Storymania - This Little Piggy by Matt Crisci

This Little Piggy (21)
Matt Crisci

“Thank you my dear.”
Ruthie’s expression became a touch serious.
“And what about you, my dear?”
“What about what?” said Sandra, not sure what Ruthie was alluding to.
“Have you been enjoying your new life as the wife of a fast-track entrepreneur?”
“It’s definitely different,” responded Sandra. “I notice Michael is totally consumed. To be perfectly honest, our quiet little dinners feel more like a sales pitch.”
“That’s understandable. He’s actually selling himself as much as he is selling you.”
Sandra felt Ruthie had been there and done that.
“Why does he need to do that?”
“Entrepreneurs, by their nature are very insecure. They try to run faster than everybody because they don’t want to be caught. They don’t want to be found out. Only those real close ever discover the paradox. He needs your support. But he can’t simply ask. He’s got to convince you on your terms.”
“Michael’s never been the insecure type.”
“Trust me, they’re all the same,” said Ruthie confidently.
                                                                              *
“BABY, I’M SO GLAD WE MEET THE KUGLE’S AND FORSTMAN’S. At least I feel there are some normal people in this ITI movie.
“And, wait to you meet Phil. He’s a doll. The trick is to stick with the good guys,’ joked Michael.
“Does that include you?”
Michael was stunned by the insight behind the question. His insecurity bred silence.
Sandra sensed the need to lighten things up.
“Baby, don’t pout. That was a joke. Mommy is right behind you, all the way.”
*
“THE PRIVATE PLACEMENT memorandum looks fabulous,” said Scarborough. “You guys must have really burned the midnight oil, getting everybody to agree to extensions and all.”
“Thanks for noticing. Sandra doesn’t understand this part. All she says is ‘what do you and Tom do all the time?’”
“Unfortunately, the next few weeks won’t be much better.”
“Pourqoi?” asked Michael flaunting his entire French vocabulary.
“I’ve been working on road show dates with key Whitlaw & Company investors in Los Angeles and New York. The response has been gratifying. We’ve got full houses at every stop. And I’m still working on meetings in Columbus, Minneapolis, Chicago and Atlanta. So you and Bob are going to be busy boys.”
“New York and Los Angeles I understand. But why those other places?” asked Michael.
“Typical New Yorker,” chuckled Scarborough. “Believe it or not, there’s a lot of money outside of the two coasts. You do know more than 98% of the population lives outside Manhattan and Beverly Hills.”
“I’ve heard,” smiled Michael.
Scarborough then explained after a year of extraordinary volatility thanks to the collapse of hundreds of Dotcom companies, the market was beginning to stabilize. There was renewed interest in emerging growth companies that had a clear ‘path to profitability,’ which was how Whitlaw & Company characterized ITI.
“Just keep in mind our institutional investors are a unique breed,” continued Scarborough.
“How so?”
“There’s no short answer to that one. It’s probably wise to give you their profile. How about we mix some business with pleasure?”
“What do you mean? said Michael.
“I’ve heard such nice things about Sandra. Why don’t the two of you come over for dinner Saturday evening. We’ll put her mind at ease about your whereabouts for the next fourteen days and discuss my investors in some detail.”
“Honey, it’s quite a complement to be invited to a dinner at Phil’s home. He’s one of the most influential figures on Wall Street.”
Sandra was full of the important, unanswerable questions. “What should I wear? What should we bring? Who else will be there?”
Mr. Sensitive had the predictable macho response. “God, wear whatever you wear. Bring whatever you want. You’re the social director,” said Michael.
Sandra persisted. “What do you think about the outfit I wore to the Kugle’s ?”
“Do you really want to wear the same thing again? Michael asked, “Suppose Tom and Joy are there? Why don’t you splurge and buy yourself a new outfit. Remember you’re now a multi-millionaire. You might want to act the part.”
Riverside Drive and the West 90’s was eight solid blocks of elegant four-story carved stone residences with lead glass windows, pointy spires and carved gargoyles and spectacular views of the Hudson River. Equally impressive was the distinct absence of traffic and street noises. As Scarborough was fond of saying, ‘minutes from midtown, miles from the madness.’
Scarborough greeted Sandra and Michael warmly. A glass of champagne later, Sandra had the same warm fuzzy vibes she used to get around A&G Chairman Ed Ney. And, she sensed Scarborough was also very fond of her Michael.
“How about a little tour before dinner?”
The rooms were as gracious and comfortable as Scarborough. “These Kadinsky’s are my pride and joy,” pointing to two stunning canvases sitting over the mantle places in the living and dining rooms. The seventeen rooms were a study in contrasts. Restored antique 18th and 19th Century furniture surrounded by enough modern art to double the size of the Guggenheim—Dali, Picasso, Johns, and Warhol were all in attendance.
“Phil, your children and grandchildren must enjoy this wonderful home.”
“Actually I’m what’s known in married circles as a ‘confirmed bachelor.’ Never been married and at this stage it’s unlikely I ever will.”
“Never? Unlikely? My goodness I’ve got a half a dozen girls friends that would love to meet you.”
“Not that I haven’t been in love,” said Scarborough in a disarmingly wistful tone. “Irene and I did everything together. She was the perfect soul mate. Sometimes when Michael talks about you it brings Irene back in Technicolor.”
Sandra was flattered yet uncomfortable. She wanted to know but did not dare to ask.
Scarborough filled in the blanks. “Ten years up in smoke when that car crashed into us. I wonder sometimes…why her and not me? Anyway that was along time ago. Tonight is a kind of celebration.”
“Celebration of what?” asked Michael.
“Sandra, I’m not sure how much Michael has told you about the ITI saga.”
“Bits and pieces here and there. Michael has always preferred to separate family from business. But frankly, I am curious. I thought the hours he spent at A&J were intense. What do you fellas do all those days and nights?”
Scarborough looked at Michael. “Do you mind?”
“Sandra, I’ll spare you the sordid details. But your husband’s been a real trooper. If it wasn’t for him I’m not sure Whitlaw & Company would still be in this deal.”
Scarborough then did the entire highlight reel….the good, the bad and the ugly.
Sandra was horrified. An almost apologetic Wall Street powerhouse was calmly articulating her worse fears.
Finally some reassurance.
“Sandra, despite our little bumps in the road we are making progress. During the next two weeks Michael and Bob will be traveling around the country on what we call a ‘road show.’”
She smiled. “Sounds like a Vaudeville routine.”
“In a way it is. Your husband and Bob will be explaining the ITI vision and its prospects to my Firm’s best institutional customers to persuade them to invest in the Company. These are companies run by high new worth individuals that see deals before they go the general public.”
Sandra felt comfortable enough to be blunt. “So how do you feel about their prospects?”
“I’m feeling very good about this road show. They’re playing to packed houses. We’ve had tremendous preliminary interest in the deal. So unless Bob does a Bob…”
Sandra interrupted. “So you don’t think Michael made a mistake leaving his career A&J?”
“Jeees, Louise,” said an embarrassed Michael.
Scarborough nodded at Michael, as if to say ‘it’s okay.’
“Sandra, that’s hard for me to answer because I have no frame of reference. But I can tell you this. You two will eventually be very, very rich and free to do whatever you want.”
Scarborough gave Sandra the answer she wanted to hear.
“Enough business for one night. Let’s celebrate our forthcoming victory.”
Michael escorted Sandra and Michael to a carved stone wine cellar, which occupied most of the first floor. The room, a perfect fifty-six degrees, was cluttered with dusty labels from legendary vintners: Chateau Margaux, Mouton Rothschild, Chateau Beychevelle, Calgon Segur and Haut Brion. The vintages: the best of the best—1945, 61 and 69.
“Collecting wine is my passion,” said Scarborough modestly as Michael gasped at the inventory. “Henri has prepared Beef Wellington as the entree and a carpaccio medley for the first course. So I think something light, perhaps a sixty-one St. Emillion for the carpaccio and maybe a forty-seven Margaux for the Wellington. How does that sound?”
“Wow! A nineteen-forty-seven!” said Michael. “ Shouldn’t you save that for a special occasion?”
“This is a special occasion,” said Scarborough looking warmly at Sandra.
“Thank you, Phil.”
The meal was sensational, the wine exquisite and the conversation engaging and non-stop. Scarborough volunteered he began in academia and eventually planned to return. Perhaps as the dean of a business school. But not just yet—there was too much money yet to be made. Dinner ended somewhere after 3 a.m. As they left, Scarborough handed Michael a thick manila folder that contained incredibly detailed profiles of every road show investor.
“Michael, as promised, here’s a little weekend reading.”
The dinner made Sandra unabashedly comfortable. The following week while Michael was out of town she spent a small fortune on new rugs and carpets, and made arrangements to have the putting green installed. A surprise birthday present from his ‘Queen of Gifts.’

                                                                  #########

Chapter 19.
Hotel California

FOR SOME INEXPLICABLE REASON, the day before leaving for LA, Michael decided—over Sandra’s protests—to alter the flow of the waterfall at the pool by rearranging two large rocks.
Straining mightily he managed to move the first rock. As he bent over to push the second, a bolt of pain shot down his back causing him to collapse. Unable to move, he called Sandra on his cell phone. “Honey, we’ve got a bit of a problem. I just pulled something in my back. I’m lying by the waterfall. I can’t move.”
Nurse Martini appeared moments later. “You look like a damn beached whale. What in the world made you do something so stupid the day before the road show?”
“Honey, I appreciate the lecture but I’m in a lot of pain. Get a doctor, an ambulance. Something.”
A few minutes later, Michael’s next store neighbor and orthopedic surgeon, Doctor Joe, was chuckling over his prognosis. “Sandra, our weekend warrior strained his back. Three or four days in bed and a bunch of aspirin should get him back into action.”
Nurse Martini then called the local volunteer fire department and asked for a favor---two strong men and a stretcher---to carry Michael the 300 or so yards up the hill to his bedroom.
“You moron, you’d better call Bob,” said Sandra, sensitively sticking the phone in Michael’s face.
“Bob, this is Michael.”
“I was just going to call you to make sure you had the latest PowerPoint presentation on the laptop for the trip,” said Bob.
“Bob, we have a bit of a problem here.”
“What?”
“I can’t go.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I sprained my back pretty bad. I’m laid up in bed.”
“Christ, get the hell up!”
“Bob, I fucking can’t. Do you want Sandra on the phone for validation?”
“All those investors. Shit, Phil will be furious.”
“Bob, you’ll just have to do the first meetings by yourself.”
Bob in a moment of candor said, “Michael I’ve had a few problems in LA in the past. I can’t play solo. I need you.”
“Bob, I….”
“Not to worry Michael, I’ve got an idea.”
“An idea about what?”
“Just wait right there.”
“No problem,” said Michael sarcastically, “I’m not going skydiving till about 6 p.m.”
Thirty minutes later two guys who looked like they carried trucks on their back for a living were pounding on the front door.
“Mrs. Martini? Mr. Goldstrom sent us to get Mr. Martini. He’s made an emergency appointment with Dr. Vedderman, a back specialist, in New York City. Where might we find Mr. Martini?”
Sandra pointed down the hall. Before she could say much more, the two aids gently secured him to a hardwood stretcher and carefully loaded him into the ambulance.
Forty minutes later, the ambulance screeched to a halt in front of Dr. Vedderman’s street level office at 555 Park Avenue between 55th and 56th Street. At the nurse’s insistence, Michael was lifted off the stretcher and placed in a cold steel chair in the middle of the doctor’s office.
Michael moaned like a dying whale.
“I know it’s uncomfortable Mr. Martini. Just be patient. The doctor has dropped his other cases and will be here momentarily.”
Sixty seconds passed. For Michael, an eternity. The door swung open and a little gray haired man, in the obligatory white coat, no more than five feet tall walked into the room. His face was weathered and wrinkled. He also sported a large brown wart on the side of his nose and two steely dark brown eyes topped with thick bushy brows.
“I’m Doctor Vedderman, vheere does it hurt?” he said in a thick German accent.
“Center of my back and down my leg. I can’t move.”
The Doctor told Michael to relax, that everything would be all right. There were no further questions. No examination. The Doctor simply turned his back to Michael and began working at a table.
“I’ll be right with you. Start counting backwards from sixty out loud,” said the Doctor.
“Sixty….forty-five, forty-four…” at about thirty-seven the Doctor turned around and looked directly at Michael. He had foot-long barbeque skewers masquerading as flexible medicinal rods in each pudgy hand. A wet cotton ball sat at one end and spiral handles at the other. On the table was a dark brown tinted bottle full of fluid.
“Now Mr. Martini just relax, this will not hurt. Lean your head all the way back on the headrest.”
Michael was fucking terrified!
The doctor slowly and gently slid the first skewer all the way down Michael’s nose. Moments later only the little curly handle was visible. The doctor then slid the second skewer down the other nostril.
“See, that didn’t hurt did it? How do vee feel?”
Michael noticed the pain had dramatically subsided.
“Let’s talk for a few minutes, I vant you to get up and sit in my waiting room for another fifteen minutes. We remove the treatment rods when I call you. Yah?”
Michael was ecstatic. “Jesus doc, I can’t believe how much better I feel already. We’ve got to make a notation of this treatment in my medical records for my regular physician.”
“Oh, don’t vorry about records.” None of Dr. Vedderman’s patients had medical records.
About a minute later Michael rose from the chair under his own power and walked into a modestly furnished waiting room, where the walls were covered with original 19th Century Hudson Valley American Realist landscapes.
Two other patients sat quietly with skewers sticking out of their noses. Both looked vaguely familiar.
“I don’t mean to be bother you sir, but I’m a huge hockey fan. Did anybody ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for Ranger Captain Phil Esposo?”
“Maybe there’s a reason,” said the man with a ruddy completion, square jaw and full head of dark wavy hair.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Michael.
“I am Phil Esposo.”
“Obviously, this is your first time,” said the gorgeous brunette with red highlights.
      “Yes.”
“Do you like my husband’s music as much as you like the Rangers?”
Esposito chuckled.
Michael realized he was talking to super model Angelina Mosman, wife of superstar recording artist, James Braxton.
As the three sat with skewers poking out of their nostrils, Michael tried to make conversation. “This is the first time my back has acted up. What about you guys?”
They both just looked at Michael as if he was from the planet Pluto. Moments later each was called into Dr. Vedderman’s office and then disappeared into waiting limos.
Vedderman removed the skewers from Michael. “Doc, you saved my live. I have an important trip tomorrow across the country. Do you think I can make it?”
“No problem. I would suggest however you return for treatments once a week for about three weeks. After you’re conditioned, we can schedule treatments as often as you like.”
“Great. I’ll make an appointment when I return. I’ll just work around my schedule.”
“You don’t need to do that,” said the Doctor. “I make house calls twenty-four hours a day. I bring the treatment to you. I work with some of New York’s busiest people, I understand schedules.”

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