Storymania - This Little Piggy by Matt Crisci

This Little Piggy (22)
Matt Crisci

The waiting limo whisked Michael back to Connecticut. As he walked in the door, Sandra was amazed.
“Jesus, what happened to you?”
Michael then explained the skewers, the treatment and the brown bottle.
Sandra knew immediately. “Oh, I’ve heard about that.”
“Hear about what?”
“Liquid cocaine non-invasively applied directly to the spinal column.”
“Liquid cocaine!”
Sandra calmed her hypochondrical husband, “Oh honey, its no big deal, the treatment is used for post-partem pain all the time.” Like Bob, she didn’t want Michael to disappoint Scarborough. Besides, they were installing the putting green next week. He had to go!
“The trick with spinal cocaine is to minimize re-treatment, because it can become addictive,” said Sandra reassuringly.
                                                                            *
THE L.A. ROAD SHOW was vintage Hollywood. The shaded patio of the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel was jammed with thirty-two casual entertainment types in their $800 Marciano Italian silk shirts and $400 Gucci shoes sucking down papaya and carrot juice and munching on fresh figs and mangos.
The celebrity regulars, Jason Alexander and Kelsey Grammer, were forced to relinquish their regular tables, making them all the more curious.
Bob screamed outsider in his custom-made English tailored blue pin striped suit with modified single-breasted lapels.
“What are you auditioning for? The sequel to Wall Street?” Cackled a razor thin figure with a gray mustache and oily tan. “ Didn’t you get the word? Michael Douglas said ‘no sequel’ five years ago.”
“Gentlemen,” said Scarborough to the all-male gathering, “I want to thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules.”
“Like Herb gave us a choice!” chided an anonymous voice in the crowd.
“He was just concerned about your social security years,” bantered Scarborough. “A couple of million each in this deal and you’ve got lunch money after the next box office bomb and the next box office bomb.”
Everybody howled.
Bob and Michael were about ten minutes into their dog ‘n pony show when the
crowd---weaned on one-page storyline pitch sheets for $50 million movies---grew impatient.
“Enough already. I get it,” teased another. “I’ve got six thousand reels of studio turkeys. Can you find me buyer? Maybe Antarctica? I’ll take payment in crushed ice for my martini bar.”
Bob whispered in Michael’s ear, “This is one tough audience. Just roll with the punches. When they focus we’ll go for the close.”
As if on cue, the crowd got serious.
“All kidding aside—what was your name?” said a forty something, tanned, slicked back hair type staring directly at Michael.
“Michael.”
“Michael, what is your projected annual return on investment?”
“As you know, an early stage business typically takes twenty-four to thirty-six months to break even.”
“Not in Hollywood!” came a response followed by more kibitzing.
“I understand that,” said an unflustered Michael. “That’s why an ITI investment should look pretty damn attractive. Our acquisition of successful operating companies means substantial revenues and profits in year one. It’s also a pretty good bet that the good will allocations will be more than offset by the increased revenues derived from operating synergies and elimination of functional duplication.”
Michael sounded impressive. The crowd offered one last shot: “Do your projections incorporate your obscene salaries?”
Bob became noticeably offended. Michael chuckled.
“Yes they do. But that begs another question. Where do you guys hide your obscene salaries when you create those share-of-profits contracts every star bitches about?”
“I’m curious about the answer myself,” said Seinfield’s Jason Alexander, now standing in the corner.
Everybody was crowing and pounding on the tables.
The nightclub act was about to end. Scarborough stepped in for the close. “Does anybody have any other questions about the business?”
There was silence.
“You all know the drill. This is an institutional sale. My assistant, Stan Shackman, will collect the individual commitments. We’ll then bundle them as studio investments. Any questions?”
“When do you expect the placement to fund?”
“About twenty-one days. So please keep that in mind when you wire transfer,” said Scarborough, now all business.
“Phil, can you give us a year one earnings estimate?”
“Frank, you know the rules.”
“Sorry. Let me rephrase the question. Based on past operating performance, I guestimate year one earnings will be between seventeen and twenty cents a share. Does that seem like a reasonable projection?”
“I would say so,” smiled Scarborough. The crowd cackled.
“I have one last question for Bob.”
The voice was Orem Luckler, the powerful studio exec who threw Bob out of a party after catching him trying to teach two of the studio’s prize starlets how to snort coke. Bob was terrified. Was he about to be embarrassed?
“I love the tailoring in your suit. Who made it?”
Bob posted a relieved grin. “Orem, I still use Edmund Sexton from Oxford Street in London.”
“I heard he’s gotten pricey.”
“Well, he makes suits for the Royal Family now. If you had that pedigree wouldn’t you charge a few bob more for your goods? Fact is he’s still the best.”
Michael sensed the tone was decidedly friendly so he made one last pitch.
“As you gentlemen well know, going first class generally costs a few dollars more. That’s what makes ITI such a unique investment opportunity. Participation in this private placement means you get the best and at a discount to market.”
      *
THE NOONDAY SUN WAS burning brightly at the Beverly Hills Hotel pool. The place was abuzz with agents, starlets and business types wanting to be seen.
“So Phil, how did we do?” said Bob sipping a Bloody Mary in one of the VIP tented cabanas.
“Well, I haven’t talked to everybody but Orem and a few of the other big hitters are in. So it looks good…. very good…at least here in LA.”
“Bring on Minneapolis!” said Michael.
“Fellas, I just got a call from Herb. I’ve got to go back to New York on the redeye tonight. Just remember the key player in Minneapolis is Emmet Jacobs. He knows the liquidation basis, so you should be fine—particularly since you’ve got an extra night to rest up.”
Michael decided to take a nap in the cabana as Bob searched for some action. Ten minutes later Michael fell into a deep sleep while Bob began chatting up two blond starlets with bodies that could generate an instant hard-on.
“You girls up for dinner tonight?” said Bob, thinking ménage et trios.
“Could be,” says the shapely, statuesque Sherrie.
“How do I turn ‘could be’ into definitely?”
“Find a companion for my friend Barbee.”
“Well, I was thinking that…”
“ I know what you were thinking, big boy,’ teased Sherrie, “ but the two of us are a bit much for one guy.”
“Can we negotiate?” said Bob.
“It’s non-negotiable.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” smiled Bob and his cigar. “ Girls, come on over to my cabana I’d like you to meet somebody.”
Bob, Sherrie and Barbee stood over a snoring Michael. “Barbee, give Michael a little hello kiss,” said Sherrie.
Barbee leaned as Bob said, “Michael, wake up. I’d like you to meet somebody.”
Michael woke up to Barbee’s tongue in his mouth. He was stunned and aroused. The group started chuckling.
“Michael, say hello to our dinner dates, Sherrie and Barbee.”
Michael attempted a half-hearted excuse, which Bob ignored. After seventeen years of marital fidelity he was wracked with guilt. At the same time he was just a man and a unique opportunity had deposited itself in his mouth. Michael became increasingly social.
“Girls, how about a drink, so we can get to know each other better. I hate dining with strangers,” said Bob.
“I quite agree,” said Barbee giving Michael the once over.
“They make great Cosmo’s here,” said Michael.
Michael picked up the phone inside the cabana. “Lars, we’d like to place a drink order. Two Cosmo’s, light on the Triple Sec and two Bloodies, heavy on the Belvedere.”
A few minutes later, a luxuriously tanned, sculptured middle-aged guy without an ounce of body fat, dressed in white shorts, appeared with the drinks. “So nice to see you again, Mr. Martini. The house account I assume?”
Michael nodded. Bob glared. Naive, green Michael had a fucking house account at the Beverly Hills? Something was wrong with this picture.
“By the way Mr. Martini, John is here today. As I recall, he was your favorite masseuse. Shall I make arrangements?”
“Not today, Lars.” Michael paused. “Girls, how about you? John gives a great massage?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Barbee.
Michael sensed he had just confirmed a massage of his own for later that evening!
Bob watched Michael’s act in utter disbelief.
“So what does Bob do for you, Mr. Martini?” said Sherrie trying to make conversation.
Michael smiled. “Actually, he doesn’t work for me, we’re more like partners. And, please I’m Michael.”
“Like in eighty-twenty partners?” smiled Barbee, confident Michael was being modest.
The girls met the boys in the lounge about seven, had a few drinks, then headed for La Masionette on Santa Monica Avenue. As dinner concluded Michael said, “How about a nightcap at the Polo Lounge? I have a surprise for everybody.”
Even Bob wondered what the fuck was next. As the foursome walked past the fireplace in the lobby, Michael took a sharp left onto the path behind the Polo Lounge where a few opulent bungalows had been discretely tucked away for the movie star set since the 1940’s. Michael walked up to the largest one, a two story job, put a key in the door, and waved his hands at the girls, “Me ladies, welcome to your castle for the evening.”
The girls were about to have an orgasm—but Michael wasn’t finished. Almost immediately, a waiter carrying two bottles of Dom ’87, appeared at the door.
“Put one in each of the bedrooms,” directed Michael. And then with a final stroke of bravado, he handed the waiter a fifty-dollar tip. As Barbee shut the door she noticed a handsome couple enter the adjoining bungalow.
“Do you know who our neighbors are? said Barbee. “Fucking Alec Baldman and Kim Coltrain. I can’t believe it. I was that close to fucking Alec Baldman and Kim Coltrain.”
Barbee started to unbutton her blouse as she grabbed Michael’s hand.
“Michael, where is our bedroom? Barbee is going to make this a night you’ll never forget.”
At 3:30 a.m. an exhausted Barbee fell fast asleep. Michael quietly slid out of bed and went into the living room to make a call.
“Good morning, honey. I just thought I’d say hello before you went to work.”
“Michael, how sweet. But what time is it out there?”

                                                              #########

Chapter 20.
Marty Slime-Bucket

“SAM, WE’RE GETTING CLOSE,” said Edleberg. The boys tell me the road shows went well. “You’ve got to be here on November 3rd at 10 a.m. to pick up your check.”
“Bout goddamn time.”
“Bob and Michael must be panting to get the deal closed. I’m pretty sure we can put the screws to them one last time. Anything on your wish list?”
“Marty, they’re not bad guys. Give ‘em, a break. You did just fine. We’ve got a great purchase price, all the cash out and I’m off the personal credit guarantee in twenty-four months.”
“Twenty-four months? Sam, it’s a year.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry Marty. When Michael came out with the extension, I agreed to give them the extra twelve months breathing room. Michael said…”
“Son-of-a-bitch. The little fucker sneaked that one by me,” said an enraged Edleberg.
‘Easy, Marty its not that big a deal.”
To Edleberg it was a huge deal. He was the fucker, never the fuckee.
“Okay, so it’s twenty-four months. But suppose we reduce the size of your personal guarantee from fifteen million to seven and a half million.”
“Jesus, Marty, give them a break, will ya? How are they going to do deals if they don’t have the lines? I want them to succeed. Remember my name is in this thing.”
Edleberg persisted. He wanted his pound of flesh. “How about a few more perks so you don’t take a dime out of your pocket?”
“Like what?”
“How about unlimited travel and entertainment and limos for you and the family?” said Edleberg.
“That’s pretty Mickey Mouse.”
“Sam, I just gotta get you something after that curveball. Sam Nachman doesn’t let people walk all over him.”
Nachman knew Edleberg was talking about Edleberg. Nachman had other more important concerns.
“Who’s negotiating for Fred? He seems absolutely determined to transfer those barter credit liabilities. Could fuck up the whole deal.”
“ Dan Boyar was originally supposed to. But Fred has asked me to step in. He doesn’t think Dan’s got the balls.”
“Probably right.”
“You okay with me handling it?” said Edleberg relishing the idea of having two shots at Michael.
“Babe, you’re the best. If it was my call, I’d have you turn the final screws for Foreman too,” laughed Nachman.
“Fuck Foreman. They told Kugle they don’t want anything. A deal is a deal.”
“What kind of stupid shit is that?” said Nachman.
“I know, I know.”
                               *
THE ‘FINAL DETAILS’ MEETING at Delano Mondrain Hudson the afternoon before the closing degenerated into a violent bitter screaming and yelling session that lasted well into the middle of the night.
The conference table was littered with papers, stained coffee cups, rancid paper plates and wilted scraps of food. On one side of the table sat Edleberg with his collar open, tie dangling and dark rings under his eyes. To his left sat an exhausted, bored Nachman and a fresh, alert Tothson. To his right sat the lusty blonde para-legal, Christine, her shapely legs protruding through the huge slit in the front of her skirt, squirmed restlessly. Across the table sat the ITI contingent—Kugle, Scarborough, Bob and Michael. Scarborough was angry, Kugle appalled and Michael and Bob in an elevated state of shock.
The clock on the wall read 3:30 a.m.
“Fellas, fellas, what Sam and Fred are asking is not unreasonable under the circumstances,” began Edleberg, for perhaps the twentieth time. “Let’s review Sam’s situation. The purchase price of twelve million is eminently reasonable given the almost two million per annum in historical earnings. And, we’re not quibbling about the additional twelve months you guys weaseled out of him on the personal guarantee. But we respectfully suggest providing the limo and family travel is just intelligent business. I would think you want him in a positive frame of mind after the closing. No?”
Vehement protests had produced nothing, so Scarborough switched gears. “Sam, for goodness sake, you’re the world’s most successful liquidator, a part owner of the one of the NBA’s most successful franchises, a world class poker player and an entrepreneurial legend. How can you be so Mickey Mouse at the last minute? I didn’t think that was your style.”
Scarborough had managed to simultaneously massage Nachman’s enormous ego and tastefully embarrass him—in front of everybody.

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