Storymania - This Little Piggy by Matt Crisci

This Little Piggy (8)
Matt Crisci

“Honey, I appreciate what you do. Healthcare is a noble calling,” said Michael with a hint of condescension. “Those spoiled, pampered doctors. The way you guys think nothing of spending ten dollars apiece for titanium screws to connect body plates. It’s not exactly like real business.”
“Oh really.”
“Besides, adding an extension on a building in White Plains is not exactly the same as killer space on the 54th floor in the Seagram’s Building.”
“The Seagram’s Building. I thought you fellas were a start-up public company with shareholders and such?” said Sandra, sounding surprising knowledgeable.
“Oh really,” mimicked Michael, as they both began to laugh.
“Seriously, Bob loves the Four Seasons Restaurant.”
“Well, that makes a lot more sense,” said Sandra. “At least there’s a logical reason for ITI’s shameless display of opulence.
                                                               *
     TEN DAYS LATER, John, Bob, Krotsky and Michael held ITI’s first official meeting in their new corporate headquarters to discuss the status of potential acquisition candidates.
     “We have firm appointments with Morton Alexander and Associates, a relatively new barter company on 45th Street that specializes in excess sports goods,” said John in front of a presentation board with the Manhattan skyline as a backdrop. “Robert Jenkins Inc., a twenty-five year old re-marketer of prime quality excess retail office space, and, compliments of Allan, The Tradewell Corporation, a media company that specializes in trading media for branded food products with marketing giants like Unilever and Proctor & Gamble.”
        Krotsky nodded affirmatively.
       John continued. “I’ve also got the word out to the legal and financial community that we offer generous finders’ fees on referrals that we close.”
      “Sounds like an excellent start,” complimented Michael.
      “Naah,” Bob groaned. “By this time my hospital management team had twice as many acquisitions lined up. Besides, where’s the sex for The Street? These sound like a bunch of nice little private dull companies. We need some major players so we can initiate a secondary financing within the next six months.”
      “I don’t disagree,” stated Krotsky calmly. “I think Irwin has a big-time possibility.”
     “That will help,” said Bob, “Irwin usually does his homework. But Christ! What the hell am I paying you for, John? Get your ass in gear. Expectations are building in the marketplace.”
    “To that point, what are Marino and his boys doing?” asked Krotsky.
     “What do you mean?” responded Bob innocently.
    “Our stock is already over a dollar, ten times the initial offering price and we haven’t done a damn thing yet.”
     “Allan, I’m glad you pointed the situation out,” said Bob, lying through his teeth as usual. “I’ve been so focused on acquisitions. I didn’t even notice. Christ, I hope Marino isn’t blatantly churning.”
     “Have you talked to him?” asked Krotsky.
     “It must be that whore Berger. We’ve got to keep our eye on him. I’ll look into it.” Bob then changed the subject. “The details and the phone calls are starting to pile up. We need to hire a few administrative assistants pronto.”
       “I’ve anticipated that,” said John. “Bob, I’ve located an ideal candidate as your administrative assistant.”
        Bob turned to Michael. “And you?”
       “Been considering my old A&J admin, Janet Franklin,” said Michael. “She’s a real crackerjack. Worked with me for nine years.”
     “So why the fuck haven’t you hired her yet?”
    Rather than get caught with his pants down, Michael did what Bob would have done: lied through his teeth. “Actually, I made her a tentative offer when we met last week, and told her I’d give her the complete compensation package this week. I figured that way we could talk before I made a final commitment. A&J rewards long-term loyalty. She’s got a hefty base and some pretty extensive benefits.”
     “I can’t imagine she wouldn’t realize this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” huffed Bob. “Schmooze her. Pay her whatever you need to. Let’s get rolling.”
                                                                       *
      “ROBERT, I’D LIKE TO INTRODUCE Astrid Fundland,” said John, escorting a young woman into Bob’s huge office. “As you can see from her resume, she speaks three languages, English, Swedish and French, is quite computer literate and does word processing at seventy words a minute.”
      Bob could see just fine. Astrid was a slim blonde with the legs of a supermodel. The rest of her looked like a Las Vegas showgirl with a touch of TV soap opera star.
     “Astrid’s also been living in Aspen for the last year, so I suspect you will have some common interests,” concluded John with twinkle in his eye.
     Bob looked her over like a hungry man admiring a fresh steak with all the trimmings. She handed him her resume. He didn’t even glance at it.
     Astrid knew what time it was. She slowly tilted her head. Her shiny blond hair glided to the side of her face. Then she ran her tongue around her large sensuous lips.
      “Thanks for seeing me. These are beautiful offices, Mr. Goldstrom. The view is quite stunning.”
     “Call me Robert,” insisted Bob who relished this type: sexy, hip, smart and more than willing to compromise to stay in the fast lane.
   “Well, Robert, I think my professional skills speak for themselves. I am available to begin work immediately.”
    “How long did you live in Aspen?”
    “About five years.”
    “Surprised, I never ran into you there. You know I’m one of the owners of The Aspen Club.”
    “I’m well aware of that.”
    “You are? Do we have people in common?”
    “Yes, but I’m not sure we want to go there.”
    Bob gave her his patented look. “Let’s do.”
   “Dick.”
   “My partner, Dick Driscoll?”
   “Yes. I was his mistress for four years.”
    “So you’re the one. He never volunteered your name. He certainly kept you hidden from Allison. She didn’t have a clue for the longest time. Didn’t you cause a scene or disappear or something?”
      “Robert, I’m really uncomfortable discussing this any further. I’m just here about a job.”
       “Astrid, the job is yours. You start at fifty thousand dollars on Monday,” said Bob,
who then laid it open. “Dick dragged his dick around the club for months. What the hell happened?”
The Aspen Club had been one of Bob’s most expensive faux pauxs. He first met Dick Driscoll at a private party of the rich and powerful in Short Hills, New Jersey. They quickly discovered they had much in common: fast cars, the accumulation of obscene wealth, beautiful women, and the glittery lifestyle of Aspen. Two weeks late, they were on Dick’s private jet, examining potential sites for what was to become the pre-eminent celebrity hideaway in Aspen. Two years later, the Club was opened to incredible fanfare with the jet set circle around the world. The place was jammed with celebrities who wanted to be anonymous and quasi-celebrities, who came to be seen. From opening day, the Club lost a ton because neither Bob nor Dick knew dick about operating such a property, and their egos would not let either suggest hiring professional management. About thirty million in the hole personally, Bob discovered Dick was flat broke. That, in fact, his wealth came from wife Allison’s side of the family. And, for some inexplicable reason, she had cut off his play money.
     “Allison found us in bed one night in an Aspen Club suite. The next morning she had the banks shut down all of his short term credit lines. Then she told her loving husband he could have his freedom, but she would make sure Daddy also cut him out of her trust fund. Since Dick didn’t have a dime, he decided it was more important to maintain his financial status than have a great lay and blew me off. I got into a funk, drugs and stuff, messed up my head, shamelessly tried to woo Dick back. Allison eventually gave me a ticket to get out of town and twenty thousand dollars. I’m just about tapped out, but I’m clean and here we are.”
                                                                       *
      BERGER CALLED BOB at the start of the next business day.
      “Bobbie, I want you to present your corporate spiel to a sure thing,”
“Who?”
      “A group of lower East Side Hasidic Jews in the electronics business.”
       “These guys are major investors,” continued Berger. “Marino put them in the stock at ten cents. About three million shares. After we drove the price to thirty cents, they made a nice little profit. And they’re just waiting for us to tell them when to get back in. Plus they have a regular supply of excess product inventory, an excellent source for the Company.”
      “Can they keep their mouths shut?”
      “ Would I bring the wrong people?”
      “Okay. Friday morning. I’ll give them an informal update.”
     “’Informal’? These guys need the whole nine yards. Get that blonde of yours to order the bagels and lox, maybe some smoked whitefish and maybe…”
      “ITI is a fucking delicatessen? The girl just started. That’s not what I want her to do.”
      “Astrid’ll do anything she’s told, including sloppy seconds after Dick.”
      “How would you know about that?
                                                                   *
TEN DISHELVED STOCKBROKERS led by a Bernie Dyckman arrived for another Company update arranged by Jack Berger, who wasn’t there. Bald, ugly and pushy, Bernie didn’t have a bone of finesse in his short, fat body.
    Astrid thought he could use a shower, or at least a strong deodorant.
   “Jack told me you are going to make us rich,” commanded Bernie with his Street boys behind him. “Explain.”
    “Well, I don’t know about that,” said Bob, exuding a phony modesty, “But we do have an interesting story. My COO here, Michael Martini will take you through a little presentation to show you where we are. Between Michael, our financial advisor, Ray Dothan, and myself, we should be able to answer most of your questions.”
      “What do you know about Integrated Trading International so far?” began Michael.
      “That Jack said we’d make a lot of money,” said Dyckman.
      “How about I give you a quick ten-minute overview of the business,” suggested Michael, getting a fix on the crowd. “Then we’ll move right to your investment questions.”
     “Make it five. That’ll eliminate the bullshit.”
     “Jesus, Bernie,” said Bob, “I don’t think that’s possible.”
     “It’s okay,” said Michael.
     “Bob, Michael says it’s okay,” echoed Dyckman.
     Michael began his spiel. It was a word-for-word repeat of Bob’s spiel to him some months ago in the Sutton Place Coffee Shop. Only Michael was better. Michael knew it. Bob knew it. “Re-marketing excess consumer goods is a highly fragmented ten billion dollar business in the U.S. comprised of hundreds of private companies that specialize in one type of inventory, or one channel of distribution,” began Michael, winging it all the way. “Some are stronger at buying at a good price. Some stronger at selling. Some buy for cash. Some buy under a barter arrangement. Some buy for a little of both. ITI will be the first company to combine all the functions and product categories under one roof, thereby becoming the market leader literally overnight. The key will be acquisitions and financing thereof.”
     The board behind Michael was full of colored boxes and arrows. His audience was eating out of his hand. Just like selling dog food promos.
     “How big do you expect to be?” asks Dyckman.
    “About $500 million,” said Michael with Madison Avenue aplomb. “Give or take a hundred million, within three years.”
      Michael checked his watch. Bernie & Company were salivating.
     “That’s my five minutes.”
      “C’mon, Michael. We were only trying to break your balls,” said Bernie, begging like a hungry hound. “Nothing personal. We do it to everybody who wants our money. ITI sounds like an interesting proposition. We don’t know squat about the barter business. Take whatever time you want.”
     “Then let’s start on acquisitions,” replied Michael, throwing them a bone. “We’re interested in three broad categories: trading companies whose primary skill base is finding deals, distribution companies who know how to get rid of products discreetly and profitably as well as supply companies who will create the inventory of goods and services, like media, printing and
transportation services that we’ll employ as trading currency for our purchases.”
      “Give us an example of the kinds of companies you are looking to acquire,” pushed Bernie.
        “Well, let’s take the trading area. There are great little companies like Morton Alexander and Associates that specializes in buying and re-marketing sporting goods and Tradewell that moves food products and so on. We currently have about fifty companies in some stage of negotiation.”
     “Fifty!” said Bernie as the greedy little brokers mumbled while they scribbled notes.
    “If you project five hundred million in five years,” Bernie kept probing. “What do the year one and two pro formas look like?”
     Michael smiled convincingly; he had no idea what the hell a pro forma was. Bob jumped in.
        “Bernie, Bernie,” he said, holding out his hands as if to stop a truck. “You know the rules. Michael’s done an admirable job of giving you an idea of where we are going, but we can’t go any further.”
     “I assure you we’re off-the-record,” pleaded Dyckman.
      Ray finally joined the gig, employing his own style of reverse psychology. “It’s really too early in the process. For example, we have only arranged a preliminary meeting with SFM Media. How would we even be able to include them in a pro forma, much less estimate their earnings potential?”
     “SFM, the media giant?” asked Dyckman, his bubble-like eyes ready to burst.
     “Let’s leave at that,” said Bob, as if on cue. “My accomplishments at United Medical are part of the public record. You did the research. You know how big the company was at the end of two years of acquisition activity. Assuming the availability of capital, ITI, conservatively, should be twice the size of United Medical over a comparable period.”
     Bernie and his bunch left on the verge of a mass orgasm.
     “Jesus Christ,” Bob looked at Michael. “Where did you get all that stuff?”
     “From my executive imagination,” said Michael with a grin. “Thanks for bailing me out on the pro forma stuff.”
     Bob smiled proudly. His new junior partner was beginning to remind him of himself.
                                                                       *
     “I MADE AN EXECUTIVE DECISION after the Dyckman meeting,” said Ray. “Remember my brother Steve?”
    “The research analyst?”
    “Yeah. I hired him to do the ‘right kind’ of research report. He’s well respected. His name on a report lends credibility. Plus he owns the ‘right’ data base to get the report into the ‘right’ hands.”
    “How much?”
    “Forget it. Jesse says it’s your birthday present.”
     “How about we supplement his list with a few cherry picked contacts from my Rolodex?” volunteered Bob.
     “How does Market Insights Incorporated sound?” asked Ray. “Steve even created a logo.”
      “God, you guys are good!” said Bob. “ When will the report hit the mail?”
      “Depends. You’ve got to give me some meat. Acquisition possibilities, pro forma projections, anticipated growth rates. Specifics are key to media exposure. Nobody wants airy fluff. The dotcom babies burst that bubble.”
       “What else?”
       “We need to brief Michael because we’ll need some help getting the mail out.”
“Forget Michael. It’s better he simply doesn’t know some things. I’ll tell John, he can keep his mouth shut. Make sure you print over five thousand for Marino and his boys.”
     “Consider it done.”
      “And for Christ sakes, find a printer in Omaha, Kankakee or the boondocks somewhere. Make it impossible for anybody to link me and the company, directly or indirectly.”
                                                                       *
     THE MARKET INSIGHTS REPORT was an instant success. Within days, ITI phones were ringing off the hook. Newspapers, talk shows and business magazines clamored to interview Bob.
        Janet made a detailed list of each caller and the information requested, and forwarded it to Bob and Michael. Astrid handled a similar number of requests, but there seemed to be few specific records, just scraps of paper here and there.
      Janet became suspicious. Astrid seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone, and was constantly making notes in a small red spiral notebook she carried with her everywhere. But Janet was not about to turn stool pigeon. Bob was screwing Astrid in lieu of his noontime health club workouts. Michael only cared about making money.
     One morning, Jack Berger crashed into the office and lit into Astrid.
     “What is this report?” he demanded. “We had a deal, baby. No fucking surprises.”
     “They kept it from me,” said Astrid. “I didn’t even work on the mailing.”
     Berger then took on Michael, like he was in charge.
     “How come you didn’t tell me about this fucking report in advance? I’ve gotta get in it the mail like an ordinary stockbroker?”
       “Hold on,” protested Michael. “I didn’t know about the report either.”
       “Don’t bullshit me. You’re as inside as they get. You’re hustlin’ a fellow hustler. We got a fucking code of ethics. Goddamn it! If I had this thing a few days before it was mailed, a lot of my people could have made a goddamn fortune. It’s just not right! Not after everything I’ve done for you guys.”
      Berger threw the report on Michael’s desk and stormed out. When Bob returned from his latest’ lunchtime workout’ Michael tore into him.
      “Who the hell is Market Insights Incorporated? shouted Michael angrily. “Who did it? Where did they get all this inside information? Doesn’t this report violate SEC regs?”
       Cleverly, Bob, aware of Michael’s information gap, moved the target. “The SEC. You don’t know squat about the SEC! Analysts follow companies, write reports for investors all the time. I didn’t have anything to do with the report, but you tell me, what regulations does it violate?”
Michael had no response. For one of the few times in his business career, he was fact-less, and helpless. He silently vowed never to be caught with his pants down about the SEC again.
                                                                    *
“IT FINALLY HAPPENED.”
“Michael, what finally happened?” asked Sandra about to roll over and go to sleep.
“The bastards got me!”
“What ever are you talking about? First Chief Windsong, now what?” said an increasingly concerned Sandra.
“You know me. I try to know more than anybody else. That’s the best way to maintain control of any and every situation. I hate surprises.”
“Michael it’s almost midnight. I’ve got a major surgery at 6:30 A.M. Please translate for Mommy.”
Michael spent the next half hour explaining Bob’s informational double cross.
Sandra listened intently, then gave some definitive advice.
“Seems pretty simple to me. We either get out while the going is good. Or you go back to school to beat them at their own game. If it were my choice, I’d choose the former. Knowing you, I’m sure we’ll do the latter.”
Sandra’s assessment was right on. During the next two months, Michael studied everything there was to know about the SEC. He even chose to burn the midnight oil with Krotsky on numerous occasions.
Michael knew Krotsky would tell Bob about his SEC cram sessions. In Michael’s mind, knowing he knew what Bob knew allowed him to maintain complete and absolute control over all future SEC matters.

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