This Little Piggy (3) “Michael, tell me, how much is enough?” Michael didn’t have a real good answer. “We’ll both know when enough is enough.” “Suppose it doesn’t work?” she asked. “What happens to all the monthly bills, the kids’ private school tuition, country club dues and all the other commitments? And don’t we lose the unvested A&J stock options and those other deferred plans you keep raving about? Wouldn’t we have to start all over again?” For a solid half hour, Michael laid it down, convincing Sandra that the concept was sound and that Goldstrom had an unparalleled track record building public businesses from scratch. “You’ve got to remember this deal is different than anything I’ve ever done. I’m a significant equity partner. And, I get to learn big time finance from the master.” Sandra felt the passion in Michael’s relentless pursuit. She also remembered something she repeated to friends when asked, “How do you do it? Your marriage seems like a storybook.” Her answer? “Michael and I have based our marriage on a simple premise: 90% of everything is not important. That eliminates squabbling and bickering about non-essentials. We know when one of us says they want something, it is very important to that person. Consequently, we respect that request.” “Honey,” smiled a suddenly relaxed Sandra, “You’re right. We should at least explore the opportunity.” Michael never heard the ‘explore’ part. He assumed Sandra had acquiesced. “That’s my girl. Tell you what, let me organize dinner with Bob. You’re just going to love him.” ########## Chapter 2. Marty Sleazebag & Mr. Rodgers MONDAY- ALLAN KROTSKY’S OFFICE was an old New York landmark located on 44th Street and Fifth Avenue and sorely in need of updating. A creaky elevator opened directly into the lobby, which was hardly impressive. The furniture looked ‘previously leased’ from two recessions ago. A small, almost frail figure of a man with a warm smile, wavy salt and pepper hair, tiny reading glasses hanging from his nose greeted Michael in the lobby. It was like meeting Mr. Rogers away from his PBS neighborhood, complete with a light blue sweater vest. “So nice to meet you. I’m Allan Krotsky. I’ve looked forward to meeting you. Why don’t you come into the conference room and we’ll chat a bit.” Krotsky sounded friendly enough but his introspective stare suggested a cool, calculating, analytical mind. The conference room was depressing and consisted of mostly a big table with a tiny aisle around the perimeter for sitting and walking. At the far end of the table sat a jar of peanut butter and dish of thin, unsalted cracker squares. “Michael, I was just having some lunch before you came in. I’m a student of alternative medicine. Not long ago I read about the extraordinarily high protein content of peanut butter. As a consequence, peanut butter has become a staple of my lunchtime diet. Interestingly, the baked crackers, which contain significant unrefined complex carbohydrates compared to highly processed white bread, are a natural complement to the peanut butter. I wash it all down with a refreshing cinnamon-apple herbal tea. Like all of us, I’m just trying to fight the ravages of age.” Michael didn’t know what to say. Was this a test? Have I already flunked? Krotsky continued. “Robert tells me that your knowledge about raising capital in the public marketplace is a bit limited? Hmm.” “That’s true,” Michael admitted. “That’s why I told Robert I might be the wrong candidate for the project. My real business expertise is working with major corporations, developing and implementing marketing programs that increase product sales. I’m one part management consultant, one part salesman.” “Not a problem, “ said Krotsky, daring to wonder if Goldstrom had made a gigantic blunder. “There is nothing terribly complex about the entire financing process. I’ll be advising you over the coming months as we develop the red herring. You’ll be quite knowledgeable by the time you begin to meet potential investors.” “What’s a red herring?” “My, my Michael, I can see we really are starting from scratch,” chuckled Krotsky in a friendly, condescending tone. “A red herring is another name for a prospectus, which is the document we will be submitting to the Securities and Exchange Commission to obtain the necessary federal approvals to market our common stock directly to the public. A portion of the document is printed in red to reinforce the speculative nature of a given offering with prospective investors. Hence the name.” Michael was red-faced and felt like a moron. The intercom buzzed; Mr. Diamond had arrived. “We’ll be right there,” Krotsky told his assistant. “What is Marty’s role in the company?” asked Michael. “Well,” said Krotsky, “Martin was involved with Robert throughout the entire consolidation of the medical industry. He has a brilliant financial mind and a real feel for what kind of deal The Street will buy at a given point in time. He and Robert worked closely in the past. In this deal, however, he’ll be more of a ‘behind the scenes’ advisor. He won’t have any day-to-day operational responsibilities.” Michael smiled though he had no idea what Krotsky had really said. Diamond had a completely different patina than Krotsky—impeccably dressed in a mocha English tweed suit, blue-striped shirt with a white starched collar, yellow print Armani tie and cordovan wing tips. The whole GQ spread. “Pleasure to meet you, Michael,” said Diamond like a medieval lordship addressing his feudal peasantry. Michael kept smiling. What an asshole! “Robert has told me nice things about you. He is very impressed with your marketing and operational experience. As you know, neither are really Robert’s strong points.” Diamond’s sarcasm enveloped the conference room. Krotsky chuckled. Michael didn’t get it yet. “A pleasure to meet you also. Both Allan and Robert have said you’re the real financial brain behind this exercise,” said Michael lightly. “My God, you mean they finally recognize I’ve made them both a lot of money? Krotsky understands and appreciates my past contributions, but Robert is another matter,” replied Diamond. “Whatever Robert has, never seems to be enough. And, when it’s gone, he goes on crusade to make another fortune, sometimes without thinking things through. The man is so impetuous.” Michael’s smile refused to break. With friends like this, who needs enemies? “So Martin,” he asked. “What exactly do you do?” “My dear boy, I make us money.” “Remember I come from an organizational background, so humor me. What title will you have in the red herring?” Martini didn’t reply, but looked to Krotsky. How fucking green is this kid? Before there could be an awkward silence, Krotsky took his cue. “Well, Michael, you need to understand that Martin is not exactly in the prospectus.” “What does ‘not exactly’ mean exactly?” “Well,” said Krotsky innocently, “Martin has had a few unfortunate situations with the Securities and Exchange Commission. As a result, we all just think it would be better if he is not listed in the prospectus.” “Bob implied that Martin was going to be the company’s treasurer and chief financial officer,” said Michael. “In a way he will be. But not officially. That’s why he has less than a five per cent equity position.” “What has that got to do with anything?” Krotsky smiled like Mr. Rogers just before a song. “Michael, the way public offerings work is that only those individuals, like yourself, who own five percent or more of the company have to be declared. We have designed it so that Martin has four and a half percent. Do you understand?” Michael nodded, but he smelled foul air. * IN THE EXCLUSIVE ENCLAVE OF Kings Point, Long Island, cottages start at $2 million. Bob’s place was twenty-three rooms and eight baths and furnished like Trump Tower. Right on Long Island Sound with a private beach, cabana, dock, tennis courts, spectacular rose garden and a garage full of antique cars. The barbecue area could hold a banquet of 500 and the caretaker’s cottage was bigger than most of the other homes on the block. Approaching the estate, Michael and Sandra figured the circular driveway had to be larger than their entire plot in Westchester. What was Bob most proud of at his humble abode? The kennel where he kept his two 150-pound Newfoundland’s, Buzz and Winfred. The boys had their own grooming salon, dining area and bathing room. “Bob,” asked Michael, once he and Sandra made themselves at home. “With all this, why do you want to go back to work again?” “The trappings are all bullshit, just a façade. I used to think the toys helped define me, but they really don’t. Besides, what the hell am I doing on the edge of Long Island? I’m a city boy. Gotta get back into the middle of the action. I need the stimulation, the challenge, otherwise my brain will turn to mush.” Michael did a double take. Bob not only sounded credible, but a bit remorseful, almost embarrassed by the display of opulence that surrounded him. (Of course, nothing was ever quite as it appeared. Bob was broke. He couldn’t afford the overhead, much less the taxes. The house was on the market. So were the furniture and the cars. And, who knew where the dogs would wind up?) The first course arrived, served by a friendly middle-aged lady in a casual uniform, which subtly telegraphed staff rather than guest. “My goodness, this soup is absolutely fabulous,” said Sandra. “Glad you like it. It’s a fresh zucchini soup. Family recipe with vegetables from the garden of Goldstrom,” smiled Bob. Bob noticed Michael quizzically staring at the white mound floating in the middle of the soup. “Michael, trust me, the ricotta cheese doesn’t bite! Just place a bit on the spoon when you scoop the soup. The tastes complement each other perfectly, as does the sensation of hot and cold.” Bob’s description relieved Sandra. She thought the white substance might have been curdled milk Subsequent courses were equally eclectic, although a bit more recognizable. Dinner with Bob was like eating at an intimate five-star restaurant with none of the pomposity. The baby dandelion and radicchio, the braised trout braised in parchment paper, even the crepes with beluga caviar were a feast for the eyes and the stomach. Three hours later, the meal coming to a close, Bob decided to suck up big time with a final toast. “Michael and Sandra, how about a port for the road. I believe there’s a bit of Fonseca ’49 left in my cellar. Give me a few minutes” Michael nodded. Sandra wondered. Neither had ever tasted port wine. Bob disappeared into his wine cellar and returned with a dark, dusty bottle. “Ta taa,” said Bob, bowing and making like a sommelier with a treasure. “Madame, a sweet for the sweet.” He then carefully removed the cork and poured the deep blue-brown liquid through a cheesecloth filter into a crystal decanter and ultimately into three antique Baccarat glasses. Sandra sipped. “Bob, the port is delicious and the crystal glasses are fabulous.” “The glasses are pretty,” said Bob toasting Sandra, “but you, my dear are exquisite.” * YOU COULD HEAR A PIN DROP in the car on the ride back. “Michael, why so quiet? It was a wonderful evening, and Bob was such a gracious host.” “Gracious host! My future partner was hitting on my wife, right before my eyes.” “I think we’re exaggerating a bit.” Michael then began to mimic Bob. “’The glasses are beautiful, but you my dear are exquisite. Sweets for the sweet. Gad…sounds like a bunch of old Spencer Tracy-Katherine Hepburn lines.” “My, my, are we getting jealous?” “Well,” pouted Michael. Sandra reached over and gave Michael a tender kiss on the cheek. “Baby, you’re the love of my life. Always will be.” “You’re not just saying that because I’m about to become filthy rich?” teased Michael. * “I’M IMPRESSED WITH YOU, Michael,” Bob called at the office. “And I particularly enjoyed Sandra. Very classy lady.” “Thank you. We’ve been together a long time. Met at seventeen, married by twenty.” As if Bob gave a shit. “Michael, you’re clearly my first choice. But I do need to get on with the offering. If it’s not you, I’ll have to get somebody else. You do realize this is that once-in-a-lifetime guaranteed opportunity that will change your life forever? Remember, we’re not talking about a puny five or ten mil.” Sacks of cash were doing a jig in Michael’s head, but for a split second, he thought of his wife. He had to throw her a bone, and a tasty one at that. “Bob, everything sounds great, but...” “But what?” “Frankly, we’ve been living way over our heads, so you can understand Sandra’s concern about a sudden career change.” “Ahhh, that’s an easy fix,” said Bob. “We’ll bribe her! How about I give you a sign-on loan? Say a hundred fifty thousand dollars out of my own pocket to cover your family’s incidental day-to-day expenses, maybe pay off some old bills. It’s non-interest bearing, and to make it real easy, you only have to repay me if and when you cash in some of the stock after it vests.” The final nut had been tightened. All the wheels were on the bandwagon. “Then let’s do it. I’ll explain the whole deal, including the loan package, to Sandra tonight. The only thing I ask is no public announcement until we receive official word from the Securities and Exchange Commission that the offering has been approved. That way, in the interim, I can continue to collect a paycheck from A&J.” “Trust me, you’ve made the right decision,” said Bob. “Let’s celebrate. How about brunch this Sunday at my apartment?” “We’ll be there,” promised Michael. Sandra met him at the train station and on the ride home... “How about we grab a little dinner,” asked Michael. “You know, just you and me?” She knew something was up, but she let it ride. Later they were seated in their favorite restaurant, a homey steakhouse where they knew the entire staff and most of the patrons. “Bob called again,” said Michael over a glass of red wine. “Oh,” said Sandra, bracing herself for the sell. “Honey, I’ve been thinking a lot about his offer. I’m the first to admit I don’t know him very well, but it does sound exciting. We’d have a shot at becoming rich beyond our wildest expectations in less than five years. And when we’re done, I’ll still only be forty-two at most. We’ll have an entire second lifetime in front of us.” Sandra thought as she ate. The recipe had its risks but the idea of unlimited wealth was starting to taste better and better. With dessert, Michael added. “Oh, by the way, in addition to the generous deal terms and the founder stock, Bob wants to give us a hundred and fifty thousand dollar interest-free loan out of his own pocket as a sign-on bonus… That means no more bills, no more credit card debt for you, and the all weather putting green I’ve been dreaming about.” “So YOU get a putting green and I get to pay OUR bills?” Finally, Michael got the fish to bite. “Well baby, what’s on your wish list? You’re earned it, putting up with me all these years” “I was thinking clay tennis court? It’ll cut our country clubs expenses in half,” joked Sandra. “That’s my girl!” Michael then looked lovingly into Sandra’s eyes. “Hang on baby. Daddy’s going to take you on a magic carpet ride!” He sure was. * AT 45 SUTTON PLACE SOUTH, Michael and Sandra felt like extras in an episode of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.” Crystal chandeliers, black walnut burl paneling, priceless original art and a white glove staff made Bob’s apartment lobby looked like the promenade deck on the Titanic. The concierge announced their presence and then escorted them to the elevator and pressed the 27th floor button. “The apartment number?” asked Michael. “I’m sorry sir,” said the concierge with a toothy smile. “Mr. Goldstrom is the twenty-seventh floor.” When the elevator doors opened, Bob welcomed Sandra with a warm smile and a hug, “I have been so looking forward to seeing you again.” What an act! Rhett Butler on the comeback. Sandra was charmed. Bob offered glasses of Dom Perignon champagne to top off the delivery. As the three of them were toasting their future together, a gorgeous woman with a sensational figure and long black hair, clad only in a bathrobe, strode out of the master suite and smiled erotically at Bob. Bob, without missing a beat, returned a grin, and then turned to his guests. “Sandra and Michael, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Aruba Lucka.” “Lucka is a very unusual last name; I’ve only run into it once before,” said Michael. “I worked with a wonderful German photographer by the name of Klaus Lucka. We developed some award-winning advertising a few years back for one of A&J’s major accounts.” “I know the work well,” said Aruba, “some of those pieces hang in our gallery at home.” “What a wonderful coincidence,” bubbled Sandra. “How did you acquire them? “Quite easily,” replied Aruba. “I’m Klaus’ wife.” Michael recalled his time with Klaus. In an unusual turn of events at A&J, Michael had been credited with the vision for what had become a successful trade advertising campaign for the Chiquita Banana Company featuring testimonials from some of the client’s best customers. To insure things when according to vision, Chiquita management insisted Michael accompany the A&J creative team around the country for two weeks to insure the client’s top customers were treated appropriately, since creative teams at the agency, while extremely professional, were known to be somewhat volatile. That creative team was Aruba’s husband, Klaus, and a stunningly beautiful red-haired creative director named Janet Monte, who teased and aroused both Klaus and Michael during the day, but slept exclusively with Klaus each evening for 14 days, while Michael jealously fantasized nearby. What sweet irony, what poetic justice that Michael’s new partner Bob, was screwing Klaus’s wife!
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