The Takeover

by Stephen W. Frey

  Falcon grinned. He watched her closely as she gazed outside. She had followed the ambulance to the hospital after he was wounded. The nurses had insisted that she leave at midnight, but she had paid no attention, continuing to dab a damp cloth about his face until morning. And she had come to visit him each day since, because she knew there was no one else to come. He had halfheartedly told her that she didn’t have to, but she would simply nod and be back the following morning. And he was glad. He was beginning to understand that the flashy looks were just one side of her. She also seemed a genuinely kind person. “Well, if you don’t like my moaning and groaning, you can leave.” Falcon thrust a third pillow behind his back so that he could sit up straighter.

  Jenny turned slowly from the window, raised one eyebrow, and then began to move toward the door.

  “Hey, come on. I’m just kidding. Hey!”

  Jenny stopped at the end of the bed and stared down at him.

  “I’m sorry, Jenny.”

  “Ask me to stay.”

  “Stay.” Falcon said the word immediately. He tried to say it casually, but the look in his eyes belied his tone. He broke into a wide grin. “Please.”

  Jenny smiled back. She could not resist him.

  Falcon cocked his head to one side. “It occurs to me that I don’t even know where you have to come from when you make these Mother Teresa visits. Do you live around here?”

  “No. I live in New Brunswick. It’s about fifteen miles north of here.” She paused. “I’ve lived there all my life. I like it there. It’s a working-class town.” She said the last few words matter-of-factly. “Not like Princeton.”

  So she didn’t have a complex about her working-class town or about making it out, though she clearly could with her looks and her brain, Falcon thought. “Do you want to be a secretary, I’m sorry, executive assistant, for the rest of your life?”

  “You don’t beat around the bush, do you, Andrew Falcon?” Jenny asked.

  He raised his hands in mock apology.

  “I’m trying to save some money so I can go back to college and get my degree. I finished two years at Montclair State.”

  “Why did you quit? I know, too many parties.”

  Jenny shook her head. “Dad couldn’t take care of my younger sister by himself when he got sick. So, I had to take care of her. One thing led to another, and I just sort of never went back.”

  “But your mom…” Immediately he wished he hadn’t said it. How could he have been so stupid?

  Jenny did not answer right away. “She died of lung cancer when I was very young.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Andrew. Dad told me that Mom smoked two packs of cigarettes a day.”

  “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  Jenny shook her head. “Do you?”

  “No.”

  They were silent for a few moments.

  “What about you, Andrew? Tell me about yourself.” Jenny attempted to get him to open up.

  “Oh, I’m pretty boring. I like to work. That’s about it.”

  Jenny waited a few moments, but he said nothing more. She played with the clipboard hanging from the end of the bed for a few seconds, then spoke again. “Andrew, I know this is difficult to have to face, but what will you do now that MD Link is…” She did not finish the sentence.

  “Bankrupt. Kaput. Gonzo. Is that what you were trying to say?”

  She nodded hesitantly, searching his face for emotion. But there was none.

  Falcon stared at the ceiling for a moment and then grinned. “You don’t suppose Froworth’s assistant might invest in MD Link despite the little sideshow?”

  Jenny shook her head. “Be serious, Andrew.”

  “Serious, you want me to be serious?” He exhaled loudly. “Well, I’ve always thought about moving to Vermont. It’s a beautiful state, and I love to ski. Maybe I’ll buy a house up there with some land and ski my life away. Of course, they’d probably want money for the house and the lift tickets.”

  “Do you have any money left?”

  “A little.” Falcon grimaced and touched his head again. “Funny how just the thought of money can induce physical pain.” He glanced at her. “Do you like Vermont?”

  “I’ve never been.” Jenny smiled. “I’ve never been anywhere really.”

  “Would you like to go sometime?”

  Jenny glanced up into Falcon’s eyes immediately, wondering if he had meant what she so wanted him to mean by those words.

  Falcon stared back. So she cared about him. He sensed it in her face immediately.

  “Yes, I would. Of course I would.”

  He didn’t respond to her answer right away. He simply continued to stare. She was so beautiful. And caring. Falcon bit his lip. But she was a Jersey girl. And he had dated lots of those in high school. “Great.” He smiled. “You should get a bunch of your girlfriends together and go sometime. I could tell you all the right places to go. Out-of-the-way places the typical tourists wouldn’t find.”

  Jenny’s mouth opened slightly, and then she glanced down at the bed.

  “Mr. Falcon!” There was a heavy knock at the door. “Time to take your vitals.”

  “I’ve got to go anyway.” Jenny’s voice was hoarse.

  The door opened. An intern, stethoscope hanging from his neck, entered the room. He saw Jenny and stopped. “Oh, sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Jenny turned and picked up her purse from the dresser and moved past the young man toward the door.

  “Jenny! Wait! Jesus, you just got here.” But she was gone. Falcon glanced at the intern, who shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, Andrew.”

  Falcon shook his head. “It’s okay.” He stared at the door, still slowly swinging shut. “Sometimes I can be a real horse’s ass,” he muttered.

  * * *

  —

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I have just been handed a special announcement!” The public-address announcer’s voice boomed out over halftime at the Harvard-Penn basketball game. “Several moments ago, this letter was found in the press box. I will read it.”

  The crowd exchanged knowing glances. They had a good idea of what was about to transpire. It had happened every year at an important Harvard event since before the turn of the century.

  “It says, ‘Good afternoon. Will the person sitting in section seven, row seven, seat seven of the arena please remove the envelope taped to the underside of your seat and deliver it to Harvard officials.’ The letter is signed only, ‘The Sevens.’ ”

  A bald man in a checkered sports jacket reached beneath his seat as the crowd began to cheer. He found the envelope immediately, ripped it from its hiding place, and held it aloft. The arena burst into thunderous applause. Quickly, the envelope was passed hand to hand up the crowd to the press box. The arena hushed as the envelope made its way to the public-address announcer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, in my hand I have a check made out to Harvard University. The instructions attached indicate only that the Board of Visitors use the money as they see fit. The amount of the check is seven million, seven hundred seventy-seven thousand, seven hundred seventy-seven dollars, and seven cents!”

  The crowd exploded again, and by the time the great outpouring of appreciation had subsided, William Rutherford was gone.

  4

  Devon Chambers shook his head. “He’s going to destroy us, Granville. He’s already raised income tax rates on people like us to eighty percent and the inheritance tax rate on all estates over six hundred thousand dollars in value to seventy percent. And my sources inside the administration tell me that now he’s talking privately about raising the estate tax rate to ninety percent and lowering the threshold amount at which the tax begins from six hundred thousand dollars to three hundred thousand. And you know what? With the kind of populist mandate he has gar
nered, he might just pull it off.” Chambers paused. “It would be the end of the capitalist system as we know it. That kind of estate tax rate would effectively put everyone back to square one after two generations. It would kill any kind of incentive to achieve. It would be the end of the upper class.”

  Winthrop nodded slowly. “Rutherford suggests a scorched-earth policy.” He smiled evilly.

  Chambers shuddered, folded his arms across his chest, and shook his head again. He knew what Winthrop meant. “I told you that having Rutherford initiated into the Sevens was a mistake.” Chambers’ voice was barely more than a whisper—something he passed off as the result of a chronic sore throat. “He’s just one of those military types who believes everything can be accomplished through force.”

  Granville Winthrop sipped on the Scotch mist and then replaced it atop the mahogany table in front of the low chair. “Do I need to remind you of your oath never to criticize another member of the society?”

  Chambers’ thin face settled into a superior expression. As if he would abide by what Winthrop had said only out of respect for the tradition—not Rutherford or Winthrop. He shook his head and coughed a deep phlegmy cough. “No, you don’t need to remind me.”

  Winthrop glanced around the small, private card room of the Harvard Club. It was a nice place to come when you needed to have a private conversation away from Wall Street. The walls were painted a dark red and the molding a gloss white. On the walls were prints of foxhunting scenes: beautiful prints of horses, riders, and hounds churning through fields and over fences in search of the prey. It wasn’t good to be the fox in life. But if there were no foxes, then there could be no horses, hounds, or riders—and no chase. And life would be awfully boring without the chase, Winthrop thought to himself.

  He inhaled. The room smelled faintly of smoke as the oak logs burned slowly in the fireplace. The orange flames licked the blackened screen around the hearth. Outside it was cold and gray. In here it was warm and comfortable. Winthrop reflected briefly on the homeless man he had passed lying on Forty-fourth Street as he walked to the club from Park Avenue. A frigid night ahead for the indigent. Then he picked up his glass and forgot about the man. “Rutherford said we might have to kill you too if you can’t keep up your end.” Winthrop had noticed Chambers’ superior expression.

  Chambers glanced up quickly, his small brown eyes darting to Winthrop’s. The superior expression melted from his face.

  Winthrop stared at Chambers over the glass as he drank. “Not really, Devon.” Winthrop replaced the glass on the table.

  Chambers sank back into his chair, relieved. For a moment he had actually thought Winthrop was serious. A small man and reed thin, he had no physical courage at all. His power in life had come only from his corporate authority. His skin was pallid, almost devoid of pigmentation, and his hair, what little was left, was jet black. Combed to one side, it contrasted sharply with the pale forehead.

  How did a man like this, a very ordinary man indeed, become chairman of the board of DuPont? Winthrop wondered idly. Of course he already had the answer. Chambers knew everything and everyone there was to know in the chemical industry. And he was a political animal. Which only made sense. He had been bullied as a child because of his lack of physical stature, and he had been forced to survive using his brain. “I would treat Bill with a little more respect, especially in front of me, Devon. I have a great deal of admiration for what he has accomplished in his life, and I happen to believe that there is a place in the world for physical intimidation. An important place. He has one of the most difficult assignments of all of us with regard to the project. Let’s remember that.”

  Chambers recognized the serious tone and nodded meekly. He had made a grave error and would not make it again, no matter how much he despised Rutherford. Winthrop was not to be irritated.

  Granville snorted. Chambers might be a powerful man in the industrial world, but Winthrop was the powerful man in the investment-banking arena. And to Winthrop, investment banking was many times more important than any other industry on earth.

  “I’m sorry, Granville,” Chambers whispered.

  Now he was groveling. Winthrop finished the Scotch mist. Chambers was old and weak, and it had been years since he had really been a powerful figure in the chemical industry—he had retired six years ago from DuPont at the mandatory age of sixty-five. Although he hoped all of these things wouldn’t infringe on Chambers’ ability to hold up his end of the deal, Winthrop was becoming less and less confident each time they talked; but there was nothing that could be done now. Everything was already in motion, and Chambers was the front man. “I’m going to stay for a while, and we shouldn’t be seen leaving together.”

  At first Chambers did not understand.

  “Devon, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

  Chambers rose immediately and left the room, closing the door behind him without a word.

  * * *

  —

  Granville smiled at the elderly man in the coatroom of the Harvard Club as the man handed Winthrop his camelhair overcoat. Granville slipped the man a twenty-dollar bill. Here was a person at least trying to earn an honest day’s pay, unlike the indigent man, who was probably still lying facedown on the Forty-fourth Street sidewalk. Winthrop turned as he began to don the overcoat, and as he did, he came face to face with Falcon.

  “Hello, Granville.” Andrew’s voice betrayed no emotion.

  “Mr. Falcon.” Winthrop stopped putting on his coat for a moment and then continued cautiously, not removing his eyes from the younger man. He was suspicious of Falcon’s motives.

  “How is the Mergers & Acquisitions Department at Winthrop, Hawkins?”

  “Fine. Thank you for asking.” Winthrop buttoned the coat.

  A chilly gust tore through the small lobby as two men entered the club. They paused to say hello, as was the custom, but sensed that the scene was not altogether friendly and hurriedly passed Winthrop and Falcon into the trophy-lined great room beyond.

  “I read a story in the Wall Street Journal a week ago pointing out that the firm’s M&A business was off forty percent this year.” Falcon touched his scalp lightly as he spoke. He was still experiencing slight headaches from the blow to his head.

  Winthrop followed Andrew’s fingers as they felt for the scar hidden beneath his hair, which had grown back in around the wound now. Then he smiled guardedly. “You can’t always believe what you read in the press. You should know that, Mr. Falcon. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Winthrop began to make his way down the steps toward the glass doors.

  “I can bring five deals to the table tomorrow.”

  Winthrop stopped and turned. He looked at Falcon for a moment and then moved slowly back to where Falcon stood, until their faces were just inches apart. “Then why don’t you call Merrill Lynch?”

  Falcon showed no emotion. He had prepared himself for this reaction. “I guess this means we won’t be seeing each other again.”

  Winthrop glared at Falcon, and then his visage slowly turned into a sinister smile. Without a word he wheeled around and left the club. Everything was proceeding as expected. Falcon had come begging. Now he was exactly where Winthrop wanted him.

  5

  For a senior vice president, Glen Malley’s office was not terribly impressive, Falcon thought. It was expansive, but the furniture was dated and somewhat dusty. Nowhere in the office was there a Bloomberg terminal flashing updated stock and bond quotes. How in the hell did this guy keep in touch with what was going on in the world? So far the National Southern Bank hadn’t impressed Falcon, and this was his fourth round of interviews. But what other choice did he have? The money was all but gone, even the squirrel account the bankruptcy judge hadn’t found.

  Falcon watched as Malley jawed on the phone. He was on the wrong side of forty, completely gray and fighting a weight problem with baggy suits.
At lunch Malley had consumed a sixteen-ounce steak, a large, sour-cream-covered baked potato, several pieces of generously buttered bread, and a huge chocolate tort—in addition to the two martinis. His face was bright red, and it wasn’t because he was Irish. Falcon wondered how soon it would be before Malley was killed by a massive heart attack.

  Malley hung up the phone. “Sorry, Andrew. That was the call I was waiting for. My secretary won’t allow us to be interrupted again.”

  “It’s really not a problem, Glen.”

  “Thanks.” Malley smiled. “Now, do you have any more questions about the National Southern Bank? NASO’s evolution? More about the direction of the bank in the future? That kind of stuff.”

  Falcon had read and reread the annual report. The National Southern Bank, or NASO, as it was known on the Street, was the fourth largest commercial bank headquartered in the United States, with over one hundred and seventy-five billion dollars in assets and almost fifteen billion in capital. It had been formed in 1991 by the merger of two of the largest commercial banks in the Southeast, First Atlanta and the Trust Company of Alabama. Subsequent to the merger, the combined entity acquired the Bank of Manhattan, or the BOM, as it was affectionately known in finance circles. The BOM was a substandard performer in the banking industry but had a nice headquarters building and a presence in New York State, which allowed NASO to move its executive offices to New York City. They were sitting there now, on the fourteenth floor of 350 Park Avenue. “Glen, I don’t think I have any other questions.”

  Malley nodded. “Okay.”

  Falcon laughed. “It’s funny how things come full circle sometimes.”