The Power Broker

by Stephen Frey

  “Well, we can’t look back at this point. All we can do is play the hand we’re dealt.” His office phone began to ring. It was Quentin. “Hold on a minute.” Christian picked up the phone. “Hi, what do you have?”

  “I may have a lead on our friend Carmine Torino.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’ll tell you when I’m sure, but I think he’s in hiding somewhere outside Vegas. Somebody must be after him, like you thought.”

  It had to be somebody important because Torino was still due a big payment from Everest—two million dollars when they got the license. Torino had handled everything beautifully up to this point. There hadn’t been any strikes or equipment breakdowns. Everything had gone smoothly because Torino was making certain the right palms were greased. Now, at the eleventh hour, everything was going haywire. Of course, maybe that had been the plan all along, he realized. But if that was what the Mob had been planning, why would they be hunting Torino? He was their friend, the one who made sure they got paid to keep people on the job and machines running smoothly. “Who do you think it is?”

  “I don’t know. I’m talking to my people, but they aren’t sure yet.”

  “That’s strange. Wouldn’t you think they’d know exactly who it was?”

  “Yeah, I would. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  After his stint with the Rangers, Quentin had been in charge of a very secret government anticrime project. He’d never been completely forthcoming about the project with Christian. He couldn’t, he claimed. It had something to do with organized crime, and it was still classified. During the time he’d been on the project, he’d been able to forge deep connections inside several of the big Mob families.

  “Maybe it’s someone outside the Mob,” said Christian.

  “Maybe, but who outside the Mob’s gonna scare somebody like Carmine Torino?”

  Another dead end. At least for now. “What about the guy at the transfer station who wants the million bucks?” Christian asked. “Anything on him?”

  “He’s definitely Mob. I tracked him to one of the New York families, but…it’s weird.”

  “What is?”

  “My connect inside that family says that whatever the guy’s doing isn’t sanctioned by the bosses. Or, if it is, it’s way secret. The kind of hush-hush thing that’s usually required for hits on the high ups of other families.”

  “Who owns that transfer station where we met the guy?”

  “That’s another thing,” Quentin said. “It’s legit. It’s owned by the guy’s father who isn’t Mob, never has been. That guy we met lives in Brooklyn. He was just out in Vegas for a few days, apparently to meet you.”

  “Then he can’t shut us down if I don’t pay him,” Christian pointed out.

  Quentin didn’t say anything.

  “Right?” Christian pushed.

  “Yeah, well…”

  “Yeah, well, what?”

  “There was an electrical inspection today over at the Dice Casino. Did you know about that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, from what I understand, it was a surprise inspection.”

  “And?”

  “And it didn’t go well. The inspector told the electricians they were going to have to rip out three floors of wiring and start over.”

  Christian gritted his teeth. A message from the prick at the transfer station, plain and simple. Pay the million bucks or the casino stays dark. “All right, when are you coming back?”

  “I need to follow up on this Torino thing. Hopefully tonight.”

  “Safe travels, pal.” Christian hung up the phone.

  “Everything all right?” Nigel asked.

  “Just another day in private equity,” Christian said, forcing a wan smile. “It’s—” He was interrupted by Debbie on his intercom. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Osgood is here to see you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Who’s that?” Nigel asked, standing up to go.

  Christian hesitated, not sure he wanted to say anything. But Nigel had been his partner for years. If he should tell anyone…“It’s Jesse Wood’s chief of staff.”

  “Senator Jesse Wood?”

  “Yes.”

  Nigel’s eyes widened. “This country’s next president?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Christian cautioned.

  “Everything I read says he’s winning the Democratic nomination in July, then probably winning in November.”

  “A lot can happen between now and then.”

  “What does Osgood want?”

  Christian shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Senator Wood asked me to sit down with him next week, to get my thoughts on a few things. Osgood probably just wants to go over the agenda for that meeting.”

  “Senator Wood wants your endorsement,” Nigel said, turning to go. “You’re getting to be a man in demand, Mr. Gillette, a man in demand. Pretty impressive.” He stopped at the door. “I’ll get on the CST thing.”

  A few moments later Debbie showed Clarence Osgood into Christian’s office. They sat down in the corner away from his desk, in a comfortable area with two couches positioned around a coffee table.

  “I appreciate you coming here,” Christian led off, taking a sip from the bottled water Debbie had brought him. “We’ve got a lot going on at Everest so it’s tough for me to get out of the office.”

  “I understand completely,” Osgood said graciously. “No problem.”

  “I’m looking forward to the meeting with Senator Wood.”

  Osgood smiled. “No need for formality, Christian. Call him Jesse, just like the rest of us do.”

  “Okay. Well, when I was growing up, I always admired the way Jesse played tennis. With so much passion. I was a big fan.”

  Osgood waved his arms. “Oh gawd, don’t tell him you admired his tennis when we all get together. We won’t be able to pry him off that subject with a crowbar. He’ll tell us how he can still beat the young guys out on tour today.” Osgood chuckled. “I’m just kidding. Jesse’s really a very humble guy.”

  “That’s the way he comes off on camera.”

  “And that’s the way he is,” Osgood confirmed. “He’s an incredible man, and it’s an honor to work for him. I love my job.”

  “Looks like that job might end up taking you to the White House in November.”

  Osgood shook his head. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “Sure would,” Christian agreed. “It’d be history, like nothing this nation’s seen in a long time. So, what are we talking about today, Clarence?”

  A gleam came to Osgood’s eyes. “Like you said, Christian, history.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jesse Wood is going to be the next president of this country.” Osgood hesitated. “Jesse wants you to be its next vice president.”

  12

  EVER SINCE he could remember, Christian had been around powerful and famous people, so it didn’t faze him. His father, Clayton, had started a brokerage firm from scratch and grown it into one of the most prestigious investment banks on the West Coast before selling out to a big Wall Street firm for a hundred million. After that, Clayton had gone into national politics—one term as a congressman from California, then on to the Senate. As he became a high-profile player in Los Angeles, more and more celebrities dropped by the house in Bel Air—sports stars, movie stars, other politicians—and Clayton proudly introduced Christian to all of them. Christian understood powerful and famous people, and he was comfortable around them.

  But Samuel Hewitt had something about him that Christian had experienced only once before: an aura that drew you to him so forcefully, that made you want to watch his every move so you could emulate him. It wasn’t something Hewitt had to work at making you see, either. It was completely natural, all around him constantly. You felt it even before you shook his hand, when you first laid eyes on him. It was a presidential charisma, a sense of immense power that radiated from him.

  The on
ly other person who’d ever exuded that same kind of aura to Christian was his father. Clayton had had that same calm yet intense confidence about him, that same innate ability to make you love to be around him, to learn from him, to emulate him, to want to impress him. Not only because he made you feel that if you were like him, you’d be successful. Not only because he made you feel he sincerely cared about you. But because you realized he made you feel better about yourself. He quickly identified your talents and made certain to subtly highlight them during your conversation with him. You went away from your interaction with him believing that you did have a lot to offer, that you could make a difference if you really tried.

  And it wasn’t because Clayton was his father that Christian felt that way; it was obvious to everyone. People told Christian all the time. Only a few months into his Senate term, Clayton had been tabbed by the powers in the Republican party and the press as a favorite to win a presidential nomination. Then he died in the plane crash—along with the dream.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Hewitt,” Christian said as they sat in an anteroom of Princeton’s Avery Ellis Hall. It was quiet here, away from the buzz of the alumni function, like being in someone’s home—leather chairs, dark wood, bookcases up to the ceiling, an antique globe in one corner, the smell of pipe tobacco. It reminded Christian of his father’s den at the Bel Air house. “You’re a legend.”

  Which was no exaggeration. U.S. Oil had been named the most-admired company in America three times in the last decade by several major business magazines—twice more than any other company. Hewitt had been named the most valuable chief executive twice.

  “Call me Samuel,” Hewitt said, smiling widely. “Okay if I call you Christian?”

  “Of course.” Hewitt looked the part of a Texas president. Tall, still strapping at sixty-seven, silver haired, rattlesnake boots beneath a crisp charcoal suit, a classy black Stetson lying on the table in front of him. “I was honored that you called.”

  Hewitt crossed one leg over the other at the knee and settled into the comfortable chair. “And I was honored that you would meet.” His smile grew wider. “You’re much busier than me. I’m only chairman of one company. According to Forbes, you’re chairman of twenty.”

  “Private equity,” Christian said. “You know the deal. I represent the money, that’s why I’m chairman. The CEOs are really in charge at our portfolio companies. Besides, you’re chairman of the biggest company in the world.”

  Hewitt still hadn’t stopped smiling.

  Christian grinned back. “What?”

  “It’s eerie.”

  “What is?”

  “How much you remind me of your father.”

  Christian sat straight up in his chair. “You knew my father?” That possibility had never crossed his mind.

  Hewitt’s smile faded. “I did, but not well. We had dinner a few times. I thought he was incredible, one of the most dynamic people I’ve ever met. Good-hearted, too. That plane crash was a terrible thing for him, for your family, and for our country. Clayton Gillette would have been one of the best presidents the United States ever had, I’m convinced of that.” He grimaced. “I cried when I heard he was dead.”

  Usually Christian allowed himself to form only bad opinions of people quickly. To earn his respect, you had to do it over time, like Quentin and Nigel had. It seemed like being skeptical about people just came with the turf. But there was something different about Hewitt, and it wasn’t just that overwhelming presidential aura. Christian felt an immediate closeness to the man, as if he’d known Hewitt for years. “I appreciate that,” he murmured.

  “You definitely remind me of your father, Christian,” Hewitt spoke up. “Only, and I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he interrupted himself, “you’ve got even more charisma than he—”

  “No, my father was—”

  “Let the son of an old wildcatter talk, son,” Hewitt urged, his Texas drawl growing slightly more pronounced.

  Christian nodded. “Sorry.” It had always been hard for him to take compliments, especially when people were comparing him to his father.

  “What is it you young people say?” Hewitt asked quietly, the wide smile reappearing. “Oh, right,” he said, snapping his fingers. “You’ve got it going on, son. You’ve got the look.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ever thought about going into politics?”

  Christian glanced up, wondering for a split second if Hewitt knew something. But that was impossible. “Well, I—”

  “Sorry,” Hewitt apologized, holding up his hands. “I don’t mean to waste your time. Let’s get to why I wanted to meet. Princeton needs a new library.” A sheepish expression came to Hewitt’s face. “Well, I guess need is a relative term when it comes to the Ivy League. Anyway, some of the other alums and I decided that we do, and, of course, we want the best money can buy. So we formed a committee to start raising it. I’d really appreciate it if you’d join us.”

  “Of course, I will.” Christian didn’t hesitate. “I’ll donate a million bucks, too.”

  “Jesus.” Hewitt shook his head. “Now don’t I feel like an ass? I only committed half a million.”

  “And I’ll raise a lot more from people I know.”

  “I figured you’d know a lot of—”

  “But I’ll do it on one condition.”

  Hewitt looked up. “What’s that?”

  “Ten percent of what we raise goes to scholarships for kids from the inner city. What’s the target raise?” Christian asked without waiting for Hewitt’s answer. Suddenly the old man seemed a little miffed. As if he didn’t like conditions made by anyone.

  “A hundred. We think that’ll get us a first-rate facility.”

  “Then it’ll have to be a hundred and ten. Do we have a deal?”

  Hewitt snickered. “Does everything have to be a negotiation?”

  Christian winked. “You’re asking me?”

  “Well, I—”

  “We should be able to get to that number pretty fast.” Christian ran some numbers in his head, thinking about who he could lean on. “I’ll call a few Tigers on Wall Street who owe me favors.”

  Hewitt smirked. “Or who would kill to do business with Everest Capital.”

  “Exactly.”

  A young waiter approached the table and waited politely to be acknowledged.

  “You want anything, Christian?” Hewitt asked. He’d ordered a soft drink and a sandwich before Christian arrived.

  “No, thanks.”

  Hewitt looked up at the waiter. “Just the check, son. You can put it on my tab.”

  The waiter reached into his pocket. “Already done, sir,” he said, handing it to Hewitt.

  “So, you guys own Laurel Energy, right?” Hewitt asked, taking the check and scribbling his initials in large looping letters, then handing it back.

  Christian caught his breath. He couldn’t have scripted this meeting any better. “We do.”

  “Yeah, I went on your Web site this morning and checked out your portfolio companies,” Hewitt said, watching the waiter head off. “It’s an impressive list, but, of course, the one that caught my eye right away was Laurel. I talked to one of my senior engineers up in Calgary. Obviously we have a bunch of assets up there in Canada, too,” Hewitt explained. “He said Laurel has some very solid reserves. I guess he’d spoken to some friends of his at the company.”

  “It’s been a good investment for us,” Christian agreed, trying to stay low-key, trying not to seem eager.

  “What are you guys going to do with Laurel, if you don’t mind me asking? You’re an investment company. I know how those funds you guys run work. You don’t usually hold on to portfolio companies for more than five or six years.”

  “It’s interesting you mention that.” Apparently Quentin was right. Hewitt didn’t know Laurel was for sale after all, which Christian found surprising. “We’re actually in the process of selling Laurel now.”

  “Rea
lly?”

  “Honestly, we’ve had it on the market for a while.” It didn’t make sense to try to con Hewitt into thinking they’d just started the process. Hewitt would find out very quickly that Morgan Stanley had been peddling it for a while.

  “Oh?”

  Christian could see the doubts zipping through Hewitt’s mind right away, but it was better to hit this head-on. Never dance around an issue, especially with someone as sophisticated as Hewitt. That was just inefficient. “We sent it to your business development people a while ago, but they turned it down. We sent it to all the big companies, but so far no takers.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on.”

  “Read the engineering reports, Samuel. The reserves are there. Honestly, I don’t know what the problem is.”

  Hewitt tapped his chin for a few moments. “Who’s managing the sell process? Who’s the investment bank?”

  “Morgan Stanley.” Christian watched the older man frown, as though that information didn’t sit with him very well. “But I’m probably going to change advisers soon. It looks like we’re going to hire Black Brothers Allen to take over.”

  Hewitt rolled his eyes. “Uh-oh. Well, I better move quick if I’m interested. Those guys at Black Brothers will get the deal done for you, but Trenton Fleming’s a shark. He’ll charge you an arm and a leg, but he’ll get it done.”

  “You know Fleming?”

  Hewitt made a face. “A little. They did some work for us a few years ago, but, like I said, their fees are flat ridiculous. I didn’t think it was worth it. You’ve got a selling memorandum that describes Laurel, right?” Hewitt asked. “I assume Morgan Stanley put one together.”

  “Of course, and it’s got everything in it. All the reserve information, all the technical stuff your guys will want. And the engineering firms we retained are excellent.”

  “Jones and Huff?”

  “And Shay, Strong, and Meyers.”

  Hewitt nodded. “You don’t get any better than them.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Send the book to me in Dallas, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be back down there in a couple of days,” Hewitt explained. “My assistant’s name in Dallas is Rhonda. Send it to her attention. I’ll let her know it’s coming.”