by T. E. Cruise
Lucky Los Angelenos, he thought sourly as the cab squeaked and rattled like a bucket of bolts over the infamously cratered Manhattan streets. The Checker smelled of urine. Its black leatherette upholstery was torn, with silverduct tape patching the spots where the springs poked through. The bulletproof glass driver’s partition was plastered over with red-on-white stickers telling Harrison all the things he couldn’t do: smoke; eat or drink; play a radio; or expect the driver to carry more than five dollars in change. What Harrison did expect the driver to be carrying was a switchblade and a hypodermic loaded with dope. The guy was unshaven, and dressed in rags. He spoke no English and would have made a good fighter pilot if only he could have toned down his driving aggressiveness.
This was the cab from hell, but Harrison would have been ornery even if he’d been lounging in a stretch limo’s glove-leather interior. Harrison was on his way to the most important business meeting in his life. He knew that he was supposed to be feeling poised and aggressive, but instead he felt like throwing up, and his queasiness had nothing to do with the cab’s putrid odors or its pitching and swaying due to its worn-out shocks…
Last week Harrison had been in his office at GAT, thinking that things couldn’t get any worse concerning the Pont jetliner, when he’d received a telephone call from Roland Tolliver. Tolliver was Harrison’s contact at the Aviation Venture Group, the Manhattan-based syndicate of investment banks that specialized in funding commercial-aircraft project startups. The AVG syndicate had worked extensively with GAT during Herman Gold’s reign, and had most recently loaned the company $400 million to partially finance GAT’s share of Skytrain Industrie’s development costs on the Pont. Tolliver’s call had concerned that $400 million loan.
Thinking back on it now, Harrison realized that on the telephone Tolliver had been deft as a surgeon. With typical understatement, Tolliver had delineated what he termed the “circulating troubling rumors” regarding the domestic airlines’ position on the Pont vis-à-vis its engine controversy, and had sounded solicitous and sympathetic as he’d discussed GAT’s problems. It had almost given Harrison hope.
But then Tolliver had sunk the hook, “inviting” Harrison to New York in order to discuss the matter. At that moment in the background behind Tolliver’s unctuous voice, Harrison could have sworn that he’d heard the shriek of the grinding wheel as AVG’s on-staff, hooded executioner sharpened his ax. Harrison had no desire to march like a lemming to New York in order to leap off Tolliver’s cliff, but he knew he had no choice: AVG could decimate GAT’s credit rating at any time.
Harrison readily agreed with Tolliver that it would be best if he hopped a flight to the Big Apple in order to soothe the bankers’ jitters.
Trouble was, now that Harrison was here, he still couldn’t shake the notion that this was a kamikaze mission, even as he hated himself for being so pessimistic. Hadn’t Herman Gold long ago taught him that if you thought like a winner it helped you to look like a winner, which more often than not made you a winner.
Herman, how I wish you were here now, Harrison thought as the cab pulled up in front of the midtown building where AVG had its offices. Sunday night he’d taken the red-eye to LaGuardia, and since then he’d been holed up at the Plaza Hotel, chowing down on room service and going over his notes, refining his last-ditch strategy intended to get the AVG banking syndicate back into GAT’s cheerleading section.
Harrison dolefully stuffed some bills through the cab’s partition and got out, clutching his briefcase. The office building was a looming, black glass rectangle that reminded Harrison of a huge version of the monolith in the movie 2001.
That’s fitting, Harrison thought, pushing his way through the revolving doors into the busy atrium lobby, In that flick the astronauts couldn’t communicate with the aliens, and I’m going to have just about as much luck communicating with these bankers. Bankers were infamous for only wanting to lend you money when you didn’t need it. Right now, Harrison guessed he felt more down and out than the bums congregated at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to Central Park across from his hotel.
He took an express elevator up to AVG’s eagles’ aerie, the sensation of rapidly rising forty-three stories adding to the butterflies floating in Harrison’s stomach. The elevator’s doors opened on a vast expanse of pearl-gray lobby furnished with ultrasuede upholstered modular seating. One curved expanse of wall was taken up with a large, free-form metal sculpture that spelled out AVG in silvery two-foot-tall letters above a stylized jetliner. Beneath the logo sat a blond ice queen seated behind a swoopy expanse of gray Formica. Harrison identified himself to her and then waited while she telephoned Tolliver’s secretary. Then, incredibly, the receptionist smiled sweetly and asked Harrison “to have a seat and wait,” like he was a goddamned salesman here on a cold call.
Harrison had a seat, but he was fuming: Who did Tolliver and the rest of these AVG banditos think they were?
They’re the guys who lent you 400 million bucks. They’re the guys who can shut off the cash spigot and demand back what they already lent you at any time. They’re the guys that hold your future in the palm of their hands.
The minutes ticked by. The receptionist’s telephone warbled. She picked it up and began chatting with someone she was evidently meeting for lunch. The conversation got personal. The blonde laughed and murmured into the telephone like Harrison wasn’t even there.
Think like a winner, Herman Gold’s ghost whispered in Harrison’s ear, and Harrison wanted to do like Herman said, but even the most substantial of ghosts had a way of disappearing in the cold hard light of judgment day.
A sleek brunette came out from behind a door and told Harrison, “Mr. Tolliver will see you now.”
Harrison stood up, feeling absolutely pathetic. Whatever weak resolve he’d had coming into this situation had dissipated itself during his wait. That bastard Tolliver probably intended as much, Harrison thought. Tolliver knew his stuff, knew how to throw off a man’s timing.
Snap out of it, Harrison commanded himself. Show a little cool, for chrissakes. Herman would have been amused at Tolliver’s obvious tactic.
But Herman Gold would not have been in this position in the first place, Harrison realized. Herman had always been in control.
The secretary led Harrison into AVG’s inner-sanctum maze of corridors lined with offices, finally coming to a set of teak, ornately carved double doors. “In here, sir,” the secretary said, opening the double doors for him and then standing aside.
Harrison gaped. The doors had opened up on a large, glassed-in terrace. A profusion of bright flowers and lush shrubs and palms in redwood tubs created an exotic jungle upon the gray slate patio floor. There were colorful songbirds chirping in scattered cages, and a green-tinged copper fountain gurgling soothingly into its stone basin. Roland Tolliver, flanked by a pair of assistants, sat at a large, round, glass table on a wrought-iron stand, surrounded by black metal chairs with pastel striped cushions and backrests. Behind Tolliver stretched a dramatic view of Park Avenue and the Pan Am Building, glinting in the sun.
“Gentlemen, Mr. Harrison,” the secretary announced.
“Donald, so good of you to come,” Tolliver said softly, standing up to shake hands. “I hope you don’t mind if we have our meeting here in the solarium. I find these surroundings so tranquil and soothing.”
“It’s a nice setup,” Harrison agreed, looking around. “Where’s Bambi?”
Tolliver smiled. “Kimberly,” he addressed the Secretary, “would you bring us coffee?”
Harrison looked Tolliver over, thinking that it had been a while since they’d met person to person. Tolliver was a tall, thin man in his mid-fifties. He’d been with AVG for the past five years, Harrison remembered. Tolliver had a long, pinched face, brown hair worn slicked down and parted on the side, and horn-rimmed glasses that he liked to perch on the tip of his nose, so that he could peer over the tops of the tortoise frames in a kindly, country-doctor manner while he drove a stake thro
ugh your heart.
“Donald, please make yourself comfortable,” Tolliver invited. “Take off your jacket if you like.”
Harrison considered it. It was somewhat humid in the greenhouse, and Tolliver’s own suit jacket was off. Tolliver was wearing a light blue shirt with white collar and cuffs, a finely patterned maroon and gold tie, and matching suspenders that held up blue flannel trousers with knife-edge creases.
Harrison both envied and despised Tolliver’s projected unstudied perfection; that insufferable coolness that stems from old money. For Harrison, who’d been the first of his hard-working blue-collar family to go to college, Tolliver was everything he aspired to but knew he could never be. It wasn’t just money; Harrison had money; it was that noble birthright honeyed in gold that kept you cool, calm, and collected in any situation, like genetic deodorant: Harrison was dressed every bit as tastefully and expensively as Tolliver, but beneath his Sulka custom-tailored charcoal-gray tropical wool suit and made-to-measure Turnbull & Asser Egyptian cotton shirt he was sweating like a schoolboy called into the principal’s office.
Of course, maybe even a guy like Tolliver would be nervous if he was 400 million plus interest in the hole.
“Thanks, Roland, but I’ll keep my jacket on,” Harrison decided, keenly aware of the sweat rings under his arms.
“Donald, allow me to introduce my associates,” Tolliver said.
Harrison paid scant attention as Tolliver presented his two flunkies in Brooks Brothers blue. For one thing, Harrison was busy thinking about how he abhorred being called “Donald” as in Duck. For another, from past experience he know that these two guys didn’t count. They probably would not even speak during the meeting.
Tolliver was the big cheese. It was going to be up to Tolliver whether AVG stayed at GAT’s elaborately set table, or whisked the damask out from under everything Harrison had planned, sending the fragile crystal that was Gold Aviation and Transport crashing to the floor.
They took seats around the table and chatted about non-business matters until the secretary returned with a Wedgwood coffee service on a silver tray. Harrison sipped his coffee black, waiting as Tolliver dismissed her. As she left the greenhouse, Harrison decided to take the initiative.
“Roland, I appreciate this opportunity to set your mind at ease concerning the Pont situation.”
Tolliver nodded. “We’ve been hearing some disquieting things…?” He paused expectantly.
I’m sure you have, Harrison thought. But there’s no way I’m going to blab to you about problems of which you may not yet be aware. “Why don’t you enumerate your concerns, and I’ll address them one by one.”
Tolliver’s long, slender fingers came together to make a steeple on which he rested his chin. “We’ve heard that TransWest, Atlantic Air, and a host of other airlines are leaning toward choosing Payn-Reese to supply the engines for their Ponts, assuming, of course, that they even decide to buy Ponts. We’ve heard that Rogers and Simpson are very angry at GAT for tarnishing their company’s reputation by involving them in this affair. We’ve heard that GAT’s position in Skytrain is in jeopardy over this fiasco, and that Tim Campbell, who, it seems, has outfoxed you concerning the Pont matter, is now moving to replace GAT in Skytrain with Amalgamated-Landis.”
“You’ve heard a lot,” Harrison observed evenly.
“Ah, well, you know how it is,” Tolliver lightly replied. “From time to time, a little bird lands on my shoulder to whisper a something in my ear.”
“Must have been a flock of pigeons that landed on your shoulder.”
“They may have landed on my shoulder,” Tolliver said, “but they’ve shut on yours, Donald.”
Harrison paused as one of the assistants began whispering something in Tolliver’s ear. Harrison, waiting, reminded himself to at least try to sound as if he was in control of the situation. Tolliver and his people were like a pack of dogs that could smell fear. If they smelled it on Harrison, they’d be tearing at his jugular in an instant.
“Yes, Donald, you were about to say?” Tolliver was peering at him from over the tops of his eyeglasses.
“GAT and AVG have been doing business together for years.”
“When Herman Gold was running things,” Tolliver emphasized.
What the fuck is that crack supposed to mean? Harrison forced a smile. “It’s no different now than when Herman was running things. GAT has always met its loan obligations in the past, and will do so in the future.”
“That you were going to meet your obligations is not the issue,” Tolliver said. “You will meet them one way or the other.” He paused. “The issue is how you intend to do it.”
Here goes nothing—and everything, Harrison thought. He took a deep breath. “1 want your syndicate to advance GAT an open-ended line of credit.”
Tolliver looked astonished. “You’ve actually come here to ask for more money?”
Harrison nodded. “Which I intend to use to capitalize a new subsidiary. Gold Aviation and Transport Credit Corporation.” Harris opened his briefcase and extracted several sheets of figures, which he handed across the table to Tolliver. “GATCC is the weapon GAT intends to use to defend itself from Tim Campbell. The plan would work this way: GAT would go to the airlines and offer each one one-hundred-percent seller financing for a term of ten years in exchange for a minimum order of twelve Ponts with Rogers and Simpson engines.”
Tolliver pursed his lips thoughtfully. “What you’re suggesting is that AVG allow you the financial means to fight fire with fire. You want to throw Tim Campbell’s tactics right back into his face.”
“Exactly,” Harrison said. “The airlines buy price, not brand name. If GAT undercuts Agatha Holding’s financial inducement to go with Payn-Reese Motor Works, Tim Campbell’s fabled deal of the century becomes history.”
“Campbell’s undercut you before,” Tolliver said. “What’s to stop him from doing it again?”
“Two things,” Harrison replied. “First off, Tim’s not crazy. He’s too good a businessman to self-destruct by staying in a grudge-match poker game if GAT can raise the stakes too high.”
“Campbell doesn’t like to lose,” Tolliver said.
“That’s the beauty part,” Harrison replied. “He won’t lose. You know how the market has been reacting to this battle. You said yourself that the talk on the Street is that Amalgamated-Landis is GAT’s most likely successor in Sky-train, should we be forced to withdraw from the consortium. A-L stock has gone through the roof.”
“Campbell is a major player at A-L.” Tolliver nodded. “He’s made himself a bundle on his holdings, but I still don’t see what that has to do with this vendetta he seems to have against GAT.”
“Tim’s gotten where he is today by being cagey, by knowing how to play the percentages. In his own way, he plays fair. In this case, if it becomes clear to Tim that he can’t bring GAT to its knees, his A-L profits will allow him to walk away with his chin held high. As much as he hates GAT, he loves money more.”
Tolliver looked unconvinced. “You mentioned two things that would stop Campbell?”
“GAT is fighting this war on two fronts,” Harrison declared. “Right now my partner Steven Gold is in London, scheduled to meet with representatives of Payn-Rcese Motor Works, and Stoat-Black, the British partner in the Skytrain Industrie consortium. GAT’s relationship with Stoat-Black dates back to the thirties. We’re confident that we can persuade that firm to use its influence to get Payn-Reese to toe the party line.”
“You’re confident, all right.” Tolliver sighed. “That’s your problem, Donald. You’ve always been too confident.”
Grin it and bear it, Harrison thought. You can take a little dressing-down if it means you get what you need.
“You’ve already put GAT in a deep financial hole,” Tolliver said. “Now you’re asking AVG to supply you with a shovel to dig yourself in deeper.”
“You see it as a shovel, maybe,” Harrison smiled. “But I see it as a ladder.”
“Up onto a tightrope,” Tolliver countered neatly. “Where’s AVG’s safety net in this high-wire act?”
“Well, as GATCC’s creditor, you’d hold title to the Ponts.”
Tolliver shook his head. “That doesn’t ring my chimes, Donald. We’re in the money-lending business, not the air-plane-repossession business. What the hell would we do with a fleet of used airplanes if we did take them back? Anyway, you already owe us 400 million plus interest. How do you intend to pay back the original loan, never mind make good on this proposed line of credit?”
“It’s all there in that proposal I gave you, but basically, we’d have to come to an arrangement where AVG let the principal GAT owes ride for the time being. GAT would then meet its interest payments in two ways: Number one, we’d make AVG the direct third-party recipient of the airlines’ semiannual payments on their GATCC loans.”
“The more I hear, the less I like,” Tolliver pronounced. “I’m disappointed in you, Donald. You’re Herman Gold’s protégé, but all you can come up with is a tired rehash of Tim Campbell’s original plan.”
“You said it yourself,” Harrison replied defensively. “I intend to fight fire with fire.”
“No.” Tolliver pointed an accusing finger. “You’re reacting instead of acting. It seems to me that Campbell has you on the ropes, and now you’re trying to hide behind AVG’s skirts.”
“That’s not a fair assessement of the situation,” Harrison said.
“It isn’t?” Tolliver looked skeptical. “Aren’t you suggesting that AVG take on exactly the same role as Tim Campbell’s Agatha Holding company?”
“It’s not at all the same role.”
“You want this syndicate to become some sort of indirect third-party creditor to the airlines, don’t you?”
“All I want is for AVG to lend money to GAT, just like the syndicate always has,” Harrison stubbornly repeated, even as he realized that Tolliver was right.
