, tell them what they want to hear. “Baby, I understand. How about a nice quiet dinner at my place followed by a candlelight workout?”
      Astrid felt like Cinderella, until later that night. They ate and drank and make mad passionate love until an exhausted Bob fell into a deep sleep. Astrid, anticipating more than an overnight stay, opened the dresser to place a few of her personal items in the top draw. There she found six more red foil boxes with gold bows and the Hermés logo.
     A bitter and deeply disappointed Astrid vowed to fuck Bob, like he had never been screwed before!

                                                                         *
THE NEXT MORNING, Michael still reeling from Bob’s round-the-clock pace, was barely awake at his desk when the phone rang.
    “So how are the new acquisitions meetings going?” asked Jack.
    “Goddamn it! How the hell do you know?” shouted Michael. “Who else does?”
  “Nobody, nobody. Don’t blow a gasket,” said Jack. “We needed some news bulletins for the field. The troops are getting restless.”
      “You think we’ve been sleeping or what?” asked Michael, setting up a leak of his own. “We’ve got a dozen new deals on the fire. I have no idea which will fall first.”
       “A dozen? Bobbie only mentioned four.”
       “That’s your goddamn problem, not mine.”
       “Be a little more sensitive, will you! The boiler-room boys can talk up a stock only so long, before the shit hits the fan. Thanks to me, ITI is approaching four bucks. You’re filthy rich already---so don’t sit back like fat cats and leave old Jack hanging.”
                                                                          *
ENOUGH WAS ENOUGH! IT WAS TIME. Michael walked into Bob’s office ready for a Shootout at OK Corral.
“I just got off the phone with the town crier,” said Michael in the proper hint of disgust.
“Who the hell is the town crier?”
“You’re buddy, Jack.”
“You didn’t tell him anything?”
“Tell him? He knew more than me. Bob’s let’s cut the innocent crap. I know you think I’m Mary Poppins. But in case you didn’t notice, Mary’s all grown up.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m starting to get the concept of leaks and spins while we build shareholder value.”
“Don’t say,” responded Bob in total disbelief.
“Look, I got into this because I bought the concept.”
“Good,” played Bob, “because we should be able to build a great company.”
“Bob, I don’t give two shits about building a great company. I left that naiveté at A&J. I bought into being filthy rich. If we need to pump Berger appropriate information or feed the Ray-Jesse PR machine, fine. But stop being such a goddamn hypocrite, telling me one thing and doing another. Then to add insult to injury, making like some innocent schmuck. It’s unbecoming such a first class promoter.”
“My, my, Michael. I figured you’d get there, everybody always does. I just didn’t think you’d get there so fast. Congratulations.”
Bob knew their relationship had just reached a new plateau. A new, more dangerous plateau.
                                                                          *
     THAT EVENING, AFTER DINNER, as Michael and Sandra snuggled in front of their crackling fireplace, Berger’s phrase of “filthy rich” seemed to dance with the flames, a hot little jig that would never run out of new steps.
“Michael, you look exhausted. Is baby alright?”
“I’m fine. I’ve just been working my ass off. Between the deals, the traveling, the meetings.”
“I want you to know, if you decided to go back to A&J, it’s okay with me. Money isn’t worth sacrificing our happiness.
Michael realized had been too candid. Even with the woman he loved unequovically.
    “Baby, I’d never sacrifice us for money. You’re the most important thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re my best friend. My ray of sunshine whenever it gets a little cloudy,”
Sandra melted. Michael kept pouring it on.
“Do you realize what’s happened in the last three months?” said Michael, pulling his wife close, “Our net worth has increased by twenty-four million dollars.”
    Sandra looked at him with eyes he swore he’d never seen before. Was she having as much trouble believing it as he was?
    “That’s fabulous,” she said. “But...”
    “No buts about it,” he said.
    “I still don’t get it,” she admitted. “Doesn’t the company have to do something for the stock to go up that fast?”
“That’s the great part about Wall Street. It doesn’t work that way. It’s like another world.”
“Huh?”
“Baby, let me see if I can explain it in plain English. We’re taking private companies like Mansfield and Nachman that don’t make anything, buying them with other people’s money, because they think ITI’s a sexy idea that other people will buy, so they can make money. And, the best part is the more people get excited, the more other people get excited, which makes the stock price go up and makes us richer.”
Sandra then surprised Michael. “But isn’t that all paper profits?”
“Yes, and no. That’s where we have the advantage as insiders. When we think the stock is as high as it will go, we just sell our positions.”
“And, this is all legal.”
“Trust me, baby, this has been going on as long as there has been money. And, it will be going on long after we leave here.”
“Michael, it’s scary. You’re starting to sound just like Bob,” responded Sandra.
“And, that’s bad?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure….yet.”

##########

Chapter 10.
Liberian Bullshit

      TOTHSON”S ATTORNEY BOB BOYAR called Bob Goldstrom the day after their meeting, sounding remarkably like Nachman on the squeeze.
       “Bob, now that our deal is pretty much done,” he said. “Fred wants you to meet with Al Peppard, the founder-CEO of the International Asset Group. He and Al had teamed on numerous overseas opportunities.”
      Bob was hesitant. And said that ITI was still in the early stages of a domestic acquisition.
     “Perhaps you missed my point,” stressed Boyar. “Fred thinks the international arena is relevant to ITI now. Remember, our contract isn’t signed yet.”
       Bob bit his lip. He was stuck. Tothson was now an important part of his earnings and sizzle story since Bob had already discreetly blasted the deal to Dothan, Berger and Marino.
       “I’d like to learn more,” he said. “Can you give me an example of a Tothson-Peppard deal?”
      “While I’m not that familiar with Al’s Company, I can outline a recent transaction.”
     “I’m all ears.”
     “Mack International, the industrial truck manufacturer, produced sixty-four huge eighteen-wheel trucks to build roads in northern Liberia. The buyer was the government,” Boyar explained. “The trucks were standard except for a more limited emission control system, typical of Third World countries. At the last minute, the Liberians reneged, unable to produce the hard currency leaving Mack with four million in highly specialized inventory.”
        “Al got the word through one of the banks he does business with, if you know what I mean.”
Bob smiled.
“The International Asset Group bought the trucks from Mack for four million in Mansfield barter credits, so they were happy because they booked a sale. IAG then turned around and sold the trucks to the Liberians for six million worth of unprocessed diamonds, which they had coming out their ears. Al then sold the sugar to Iceland for five million, who was happy because they got a fifteen per cent discount off the world market price. When the dust settled, Al and Fred split almost three million in profits after costs.”
       Bob loved it. This acquisition would put the “International” in Integrated Trading International a lot sooner than he had planned.
      “Al’s Asset Group is only two years old,” said Boyar. “The earnings stream will be lower. But so will the purchase price.”
       “How much lower are his earnings?” asked Bob.
       “Maybe a million annually over the first few years.”
       “With the right synergies and some capital,” said Bob enthusiastically. “I bet there’s significant growth potential. What does Al want?”
       “I don’t know,” said Boyar. “I’m not his attorney.”
       “Come on!” urged Bob. “You work with these guys.”
       “I assume he’d do a deal similar to Tothson,” said Boyar.
       Bob was being played, but he still owned the ball. Tothson wanted Peppard to cash out and had probably already drafted the International Asset Group term sheet. And it didn’t matter whether it was worth the paper it was printed on. An international acquisition, however small, would jack up ITI’s Street story. If he could keep feeding the buzz, his 100 million shares would soon be worth ten bucks apiece. He’d be a billionaire.
                              *
“MICHAEL, I THINK WE’VE GOT ANOTHER ONE,” Bob proudly announced the next morning.
“Let me guess. You found some guy who remarkets excess corpses to the Mafia to persuade retailers into buying family-based protection insurance.”
“Nothing that glamorous. But maybe we should have John do from preliminary candidate research,” joked Bob.
“So.”
“So, we’re going international a little sooner than planned.”
“International?”
“Turns out that Tothson has a party in international transactions, similar to Nachman-Tothson domestically. There’re not huge, but they’ve got a reasonable earnings trail.”
“Who’s done the due diligence?”
“Bob Boyar.”
“Boyar, like in Tothson’s attorney.”
“Ah, what webs we weave.”
“Let’s not get all philosophical on me,” chuckled Bob.
*

      IN A TAILORED ITALIAN SUIT, adorned with a yellow Malaysian carnation boutonniere (from his fiancée’s flower shop on 93rd and Madison), brown and white spats, and a burnished brown straw top hat, Al Peppard swaggered into ITI like he owned the place.
         “Please tell Mr. Goldstrom that Mr. Peppard is here for our scheduled meeting,” he proclaimed as if he were announcing royalty.
         “Fred’s told me all about ITI,” said Al, cutting off Bob before he even got started. “We’re on the same wave length.”
        Al then began pitching the International Asset Group, moving from Arabian oil to Lebanese dates to Mexican electronics to Moroccan wines. Bob and Michael sensed he was full of shit, but his rambling was fun to watch.
       “Should we agree on a deal, I think we can grow exponentially merely by having a presence in London and Brussels,” pushed Al, trying to sound as if he had been on transcontinental jets as often as he’d taken a taxis in Manhattan.
       “When you mention London,” said Bob, playing his own version of Trivial Pursuit. “I think of those wonderful dinners at Le Mar on Dugan Street.”
        “If you like classical French,” responded Al, more than up for the challenge. “I’d suggest Le Poisson on Evelyn Street, I find the menu a bit more inventive than Le Mar and the sauces lighter.”
        Bob was impressed. Michael was not.
       Al poured it on. “You strike me as a man who enjoys his night life. Do you have a favorite hangout in London?”
       “Harry’s Bar,” said Bob.
       “Fine place, but it’s gotten a bit touristy for my taste. The real happening spot is Annabelle’s.”
       “I thought that was a private club for London residents?”
       “It’s all a matter of who you know. Let’s get our deal done, then we’ll take a trip to Europe. I’ll introduce you to some of my contacts and we’ll show you a bit of the au courant social scene.”
       Michael wasn’t playing.
       “What kind of deals have you actually completed in Europe,” he asked pointblank.
       “Well, we did an interesting deal with Mack Truck…”
       “Dan and Fred already filled us in,” Michael cut him off. “Give us a few other examples. As you know, we were originally slated to focus domestically.”

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