This Little Piggy (26) “ Bob, I’m talking about coming in the side door. You’ve got to be subtle with The Journal.” Bob stared blankly. Subtlety was not part of his vocabulary. “For example, getting an ‘issues article’ published with your byline as CEO of the world’s first publicly traded international barter company couldn’t hurt.” The mouse began nibbling. “What would the article be about? How would we get something like that placed?” “Claxton Kekst,” said Melrose. “What’s Claxton Kekst?” said the wide-eyed Bob. “Sounds like a brand of Matzo wafers.” “Claxton Kekst is the most influential PR firm on The Street. He’ll know exactly how to position and write the story. And most importantly who to pitch at The Journal to get into print. Claxton has worked closely with me for seven years at Billingham. Why do you think people consider me an international banking expert? Don’t get me wrong, I know my stuff, but he has made me larger than life. People think I’m far more connected than I actually am. He’s New York’s reigning master of first class hype. Jack Welch, Ted Turner and Larry Tisch are all clients. “Aren’t we too small fry?” “I don’t think so. Matter of fact, I was telling him about you at dinner the other night.” “Really.” “He was intrigued. I sense if you guys have a chemistry match and we provide an appropriate retainer, he might be persuaded to take the assignment.” Bob chomped on the cheese closing the trap. “Fees are not an issue. I’ve always said ‘people that don’t go first class, have no class.’ What kind of retainer plus goodies are we talking about?” “I can’t speak for Claxton, you understand….” Melrose and Bob began sending smoke signals with their cigars. The conversation was entering a private area. Melrose stuck his hand out. As far as he was concerned, the meeting was over. “I look forward to working with all of you.” “Tom, you can turn the meter off. Marc and I are going to have a cup of coffee before I go back to the office.” Ten minutes later Bob and Melrose were sitting in a quiet corner of Café Allegro at Grand Central Station sipping cappuccino grandees and nibbling chocolate biscotti’s. Melrose explained Kekst had made other business leaders filthy rich with his public relations spins and was looking to trade his experience for founder stock in a few selected situations. “Not a problem,” said Bob. “Since some of my current advisors are not participating in the spin off, there’s room for a few percentage points.” “Good, good. But you’re not talking about cutting Berger out? After all…” “I promised the shitbag a taste, and I always keep my word. I figure I can goose egg Michael and John.” “That raises a question. I noticed Michael was not at our meeting. When I had lunch with Phil, he seemed very high on Michael. Talked about how critical Michael was to ITI’s success. Doesn’t he need to remain involved and incentivised?” “Naah,” said Bob. “Michael’s fine. Besides Phil has misread Michael’s importance. He’s going a good job and all. But critical? Hardly.” “Does he know he’s not participating in the Barter Bank?” “He knows. It’s never even come up.” Melrose quietly concluded the situation between Bob and Michael was a political cesspool. He decided the wisest courser was to engender himself to both parties until somebody shot themselves in the foot. “Bob, I didn’t want to mention this in the conference room, but the committee approved your Aspen Club credit line. We’re putting the final touches on a three million dollar unsecured credit agreement at prime minus fifty basis points, our best customer rate. That should give you some breathing room until the club is sold. The loan papers should be on my desk when I get back to the office.” “Like I was saying,” said Bob, “Why don’t we just hold on the press announcement until the Barter Bank funding is completed. No need to expose you to any unnecessary risks.” ########## Chapter 24. Chicago, My Kind of Town THE PRESS ROOM AT THE HILTON was standing room only, reminiscent of an ESPN television conference after a major sporting event. Sitting at the podium were Nachman, dressed in his signature black and red Fila tennis suit, Tothson in a sports jacket and tie, Foreman in an iridescent blue silk suit and Peppard in a brown check, three button suit with a bowtie. Each had a nametag in front of them. The news conference had been pitched as ‘the first time ever’ the self-ordained kings of barter could be found in the same place at the same time. The ‘hook,’ as it’s called in public relations lingo, had sex appeal. Every local and major paper sent a reporter including the Chicago Tribune, the News-Mirror, the Post and the North Shore Examiner. The boys were actually nervous—tapping pens, playing with their shirt collars and drinking voluminous amounts of water. None had ever received such public attention before. “Thank you for coming,” said Michael. “As you know from the press materials you received, this is a coming out party for ITI. I’ll briefly introduce the ‘A’ team and leave the rest to you. Suffice to say there is an enormous amount of business experience at the table.” A voice from the back of the room then set the tone for the meeting shouting ‘and money.’ Everyone howled. Not surprisingly, the initial questions were directly at Nachman because he had some prior national exposure. Some of these reporters had done their homework. “Sam, why would the world’s largest liquidator and top ranked poker player sell out to a new corporation?” asked the first. “I hear since you bought the Indiana Pacers basketball team, the players have been complaining about no Sony Playstation Two consoles in the locker rooms?” asked another. “Can you confirm the rumor that you won the old Pickford estate on Sunset in a poker game?” said a third. Nachman couldn’t believe the personal nature of the questions. He smiled, raised his hands and said in a soft-spoken voice, “Okay fellas, you’ve got me. I feel like Bill Clinton in front of the Independent Counsel Ken Starr.” Nachman then responded graciously and succinctly.” “I sold my company because I believe in what the ITI fellas are trying to do. My eight million dollar a year forward, George McGinnis started the video game ruckus. Coach thought the Play Stations would be a locker room distraction. We compromised. I sent a console to everybody’s home. As far as the Pickford estate…I bought it at an auction. I was high and low bid. Where do these rumors start?” Tothson had his own bag of goodies—a string of eight newspapers in Paraguay and Uruguay plus shore casinos in Belize, Grand Cayman and the Antilles. As Michael listened, he realized the players at the podium had a larger combined net worth larger than the gross national product of most European Countries! The next day a major article appeared in the Tribune boldly declaring ‘Cowboys lassoed at ITI corral.’ Michael was concerned the larger-than-life personal focus would depress new business prospects, while the boys thought the publicity detailing their wealth and personal idiosyncrasies was a hoot. Five electric carts waited at the entrance to McCormack Center’s massive 400,000 square foot main exhibition floor. Michael figured between age, weight and less than stellar physical condition, the sales boys would quickly loose interest in visiting prospects on foot. The day turned into a real kick! Everybody loved their electric cart. They scooted around the floor like a bunch of kids making stops at Sony, Magnavox, Philips, Cannon, Zerox and scores of others. The barrage of publicity turned out to be nothing but positive. They were treated like royalty everywhere they went, a far cry from how they had been viewed in the past. To maintain some semblance of process, everybody was wired for sound as they went from booth to booth. By day’s end, the boys averaged eleven sales pitches each, while an exhausted Michael picked up the pieces at all forty-four companies. Fila, a large Italian athletic apparel manufacturer, made a deal with Nachman on the spot. They agreed to employ Sam’s liquidation services exclusively for a period of two years if he would wear Fila jump suits for the duration of CES. He also extracted twenty-four additional outfits in an assortment of sizes for prospective houseguests at La Costa, Santa Monica and Bel Air. “Michael,” said Tothson, relaxing in his stocking feet at the ITI suite, “Gotta tell you, before the day started, I was skeptical but willing—shoe boxes, press conferences, Internet pitches, electric carts. Damn, we’ve done a month of prospecting in two days. Sam and I have been talking…we’d like to take you to dinner tonight.” “Just no Burger King. I filled my boy’s tank there before I left,” teased Michael. “Actually we were thinking pizza,” chuckled Tothson who had no idea how accurate he was about to be. * THE HOTEL LOBBY looked like Grand Central Station at rush hour. Hoards of guests jockeyed for position at eleven registration counters, three harried concierges courteously fielded an unending barrage of requests and impatient cabs pulled up, honked horns, slammed trunks and left overwhelmed bellboys enveloped in clouds of exhaust fumes. “Madness, isn’t it?” said Tothson and Nachman tapping Michael on the shoulder from behind. “Our driver’s this way,” pointing to a small side entrance. “So where are we off to?” said Michael, moments later in the rear cabin of a long, garish white limo. “The best restaurant on the Platinum Mile, Spraggio, at One Michigan,” said Tothson. “I’m impressed. That’s one tough reservation during these shows.” “We’ve got a leg up,” said Nachman. “I helped the owner, Frank DeSalvio, get his construction loans.” “I hear the place is stunning.” “Should be. He spent five million, not including the city building department ‘grease,’” said Nachman. “Frank’s wife hobnobs with the beautiful people. She wanted one of those hip nouvelle, nouvelle joints. They treat us pretty good when we visit, although they ain’t about to put our picture on the walls, eh Freddie?” Tothson and his 300-pound grin peered over his thick horned rimmed glasses, “Now isn’t that the truth.” One Michigan Avenue was a sleek smoke mirrored office building. Spraggio was located at the top of a two-story escalator sitting in the middle of the opulent lobby. Two twelve-foot high glass doors with sheer pink curtains opened onto a rotunda style reception area with a curved ceiling awash in twinkling stars. To the left was a spectacular mirrored backlit bar with clear glass shelves that gave the illusion all 1,500 bottles were suspended in space. “Ahhh good evening, Mr. Nachman,” said the drop-dead-gorgeous blond hostess, poured into a see-through backless dress that revealed her shapely torso, her generous round nipples and her tantalizing pink portal. “So nice to see you again. When I noticed your name on the reservation list I set aside that corner banquette.” “Kathleen, say hello to some good friends of mine, Mr. Tothson and Mr. Martini.” “Jonathan will take care of you this evening.” A nerdy tuxedoed waiter with round pink rimmed glasses and a rhinestone earring appeared. “And what might I get you gentleman to drink?” said Jonathan, hands flailing, eyes darting and body gentling swaying to telegraph his sexuality. “How about a nice bottle of red wine?” said Nachman. “Oh, have we already decided on the main course?” said the waiter. “No. Why?” said Nachman. “Well, how could we possibly select a red then? You know how those nasty tannins might overwhelm the exquisite flavors of Chef Mauratain’s entrée specials?” Tothson decided to save the evening because he remembered the Nachman explosion at Delano Mondrain Hudson that evening. “My good man, we appreciate what you’re saying, so I tell you what, bring us a bottle of your preference and a selection of your favorite appetizers. We’re in no rush, we’d like to chat before ordering.” The waiter sighed, relieved that he could relate to someone at the table. “Very good, sir. I have just the combination. The chef has created a thin-pressed rosemary foccaccia wafer dressed with Swiss goat cheese and freshly made duck sausage. Sound good? And the baked proscuitto carpaccio is exquisite. Both go extraordinarily well with a ’95 Montrachet.” “Should we get a third appetizer?” asked Fred. “I think the two will be more than adequate,” responded the waiter. “I think we should order another one,” said Nachman. “I’m starved!” The waiter glared at Nachman’s stomach. “Sir, I would suggest we start with the two. Mustn’t stuff ourselves.” “Johnny, they better be fucking good,” said a flustered Nachman. The disgusted waiter whirled and sped off to the kitchen. “I can’t understand Frank and these fags. He says they’re reliable, attentive to patrons and the girls love ‘em. Shows you…what the hell do I know about running a restaurant,” laughed Nachman. Ten minutes later Jonathan cracked open a $265 Chassagne-Montrachet and gave Tothson a taste. After Tothson nodded approval, Jonathan poured Michael and Tothson a glass, ignoring Nachman. Two strange looking appetizers arrived moments later. The rosemary foccaccia was a thin flat piece of baked brown bread with firm little wafer bubbles served on a sterling silver pizza platter. Doting the dry, barren wafer were six tiny dollops of warm goat cheese and six dollops of what was identified as duck sausage. “Jesus, dog turds on matzo crackers,” chuckled Nachman. The baked carpaccio was equally novelle. Six thin strips of hard, dry proscuitto that made beef jerky look like a moist and tender two-inch steak. As Tothman took a bit, the proscuitto shattered into about fifteen tiny little bits. “Can you believe this! ” said Tothman. The three famished diners stared incredulously then just broke up. “Let’s order some main courses,” said Nachman. “Freddie, this time don’t ask the fucking fag for his recommendation. I’m not interested in baked humming bird balls or air-dried monkey brains.” “And for your main course?” said Jonathan. “I’d like the Chicken Francais and an order of the Lobster Farfalle, ” said Nachman. “Sir, that’s two entrees?” said the puzzled waiter. “I know. I plan to have the pasta as a side dish.” “That’s a lot of food, sir.” “I didn’t get this figure eating duck shit on matzo wafers!” laughed Nachman. The waiter decided to approach the matter differently. “Sir, I’m not sure the Chef would care to serve two entrees simultaneously.” “Why don’t we just go and check?” Nachman meant, just do it. The waiter misunderstood and scooted off to the kitchen. “Sir, as I suspected, Chef Mauratain finds such an order inappropriate.” “Gee, I’m sorry,” said Nachman politely, “let me rephrase the request.” “Very good sir.” “Please tell the Chef if he doesn’t fill my order I’m going to visit the kitchen, cut off both Johnny’s balls, deep fry them in extra virgin olive oil and then make Johnny and Cheffie eat them. Get my fucking drift?” The terrified waiter dashed off to the kitchen. Moments later he returned. “The Chef understands your request. He would prefer you postpone your visit to the kitchen. As would I.” Nachman thought the Chicken Francais and the Lobster Farfalle were both delicious and the portions extremely generous. “My compliments to the chef,” smiled Nachman. * AFTER FOUR HOURS OF INTENSE NEGOTIATION the next morning with John Bartholomew of the Zerox Corporation in a smoke filled suite atop McCormack Center, Nachman and Tothson agreed to pay $40 million in cash and barter for the entire inventory of copy machines and multi function fax-printer-scanners and a mountain of accessories including toner cartridges and drums. All that remained to negotiate was the cash-barter ratio, typically a function of the age of the inventory. Current inventories that could be remarketed to stateside discounters justified a higher percentage of cash. The truly obsolete inventories dumped into the less discriminating third-world markets of Africa and South America were generally purchased for all barter. This inventory was better than most but Nachman and Tothson loved to squeeze every last buck out of each deal. They lived to negotiate. “John,” said Tothson, to the exhausted executive, “we’ve done a lot of business together, right? You and I both know some of those accessories are going to be a bitch to remarket. Ninety percent barter and ten percent cash seems fair. We’ve gotta be able to make a few bucks.” Tothson’s suggested ratio was tantamount to stealing the merchandise. But at this point, Bartholomew was more interested in his deal. “Fellas, you and I know those ratios are a joke but so long as our percent split is fair…” Nachman leaned forward, “I was thinking the profit split should be eighty-twenty, instead of the standard eighty-five fifteen. How does that sound?” “Excellent. And, what about my advance against profits?” Typically, Nachman and Tothson staged a good-cop bad-cop routine at this point. Finders needed to feel they could squeeze some juice. Otherwise they wouldn’t come back with more. “Freddie,” said Nachman, “ I think John deserves an advance of ten points against the twenty.” “Jesus Sam,” protested Tothson theatrically. “Doesn’t the whole thing seem a little rich? We don’t give anybody eighty-twenty. Remember, we take one hundred percent of the risk. Plus you want to do a cash advance of fifty percent, when we don’t get our money for ninety days? Maybe! It’s not like we’re invoicing Wal-Mart or Target.” “Freddie, we gotta reward loyalty. John steered the deal to us, despite Howard and Lawton breathing down his neck. ” Showtime was over. Bartholomew got his ten percent advance. A check for $100,000 written on the spot. Everybody got their just due. * “WE DRAMATICALLY EXCEEDED EXPECTATIONS, crowed Michael proudly at the CES debriefing meeting. “The guys really kicked ass. Bottom line, in addition to a forty million Zerox contract we have ten additional new deals in negotiation, worth about a hundred and twenty million in revenue. “Incredible,” said Scarborough. “Enough with the sizzle,” said Bob, hoping to poke a hole in Michael’s sail. “Where’s the meat?” “Fred and the guys did all the work. He should give you the specifics.” As a practical matter, Michael didn’t have any details. The boys played it very close to the vest. They figured the less Michael knew, the less Bob would know, and the less chance one of the deals could get fucked up thanks to a ‘Goldstrom blab-cast.” “Thanks to Michael, we had incredible company awareness when we walked into McCormack Center,” said Tothson sounding like a corporate animal. “Negotiations at the suite and on the floor, was like taking candy from a baby. In addition to Zerox, we signed contracts with Motorola, Nike and JVC, and are preparing to UPS twelve more offers tomorrow. So, if we only close half the proposals, that’s the ten deals Michael referenced.” “Now for the bad news,” said Michael. “I estimate we’ll need anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five million in additional credit lines to complete the deals.” “I’ll call Sam,” said Bob. “I’m sure he’ll help.” “What do you mean ‘help?’” said Tothson. “Provide additional credit guarantees.” “With all due respect, Bob,” said Tothson, “Sam has no interest in increasing or extending his credit lines. One of the main reasons he did the deal with ITI was so he wouldn’t be hung out to dry all the time.” Bob pressed. “Fred, I know Sam pretty well. Let me talk to him. We can offer him some points as part of the deal.” “Suit yourself Bob. But Sam and I already discussed the matter. His message is pretty simple. I’ve done my job, go do yours.” The discussion was over. * “USUAL TABLE, MR. SCARBOROUGH?” asked Gabriel. Moments later, Bob arrived at Scarborough’s favorite cafeteria, the five-star La Grenouille on 52nd Street, around the corner from Whitlock & Company. “Thanks for seeing me, Phil. We so rarely get to talk between board meetings about operating issues. I don’t really have a specific agenda.” Scarborough knew Bob always had an agenda. Today was character assignation day! As far as Bob was concerned it was time to rein Michael in.
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