This Little Piggy. M.G. Crisci
smile refused to break. With friends like this, who needs enemies? “So, Martin,” asked Victor naively, “what exactly will you be doing in ITI?”
“My dear boy, I am your pot-of-gold insurance policy.”
“Humor me,” quipped Victor, displaying his newfound knowledge. “How does that translate into our red herring?”
Diamond looked at Tishman. How fucking green is this kid? Tishman interrupted the awkward silence. “Victor, you need to understand that Martin is not exactly in the prospectus.”
Tishman decided it was neither the time nor place for full disclosure. Diamond had once been the chief financial officer of Ryman’s original creation, United Medical. As the HMOs began to lower reimbursement rates to hospitals as well as doctors, the costs of debt service (interest on the money borrowed) far exceeded the cash-flow savings from the centralization of certain hospital outpatient care operations. Ryman, who had gained enormous notoriety as one of Wall Street’s young wunderkids, realized there was a major problem: Wall Street was unforgiving. One strike, and you were out.
He and Martin cooked the books for a quick sale before word leaked to the press or Securities and Exchange regulators. Based on Diamond’s misrepresentations, Yuma Medical jumped at the chance to buy the rapidly growing United organization at a discount to the market. The word they got from Diamond was that Ryman was bored. He wanted to play billionaire on the beaches and in the clubs of St. Tropez, Nice, and Cannes, and gamble till sunrise in the casinos of Monte Carlo. Diamond, knowing he would never again “officially” work in the securities industry, cut a deal for a non-disclosable share (i.e., less than five percent) of founder equity in all of Ryman’s future ventures.
Initially, Ryman screamed and yelled and hemmed and hawed that “one of his best friends in the whole world was trying to screw him.” Diamond laughed at Ryman’s pathetic attempts to overpower him, knowing full well if Ryman didn’t acquiesce, they’d both go down in flames. Once the men resolved their differences, they again became buddy-buddy — as if nothing had happened.
“Customarily, Martin functions as the ‘unofficial’ treasurer and chief financial officer in Franklin’s inventions and holds less than a five percent equity position.”
“What has that got to do with anything?” Diamond’s eyes looked heavenward. Tishman smiled his Mr. Rogers smile. “Victor, in public offerings, only those individuals who own five percent or more of the company have to be so identified. Understand?”
Chapter 10
Kings Point Dogs
There is quite a substantial between the rich and super-rich.
There were estates in King Point, the exclusive waterfront enclave where cottages started at $5 million, and then there was Franklin Ryman’s place.
It had twenty-three rooms with eight baths, 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 comfortably sat five hundred, and the caretaker’s cottage was larger than most other homes on the block.
Franklin’s pride and joy was the state-of-the-art kennel where he kept his two 150-pound Newfoundlands, Buzz and Winfred. The “boys” had a grooming salon, dining area, and bathing room. Victor figured the circular driveway and entrance hall were larger than the footprint of their entire home in Greenwich.
“Franklin,” wondered Sandra, once she and Victor had made themselves comfortable. “With all of this, why bother to work?”
Franklin’s uncanny sense of purposeful theater went on display. He knew Sandra had to come along willingly. “The trappings are all bullshit, just a façade. I used to think the toys helped define me, but they don’t. Besides, what the hell am I doing on the edge of Long Island? I’m a city boy. “ve got to get back into the middle of the action. I need the stimulation, the challenge; otherwise, my brain will turn to mush.”
Sandra took the bait. Franklin not only sounded credible but also a bit remorseful, almost embarrassed by the display of opulence that surrounded him. As Victor and Sandra were to learn, nothing was ever quite as it appeared with Franklin. In reality, he was damn close to broke, by Franklin’s standards. Down to his last $20 million, most of which was tied up in a glitzy Aspen, Colorado, sports club he owned and couldn’t sell. Because of his cash crunch and enormous overheads, the house was being discretely offered for sale through Sotheby’s. So were the furniture, the cars, and even Buzz and Wilfredthe dogs would wind up?
The first course arrived, served by a friendly middle-aged lady in a casual uniform. “My goodness, this soup is fabulous,” said Sandra.
“Glad you like it. It’s a fresh zucchini soup. Family recipe with vegetables from the garden of Ryman,” smiled Franklin. He noticed Victor quizzically staring at the white mound floating in the middle of the soup. “Victor, trust me, the crème Fraiche 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.” Franklin’s description relieved Sandra. She thought the white substance might have been curdled milk.
Subsequent courses were more recognizable. Dining with Franklin was like eating at an intimate five-star restaurant with none of the pomposity. The baby dandelion and radicchio, the braised trout in rice parchment paper, even the crepes with beluga caviar were a feast for the eyes and the stomach. Three hours later, the meal ending, Franklin decided to suck up big time with a final toast.
“Victor 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,” Victor nodded. Sandra wondered. Neither had ever tasted port wine. Franklin disappeared into his wine cellar and returned with a dark, dusty bottle.
“Ta-da,” said Franklin, bowing and making like a sommelier with a treasure. “Madame, a sweet for the sweet.” He 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. “Franklin, the port is delicious, and the crystal glasses are fabulous.”
“The glasses are pretty,” said Franklin toasting Sandra, “but you, my dear, are exquisite.”
~
You could hear a pin drop in the car on the ride back. Sandra knew something was bothering Victor. “Victor, why so quiet? It was a wonderful evening, and Franklin was such a gracious host.”
“Gracious host! My future partner was hitting on my wife, right before my eyes.” Victor began to mimic Franklin. “The glasses are beautiful, but you, my dear, are exquisite…Christ, I thought I was watching a Spencer Tracy-Katherine Hepburn movie.”
Sandra reached over and gave Victor a tender kiss on the cheek. “Baby, you’re the love of my life. Always will be.”
~
Franklin was growing impatient. It was closing time. “Victor,” said Franklin a few days later, “let’s cut to the chase. You’re the man plus, you’ve got one classy partner.”
“Thanks,” said Victor. We’ve been together for a long time. Met her at seventeen at a college mixer, we married at twenty…”
Franklin didn’t give a shit. “Victor, you must know you’re my first choice, but I’ve got to close my offering. You do realize this is that once-in-a-lifetime guaranteed opportunity that will change your life forever?”
Victor was starting to get the hang of the game. There was always more. He decided to raise the stakes using the Sandra card. “Franklin, everything sounds great, but Sandra’s reluctant. We’ve been living way over our heads for years, and she’s worried about taking too big a current cash flow hit for a promising future.”
How amusing, thought Franklin…the organizational virgin trying to best the master at poker. He decided