Storymania - This Little Piggy by Matt Crisci

This Little Piggy (9)
Matt Crisci

   Chapter 7.
World’s Greatest Liquidator

“ROBERT, I MAY HAVE the acquisition that’ll put ITI on the map,” declared investment banker Irwin Friedway with an afternoon call. “Big Money has heard what you’re doing. They’re interested, but they won’t come cheap.”
      “Who?” asked Bob impatiently.
      “You and I have done a lot of business together. Despite that we’ve managed to stay friends, right? So let’s cut the bullshit,” demanded Irwin, determined to make his spying missions at the Four Seasons pay off. “Get me a signed remuneration agreement, so my fees in this transaction are clear, then we’ll talk. Your option. But if you want to save time, I can draw up the standard Lehman formula finder’s fee agreement. My partner and I’ll bring it over.”
     “Partner, since when?”
     “Since this deal. Julie Suchs has been a close friend and advisor to the acquisition candidate for years. He’ll provide you with valuable insights into the Company and what they’re looking for.”
      “Julie?”
      “It’s actually Julius, but he prefers Julie. Julius sounds too ethnic. I’m going to argue?”
     “And Suchs, like in change one letter and get ‘sucks’? That’s not what he does for a living when he isn’t identifying acquisitions is it?”
     “He’s a CPA. And keep the jokes to yourself when we meet.”
     “When?”
     “A couple of days. Julie lives in California.”
     “I assume Julie’s possible conflict of interest is also off limits?”
     “What conflict?”
                                                                       *
      BOB ARRIVED AT IRWIN’S office on Park Avenue and 41st Street fifteen minutes late. Typical.
    Floor to ceiling bookcases filled with legal volumes dominated the conference room, implying Irwin’s mastery of law. Like so many things in Irwin’s life, the books were a prop designed to give him an edge in negotiations. His life was a negotiation, from buying a new suit to selling a company or trying to pick up a woman at a bar. But he wasn’t a lawyer. Everything he knew about the law he’d learned from television and best-selling novels.
       Julie was not what Bob expected. An older man in his late 60’s with a full head of gray wavy hair, lots of friendly wrinkles and a rich, dark suntan. Wearing an open collar sports shirt and checkered sports jacket, Mr. Suchs could pass for a grandfather on the Family Channel.
      “Pleasure to meet you Robert,” Julie reached across the table and vigorously shook his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
       Bob bet he had. That’s why he’d kept Michael out of the loop.
      “Irwin has been most discreet about your partnership with him,” Bob began, the picture of confidence in his trademark pinstriped suit.
“Maybe I should give you some background on ITI, what we’ve accomplished to date and where we are planning to go.”
      “Let’s not worry about that,” said Julie. “Your reputation as a promoter precedes you---a man who gets it done. It’s Sam and his family that you have to sell. What we need to do first is get our deal done. Irwin...”
      “As we discussed, in standard Lehman terms,” noted Irwin, handing Bob the three-page document.
      “As you know, I have a fiduciary responsibility to have Allan review all agreements of this nature,” said Bob, wanting to hear more about the acquisition before he signed anything. If John’s research had already identified the buyers, then he could negotiate a reduced fee. “Why don’t we talk a bit about whoever Sam is? Allan will get right back to you.”
      “If that’s the way you want to handle it, that’s fine with me,” said Julie, like a warm and friendly grandpa. “We’ll have lunch while you modify the agreement anyway you want. Then Irwin and I will review it and perhaps provide a few comments, and ultimately sign the agreement. Then we’ll talk more about Sam.”
       (Fuck you, Bob boy! No agreement, no information was the message, loud and clear.)
       Bob wanted to scream, but he was desperate for acquisition agreements---the bigger the better---given the frenzy he had created. Marino had it right: “My boys need something ‘off the record’ to talk about.”
     “Julie, I know you’ve traveled in from California, so I won’t waste your time. Let’s do the agreement right now and get it signed,” said Bob, skimming the document. “It’s boilerplate all right, except for one small matter---the fee schedule is about thirty-five percent higher than the usual five—four---three—two---one.”
      “This is an unusual transaction,” responded Julie. “We have a pretty substantial company with a long operating history and clean books. Your accounting and due diligence costs will be zilch. Plus they are willing to wait until you get your next financing executed. But hey, if it’s too rich for you, it’s okay. These guys can continue operating just fine without
you.”
       (Money grubbing pigs! Bob felt like amputating their hands. Irwin and Julie were going to split the fee and wanted their full share.)
      “Christ, you guys are killing me,” protested Bob meekly. “The Board is going to have my ass. But let’s go.”
      “Now that we’ve got the housekeeping out of the way, let me tell you a little about the principals, Sam and Dave,” said Julie before Bob’s signature was dry. “The Sam Nachman Company is fifteen years old and generally assumed to be…”
        “You don’t mean THE Sam Nachman who does those huge liquidations?”
        “One and the same. We’re not horsing around here. I’m too old to bother with small time. Sam is getting on in years, and his younger partner Dave Berman wants to cash out before he’s too old to spend it.
       “Sam Nachman built his business, starting with the mammoth eight hundred million dollar WT Grant liquidation,” explained Julie. “Sam rolled the dice, put everything he owned into the deal, got some of his big-time retailing buddies Jerry Sugarstein, Sol Shenk and Mel Simkin to back him. Sam’s idea was simple, but radical for its time. Run a retail liquidation like a conventional retail sales event, hence the birth of the giant going- out-of-business sale.”
       “But instead of returning the usual fifteen to twenty cents on the dollar to creditors, Nachman and his partners were willing to guarantee creditors thirty-two cents on the dollar. On eight hundred million, that’s one shit pile of money. All the other bidders bailed out. Too much risk. Sam’s super sale yielded forty-four cents on the dollar. The creditors jumped for joy and Nachman made a killing. Since then there have been a number of imitators, but there is still only one Sam Nachman.”
        “Why does he want out?” asked Bob.
       “Sam doesn’t think his partner Dave or his son Albert, a UCLA lawyer, have the balls to keep his brainchild thriving. He’d also like to see the Nachman name on a legitimate corporate entity.”
       “What do you mean ‘legitimate’?”
       “Liquidation has a dirty reputation---the deals, the payoffs. Sam wants a legacy beyond ‘The World’s Greatest Liquidator.’ That’s why he bought that NBA franchise. An acquisition by a public company would be like making a three-point shot.
       “You got balls enough to play with him?”
       Bob sat back in his chair. ITI was about to go full court.
                                                                        *
       JULIE CALLED NACHMAN.
     “Sam, I’m in New York with Irwin Friedway who told me about a new public company called Integrated Barter International and its visionary founder, Bob Goldstrom. ITI is looking for acquisitions of excess inventory. This may be a great way to cash out.”
       “We’ve been together a long time,” said Sam, his raspy voice sounding like Marlon Brando. “If you think it’s something we should look at, then do it. Remember though, what I really want is to eliminate the personal bank guarantees. I’m getting too old to have to worry about tying up my assets every time I buy an inventory over five million. Everybody knows me as the ultimate poker player. But between you and me, I’m losing my stomach for the
all-or-nothing roll. It’s no big deal to lose fifty grand in a stud game, but losing thirty or forty million is a different matter.”
      “What do you know about this Goldstrom?”
      “I checked him out,” said Julie. “He’s definitely been successful in raising big bucks in the public markets. No criminal record or even violations. But he’s been into drugs and lost millions on a clearinghouse venture in Chicago. He’s a promoter. Doesn’t know jack shit about operating companies. He’s hired some corporate blue blood named Michael Martini to run the acquisitions, but I haven’t found out much about him.”
      “Sounds okay by me,” said Sam.
      “Goldstrom is hungry. Gives us a big edge.”
      “What’s next?” asked Sam.
      “I’d suggest a face-to-face meeting.”
      “At my hotel suite in Las Vegas. Just in case he’s full of shit. I don’t want to disrupt my poker schedule.”
      Julie called Bob.
     “Sam is happy to meet with you in Las Vegas. He’s in the middle of a two-week round robin poker tournament.”
       “I’m talking about buying his business,” protested Bob. “It’s one thing visiting his operation, but a card game? Christ, I’ve got three acquisition meetings next week here in New York.”
     “I can appreciate your busy schedule, as you can understand Sam’s passion about his hobby. So why don’t we leave it at that...”
     “Don’t blow me off,” demanded Bob. “I’ll meet him in Vegas.”
    “Good,” Julie’s voice almost cracked. “At the registration counter in the Hilton about 11pm, Thursday night. Bring Michael with you. Sam and I would like to meet him.”
       “Getting Nachman in the fold could be the key to creating a flash flood of acquisition deals,” Krotsky congratulated Bob over lunch later that day.
      “They know about Michael,” said Bob. “They want me to bring him along.”
      “Consider it a learning experience. I gather he’s handled himself surprising well at your broker meetings. Ray tells me Michael’s a politically correct version of you. But be careful. I doubt he’s ever seen, much less dealt with sharks like this.”
                                                                     *
      “HOW ABOUT JOINING ME for a workout at the Vertical Club before we head to Vegas? It’s the hippest singles scene in town,” said Bob, crashing into Michael’s office. “And then a light lunch.”
    “I’d love to, but...” replied Michael who had the look of an athlete but other than an infrequent morning walk, hadn’t exercised in years. “I don’t have any workout clothes or shoes here. Let’s do it another day.”
     “No problem. Paragon Sports is just a few blocks from the club. They carry everything. I’ll buy. An advance on your Christmas bonus.”
      Two hours later Michael and Bob were standing on a half-mile indoor jogging track suspended above the club’s expansive Nautilus room equipped with two hundred sleek machines and a plethora of weight lifting gizmos. Fifty men with pecks bulging and seventy taut, shapely women in sexy one-piece tights were grunting, groaning and sweating, each lustily inspecting the other.
      “I’ve got a slow-build routine,” boasted Bob. “About ten laps in all. The first three at a warm-up jog, the next four at medium pace and the last four, balls out aerobic.”
      Michael thought he was going to barf.
      For the first three laps, Michael huffed and puffed and talked business. But at the beginning of lap four, Bob accelerated the pace. Michael kept up for about half a lap, then stopped short, gasping for air as he grabbed for the railing to steady his wobbly legs.
    “Christ, you gotta get in better shape. You’re going to need some real stamina for what lies ahead---the traveling, the stress, the bullshit,” admonished Bob. “I’d suggest we get you a personal trainer. It’s a Company expense. Gotta keep our key executives in tip-top shape.”
       His first corporate perk? Michael would have preferred a golf pro.
      They went down and had a mango and papaya fruit cup-a Vertical Club specialty—and a vegetable salad comprised of all Bob’s favorites-raw bean sprouts, soybeans, lemon wheat grass and water chestnuts. Michael pretended he was eating cheeseburgers. Between courses Bob brought up Nachman and the scheduled trip to Las Vegas.
     “Just watch and listen. We’ve got to be real careful. Bernie Dyckman and his crew are pussycats compared to these piranhas,” advised Bob, chomping on a raw carrot.
                                                                        *
MICHAEL’S MADISON AVENUE WARDROBE SIMPLY WILL NOT DO thought Bob. We’ll get laughed out of Vegas.
Fortunately, Edward Sexton of Seville Row was in town. Personal tailor to Prince Charles and other London dignitaries, he has been Bob’s custom couture for almost a decade.
“Michael, this is your lucky day. My tailor is in town, and has agreed to stop by the apartment to do an emergency fitting, so we can get you properly attired for success.”
“Custom made suits?” Michael paused. “What the hell, there’s a first time for everything.”
About an hour later, the boys were greeted by a nattily dressed Brit with slickly matted black curly hair as they entered Bob’s Sutton Place spread.
The man smiled, “So good to see you again, Mr. Goldstrom.” He then gave Michael the once over. “My, my, Mr. Goldstrom, I see what you meant. We do have some work ahead of us, don’t we?”
“Edward, be nice. Let’s start him off with a few single breasted, pointed lapel suits.”
“Are we sure it may not be a little too extreme for the gentleman?”
Translation: The style is too sophisticated for his type!
“Edward, do I have pay extra for the verbal abuse, or is it included in the cost of the suit?” joked Michael pointedly.
Edward smiled sensuously as he waved his hand and gently tapped Michael.
Translation: You are a cute little devil, aren’t you?
“These fabrics are lovely.” said Michael perusing a group of over-sized swatches maliciously layered at the end of Goldstrom’s 10 foot long Louis IVX dining room table.
“Lovely, aren’t they? The material is called Scotch V100. It has the feel of cashmere and the durability and breathability of the world’s finest wools.
Translation: this material is damn expensive!
“What do you think of this color?” said Michael picking up a gray glen plaid.
“Simply not you.”
Translation: It will make you look fatter than you are.
“What do you suggest?”
“I believe this patterned, herringbone in a midnight blue, will look fabulous.”
“Looks great, but this looks like gray.”
“The midnight is a special order, but worth the wait.”
Translation: this material will cost you even more.
Michael nodded affirmatively.
“Let the process begin,” smiled Edward, clearly relishing the idea of measuring Michael from his crotch to the top of his shoes.
About twenty uncomfortable minutes later Edward was finished. Measuring, not selling.
“Mr. Martini, since you’ve been kind enough to purchase two magnificent suits, I would be remiss if I didn’t suggest a gray mohair topcoat as an accompaniment. You will be fashion statement.”
Translation: let’s spend some more while I’ve got you here.
“Maybe next time.”
“Tell you what, because you’re an associate of Mr. Goldstrom’s, I’d like to offer you twenty-five per cent off. Does that sound fair for a handmade double breasted topcoat that will last forever?”
Michael hesitated. Edward glanced at Bob. Bob intervened.
“Come on Michael, live a little. You can buy Sandra a strand of black Tahitian pearls with your next million.”
Ten more minutes passed, the measurements were complete, and Edward was tallying the bill. “With the discount that will be, $15,594, which includes all taxes and shipping, plus lifetime alterations, should we lose some of that baby fat.”

Holy shit thought Michael, Sandra will have my ass!
Reluctantly, Michael gave Edward his American Express Card.
Edward entered the data into his laptop. “I’ll make sure we keep your card on record, so anytime you want to order some additional suits, just ring the shop or email me. Here’s my card. I’ll staple it to the invoice. I’ve also taken the liberty of writing my home phone in case you need to reach me directly or happen to be in London and would like another fitting.”
Bob was ready to bust a gut.
“I’d also like to give you a little gift,” continued Edward. He then pulled a beautiful black felt dress hat out of one of his wardrobe cases. “This is a hand signed Giorgio Armani. It is the exquisite compliment for your topcoat. Wear it in good health.
                                                             *
      DUE TO A BOMB SCARE in New York, the plane got to Vegas two hours late. Michael and Bob didn’t arrive at the hotel until after 11p.m. Julie was waiting impatiently at the registration counter in his signature checkered jacket and open collar shirt. Slot machines, blackjack and craps tables played in high volume stereo in the giant pink and red room.
        “Hello, fellas. I assume you’re Michael,” said Julie, sticking out his hand. “Sam’s running a little late finishing a round in his suite. The quarterfinals or whatever. I don’t understand how they keep score other than who wins the most money. How about you go up to your rooms and change. Relax a bit. Come down about one am.”
         Two hours later, they were in the coffee shop.
        “How long have you known Sam?” asked Michael.
        “We go back to the streets of Brooklyn,” said Julie. “During the war, we flew sorties together. He was a gunner. I was his co-pilot. Afterwards, we both returned to Flatbush. I got my degree from Brooklyn College and became a CPA. Sam went into retailing. Occasionally, he needs to outsource some of his more complicated financial work, so he hires me. We became pretty good friends. He invites me to family dinners. I got to know his wife Anke and then the kids. Linda, then Albert and finally Kim. I’m Albert’s godfather.”
     “We ‘re all New York City Street Kids,” observed Michael.
      Julie looked at Michael in his tailored blue pinstriped suit. “Street kids don’t dress like that.”
      “I was born in Harlem,” said Michael. “Raised in the South Bronx by first generation Italian immigrants.”
      Did Julie care? He went on with his story. “Anyway, somewhere along the way, I decided to move to California. The weather, the pace, the whatever. I had made some interesting contacts while I was in the service that I cultivated during my CPA years. Eventually, I decided to start an export company focused on bringing Korean products into the US and finding low cost sources of manufacture in South Korea for American companies. In the first few years, I made about thirty trips to Korea. Before I know it, I’ve got American Companies asking if I can get rid of their excess merchandise in Korea. And I’ve got these Korean companies wanting to distribute their excess in the States. As luck would have it, Sam also decided to move west around the same time. We put our heads together and pretty soon we’re doing a ton of deals. He’s buying and selling stuff I identify, and he’s asking me to unload merchandise he finds. We started to make a hell of a lot of money together.”
      “When did you begin to work for Sam full time?” asked Michael.
      “No, no,” scolded Julie, “I don’t work for nobody. Sam and I are partners.”
      On it went. At 4 a.m., Julie checked his watch. “I think the game is probably breaking up about now.”
      (A new one for much higher stakes was about to begin.)
                                                                          *
       JULIE ESCORTED BOB and Michael to Nachman’s penthouse suite. Rita, a gorgeous black woman wearing a skintight dress, stiletto heels, and long shiny black wig greeted them.
        The living room was the size of a football field in flamingo pink and bone white. The poker players were shrouded in smoke around a crowded table. At the nearby granite-topped bar, three more women as glamorous as Rita blatantly flirted and smiled with anybody willing to make eye contact.
       “Fellas, this is the last hand,” Nachman’s voice boomed through the smoke at Bob and Michael. “Make yourselves comfortable at the bar or, if you prefer, watch these sharks wipe out poor old Sam.”
       The five other players laughed politely. Within minutes, the pot had risen to $20,000. Only Nachman and a wrinkled man with a gray goatee and a silver earring were still in.
        “You’re bluffing again,” declared the beard, pushing in a pile of chips. “I’ll see your five thousand and call.”

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