Vaccine Nation (25 page)

“So we jawbone the guy for half an hour or so, and then you guys are free to go. Any questions?” They both shook their heads.
Shane nodded and turned to pour himself another cup of coffee, then looked at his watch.
Ten minutes,
he thought. Fitzgibbons stood up and went back to the telephone.

“Stanley!” Shane said in his practiced, melodious baritone when an attractive blonde showed Stanley into the conference room. The blonde lowered her eyes demurely and pulled the door closed behind Stanley.

“Jack, always great to see you,” Stanley said in a Northeasternboarding-school voice, while pumping on Shane’s hand. Stanley was tall, blond and thin. He parted his hair in the middle and wore a correspondingly WASPy three-button suit. Shane smiled and extended an arm toward the center of the room. He made sure his brown eyes swam with goodwill.

“Thanks, Stanley, and you, too. And let me introduce my colleagues, John Bates, Managing Director and Head of all ABC’s Corporate Finance activities, and John Fitzgibbons, Managing Director and Head of ABC’s Mergers & Acquisitions Group.” Shane threw a look of collegial affection at each of his colleagues as he introduced them. They walked across the room to shake hands with Stanley, Bates with his jacket buttoned and Fitzgibbons with one hand still in his pocket, bright blue suspenders showing against an English striped shirt of yellow and blue, and a matching blue Gucci tie with the label splayed outward.

Coffee and breakfast was offered. Additional pleasantries were exchanged. They sat down around one end of the table with Stanley at the head and got down to business.

“Stanley, as I told you, I thought you might like to hear from the Department heads who would oversee your transactions, and whose teams would report in to me.” Shane gave Stanley another of his client smiles, then nodded to each of his colleagues. “Our objective for today is to give you the comfort that we can bring the resources to bear on your proposed deals, give you a sense of the commitment of the firm to Kristos & Company, and of course to you personally Stanley, and then we can handle some of the details on our engagement structure later, perhaps after lunch. We’ve got a dining room booked across the floor at 12:30. I’ll be introducing you to Steven Dick, the Chairman of our firm at that time. But for now, I thought it might make sense to let you hear from John and Charles, here, about what we see for the respective deals. Sound okay?” Shane said and opened his palms toward Stanley.

“Absolutely,” Stanley said and rested his folded hands on the table.

“Maybe I should speak first, since the M&A transaction on Milstein Brothers Stores is the crux of the whole thing,” Fitzgibbons said. “As you know directly from your own meetings with the Milstein brothers, they are favorably disposed and we’re drafting the definitive purchase agreement right now. Through Jack’s good offices we know you’re being well taken care of, but you should also know that one of our other colleagues has the direct relationship with the Milstein brothers and he also says they’re delighted with the prospective transaction. Everything seems poised for a deal thanks to Jack, and I’ve got some of my best guys working with Jack and your attorneys at Winston & Sterling.”

Shane’s mind drifted off as Fitzgibbons went through his shtick. IPO and high-yield financing and M&A fees. Then there
was the bank financing of about $1 billion.
All-in about $90 million in fees,
Shane thought.
And after these guys get done salami-ing off whatever they can get their hands on, it should still about make my year. Let’s hope the markets hold up.
He looked at Stanley. Shane noted the pinkish glow under his skin, a glow of vulnerability.
And let’s hope you don’t get hit by a truck, dear Stanley. And that old man Nick decides not to step back in and change the game plan.

After Fitzgibbons was through, Bates did his part. Shane was actually impressed. Bates carried it off with style, relating the history of the growth of the 1,000-strong Investment Banking Group of Abercrombie, Wirth & Co., describing its downtown roots from a 50-person boutique firm specializing in corporate advisory to its current stature as the last privately owned of the elite Wall Street firms that dominated the underwriting, mergers and acquisitions, and capital markets businesses. “We’re considered the guys to watch, because we’re the ones with the momentum. And we’re having fun,” Bates said, smiling with sincerity, conveying a warmth that again surprised Shane. “We like our business, we enjoy our clients, and we’d be happy to count you among them.”

Afterward Shane walked Stanley back along the same route through which he had entered, then downstairs to the 42
^nd
-floor trading room. The trading floor took up the entire 100,000-square-foot floor and was three stories high, extending up to the 45
^th
floor. The effect was intoxicating, as always. Hundreds of shouting, gesturing and athletic young bodies, barking into telephones, hollering at each other, all banked in row upon row of high-tech Bloomberg and analytical trading screens stacked two and three high, blinking in multihued colors. The noise, the phones, the energy, all rose in a multitudinous
din that said, “This is where it happens. This is where it is. The money.” Stanley seemed awestruck.

Over lunch he spilled his wine, which delighted Shane.
Great, keep him off balance.
Shane zeroed in on Stanley after that. By 2:00 p.m. he was in front of the building with Stanley to deposit him in a limo.

“Great day,” Stanley said, pumping Shane’s hand again. “We’ll have to do that golf game before the deal’s done.”

“Absolutely,” Shane said and closed the limo door.
Golf,
he thought as he headed back into the building,
now there’s a dumbass game.
Thousands of hours of practice to sit in a goofy little cart with a numbskull twit like Stanley for five hours. He’d rather get his fingers smashed in a car door. If Stanley’d said tennis, maybe. At least that was a man’s game. There you worked up a sweat, got a chance to pound out some aggressions, even smash the shit out of the ball down the other guy’s throat.
Golf, my ass.

Five minutes later Shane sat with his feet up on his desk, an executed original of his engagement letter propped in his lap. “All right, Stanley, away we go,” he said aloud.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
. B
EFORE THE
global financial crisis.

“If I don’t have a job by April, I’m not getting one,” Richard said. “At least that’s the adage at B-school.”

“And this the Ides of March,” Dad said.

That ominous reference hit home. Richard’s guts rumbled.

Richard Blum and his dad, Hank, sat in a Greek diner in downtown Manhattan near Wall Street. It was two blocks from Walker & Company, Richard’s first interview of the day, and four blocks from Dad’s insurance convention. Richard played with the tag on his teabag, preoccupied; this five-day trip to New York was his last chance to salvage a job on Wall Street from an otherwise failed recruiting season. It was opportune that Dad and he could squeeze in breakfast together while Dad was in town from St. Paul at the same time for his convention. They sat at a booth across from the counter, leaning in toward each other so they could hear over the clink of china, barked orders, the clang of spatulas on the grill. Richard savored the clamor and aromas of the place. It had a casual comfort, a folksy smell of eggs and home fries Richard knew Dad must be enjoying. He eased up his cuff to check his watch.

“You getting concerned?” Dad asked.

“It’s never over until you call it quits, I guess, but in finance parlance I’m a wasting asset.”

“Not what I asked. You worried?”

“Sweating bullets.”

He looked at Dad’s clothes: cotton/polyester button-down, spot on his pin-dot tie, suit shiny from wear. He smiled; it made him comfortable, too, warmed him inside. He glanced down at his own clothes. He was wearing $3,500 in Polo Ralph Lauren. The topcoat he’d sprung for as part of this last-ditch effort to land the big one was dragging on the floor. A barometer for how it was going.

“You must be making progress, though.”

“I’ve struck out in all my on-campus investment banking interviews—the few I’ve gotten.”

Dad just nodded, taking it in, thinking. “Anything useful to you come of them?”

“Only that Michigan’s a second-tier school for the Wall Street firms. The entire recruiting season of interviews only netted all our MBAs twelve investment banking second-round callbacks on campus, four trips to New York, one offer.”

“That’s at least one.” Dad, trying to be positive. He smiled, then squinted and pursed his lips. “There must be others coming to campus.”

“No. It’s too late in the season for first rounds on campus.” Richard resisted the urge to squirm in his seat. “So that’s it for anything through the Placement Office.”

Dad winced. He looked down at his plate, hesitated, then back in Richard’s eyes. “Now this trip,” he said, continuing to eye him. Richard first thought Dad’s expression meant he realized this was Richard’s last gasp. Now he had an inkling maybe there was more to Dad’s look than that.

“Yeah, eleventh-hour effort. In New York to pound the pavement, follow up on cold letters attaching my resume. See if I can beat down some doors.”

Dad leaned back. “So how’s the trip going?” Richard felt him zeroing in, watching him.

“Four screening interviews, down to my last two.” Richard started twirling the tag from his teabag again, beginning to get anxious, knowing today’s interview was his only real chance.

“Remember
A Mathematician’s Apology?”
Dad said. His gaze was now locked in on Richard, intent. Richard swallowed.

“How could I forget? It’s been a big influence on me.”

It was the book Richard and Dad had both read as he headed to college. Richard was turning the corner from defiant teenager, starting to get close with Dad again, this time man-to-man. When Richard landed the job after college writing ad copy at McAlister & Flinn, still living at home, he and Dad developed a working relationship. Dad helped out as proofreader and critic. Richard learned Dad actually had business wisdom to impart; insurance was at least on the same hemisphere as writing copy to convince people to buy steak sauce or annuities. Business became a common language and culture that kept them up late nights, talking about interest rates, the CPI. And eventually, over a scotch now and then, they discussed the novels of Elmore Leonard or Trollope, the music of Mozart and Beethoven. Richard thought back to
A Mathematician’s Apology,
said as if reciting, “Three kinds of people. The first, I do what I do because I have an unusual talent for it. The second, I do what I do because I do lots of things pretty well and this was as good a choice as any. And the third, I don’t do anything very well and I fell into this.”

“I’m a good fidelity bond underwriter, and I could’ve done a lot of other things probably just as well. What you’re going after is a world I don’t understand much about. But if you think you have it, go for it.” Still searching Richard’s face.

“Yeah. I can do this.” Telling himself, needing it for this interview.

“So don’t give up. But don’t compromise who you are and where you came from. Don’t let Wall Street turn your head.”

“Any other advice?”

“Well, since you ask,” Dad said, now giving him that halfsmile he wore when he launched a zinger but still wanted to show affection. “All I’ve heard is excuses. This isn’t like you. Get primal. Think like these Wall Street guys, like a caveman who needs to win over a woman or he can’t procreate. Put some oomph into it. You’re on your own; nobody can do it for you.”

They sat in silence a moment, Richard looking at the halfsmile still on Dad’s face. Dad was right.
It’s all up to me.

Dad said, “What? You think I can’t still kick your butt?”

Richard felt his throat thicken. “Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Richard looked at his watch. Dad grabbed the check, said, “Get going. Give yourself some time to collect your thoughts.”

“Why don’t you let me get this?”

“When you’re a mogul you can buy me dinner.” They both stood. Dad stuck out his hand. They shook, then hugged.

“Love to Mom,” Richard said.

“Call her. Tell her yourself.”

Richard nodded. “Any final thoughts?”

“If you fall flat you know you can always come home to regroup.” He smiled. “But you aren’t going to let that happen. Both you and I know that, don’t we?”

Richard looked at his watch: 7:45.
He’s late.
He sat in Walker & Company’s reception area at 55 Water Street, waiting for his interview with François LeClaire. And he’d rushed through breakfast to get here by 7:30. He caught himself clenching and unclenching his fingers into his palms, forced himself to relax them.

Great. More time to ponder the imponderable.

Richard picked up a magazine from a Sheraton end table next to the antique Chippendale chair he sat in.
Fortune.
The current issue; Harold Milner was on the cover. He’d also graced the covers of
Forbes
and
Financier
magazines over the last decade. In the cover picture for the article, “Financial Engineering on Steroids,” Milner stood in a conference room at Walker & Company. It was probably the very one Richard sat outside now. The picture showed Milner framed against the backdrop of the Brooklyn Bridge, the back door entrance to Wall Street. Inside the issue Richard knew the first page of the article showed a photograph of Jack Grass and Mickey Steinberg standing on either side of Milner. He was Walker & Company’s most important and prolific client. Richard knew all about these guys. He’d been Googling them before Google was a verb.

The
Fortune
article got it mostly right, although it was obvious to Richard he’d done more research on Milner than its author. Milner, then Chief Financial Officer of Coastal+Northern Corporation, had taken his entrepreneurial leap at 40 years old. He’d cashed in his C+N stock options for $1.5 million, used them for his first deal and never looked back. Now his $7 billion private empire employed 17,000 people in 22 states. The article called him brilliant, eccentric, wildly creative, and a compulsive workaholic—one of the most powerful and wealthy entrepreneurs in the U.S.

Richard looked into the open door of the conference room at the table set for breakfast. He imagined Milner, Jack and Mickey discussing a deal over breakfast and felt an airiness in his stomach.

Richard saw a young guy, probably an Associate, walking toward him. He had his jacket off, a pile of papers and some presentation books in his hands, quick pace, looking tense.
Yeah, an Associate, probably first year.
He hurried past Richard and peered into the conference room. Seeing no one there, he sat down in the chair across from Richard, apparently waiting. He was twitchy and sweaty. It made Richard feel sorry for him. The guy’s papers started sliding out of his lap. Richard reached out to help him but the guy shook Richard off, reined them in himself.

Richard now saw the guy checking him out, probably guessing why Richard was here.

“Who you waiting for?” he asked.

“François LeClaire.” Richard saw his face show recognition, then his forehead wrinkle with tension. The guy sighed and leaned back in his chair. At that moment his BlackBerry vibrated in his belt and he sat up with a start. Richard heard someone talk fast and loud on the other end of the call. The guy left in a hurry, papers rustling. Richard got the uncomfortable sense that this could be him in a few months, stealing a moment of relaxation as he waited for somebody to yell at him about a column of numbers that didn’t add up.

The elevator door opened and Richard turned to see Harold Milner, the man himself, walking toward him. Milner carried himself with an understated manner that somehow magnified his power and importance. Richard instinctively stood, and then a surge of adrenaline froze him in place like a ten-year-old meeting Babe Ruth. He realized as Milner approached he was as big
as the Babe up close, too. Six feet five or so, thick in the chest like a football lineman, massive hands. Trademark shaved head. He cruised up to Richard. “Harold Milner,” he said, extending his hand. Just like that.

Richard felt himself starting to speak without knowing what would come out. He said something gushy after introducing himself, his voice faint as he said, “Mr. Milner.”

“Call me Harold.” Milner looked into the empty conference room, then sat where the Associate had moments earlier. He glanced down at the copy of
Fortune
Richard still clutched. “And I’m not as bad as they say,” he said. “Or as smart.”

Richard smiled, more relaxed now. His body had unfrozen and he sat back down, now sitting with Harold Milner like they were shooting the breeze. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Which? Bad or smart?”

“Smart. I’d say you’ve done okay…Harold.” “Harold” came out haltingly, Richard trying it out.

“Yeah, well, ‘with money in your pocket, you are wise and you are handsome and you sing well, too.’”

“F. Scott Fitzgerald?”

“Yiddish proverb. Don’t believe everyone’s press clippings.”

“Hard to believe you’ve just been lucky.”

“No, but the stuff in that article is downright silly.”

Richard smiled. “You’ve done some interesting deals.”

“Yeah, but this ‘steroids’ nonsense is just to sell magazines. My approach is about as low tech as they come.”

“I don’t know. On the Brennan deal it was pretty exotic the way you set up that special-purpose subsidiary to finance the receivables on the McGuffin division.”

Miller gave him a shrug and a look that said, “So?”

“So, that extra financing gave you about a 20% price advantage over the other bidders. It got you the deal.”

“Maybe.”

“And on Dresner Steel, the way you sold off two of the divisions and merged the rest with Tilson Manufacturing and Milburg Industries within a year. How many guys could pull that off and still keep the tax-loss carryforwards intact?”

Milner looked at Richard as if pondering something for a moment. He said, “Good insights. I’m impressed. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. I don’t consider I’ve done anything particularly imaginative or creative in my life. I stick to simple, riskaverse basics. You know who Vince Lombardi was?”

“I’m from Minnesota. Our state seal has an image of the Packers kicking the Vikings’ asses.”

Milner smiled. “I’m like Lombardi’s Green Bay Packers. We come up to the line and crouch in position for an end sweep. The defense knows it’s probably an end sweep because it’s second and seven, and, besides, Lombardi’s only got ten plays in his playbook anyhow. Whattaya think we do?”

“Throw an eight-yard pass to the opposite sideline.”

“End sweep, perfectly done. Seven yards every time. Nothing exotic, just basic execution.”

Richard wanted to ask him if this “aw shucks” routine disarmed CEOs whose companies he was trying to take over, but settled for: “Good story. Works for me.”

Milner put his elbow on the end table, cupped a big hand over his mouth. Richard could see him smiling with his eyes, apparently thinking. He remained silent, then: “Are you new?”

“So new I’m not even here.”

Milner scrunched his eyebrows like he was puzzled.