The Takeover

by Stephen W. Frey

  “Anytime you need help, let me know.”

  “I will, Eddie.”

  Falcon ended the call by pressing the speaker button again. Almost immediately the line buzzed a second time. “Andrew Falcon.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Alexis?”

  “Yes.” Her gentle laugh flowed pleasantly to his ears. “You are too stiff sometimes, Falcon. You need to relax.”

  “I’ll try to do better.”

  “Please do.”

  Falcon smiled. He could not get enough of that distinctive Italian accent.

  Alexis had overwhelmed him as no other woman ever had. They had danced until five in the morning that night at the club. He had been too embarrassed to take her back to his studio apartment in Queens and had rented a room at the Waldorf instead. A room he could not then afford. From that point on, they had become almost inseparable.

  His mind drifted back to last evening. Like every other night since he had met Alexis, it had been filled with lovemaking. It wasn’t the best he had ever had—she wasn’t passionate like Jenny. But so what? She was exciting, played very well with the people he needed to impress, and seemed totally devoted to him. Plus, she was awfully nice to be seen with. Besides, sex wasn’t everything, he told himself.

  Alexis had helped him find the new apartment on the Upper West Side, helped him decorate it, and then announced that she too would be living at the same address. Falcon had no objections. She loved to dance and drink. And she was more than willing to help defray the costs of a Manhattan lifestyle with earnings from her modeling jobs. It was, in a word, bliss.

  And she was the perfect business partner. At NASO social functions she moved easily among the corporate executives he was trying to woo, impressing them with her beauty, charm, and intelligence. In only a few weeks he had picked up several important deals because of her, though he would never admit it to her.

  “What are you doing?” Falcon asked.

  “I’m lying naked in your bed, and I’m bored. Why didn’t you wake me before you left?”

  Falcon picked up the receiver quickly. There was no telling what Alexis might say through the speaker. She was gentle and ladylike. But she was also direct. European, she would say. “I thought you would be tired. You put in a long night last night.”

  Alexis stretched and Falcon could hear her moan. He pressed the receiver tightly against his ear.

  “I’m just your little toy, aren’t I? You don’t really care about me, do you, Falcon?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Come back home to me now,” she said insistently.

  “Alexis, I…”

  “Come home, Andrew. I need your body next to mine. Come home.”

  “Don’t you have a shoot in Central Park?”

  “It’s not until two this afternoon.”

  Falcon hesitated. Her offer was tempting, and these days he could be tempted. He had no client appointments today, no meetings at all until after lunch, and he had missed their normal prework interlude this morning.

  “Maybe.”

  “Do I have to beg? You like it when I beg, don’t you? I’ll let you do anything you want to me if you come home right now.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  Falcon glanced at his watch: 7:35. If he left now, he could be back to NASO by eleven. Jenny would cover for him. Or maybe she wouldn’t. But no one would miss him anyway. That was the worst thing about this job. No one ever missed him. Malley rarely called because he was too intimidated, and the very senior people never came down from the ivory tower in a huge commercial bank. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Falcon put down the phone, stood, pulled his wallet from the inside of his suit coat but left the coat hanging over the back of the chair, and headed toward the closed office door. As he opened it, he nearly ran into Jenny.

  “What the…?”

  “I have one more thing for you to sign.” Her voice was stone cold.

  He wondered if she had been listening to the conversation on her extension. “I’ll sign it when I get back. Listen, I forgot something back at the apartment. It may take a while to find it when I get there.” He stared at her. “Be a sport and cover for me.”

  And he was gone, trotting down the corridor toward the elevator bank.

  Jenny watched him leave. She knew exactly why Falcon was going home. And she hated him for it. She should quit, she told herself. There was no reason to put herself through this every day. She sighed. But where in the world was she going to find another job that paid the kind of money she was earning now? Nowhere else. It was that simple.

  * * *

  —

  The ceiling fan rotated slowly above the brass bed. Falcon watched it spin for a few moments, then glanced at his watch. Ten forty-five. Time to go.

  “Don’t you ever take that watch off, Falcon?” Alexis stood at the bathroom door, naked.

  Falcon moved both hands behind his head and stared at her dark nipples, partly covered by the straight hair cascading down from her shoulders. “Only for sex.”

  Alexis looked at him strangely. “Isn’t that what we just had?”

  “Oh, that’s what you call that.” He said the words as if he had just made a great discovery.

  She rolled her eyes. “Falcon, give me a break. I’m sorry if I’m not as good as some of your past conquests. Maybe someday I’ll measure up.”

  “Just kidding.” But he wasn’t.

  Alexis moved seductively from the doorway to the bed. When she reached it, she pulled back the sheets, knelt down on the mattress, and kissed him just above the dark line of his pubic hair. She moved up his body and slid her tongue into his navel, then lay down, rested her head on his lower chest, and looked up at him. She smiled, defining her exquisite cheekbones. “I’m trying to be sexy.”

  Falcon stared into her eyes. They were soft and feminine like Jenny’s, but there was something steely to them too. Jenny’s eyes betrayed her vulnerability even when she was at her coldest. There was no vulnerability to betray in Alexis’s eyes. “I see that.” He wanted to know more about her, but as yet she had been unwilling to open up except for some hazy comments about an unhappy childhood in Milan. And of course if he did push, she would expect him to be more forthcoming about his own background, which he did not want to be.

  “Do you like it?” Alexis asked.

  “Yes. How about another round?” Perhaps he did not need to go back to the office quite so soon.

  Alexis shook her head and rolled away. “I’ve got to get ready for that shoot in Central Park.”

  “Come on. We could experiment.”

  She rose from the bed and moved to the window overlooking 82nd Street. “No.” Her voice was firm.

  That was the problem, he thought. She didn’t like to experiment. She simply wanted him to move on top of her and have it over with. During foreplay she could be sensual and somewhat imaginative, though she was not particularly knowledgeable as to the trigger points of the male body. But once intercourse began, she became indifferent, almost frigid. It was strange.

  “What time do you have to be at the shoot?”

  “One o’clock. It starts at two, but I have to be there early.” She ran her fingers through her hair and leaned back. The black tresses fell almost to the small of her back. “Falcon, why don’t you get rid of that secretary of yours? I don’t like her attitude when I call your office.”

  Falcon sat up in the bed immediately. “What do you mean?” She turned from the window and stalked to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  He gazed openmouthed at the door. Where the hell had that come from?

  * * *

  —

  “How is Falcon?”

  “Not challenged.”

  “Is he still sending out resumés?”<
br />
  “Of course, but no one will hire him.”

  “Obviously. Granville has seen to that. Falcon must suspect something.”

  “I don’t think so. We would be aware of it.”

  “Is he working diligently or simply putting in his time?”

  “Working hard. In fact, he’s actually generated some attractive business for NASO. He’s using contacts from his days at Winthrop, Hawkins. I believe he was able to win the agency role away from Chemical Bank on a new syndicated revolver for the Black and Decker Corporation. But overall, he hates what he’s doing. He doesn’t like the slow pace or the lack of compensation.”

  “So he’s ready for this project, Bill?”

  “More than ready, Turner. He’ll drop everything else immediately, with NASO’s blessing, of course. And he’s so starved for something he considers mentally stimulating that he won’t question NASO’s seeming overindulgence in the transaction. More important, we will make it worth his while not to question NASO’s huge commitment.”

  “I still don’t like this. I think it is a big risk to have Falcon involved just because Granville holds a grudge. And I think we should have anticipated the fact that the other young man, um, what was his name?”

  “Bernstein.”

  “Yes, Bernstein. We should have anticipated that Bernstein would commit suicide after our people tampered with the software. It was everything to him.”

  “There was no way to anticipate that. It was simply an unfortunate side effect.”

  “Side effect? Jesus Christ, Rutherford! Do you think his family considered it simply an unfortunate side effect? First West, then Jeremy Case, now Bernstein. It’s not what we’re supposed to be about. Where does it stop? This is getting out of hand, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all. Sometimes things have to be done that may seem distasteful. Sometimes people have to be sacrificed. It’s part of the deal. Everything is under control.”

  “And what if Bernstein had killed Falcon during his little tirade?”

  “Then we would have simply used someone else. According to Boreman, there are others out there who could legitimize our project.”

  “We should have used someone else other than Falcon from the beginning. In the end we may pay for Granville’s indulgence. One should never allow feelings to influence business. I’m getting nervous. There’s a lot on the line here. And a lot of ways this thing could go wrong.”

  “Everything will be fine.”

  “What about this woman Falcon has taken up with, Bill? Could she be a problem?”

  “No. She’s simply a diversion. Believe me, he’s very ready for this project.”

  “I understand Carter Filipelli reacted strongly to Wendell’s criticism.”

  “He did. So strongly that he tried to influence the markets on his own, without the agreement of the rest of the FOMC.”

  “That’s insane. He isn’t supposed to do that. Filipelli is out of control.”

  “Yes, he is, along with the President and the Treasury Secretary.”

  “I suppose Filipelli would not appreciate what we are about to do.”

  “I think that’s a safe bet.”

  “How did you find out that Filipelli was acting on his own?”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Chambers’ son works for Filipelli.”

  “We have eyes everywhere, don’t we, Bill?”

  “Yes, we do, Turner.”

  10

  “Falcon?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Phil Barksdale, vice chairman of NASO.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like you to come up and see me as soon as possible.”

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here. If you didn’t already know, I’m on the twenty-seventh floor. Oh, and by the way, I’d rather you not tell anyone that you are coming up to my office. Including your secretary.”

  Falcon hung up the office phone. “If you didn’t already know.” What an asshole. And what the hell was this all about anyway? Did they know he was shooting résumés all over the country? Had Barksdale called because the bank was pissed off about it? But why would Barksdale call? In his first few weeks at the bank, Falcon hadn’t even met Barksdale or Wallace Boreman, the chairman. So why would Barksdale call? It should have been some moron from personnel, or “employee representation,” as those people liked to be called now. Suddenly Falcon was interested. He hurried to the elevator.

  Barksdale met Falcon at the doorway of his huge office. He was tall, over six-four, balding on top of his head, with patches of gray hair above the large ears and dark, bushy eyebrows over his sad hazel eyes.

  “Hello, Falcon.” His voice was deep and melodious. It reminded Falcon of a disc jockey he had listened to growing up in Philadelphia. The voice was friendly, but the face was not. Barksdale did not smile as they shook hands.

  “Good morning.” Falcon’s hands were not small, but they were enveloped by Barksdale’s grip.

  Barksdale leaned into the outer office. “Grace, no calls.” He closed the door quickly, not awaiting a response from the older woman positioned outside his office like a sentinel. “Let’s go over here, Falcon.” He motioned toward several comfortable chairs arranged around a mahogany coffee table in one corner of the office.

  Falcon glanced about the room. He had seen a thousand offices exactly like this one in his career. Pictures everywhere. Barksdale’s family, his friends, the sailboat, the dog, a couple of politicians. On the credenza behind his desk were hundreds of transaction mementos—Lucite tombstones identifying the deals—half of which Barksdale probably hadn’t even worked on. Falcon glanced around. Thirty feet by thirty feet at least, he guessed. What a waste of space.

  They sat in chairs on opposite sides of the table. “Coffee, Falcon?” Barksdale pointed at a tray on the table.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, I’m having some.”

  Andrew quickly reviewed his mental notes on Barksdale as he watched the older man pour a steaming cup of coffee. Barksdale had been with the Trust Company of Alabama prior to its merger with First Atlanta. He had been headed for the chairmanship of the combined entity until the bank ran into severe problems in Brazil three years ago. Barksdale had taken the fall for those problems, because at that time he had been responsible for the International Division of NASO. So the board had shoved him aside by making him vice chairman and then turned to an outsider, Wallace Boreman, to head the bank. Boreman was regarded on Wall Street as a savvy manager willing to take reasonable risks in the name of sizeable profits. Boreman had been credited with solving the Brazilian situation quickly and with transforming the stodgy, conservative southern institution into a solid commercial bank, on the way to bigger and better things. He could have fired Barksdale because of Brazil. The board would have looked the other way. But he hadn’t. Barksdale owed Boreman his career.

  Barksdale had been left behind in the process, but it wasn’t all that bad a life, Falcon thought: in at 9:30 in the morning and out no later than 5:30 in the afternoon; two or three rounds of golf a week in the summer; Manhattan’s finest restaurants three or four nights a week; and over half a million dollars a year of annual compensation in the process, according to the proxy. It was not a gigantic income by New York City standards, but certainly one that enabled the man to live comfortably.

  Barksdale took a sip from the cup and replaced it on the china saucer. “So how’s the job?”

  “Fine. Just what I expected.” Falcon was not particularly enthusiastic, but he was past the point in life where he had to be insincerely excited about everything.

  “Bored, aren’t you?”

  Falcon took a breath. He didn’t like the sound of that. It sounded like something a superior might say if
he weren’t happy with a particular employee’s performance. Being out of a job again did not interest Falcon, especially since no one was paying attention to the résumés he was sending out. “Not bored. No, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “You’re lying.” Despite the melodious voice, Barksdale was gruff in his manner.

  “I’m not lying.” Was Barksdale about to fire him? Falcon felt a sudden wave of discomfort.

  “Forget it. I’d be bored too if I were you.” Barksdale waved a hand as if in disgust. “Look, I need your help. NASO has the opportunity to become involved in a very nice transaction. One in which we can make a lot of money. You have experience in the area of the transaction. Not many of us around here do. Hell, I’ll be honest. No one around here has the experience you do in this particular field.”

  Falcon moved back in the large chair. He was relieved. “What kind of transaction is it?”

  “A leveraged buyout.”

  Falcon’s pulse quickened. A leveraged buyout? That could actually be interesting. “You say NASO has the opportunity to become involved in this transaction. In what capacity?”

  “As financial adviser, arranger, lender, underwriter. Whatever capacity we want. I think it’s an opportunity for us to really put NASO on the map in terms of competing against the investment banks. And if this thing works, if we are successful, Boreman wants to set up a mergers and acquisitions advisory group here at NASO. Boreman would want you to head it up. It’s quite an opportunity.”

  The words were music to Falcon’s ears: mergers and acquisitions advisory. “Tell me more about the transaction.”

  “You must keep all of this strictly confidential—”

  “Phil, I mean no disrespect by cutting you off. You obviously know my background, the fact that I was a partner at Winthrop, Hawkins in that firm’s M&A group. Is that right?”