This Little Piggy. M.G. Crisci
into the nearby executive bathroom, cell phone in hand. “Johnny, this better be goddamn good!” started Victor. “I’m in the middle of increasing my fucking Christmas bonus.”
“Easy, Victor, easy,” said Katz, “Remember how we always fantasized about being rich beyond our wildest dreams? Bagging the corporate bullshit?”
“You mean before or after you decided to become a drug dealer?” responded Victor curtly.
“Listen, the past is past. It's a new day. Your gravy train has just arrived — Ryman is back. THE Franklin Ryman!”
“You pull me from a room full of important clients to tell me Franklin Ryman is back. Who the hell is Franklin Ryman?!”
“The one and only. Mr. Super Rich, Mr. Mover and Shaker, Mr. Wall Street. I’ve convinced him you’re THE man to drive his new initial public offering. It’s that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get in on the ground floor of a big one. He wants to meet you ASAP.”
“Johnny, give me a goddamn break. How could you even get Ryman’s ear, much less convince him that…”
“Long story. Let’s say we took a few trips together. Along the way, he cleaned me up. I’m stone-cold sober. Honest. Trust me.”
Despite Katz’s antics, the one thing he had never lied to Victor. “Okay, let’s assume what you’ve said is true; what the hell do you and I know about public offerings?”
“Franklin’s taught me the whole Wall Street thing is not rocket science. It’s just a pot of gold waiting to be tapped by the right people.”
“I have to get back inside. Otherwise, I could be selling pencils on Wall Street. So, where and when?”
“Epstein’s Coffee Shop, 52nd and First, Friday morning at 8:30. You and the Great Ryman, alone.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. This genius who is going to shake up Wall Street at a fucking coffee shop?”
“Hey, what can I tell you? He likes the place for meetings. It’s around the corner from his Sutton Place penthouse.”
~
The remainder of the Piedmont meeting went even better than the first part. A&J was awarded a $25 million budget increase, $5 million more than originally recommended. “Victor,” chuckled another senior Piedmont Foods client and close friend, Steve Thompson, “Consider the additional $5 million a performance kicker…Christ, you could sell ice to the Eskimos in the middle of winter.”
When the clients had left, a pleased Victor returned to his office. His chunky assistant was beaming. “Boss,” she said in her distinct New Yorkese, “Mr. Naye called. He wants to see ya on Thursday morning, his office.”
Victor’s jaw dropped. “Boss, relax. da man said it was all good. He even asked if I knew how the meeting was going.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him from the smile on our clients’ faces; you did good. Real good.”
“Where do you get the chutzpah to tell the chairman that?”
“Boss, was I right?” Victor nodded. “So what’s to stress? Isn’t my job to cover your back?
Chapter 4
Fairytale Marriage
NORTH GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT.
Finding the right partner can make all the difference in the world.
Victor loved coming home to his elegantly casual five-acre homestead in North Greenwich. It validated the compromises he had made on his climb up the A&J success ladder.
Despite his Sammy Glick type-A demeanor and love of status symbols, he genuinely adored his beautiful wife, Sandra. Despite her humble blue-collar upbringing, she looked like a page straight out of Vogue – dark hair and mysterious eyes, olive Mediterranean complexion, perfectly proportioned size eight, ever the lady in dress and demeanor, and unequivocally supportive of her husband’s decisions.
Sandra and Victor’s relationship was the stuff of romantic novels. They met for the first time when Victor was a freshman in college, and Sandra was a junior in high school. Victor had decided to attend a Friday evening dance at the college with his friend Johnny. Coincidentally, Sandra was dragged to the same dance by her girlfriend, Lois, despite Sandra’s protestations that she had to work early Saturday morning at the supermarket.
Early in the evening, Victor spotted Sandra sitting quietly in the corner. He asked her to dance. She smiled sweetly but responded, “No thanks.” Victor melted. There was the girl of his dreams right in front of him, and he couldn’t even get her to dance.
“Just for the record, the rumors are greatly exaggerated,” said Victor, fishing for an attention-getting starter.
“Rumors?”
“They’re not true. I promise,” smiled Victor.
“What’s not true?” asked Sandra, staring at Victor with her big brown eyes.
“That I’m a distant cousin of Count Dracula, and I suck the blood of any woman who dances with me.”
Sandra beamed. The music began. The song was perfect. “The Way You Look Tonight.” Victor’s hand reached out. “They’re playing our song.” Sandra smiled, took his hand. By song’s end, she was gently nestled on his shoulder, feeling safe, secure, and loved. Victor was done!
That evening, he bet his buddy Johnny five bucks that they would one day marry. They memorialized the bet on a scrap of paper that Johnny folded and placed in his wallet. Two years later, at the tender age of twenty-one, Victor and Sandra were married. Johnny was Victor’s best man. Lois was Sandra’s maid of honor. During the toast, Johnny explained the bet the two men had made. He took a small crumpled piece of paper out of his wallet and gave it Sandra, and he gave Victor the five dollars. There was not a dry eye in the room.
For the next seventeen years, their lives were filled with loving families, good friends, happy times, and two sons, Matt and Mark. Sandra still had that scrap of paper, and Victor still had Sandra, even though more than half of their married friends had split. Sandra’s twice-divorced sister-in-law, Christine, described the couple at their fifteenth-anniversary party as, “THE fairytale marriage that only happens in books and movies..”
~
It was son Matt’s sixteenth birthday. Sandra was tending to final details. The couple had been persuaded by the kids to open their 11,000-square-foot antique colonial listed in Connecticut’s historical register, to a “by invitation only” celebration. The kiddies had transformed the hard-top tennis court into a disco, replete with lights and strobes, and the rap sounds of Ice Cube, Tupac Shakur, and Easy E blasting over local disc jockey Mario Vitrella’s spanking new Yamaha Stagepas 500 portable PA system. Fortunately, the closest neighbor on this isolated country road was tens of acres away. Sandra thought the arrangements seemed a little lavish for 50 or 60 kids but elected to say nothing, particularly since neither she of Victor had not been asked to contribute a dime to the festivities.
~
“How was Prince Charming’s day?”
“Just your typical run-of-the-mill day. I convinced some guys from Harvard to spend an extra $25 million, and the chairman invited me to have coffee on Thursday in his office.”
Sandra smiled. “Is that all?”
“Actually, no. An old friend of mine, Johnny Katz, rang to tell me one of the kings of Wall Street wants to buy me breakfast Friday morning and tell me how he’s going to make us filthy rich.”
Sandra stopped in her tracks. “Katz! Didn’t you fire that guy?”
Victor began to put his spin on Johnny. “I did, but it didn’t have anything to do with his work ethic. It was a cultural fit issue. Johnny has always been creative,