Chasing the Wind

by Pamela Binnings Ewen

  "Yes sir, I'll get right on it," Marvin had said to Bingham as the Morgan Klemp guys strutted up. "No sir, your secretary picked up the wires an hour ago." Marvin's face had crinkled then into that famous wide smile.

  He'd strolled off slow enough to hear Marvin whispering to the newcomers, "That man, gentleman, is a genuine ghost, a man you won't often see around." He could feel their eyes boring into his back as he stood at the elevator door, waiting, and he didn't have to turn and watch to know what would happen next.

  Essentially, they were salesmen, these deal-makers. They knew how to ask. And when they went on asking, Marvin would plant his elbows on the counter and lean toward them, looking contrite. "Sorry, I can't give out the name, sir," he'd say. "I could lose my job." Then, ducking his head, he'd lower his voice and tell how Murdoch's private security guards laid down the law when he came down, that he always took the presidential suite, no matter who was in the house at the time.

  Then he'd wink, straighten up, turn around, and get their keys.

  The bankers finally wandered through the open lobby and out onto the beach in their flip-flops around 5:30, blinking in the full glare of the beach, knobby knees exposed under their new shorts, their pale city skin turning pink on arrival.

  Bingham was ready.

  There were five of them, but he kept his half-closed eyes on the most gregarious of the group as they stumbled across the sand to the open bar. Tom took the empty stool beside him, and when someone commented on the straw hat Bingham wore, Bingham took it off and slapped it down on Tom's head.

  Tom turned to him, surprised, and although they'd never met, there was species recognition in his eyes. Bingham saluted.

  Tipping the hat to Bingham, Tom smiled and kept it on. Bingham had known he was picturing himself in that hat right then, as he'd done all year back in New York, dreaming of this trip, watching himself sitting under the thatched roof of the beach bar as if it were an out-of-body experience. Tom had ordered drinks all around.

  Bingham bought the next round, ordering margaritas. Jimmy Buffet music was playing in the background—something about Havana—and Bingham said they all looked like they needed one. When the sun slipped to the horizon, the bankers fell silent. They were thinking of the snow and ice back home, he knew, and how good they had it here, how they'd earned this trip. They'd brag about it for the next twelve months, casually bringing it up in conversations with buddies who hadn't made the cut.

  He spotted the glimmer in Tom's eyes an hour later when he mentioned his latest investment, a big development in Fort Lauderdale that got a write-up in the Journal. Another hotel on another lovely beach.

  Tom remembered the story. "That was you?" He lifted his brows.

  Bingham shrugged one shoulder and stared off to sea.

  "Real estate's the way to go with inflation on the rise," Tom said. "I heard those bonds went fast. Did you use Milkin's boys?"

  "I can't discuss it." Bingham said with a half smile. Tom nodded and pulled out his business card. Bingham took it, carefully turning it over, and read out loud, "Morgan Klemp, L.P." He looked at Tom.

  Tom nodded. "We'd have gotten you better pricing."

  "You like poker?" Bingham slipped the card into his pocket.

  "Do you like salt on your margarita?" Tom said. Bingham could see Tom's adrenaline starting to flow. Tom clearly thought he'd found a treasure map under this thatched roof.

  By the end of the evening, Bingham was acknowledged as a grand old man, a soldier of fortune—in more ways than one, he was careful to let them know. His tongue loosened now, and he spoke with low-key familiarity of projects they were certain they could name though he refused to identify them. "For personal reasons, you understand . . ." It became a game among them, like guessing the titles of favorite songs.

  He regaled them with real war stories too, such as his adventures back in WWII. He had been a paratrooper, he said, 82nd airborne, 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment. He told them about things they were too young to remember, and he could see it in their eyes, how they'd retell the stories when they got home, how they'd heard it all from one who'd stepped right out of history. The next afternoon Bingham secured quickie native certifications for everyone and they all went scuba diving. They dove an old wreck he'd found out there years ago.

  Two days before they left, he swung his arm around Tom and guided him off to one side, splitting him from the herd. They sat down in long chairs in the cool shade of a coco palm tree and looked out over the clear green sea. Tom rattled the ice in his glass. "What's next on your agenda, Bingham?" he asked. "After this, I mean."

  Bingham told him. He gave Tom the short version, but it was enough. New Orleans, right on the river, overlooking the French Quarter. Bingham leaned close, looked about, lowered his voice: A resort hotel, permits in the works. And best of all, the probability was high for some long-run razzle-dazzle because casino gambling was on the way.

  Tom's brows had shot up. A ground floor opportunity. Two years, three at most.

  Bingham could see Tom was thinking about Atlantic City, where gambling had just been approved.

  "I want in," Tom said, sipping his drink.

  But Bingham shook his head. "Sorry, old boy. I've got other plans."

  Tom stuck to his guns. He would put his own money in, he said. He had friends who'd do the same.

  When the Morgan Klemp jet took off at the end of the week, Bingham was on it, looking out over the clear blue sea, tongue working his cheek. Tom had a round of meetings scheduled before the flight even landed.

  Now, in the conference room in the offices of Mangum & Morris, Bingham studied the faces around the table. This transaction would close in six weeks, and he knew it would happen because every person here was determined to collect their fees in time to be included in year-end hero-sheet calculations and the bonuses that went with them.

  They wanted to be on the inside.

  Hours passed. Bingham glanced at his watch. One o'clock and he was hungry, and when he was hungry he grew irritable. In fact, he'd felt claustrophobic for hours. Stiff-arming the growing stack of papers in front of him, he pushed them out toward the center of the table. After all, he was the client.

  "It's time for lunch," he announced. He softened the interruption with a smile. His smile was contagious, he knew. He'd been aware all his life that this smile of his was a valuable tool, and he used it as such. So he looked around the room, caught each eye and twinkled, catching them off guard, breaking the connections. Otherwise they'd sit here all day, billing him.

  "Let's go eat," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's get out of here and find some good Creole food. What do you suggest? Galatoire's? I've heard a lot about that place."

  Doug glanced at Preston. "We've ordered lunch in," Preston said, scooting back his chair. "I'll go check on that."

  "Nope." Bingham's voice was firm. He leaned forward, forearms on the table. "No catered food. I want to try out all your great restaurants. Let's start with Galatoire's. We'll come back here and work after."

  Preston looked at Doug.

  "There'll be a long line," Robert murmured to Bingham.

  "So what?" He looked at Doug. "Can't we do something about the line?"

  Doug nodded. "Sure."

  "Get someone to stand in for us. Have them call us when they've got a table."

  "No problem," Doug said again. Preston rose. Left the room and nodded when he returned. "All set."

  "Good," Bingham said.

  Amalise stopped at Ashley Elizabeth's desk. "I'm going to lunch," she said.

  Ashley Elizabeth looked up from her typewriter though her fingers continued to fly across the keys. She worked for Amalise and two other associates, so she was always busy. "All right." Ashley Elizabeth smiled. "I'm going too. Soon."

  When the elevator doors open
ed, Doug Bastion stood there with several others. He surprised her by swinging an arm around her shoulders. "Amalise, there's someone I want you to meet." He turned to a tall, lean man with a craggy face. The man wore a gray suit that, from the fit, appeared custom made, as well as a crisp white shirt with French cuffs, a burgundy tie, and wingtip shoes. He looked about fifty-five, perhaps sixty years old.

  "Bingham," Doug said, "this is one of our finest young lawyers. She'll be working with us on your transaction. Amalise, this is Bingham Murdoch."

  "Well, look at this," Bingham exclaimed, opening his arms and smiling. "From the tenth circle of hell an angel has appeared." He turned to two men standing behind him and introduced them as Adam and Robert. "One's a banker," he said, "and the other's a Wall Street lawyer, angel. Don't you singe those wings."

  She said hello as Doug released her from his grip.

  "Amalise." Bingham glittered for her. "That's a nice name. We're all off to Galatoire's for lunch, and you're coming with us." He chuckled and shuffled beside her, slipping his arm through hers as the elevator continued the descent. "I must say, Doug, your firm has good taste. What a relief." Everyone laughed.

  Preston wore a wry smile. "Amalise is a rose among the thorns."

  Before she could say a word, the elevator reached the lobby and the doors opened. Bingham steered her along, leaving Doug, Preston, Raymond, Frank Earl, Adam, and Robert trailing behind.

  "Call me Bingham." His eyes shone as he led her through the lunchtime crowds. Walking along, he compared in a favorable light the sidewalk crush to the streets of Manhattan this time of day. He mentioned flying into the city yesterday and how he'd felt such a bond with New Orleans the moment he saw it. He talked of a recent trip to Las Vegas and said she was prettier than any of those showgirls, and he praised the orchestra in the Blue Room at the Roosevelt the previous night.

  Amalise strolled along beside him, speechless. He commanded all attention until at last they were seated around the table in the restaurant and the menu appeared, at which time he changed the subject to food.

  Once Doug attempted to bring up a point under discussion in the term sheet.

  Bingham's hand shot up, like a stop sign. "No business here, my boy. Not at lunch."

  Chapter Six

  That afternoon Amalise spoke to counsel in the various jurisdictions where Murdoch's two companies were organized and did business, arranging for organizational documents and certificates to be sent to her right away. Counsel in Grand Cayman confirmed that the Lone Ranger subsidiary guaranteeing the loans was organized under Cayman Island law. The sole shareholder was the borrower, Murdoch's Delaware Company, Lone Ranger, Inc.

  "Thanks." Amalise checked that off her list. "We'll prepare forms of board resolutions and send them to you to revise under Cayman law."

  Later in Raymond's office—a duplicate of hers—she and Raymond reviewed the term sheet, the deal point memo that Preston had prepared as the axis around which ongoing detailed negotiations and documents would revolve. Amalise sat in the chair in front of his desk with the term sheet propped on her lap. She made notes in the margins while they talked.

  One item caught her attention, and she looked up. "Why is Murdoch providing a personal letter of credit? It's only for one million—not enough to cover the company's debt."

  Raymond checked off something on his copy. "It's extra security for the banks in the syndicate. Gives them comfort. Under the terms, they'll draw any overdue interest on their loans from the credit should the company default and fail to pay." Head bent, he looked at Amalise under his brows. "It's not an insignificant amount—one million would cover your salary for forty years without investing it."

  "Not yours?"

  He smiled.

  "I knew I was underpaid."

  "Who's the issuing bank?"

  "Cayman Trust."

  He looked up. "I thought Banc Franck held the accounts." Flipping through the term sheet, he stopped on a page and read. "Well, Cayman Trust it is. Banc Franck just holds the borrower's primary account." He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. The letter of credit's a point of trust. It's good as cash."

  "I've got the corporate due diligence started. Doug also wants us to see what background we can find on Murdoch. Where do we start?"

  Raymond set the term sheet down on his desk and leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. He looked at Amalise. "These big money men keep out of the public eye. But go ahead and get started in the case reporters, and Barron's, Wall Street Journal. See what you can find."

  In the firm library Amalise checked regulatory opinions under both names, Lone Ranger and Bingham Murdoch. Murdoch had mentioned transactions in Atlanta, Florida, and California. His U.S. company was organized in Delaware, and he lived in New York. So she perused the Federal Reporter, and also the State Reporter for case law and other public proceedings. She searched back issues of Barron's, The Wall Street Journal, and Forbes. She also searched Who's Who ten years back, all with no luck, as Raymond had surmised.

  At last she asked the librarian, Mrs. Plauche, if it would be possible to run a Dun & Bradstreet credit report.

  Mrs. Plauche, bending over the card catalog, stuck her finger behind a card and gave her a look. "We don't do that here," she said.

  "It's for a transaction." Amalise persisted. "For Doug Bastion."

  "You could try accounting," Mrs. Plauche said in a vague tone, her eyes clouded. "They might have that information. But you'd need approval to even make the request." She shook her head. Her eyes bored into Amalise's as if she'd stepped over a line. "Who's the client?"

  Amalise blinked. "It's First Merchant's customer, actually. We're representing them."

  She went back to the card catalog. "Well, you'd think a bank would already have that kind of information, wouldn't you?"

  Amalise felt the blush that rose. They would and surely did, Raymond confirmed when she reported back. A credit check on First Merchant Bank's client wasn't the firm's responsibility. He wasn't going to stir that pot.

  Amalise lounged in the chair in front of Raymond's desk. "Then I guess we're at a dead end. I found nothing on either Murdoch or the companies." Thinking of the property that Murdoch would destroy in the Marigny District to build his hotel, the thought popped into her mind that she would love to see this deal die. The rogue idea frightened her, and she shook it off.

  Raymond spread his hands. "Finding nothing is a good result. The Reports and SEC opinions would only bring bad news." Besides, he went on, his friend Josh Bart at Lehman Loeb vouched for anyone Tom Hannigan at Morgan Klemp recommended. He looked at Amalise, cocked his head and shrugged. "In the end, it's all about relationships."

  He had plenty of work lined up for her to do. Bingham Murdoch was First Merchant Bank's concern, not a problem for Mangen & Morris.

  Later that night Bingham stood at the living room window in his executive suite at the Roosevelt Hotel, gazing at the harvest moon. The full moon would cycle around once more, then wane as the closing date grew near. He was remembering a time when calculations of the moon's cycle meant to him life or death.

  His heart beat faster as he thought of this, and he almost whispered the thoughts aloud. A quarter moon is what you want, at most. The enemy would be waiting below for their chutes to open on a moonlit night, those mushrooms hanging over you like iridescent targets. He nodded to himself. Yes, you pick a dark night. If you're lucky, maybe the weather's acting up a little—some fog, light rain, low cloud cover. At most a quarter moon.

  Bingham smiled, shrugging off the memory. The pinnacle was now in sight. Six weeks, at most. Thanksgiving. And he had a lot to be thankful for.

  He turned away from the window, adjusting his shirt collar. He licked the tips of his fingers and smoothed back his hair. Robert was waiting downstairs in the Blue Room, and he'd invited two pretty ladies to dine with
them tonight. As Bingham walked into the bedroom, he sang, "New Orleans ladies . . . they sa-shay by . . ." Yes, he loved this city.

  And Robert was doing well, so far. Bingham mused over his luck. The young investment banker was the perfect chief executive officer to run the hotel. Good with money, tough, aggressive, and smart. But Robert could stand to learn a few things. He was abrasive, and his flashpoint was low.

  Bingham inspected his wardrobe, then pulled out his tux, a white shirt, a black bow tie. He untied the tie he'd worn all day and pulled it off. Despite the sorry economy, he figured the markets were poised to soar, and he sensed the kid had keen insight into the ideal ratio of risk to reward. Finding Robert was a piece of good fortune, all in all. The kid would keep the lid on things. He was hungry. And he'd chum up with the local champions of the public good.

  Yes. Robert was a necessary evil.

  He laid the clothes he would wear tonight out on the bed in the order in which he would put them on. When he'd finished undressing, Bingham turned on the shower and stepped inside. A rush of pleasure hit him all at once as the hot water streamed over him, a jolt of pure, unselfish joy. He always did like a good, hot shower. He dried off with a thick, soft towel and pulled on the robe with the hotel logo embroidered on the front pocket. Yes, he thought to himself while he shaved, things were moving along. He'd been told these lawyers were the best in town. Most of the banks had already committed to the project—they knew a good opportunity when one came along.

  He swiped off the last of the shaving cream, splashed his face with water, and went off to dress, humming. He slipped on the white shirt the maids had washed, starched, and ironed and worked his fingers over the row of tiny buttons down the front, thinking a man needs a woman for this kind of thing. This made him think of Amalise Catoir, the pretty young associate at Mangen & Morris. Then he shrugged off the thought. She was too young and already a widow, he'd heard. He frowned, struggling with the gold cuff links. Plus, he was over the hill and better off alone. No sense in making a woman a widow twice.