This Little Piggy (5) “I was sitting on the train doing a few projections. Imagine if the stock hits ten dollars. Imagine if we do a stock split. We’re talking telephone numbers.” A despondent Sandra nodded again. Michael finally noticed. “Baby, what’s the matter. Is it something I said?” “No honey. It’s just that today was a particularly rough day.” Michael’s attempt to cheer her up missed the mark by a mile. “Hey, babe, smile. How bad can life be. Imagine dealing with a bunch of characters like Bob, Alan, Bernie, Ray, Jesse, Jack and Dominic every day.” Sandra looked into Michael’s eyes. “A 44-year old patient died on the operating room table today.” Michael sat in stunned silence. Guilt oozed through his pores. There he was selfishly pontificating about his millions were geometrically increasing in the make believe world of Wall Street, while his wife was making about $80,000 a year to deal with real life and death. ##### Chapter 4. Dominick and the Cuban Cigars BOB’S PHONE RANG as he was dropping cigar ashes over his Wall Street Journal. Soon enough he’d be setting the whole market on fire. “It’s me Jack, Jack Berger. I heard through the grapevine that you’re back from the dead. Shit, the last time I saw you, you were stumbling down the beach in Malibu in that striped robe making like Charlton Heston in the ‘Ten Commandments.’” Berger was a tall, gawky, pushy New York Jew in his forties and wore wrinkled brown suits and white shirts with collar stains. Like Bob, he loved cigars and the privilege of dropping ashes everywhere. “The night you blew out, Bobbie, one of your fucking rich-bitch neighbors complained the party was out of hand! So I wound up making your shit disappear just before the cops arrived.” “Jack, what the hell are you talking about?” “You left enough blow around the place to support twenty junkies for a month. Martin and I rounded the stuff up, sprinkled some coke on the two broads who had passed out in your bedroom and tossed the rest down the toilets. Then we played dumb and apologized for the loud music. As the cops checked the place out, they dragged the broads to the police car and took them downtown. Never saw them again.” “You piece of shit. That’s all in the past. How did you get my phone number?” “Bobbie, is that nice? You may be a little more polished than me, but we’re both Hebes from Long Island, cut from the same cloth and driven by the same thing—money, babe, big money. So don’t give me any of that condescending crap.” “What the hell do you want?” “I’m calling to help. Heard you’re onto another big gig that could bring you all the way back, plus some. The word on The Street is you’re getting in bed with Dominic Marino at Norwest.” “Where the hell did you hear that?” “A bird shit on my head and left me a hieroglyphic message. Dominic and I have done a number of deals together. I know the operation and where all the bodies are buried. You need me to get you the right attention.” Berger made it abundantly clear. Bob had no choice. “Now don’t give me the silent treatment. I’ve got enough in my memory bank to send you and your fucking Newfoundlands to the moon and back! Get my drift?” “All right, Jack, but no funny business, understand? Double dip me again and I’ll cut your balls off!” “Hey, you know you can trust me. I’m your guy, always have been.” “So what are you proposing?” “Well, I know you’ve had some preliminary phone conversations with Marino, but I think we should break bread in person with that touchy-feely guinea. You can give him your whole promotional spiel. Nobody’s better at it. The more pumped we get Marino, the more he’ll use his stick to beat the boys, really create some action on the phones. We’ll have the stock flying in no time.” “Okay, make the date. I’ll do the whole dog and pony show. How about the Four Seasons?” “Consider it done! Does Thursday night work?” “Don’t you need to check Marino’s schedule?” “He’s cool. Trust me” “Berger, you son of a bitch!” “Bobbie, you gotta stop talking down to me. I’m gonna make you filthy rich again. If you find me so offensive, maybe you should hold on to your goddamn money the next time! How many should I make the reservation for?” “Three.” “What about Krotsky?” “No. We may want to talk about stuff that he has no need to know.” “What about the new operator, the high powered corporate guy?” “How do you know about him?” “This is Jack who sees all and knows all.” “You’re making me puke! If you knew so much, why aren’t you on your yacht cruising the Caribbean? Just make the fucking dinner. And forget about Michael.” “Whatever you say. You’re the man.” “You’re not doing this for love. What do you want?” “A five-star meal and conversation with two stimulating people. How could it get any better than that? “What the hell do you want?” “Just make sure I get a few shares before the opening bell. And keep me abreast of developments. That’s all. It’s up to me to get my people in and out. You know how it works. That’s not too much to ask for an old friend, is it?” * A LONG BLACK LIMO with tinted windows pulled up in front of Bob’s apartment. In the back sat a heavy set man with slick shiny straight black hair, adorned in a black suit, black shirt, white tie and black sunglasses. He showed no expression as Bob awkwardly entered. “Bobbie,” said Berger. “Say hello to Marino.” As Bob extended his hand, Marino stared at him oddly. “Marino, you’re looking me over like I’m a hit man,” chuckled Bob. “I’m not packing, honest.” “Can’t be too careful these days,” replied Marino, finally joining the handshake. Introductions made, Jack broke out the Cuban cigars. Moments later, the rear of the limo resembled a gas chamber. “What bullshit this Cuban embargo thing, eh?” said Marino. “Makes these fucking cigars about the same price as an ounce of gold. It’s just not right. The goddamn government should do something about it.” “Fucking ay,” agreed Jack and Bob nodded. “Jack tells me you’re one hell of a stock promoter,” Marino looked at Bob through the haze. “I think your skill and my backroom should make this an easy deal.” “You’re confident you can do it?” said Bob, puffing away. “It’s a lot bigger than the usual Pink Sheet IPO.” “Not to worry.” Berger jumped in. “Assume the deal done.” “The real issue is how to keep the stock up after the IPO so my initial investors make a killing and the suckers come to play,” said Marino. “My rooms need the churn. Capiche?” “I guess Jack didn’t fully explain my hospital management operation.” Bob glared at Berger and feeling almost insulted. “I built a major enterprise by financing and merging private hospitals into a large corporate enterprise. I plan to do the same thing with ITI, creating a major trading Company built through acquisitions and mergers.” “What the fuck has that got to do with the price of tea in China?” asked Marino impatiently. “This deal is just the first phase of our financing plans,” Bob took the cigar out of his mouth for only a moment. “There will be a number of other rounds. When I’m finished, ITI will be on the New York Stock Exchange. I plan to grow the Company dramatically, make the stock so valuable that acquisition prospects will clamor to be part of the Company and…” “I don’t give a shit about the New York Stock Exchange. That’s your business!” retorted Marino. “It’s real simple, you ain’t doing jack unless the stock price takes a ride. And that requires Marino and Company leaking some juicy insider stuff nobody else has got. Get it?” “I’m not sure you get it.” Bob had to make this lowlife understand. ”There’ll be information flying every day. I’ll make the stock attractive, guaranteed.” “What did I tell you,” said Berger, flashing his patented shit-eating grin. “There’s nobody like Bob Goldstrom.” “Let’s be real clear,” said Marino coldly. “I’ll do the deal, but don’t fuck with me on the leaks. It’s dangerous to con a con man.” They got out of the smoky limo looking like the Three Stooges in a fire drill and headed into the Four Seasons, New York’s most sophisticated, most elegant, most expensive restaurant. The Mâitre d’ scanned the threesome and escorted them to the restaurant’s less prestigious area, the Bar Room. “I believe we reserved a table in the Pool Room,” said Bob angrily. “The Bar Room is for the peons.” “I beg your pardon, sir. We do not refer to Four Seasons patrons as peons. Furthermore, there are no tables in the Pool Room. We are fully booked this evening.” “I think if you look at your reservation book again,” said Berger, slipping the Mâitre d’ a sawbuck. “You’ll notice we specified the Pool Room.” “Ahhh yes, here it is!” came the smiling reply. “You are absolutely correct. We did confirm the Pool Room. Sorry about the misunderstanding. Let me show you to your table.” At a Pool Room table, out of sight, sat an old friend and business associate of Allan Krotsky’s. Irwin Friedway was an industrious investment banker who looked like a seedy Jack Nicholson, only shorter. A Harvard MBA cum laude, Irwin wore a dark linen suit, white tie and a white on white shirt with a $1,000 pair of green Italian alligator shoes—‘The Godfather meets Liberace.’ A Four Seasons’ regular, Irwin’s prime business strategy was eavesdropping. Tonight he’d get an earful. “I thought the lawyer guy, Krotsky whatever, was going to join us?” said Marino. “Bobbie likes to keep Krotsky home when I’m involved,” said Berger. “Krotsky is not one of my favorite people.” Irwin’s ears perked hearing his friend’s name. Berger and Bob trying to talk over the roar of a jet engine only added fuel to his fact-finding mission. “Marino, are you sure?” asked Bob three hours later as he signaled for the check. For the first time, Marino removed his dark sunglasses. His eyes were like two black daggers. “What do you want me to do? Sign in blood? It’s done,” he exclaimed, grabbing the edge of the table with both hands, as if to keep himself from jumping across the table. “Like we discussed, all you gotta do is keep your part of the fucking bargain! Just keep filling the bucket with acquisition prospects, real or otherwise. Capiche?” “Consider the bucket spilling over,” replied Bob. “’What do you want me to do? Sign in blood? It’s done. Capiche?’” Marino glared at Bob and then at Berger. “Who is this fucking clown? Does he wanna join Hoffa at the Meadowlands?” The table went dead silent. Irwin, glued to his seat nearby, got enough to know there’d be a fat finder’s fee in his future. * ALLAN KROTSKY SAT in his office, reviewing the ITI Red herring. “Joanne dear, there are a number of typos in this draft,” he said sarcastically, peering over his glasses. “Do keep in mind this is a legal document, not a letter to a girlfriend. Hmm.” In a flamboyant red velvet dress and black shoes, Joanne was a bit paunchy, her huge breasts billowing over the top of her one-size-too-small dress as to make her stomach almost invisible. The word was that Krotsky went out of his way to hire the last woman on earth Bob would want to screw. Her desk was an absolute mess with papers everywhere, files stacked behind and under the telephone and nowhere to jot down a note if the phone rang. “Mr. Krotsky, this document is two hundred pages of gibberish and the type is so small,” complained Joanne. “Can’t we make it a bit bigger so it’s easier to proofread?” “The type size is a government requirement. So it is unlikely they will make an exception for us, is there? Hmm.” “I’m an executive assistant, not a nerdy proofreader.” “Absolutely right,” conceded Allen who understood that Joanne didn’t have a humble bone in her body. “Just do your best.” “Mr. Krotsky,” she said, answering the phone. “Mr. Friedway is on line one. He says it’s rather important.” “Irwin, so nice to hear from you,” said Krotsky politely. “Robert mentioned the other day we should see if Irwin’s got any potential acquisitions in his bag of tricks.” “It just so happens that I do. But that’s not what I was calling about.” “Oh?” “I was at the Four Season’s last night having dinner with my client, Steve Holmes from Raytheon, talking about some upcoming board issues when who walks in and sits down next to us but your buddy Goldstrom and that piece of work, Jack Berger.” “Well, you know Robert. There is only so much one can do to control him.” “There was a third party, a Marino somebody, who made Berger look like a choirboy. At first, I was going to say hello. Then I heard bits of their conversation. My instinct was to let well enough alone. Besides, I wasn’t sure they were Steve’s cup of tea, if you get my drift.” “And?” “Robert was going on about all these companies he has already identified as acquisition candidates for the IPO. And how easy it was going to be to feed Marino the right information at the right time to insure the offering is a hot IPO, and stays that way in the aftermarket.” “So what do you want me to do?” “I got the perfect acquisition candidate, but I’m concerned Robert will start broadcasting before a deal is consummated and blow my finder’s fee. I wasn’t born yesterday. I understand what has to be done, but can’t you muzzle him a bit?” Irwin paused for a moment. “More than that, the guy who owns the Company has a short fuse. One strike and you’re out. Period. Get my drift?” * KROTSKY CALLED BOB IMMEDIATELY. “So Marino thinks he can manage a transaction of this size? Hmm?” “I’m not sure,” replied Bob evasively. “Jack is confident.” “I appreciate Jack’s point of view, but shouldn’t we be getting together with Marino at his place to discuss matters in person?” “What the hell are you talking about?” Bob knew a muscle-in when he heard one. “Why do we need discussions? You and I agreed we’d capitalize the Company at sixty million dollars, and offer fifteen percent to the public. Then you, Martin and I would decide on the common and warrants structure before we submitted the red herring to the SEC.” “Please, did you or did you not meet with Dominick Marino at the Four Seasons?” “Christ! Have you got a private dick shadowing me?” “Frankly, whom you associate with personally is your own business. But you, Martin and I agreed there’d be no overt priming until after we cleared the SEC.” “Okay, maybe I was a bit indiscreet. But you know how excited I get about these offerings. No matter how many I do, there’s always that adrenaline rush.” “Robert, I suggest we all go over to Norwest Securities and explain the initial pricing and offering structure to Marino and his partners since these issues have merely been discussed informally,” said Krotsky, calmly but firmly. “As a practical matter, Norwest needs to feel we value their input. Otherwise they won’t be motivated to sell. We’ve never dealt with Pink Sheet operatives. The gentlemen who honcho these institutions are a different breed and so are their customers.” “You make a reasonable point,” agreed Bob who trusted Krotsky’s business acumen. “I’ll have Jack make the meeting.” “Speaking of Jack, why is he so involved? What arrangements has he been promised?” “I don’t want to deal with these guys on a regular basis, do you? So let Berger be the intermediary, and let me worry about how to take care of him. I’ll make sure it doesn’t cost the Company a dime.” “Just keep in mind...” “I know, I know,” agreed Bob and then changed the subject. “What do you say we take Michael with us?” “Do you think he’s ready?” asked Krotsky. “Who the hell knows?” * BOB CALLED MICHAEL at A & J. “We’ve got a meeting early tomorrow evening with the principals of Norwest Securities. They want to kick the management tires.” “I’m happy to go, but with my limited knowledge of the market, I’m may be more of a liability than an asset,” admitted Michael. “No sweat. These guys are not the brightest crayons in the box.” “What exactly does that mean?” asked Michael. “Michael, we are dealing with street people here. And, I don’t mean Wall Street people. You’ve got to be real careful. Dominick and his buddies aren’t interested in finding America’s next great growth company. They got into this business for one reason. To make a lot of money fast. Conscience is not their middle name.” “So where do I fit?” “Your our pedigree from the mainstream corporate world. Norwest knows some of the little people will buy because of my past successes, but a lot of people will buy because you’re from the right side of the tracks with big time business experience.” Bob’s enormous ego then kicked in. “Of course, when we get to the bigger financings on Wall Street, it will be all about my track record. Successful corporate guys are a dime a dozen in that venue.” “So what do you want me to do?” said Michael, struggling to keep his own ego under wraps. “Keep your mouth shut until I feed you a question. Then let your resume do the talking. But keep the Madison Avenue bullshit to a minimum. This crew doesn’t get to meet many big time corporate types. And, none of that Sandra and the kids crap. The guys are not big on family values. You with me?” Michael was about to enter the dark side of Wall Street, and return a changed man. He just didn’t know it yet. With legroom enough for King Kong, a long black limo pulled up in front of the Arthur & James. Michael was standing in the vestibule as the rain fell in buckets. The dark tinted window rolled down, Bob waved for Michael and his oversized golf umbrella to join the party. “Michael, say hello to Jack Berger,” said Bob with a big smile. “Our liaison with Norwest Securities.” “Been looking forward to meeting you. Bobbie tells me you’re a real high-powered corporate hotshot,” said Jack, shaking Michael’s hand as he got in the mobile hotel suite. “We’ll need some of that in this deal.” “Jesus Jack, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” asked Bob angrily. “Were you born with that big foot in your mouth?” Michael laughed, while Krotsky, sitting in the rear corner of the limo, quietly rolled his eyes. Within twenty minutes, the limo had exited the Lincoln Tunnel and was in Hoboken, New Jersey. The offices of Norwest were in a new three-story red brick building in the heart of the refurbished waterfront area. Alive with fresh flowers, the unpretentious lobby had postcard-like views of Manhattan. Marino appeared wearing his signature black sunglasses and business smile. “Glad to see you guys again,” he said. “You must be Michael. Heard a lot about you.” Marino reminded Michael of his family’s only ‘officially declared’ Mafioso, cousin Anthonee. Warm and friendly on the surface, but a nasty, violent, greaseball under the hood. Bob seemed satisfied with Norwest’s decor but he was pissed at Jack. What the hell did that big mouth asshole tell Marino about Michael? “I thought we’d start with a little tour of the trading floor, meet a few of my top producers,” suggested Marino. “They’ve got questions. Then my key management people will meet us in the conference room so we can wrap up any outstanding details.” Marino slowly opened two large wooden doors behind the reception area. To Michael’s surprise, the ‘boiler room’ was bright, airy, and well furnished with huge windows and rows upon rows of neatly organized desks, telephones, computers, and a large stock quote screen in each corner of the room. Hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room, like the scoreboard at Madison Square Garden, was a giant four-sided screen. “This place is like a zoo during trading hours,” said Marino. “Right now there are just a few traders, my top producers, massaging clients for tomorrow’s opening bell. With all the CNBC-TV shit, the financial Internet sites and the after-hours trading, even the little prick with five grand thinks he’s Mr. Fucking know-it-all. So my best guys know they gotta work the crowd a little harder.” In the corner of the trading room, two dozen twenty-something young men, each well groomed, wearing a freshly starched shirt and a silk tie were sitting quietly, but not for much longer.
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