Another credit card call.
Ah, Mr. Prime Minister. This is Moses L. Minskoff calling. How is the weather down there, sir? Ah, how I envy you, basking in the tropical sun, the breezes rustling the palm fronds, those miles of sandy beaches, the blue crystalline waters of the sea. You truly live in paradise, sir.… Ah, but of course I have news for you. I wouldn’t have called you, sir, if I didn’t have news, and good news it is. Mr. Cortelli has lowered his bid by a quarter of a million dollars, just what you asked for. And the other good news is that he wants to place Mr. Irving Sender in charge of construction down there. You’re very lucky to be able to obtain Mr. Sender, because he’s the best in the business, the very best, and very much in demand. I couldn’t believe you could be that fortunate when I learned Mr. Sentler might be available. But he’s agreed, not without a certain amount of personal sacrifice, to take on your government’s job.…
Yes, sir.… Yes, all financial arrangements will be handled through this office, to spare you personal involvement in any awkward money matters.… But, sir, I wouldn’t consider asking for a commission from your government.… On the other hand, there was that little arrangement we discussed earlier.… Yes, once the casino is in full operation, we would each take a percentage—ten, I think, was the figure you mentioned—off the take from the tables and the slots.… No, I don’t think of it as a skim, Mr. Prime Minister. I think it would just give us both a sense of having a partnership in your government’s beautiful new casino.… Well, I do thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. It’s a pleasure to do business with a man of your caliber, and I hope you have a wonderful day in your island paradise.
Hangs up the phone. With his hand still on the receiver, he frowns thoughtfully. Clearly, his next call will be of a somewhat trickier nature. His lips move as he formulates his thoughts, then he picks up the receiver and dials another credit card call.
Mrs. Van Degan? This is Moses L. Minskoff, the investment banker, calling from New York. You may remember me. I handled a number of real estate transactions for your late husband, which were, if I may venture to say so, very profitable to him.… Ah, you do remember me! How are you enjoying retirement in Arizona? … Good.
Well, the reason I am calling you is that I have a very unusual offer to make to you, an offer I am making only to a few close friends and relatives. I’m letting my mother go in on this, by the way. You see, I happen to have in my possession some promissory notes—IOU’s, if you will—from the late Mr. Silas Tarkington. You may have read that Mr. Tarkington passed on recently.… Yes, I remember you were always a Tarkington’s shopper, Mrs. Van Degan. Now, these markers of his—these promissory notes, I should say—are in fairly large denominations, representing funds I advanced to Mr. Tarkington over the years. I am looking at one, for example, for five hundred thousand dollars. These promissory notes are, in effect, undated checks. Now, obviously I wouldn’t ask you to pay five hundred thousand dollars for a promissory note in that figure. On the other hand, I could offer you a fifty percent discount, the same discount I’m offering my mother, and let you have it for two hundred and fifty thousand.… What’s in it for you? Ah, there’s the beauty part, my dear Mrs. Van Degan.
You may have read in the financial press that Continental Stores has been for several months trying to take over Tarkington’s. Si Tarkington was fighting the takeover. But now that the old ba—now that Mr. Tarkington has passed on, Continental is really going to pull out their big guns and up their offer to Tarkington’s stockholders. In any takeover, these promissory notes become most valuable. Continental is going to have to buy them back, since they represent money Tarkington’s owes. They will come to you with an offer, and I think I can promise you a thirty to thirty-five percent return on your investment within just a few months, Mrs. Van Degan.…
Is it legal? Would I offer a woman of your caliber and social position anything that wasn’t legal? Certainly it’s legal. Here on Wall Street we call it factoring, the discounting of accounts receivable. You pay the discounted price, and I simply endorse the notes and turn them over to you.… Why don’t I hold on to them myself? Well, here on Wall Street this is known as streamlining. My interest in Tarkington’s is comparatively small in relation to the rest of my business, and managing these small matters just takes up too much of my time. Besides, I am in the business of serving my customers, and I thought of this as a way to repay your late husband for all the business he brought my way. He was a wonderful man, Truxton Van Degan, a truly wonderful man.… Yes, he did drink a bit, but never to excess, Mrs. Van Degan, never to excess, and I know he wanted you to be in comfortable circumstances after his untimely demise.…
Yes, you think about it, Mrs. Van Degan, but don’t think about it too long. Remember, I can promise you a yield of between thirty and forty percent within a few short months, and these units of mine are being snapped up right and left. I only have a few more left, Mrs. Van Degan, so think about how many units you’ll be wanting to buy. I’d recommend you get back to me no later than the end of the week. Let me give you my private, unpublished number.…
In the outer office, SMYRNA has been juggling some incoming calls on other lines, putting them on Hold. Seeing that her boss is briefly off the phone, she turns in her swivel chair and faces his door.
SMYRNA (yelling): I got the President of Mexico on line one, Moe. And the credit manager of Bergdorf’s is on line two. It’s something about Honeychile’s charge account.
MINSKOFF: Tell the President of Mexico to go to hell. I can’t do business with that spick. Tell him his Banco de Mexico isn’t the only bank in the damn third world. I’ll take the call from Bergdorf’s.
He presses one of the blinking buttons on his phone and picks up the receiver.
Moses Minskoff speaking, (a pause.) What do you mean Mrs. Minskoff has exhausted the credit limit on her Visa card? That’s quite impossible. Let me speak to your immediate superior, young woman.… You mean you are the credit manager? Then let me speak to the president of the store.… He’s in Europe? Young woman, do you realize who the person is to whom you are speaking? I am Moses Minskoff the developer, and even as we speak I have the President of Mexico waiting on hold to speak to me.… What? … Then your computer must be malfunctioning, unless—unless—(He strikes his forehead with the heel of his palm.) Wait! Wait, please forgive me, but I had that Visa account closed last week. I just remembered, and I’m afraid I forgot to give Mrs. Minskoff the new account number. Surely that’s the cause of this misunderstanding. Let me give you the new number. (He paws through slips of paper scattered across his desktop.) Here it is. (He recites a thirteen-digit number.) There. Does that satisfy your computer? … Of course it does. Now you let Mrs. Minskoff charge whatever she wants. She’s a very good customer. I’m sorry about the mixup, but you were quite right to check. I’m going to commend you to the store’s president when he gets back from Europe.… Thank you, and have a nice day.
Once more, he appears to be deep in thought before placing his next call. Then he yells to the outer office.
Smyrna! Get me the president of Continental Stores in Chicago. Name’s Albert Martindale. Use the two-four-one credit card. See if you can get him on the line before you put me on the line; you know the routine. But if you can’t, I’ll go through his secretary.
We see SMYRNA placing the call and then, inaudibly, arguing with Martindale’s secretary. Finally, she yells into the inner office.
SMYRNA: Won’t work, Moe! She says put you on the line first, then she’ll put Martindale on.
MINSKOFF (sighs): Okay. (He picks up the phone.) Moses Minskoff here.… Yes, thank you.… Ah, Mr. Martindale! How are you? … Well, you may recall that you and I have been in correspondence about some shares of Tarkington stock which I own, and which you have made an offer to purchase in connection with your—ah—proposed acquisition—I dislike the term “hostile takeover”—of the Fifth Avenue store. As you may know, Mr. Martindale, I am something of an expert in the field of mergers and
acquisitions, and, yes, I am considering selling my own small number of Tarkington shares to your investment group.…
Yes, but first let me tell you that, since the founder’s sudden death, the situation has changed somewhat.… Yes, the situation has changed considerably, Mr. Martindale. But permit me, if you will, to move back in time a bit. To begin with, Silas Tarkington was my oldest and dearest friend. He helped me start in my business, and I helped him start in his. I was perhaps his closest confidant. Over the years, in addition to being permitted to purchase small amounts of stock in his company, I was able to advance him certain amounts of cash from time to time. These loans, in the form of informal IOU’s, are still outstanding in my accounts receivable files.
Now, not long before his sudden death—just a couple weeks ago, in actual fact—Mr. Tarkington hinted to me that he felt his life might be in danger. He mentioned nothing that was actually specific, but as you and I know, any rich and successful man such as Si Tarkington—or even you yourself, or even I myself—is bound to acquire his share of enemies. In fact, when he mentioned his imminent death to me, I wasn’t even sure whether or not he was contemplating suicide.
The real point is that, when I learned that he feared he didn’t have long to live, I decided that it would be prudent if I were to call in these IOU’s. Collecting debts from the estate of a deceased person can be damnably complicated, as I’m sure you know, so I approached him on that specific subject.
I said, “See here, old sport, I think it’s time you settled my account and not leave your poor widow and children arguing with my lawyers.”
What he told me then, frankly, shocked me. He told me that the store was experiencing severe cash-flow problems. He told me that Tarkington’s had accounts receivable in the amount of many millions of dollars. He hinted that someone within his organization may have been embezzling from him, may have been cooking the books, may have had his hand in the till, and that he was on the verge of discovering who that person was.
In short, he was unable to repay the various debts he owed me.
Are you still with me, Mr. Martindale? … Why am I telling you all this? Because, Mr. Martindale, if you will let me broker this acquisition for your company, I would be willing to forgive those IOU’s, or at least offer them to you at a seriously discounted rate, thus facilitating your purchase greatly.
Greatly, Mr. Martindale. Greatly. I think you can hear what I am saying. Sound good to you?
And that’s not all I can offer you, Mr. Martindale. If the small matter of Si Tarkington’s indebtedness to me were all I was telephoning you about, I would not be wasting yours and my valuable time, now, would I? As you know, Si Tarkington ran his business in a way that was unusual, not to say unique. Yes, unique is the right word. After all, Tarkington’s is unique among American fashion retailers. Si Tarkington always kept the store’s figures very close to his vest. It was never clear, for instance, what the store’s markup was. As often as not, Si’s markup was a matter of whim. His suppliers, those who created his “Ours Alone” line, were equally secretive about their prices. And it was never clear where, and how, he disposed of his unsold inventory, though it was obviously sold somewhere. Back in ’eighty-nine, when the F.T.C. boys came to review the store’s operations, I remember Si chuckling—heh, heh, heh—about how the F.T.C. boys spent three weeks shuffling through piles of paper and went away scratching their heads.
But I am in a unique position, Mr. Martindale, to offer you the store’s actual sales figures. I’m talking the day-to-day sales figures, department by department, for the last twenty-four months or longer—the full and complete set of the company’s books. The person who controls these books is in my pocket, Mr. Martindale. And I can promise you that these figures will not amount to what you have been led to believe. Tarkington’s has suffered from the recent recession as much as other retailers, if not more so, considering the upscale nature of the store’s trade. I can supply you with the full list of accounts receivable. I can also supply you with an exact dollar figure for the store’s current inventory, which, I can also assure you, is worth nowhere near what you have been told.…
What would you do with this information? Well, Mr. Martindale, under one scenario I’m thinking of, if the news were leaked to your competitors that you have these figures and that the property is being offered at an inflated price—well, if you’re lucky, Mr. Martindale, your competitors will drop out of the picture, and the property will be yours. And you will have it at a distress-sale price, costing your company considerably less money. You’d have the advantage of knowing exactly what you’re getting for your money, a not inconsiderable advantage, it seems to me. Of course, once you acquire the property, you can do whatever the damn hell you want with it. The Tarkington name—one of the top fashion names in the world—has some value, though it’s hard to put a dollars-and-cents price on the value of a name. And the Fifth Avenue building has some value. But if your competitors were to learn that Continental has the precise operating figures.… Yes, I’d be happy to engineer that leak for you, Mr. Martindale, as part of our deal.
And I’d like to throw in one more offer, sir, while I have you on the line. In any proposal that is placed before Tarkington’s stockholders, there is one important stockholder whose vote will be pivotal, and I have that particular stockholder in my pocket, Mr. Martindale. That particular stockholder will vote whichever way I tell he or she to vote.… No, I’m not at liberty to reveal that stockholder’s name at this point in our negotiations, Mr. Martindale.… No, I can’t tell you whether that stockholder is a family member at this point in time. I can only say that he or she will have the swing vote, and without that vote you’re out of the ballpark, sir.…
Why am I making this offer to you? Well, let me put it this way. I’ve always admired the way you do business. And I understand that the other two serious bidders for the store are one of your arch-rival chains in the U.S. and a retail chain in Canada. Just say I’m enough of a red-blooded American to want to see Tarkington’s stay in American hands, the best American hands.…
My fee? Well, let’s say that would be negotiable, at the time you and I are ready to hammer out a contract. We wouldn’t call it a finder’s fee, exactly. I’d like to see it as a facilitator’s fee. Some sort of percentage that we’d both agree on.… Well, you do that, Mr. Martindale. You think about it. But don’t think about it too long. The heirs are anxious to get the estate settled.… No, there’s nobody in the family gives a damn about running the store, except maybe the daughter, who works there. But she’s just a kid. No experience. Too wet behind the ears. She’ll be easy to handle.… So, nice talking with you, Mr. Martindale. Let me hear from you by—let’s say Friday, latest. Thank you, sir, and you have a nice day, you hear?
He hangs up the phone, tilts back in his big chair, and rubs his belly. Then he makes another call, this time a local one.
Tommy Bonham, please, Moe Minskoff calling.… Well, if he’s out, where is he? … See if you can locate him, sweetheart. Tell him I need to talk to him right away. Tell him it’s urgent.
He hangs up again and dials another local call.
Eddie? Moe here. Listen, I need some new phone credit card numbers. Last ones you give me is turning into duds already. Get me corporate card numbers. They last the longest. Those individual numbers don’t last shit.…
Whaddaya mean how do ya get ’em? Same way you always get ’em. Go out to the airport, hang around the pay phones, and when you hear some guy give his number, write it down—what’re you, some kind of jerk? And if he starts punching in numbers, watch what numbers he punches. You got eyes, ain’tcha? Watch, and make a mental note. And remember what I told you about delayed flights. Check the TV screens for delayed flights. That’s when guys call their boss, or their wife or girlfriend, or who’s meeting their plane, to say they’ll be late. Just act like you’re waitin’ to use the phone.…
Whaddaya mean the price has went up? Listen to me, you little shmuck,
there’s about fifteen thousand other shmucks out there who can do what you do for me! You want this job or not? … Okay, that’s more like it. The price stays the same, two bucks a pop. Now get out to La Guardia and start shlepping. I need fifty new numbers by five o’clock.
He slams down the receiver. Now he eases himself out of his chair. He checks the wall safe, then walks into the outer office.
MINSKOFF (to Smyrna): Christ, I’m starving to death. I haven’t had anything to eat all day. Doctor keeps telling me I gotta take off sixty pounds, but a man’s gotta eat something, don’t he? I’m going across the street to Harold’s and grab a bite. If they locate Bonham, come get me.
Smyrna merely nods, not looking up from her magazine. He exits. Cut to: Interior, Harold’s Diner, a seedy luncheonette with a counter and butt-sprung stools, most of which have been taped together with masking tape. HAROLD, in a dirty white apron, stands behind the counter.
MINSKOFF enters, takes a seat at the counter, experiencing some difficulty squeezing his large frame between the stool and countertop.
MINSKOFF: Harold, I keep tellin’ ya, ya got these stools too close to the counter. I got a friend in the bar fixture business. He could get ya some stools—
HAROLD: Always sellin’ somethin’, ain’tcha, Moe?
MINSKOFF: Just trying to be of service. I’m in a service business, after all.
HAROLD: Well, what’ll you have today?
MINSKOFF: Let’s see. (Studies the plastic-coated menu.) Gimme a bowl of your chili, a double bacon cheeseburger heavy on the mayo, a large fries, a large onion rings, and a diet Pepsi.
HAROLD: Cash only, Moe. Remember my policy. Credit makes enemies. Let’s be friends.
MINSKOFF: Cash, shmash.
He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a large wad of bills. He waves this in front of Harold’s face before replacing it in his pocket.
HAROLD (whistles): Comin’ right up, Moe!
Carriage Trade Page 4
